[Iris and Lily 01.0 - 03.0] The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  “You’re going to be very busy,” Iris’ voice began to drift. “You’d better get some sleep.”

  As the girls lay in silence, Iris’ breath became deep and slow, drawing Lily into its rhythm, leading her to the edge of consciousness as “Dreamweaver” played on the radio.

  “Dad, can I borrow the car tonight?” Louis shoved a forkful of potatoes into his mouth, and pushed his glasses back up his nose with a bandaged finger - one of many injuries he brought home from his tool and die apprenticeship. A nearly severed finger, a sliver of metal in an eyeball - he described each new gruesome injury with nonchalance, and with more than a hint of pride.

  “Haven’t you heard, Louis?” said Lily’s father. “Your mother is a big women’s libber now. She’s got her independence, she’s got her own car. Borrow her car - unless she needs it go to college and burn her bra.” Lily’s father looked at her mother, gauging her response, as if hoping to provoke a reaction. She simply speared green beans with her fork, and brought them to her lips with a barely perceptible hesitation. Apparently not satisfied that he had sufficiently agitated her, he added, “And just let her know if you ever want to borrow her penis, too.”

  Lily’s face grew hot. She imagined herself picking up the glass butter dish and smashing it against the wall. She wanted to scream at her mother, “How can you just sit there? Why don’t you say something?!”

  “He can’t use my car,” said Lily’s mother calmly. “I’m leaving.”

  “Where are you going?” demanded her father. “To one of your ugly lesbian meetings?”

  “I’m leaving.” she repeated.

  “What do you mean you’re leaving?”

  “Just like it sounds, Carlo.” Lily’s mother finally looked up from her dinner plate. “I’m leaving you, Carlo. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take your insults, I can’t take your abuse. I can’t stay here.”

  “Fuck this shit,” said Henry. He shoved the last dinner roll into his mouth, got up from the table and stormed out to the garage, Louis on his heels.

  Iris, Lily, William, Charles, and Ricci all froze in place, mouths full of potatoes and green beans and meat loaf, eyes volleying back and forth, carried on their parents’ fearsome exchange.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” said Lily’s father, with a sneer. “You don’t have a place to go, you don’t have any money.”

  “I have a place to go. I’m going to stay with my friend Anita. And I have a job. I’ll save up and get my own place soon.”

  “Save up? You’re going to ‘save up’ for your own place? The money you make is for this house, to help me out - you’re supposed to be making a contribution here, for a change. Your paycheck belongs right here, in this family.”

  Lily could see her mother’s veins as they pulsated through the translucent skin of her temple, like tiny purple rivers coursing through a mountainside as viewed from an airplane. The tremor in her voice betrayed the facade of her physical calm.

  “My paycheck will be in this family,” she said. “But a part of this family will just be elsewhere. Away from you.”

  Lily’s father pounded his fists on the table and raised himself to standing with such force that his bench toppled over onto the floor with a thud, shaking the room and causing the children to jump in their seats.

  “YOU are not going anywhere!” he screamed.

  Lily and Iris grasped hands under the table. Ricci began to cry.

  “You’re scaring the children, Carlo.”

  “What do you care about the children?” Carlo screamed. “You’re leaving them!”

  “I am not leaving them.” A tear ran down her face. “I am leaving you.”

  Without saying another word, their mother got up from the table, strode out through the back door, stopping only to pick up her purse and sweater. Once her car was out of sight, the children all turned to look at their father who stood drop-jawed, his hands shoved into his pockets, jingling loose change.

  23. Iris

  The smile withered and died on Iris’s lips, as she registered the unequivocal reaction to her attempt at cordiality. After flipping her the bird and mouthing the two-word suggestion that traditionally accompanies the gesture, Michael Jejune turned his attention back to the batch of burgers sizzling on the grill. Iris was more grateful than ever that they rarely worked the same shift.

  “Oh, boy. I guess he still really hates me,” she muttered to Lily as they walked away, trays in hand. She sat down in the booth across from her sister and sipped soda through a straw, hoping the bubbly beverage would fizz away the lump that obstructed her throat. From where she sat, she could observe Michael’s synchronized movements; she couldn’t help admiring the way his muscles flexed with each quick gesture, or experiencing a pang of nostalgia for the feel of his well-sculpted arms around her.

  “What exactly did you say to him, anyway?” Lily asked Iris. “You never told me.”

  “I told him that I still loved him, but didn’t think we should keep going out.”

  “I bet he thought that made a lot of sense,” Lily said.

  “Not exactly,” Iris said. “First he got really mad, then he accused me of having a crush on Peter Ponzio.”

  “Do you?”

  “No!” Iris said. “I think Peter’s cute, but I’ve never even really talked to him. Then he wanted to know if I was mad because he wanted to go all the way the night of the junior prom.”

  Lily’s hand stopped midway to her mouth, dangling a ketchup-laden French fry in the air. “What? Were you? I mean, did you? You never told me that, either!” A splotch of thick red condiment plopped to the table.

  “No, on both counts. We were getting along fine in that department, believe me, with all the other tricks in his bag, if you get my drift, but that’s all water under the bridge,” Iris said. She lowered her eyes as she sipped from her straw, cleared her throat, and continued. “So then he said if I wasn’t mad, and I still wanted to break up, I must think there was something wrong with him. I told him there was nothing wrong with him, and if anything, there was something wrong with me. Maybe there really is something wrong with me, Lily. Michael wasn’t doing anything differently, he hasn’t changed. It must be my fault.”

  “How could it be your fault?”

  “I don’t know, sometimes I feel like I’m detached from myself, watching my own body from a distance and wondering why that stranger named Iris is doing what she’s doing. Like coming here at six every morning to sell breakfast to people who hate their lives, then attending boring classes all afternoon, then taking the bus back home. Sometimes, just before I walk in through the kitchen door, I catch a glimpse of you while you’re setting the table, and I see you aren’t putting down a plate at the last place on the left where Mom always sat. But you’re still leaving an empty space there. Up until now, each time someone moved out, we were all happy for the extra elbow room, and we spread out the places a little bit more. But Mom’s space just sits there during dinner, staring at us while we eat, and we don’t know what to do with it. That’s when my hand freezes on the knob, and I think about what it would be like to not open that door. To just turn around and run the other way, as fast as my legs can carry me. The impulse only lasts a second, because I see you there, and I hear Dad yelling at one of the boys. So I come in and start cooking like there’s nothing else I would rather be doing, then afterwards we clean up as usual, then I do my homework and go to bed. But it’s still not enough for anyone.”

  “It’ll never be enough,” Lily said. “No matter what we do. Dad’s pissed so he yells. Only he can’t yell at Mom so he just yells at anyone within range. And as we know, he has quite a range.”

  “Last night I got up for a glass of water. It was two o’clock, and I found Charles in the kitchen drinking a mug of warm milk. He said he couldn’t sleep, poor kid. It broke my heart. That’s why I want to keep things going. For them.”

  Routine, however mundane it may be, provided solace to all members of the Capotost
i household, including Iris and Lily who, as the only females left at home, bore the brunt of its upkeep. They were the ones who saw to it that the groceries were bought each Saturday, that the dinners consisting of a meat and a starch and a green vegetable and dessert were prepared and served on time, that the floors were mopped, and the toilet bowls scrubbed. Auntie Rosa couldn’t help much, between her nursing job, running her own house, and looking after Uncle Alfred. Plus, Dolores was staying with them again, only this time it didn’t seem like a temporary “situation.” As she struggled to get back on her feet after the annulment of her marriage to creepy Dr. Julius, who had run off to Toronto with an eyeglass salesman, she was “saved” by Dr. Bob, the psychiatrist who was treating her for depression. According to coffee talk Iris had overheard between her father and Auntie Rosa, Dr. Bob knew just what Dolores needed to blunt the pain, and in the meantime, had no qualms about sinking his talons into her trusting heart and holding on tight until he had squeezed out all the love and generosity she had to give. Then he just released her, and flew away, letting her crash to the ground, broken.

  “Don’t worry about Michael, Iris. He’ll get over it. But it’s too bad about our band. I guess it wasn’t meant to be,” Lily said.

  “I know,” Iris said. “I think Uncle Alfred was the most disappointed of all.”

  Despite their added duties, or perhaps because of them, Iris and Lily had thrown themselves into whatever artistic activities for which they could scrape up the time and resources, and under Uncle Alfred’s urging and direction had formed what he dubbed a “rock band,” though nothing they played seemed nearly rebellious enough to fit the bill. It was around that time when Iris had felt herself withdrawing from Michael, and hoped that by doing something fun together besides making out, her interest in him would be rekindled. It was decided that Michael would play lead guitar, while she played the bass. Rat took a shot at playing rhythm, and Mouse was provided with a tambourine and maracas for percussion. It went without saying that Lily, with her sassy voice that smacked of burnt sugar, would be the lead singer. Things soured one evening during rehearsal at Uncle Alfred’s studio, just as they were beginning to master a halfway decent rendition of the first song in their repertoire, “Crocodile Rock.” Both Rat and Mouse had developed not-so-secret crushes on Lily, and began battling out their quest for dominance on their instruments. The result was a cacophony of buzzing barré chords (Rat could not for the life of him get his sausage-like fingers to produce a clean sound), and a mad jangling and rattling that drowned out everyone else, including Lily, who was horrified that either could entertain thoughts of ever becoming her boyfriend.

  “BASTA!” Lily screamed into the microphone, quoting a much-used interjection of Grandma Capotosti’s, God rest her soul, that never failed to silence quarreling youngsters. “I’ve had enough of you two! You’re just a couple of big babies!”

  At that point, all three guys stormed off in a hormonal huff, no doubt to get high, leading the girls to conclude that the only men who could possibly nurture their talents must be of ambiguous sexuality. Like their own mild-mannered Uncle Alfred; or the effeminate Mr. Howell, the red-headed, freckle-faced high school chorus and drama teacher; or the Parisian-born Monsieur Debonnet, who bourréed across the room to peck Dolores playfully on both cheeks whenever she stopped by to pick the girls up from their advanced level ballet lesson.

  Iris scratched the waxy coating of the paper cup with the nail of her index finger, took another sip from the straw, dipped a cold French fry into a pool of ketchup on a hamburger wrapper, and nibbled on it pensively. She looked up at Lily and said, “You were great in Oklahoma!”

  “What made you think of that now?” Lily asked. “That was eons ago.”

  “I always think of it,” Iris replied. “You should have had the lead. You were the best. You even won the award.”

  Lily dabbled a cold fry in the pool of ketchup, but did not bring it to her mouth. Instead, she used it doodle different versions of the letter J on the burger wrapper.

  “You captivated the audience when you sang, “I Cain’t Say No.” You turned Annie into the cutest, funniest character of all, and you lit up the whole stage with your presence. It was so magical. Just like when you sang ‘Starry Starry Night’ at that talent show in Syracuse; it made chills run up and down my spine. You were the best that time, too, but you got robbed of the prize, that’s all. What do those hicks know about real talent?”

  “It was ‘Vincent,’” Lily said.

  “Vincent who?” Iris said.

  “That song. That’s the real title. It’s about Vincent van Gogh. He’s Dolores’s favorite artist. She showed me a book she has about him. Did you know he did a painting called ‘Irises’?”

  “Really? How cool.”

  “It’s beautiful. But what a troubled life. I wonder if all artists have to suffer so much and die young to be remembered.”

  “No, not all do, Lily. Plus, he didn’t die young. He killed himself. It’s not exactly the same thing. You’ll be successful. And happy. You have everything going for you.”

  “You think so, Iris?”

  “I know so, Lily.”

  “Then I can’t wait!”

  “Me neither! I haven’t forgotten about that house you promised to buy us in California!”

  Lily tossed her mane of thick hair like a wild mare preparing to break into a gallop, and laughed. Besides Lily’s singing voice, there wasn’t a sound more beautiful to Iris than her sister’s throaty laugh, especially since she heard it so rarely of late. Her heart bubbled over with emotions as she observed Lily: pride for her talent, excitement for the adventures she would soon embark upon, hope for success, admiration for her physical beauty. Iris also felt a slight twitch of envy; from the scrawny, buck-toothed little girl that couldn’t kick her thumb-sucking habit, Lily had indeed developed into a very attractive teenager. Unlike herself, who had sprouted only vertically, shooting past a height of five-feet-seven, Lily remained of petite stature, while the rest of her body had budded to perfect proportions. The same halter tops whose cups sagged with disappointment when draped across the flat expanse of Iris’s chest were filled with firm, fleshy curves when Lily wore them. Like waves of golden wheat, her thick hair parted to reveal clear, grey-green eyes whose look of misplaced innocence contradicted the unexpectedly proud features bestowed upon her face by her Capotosti ancestry.

  At times, Iris sensed she was uncannily attuned to every detail of her surroundings, and stricken with the premonition that a certain precise moment in her life would remain forever etched in her memory. This was one such moment, a sensory snapshot of a fleeting instant when each element was in sharp focus: the jangling of the cash registers, the called orders of the crew, the screeching of children and laughter of teenagers, the clipped conversations of adults between bites of burgers, the anticipatory looks of gratification on neon-lit faces as laden trays were carried to tables; the smell of meat sizzling on grills, and oil bubbling in vats, and coffee simmering on burners; the post-prandial patina of fast-food grease that coated the roof of her mouth, the last sip of watery Coke and ice gurgling to her tongue as she sucked her straw; the feelings of regret and guilt stirred up by Michael’s gesture; the multifaceted sparkle in Lily’s eyes that bespoke the hope that had been kindled in her soul; her heartfelt wish that Lily’s dreams would be made of diamonds, and not glass.

  “Let’s get going,” Iris said, snapping out of her reverie. “We still have to clean the house.”

  “Let’s not and say we did,” Lily said, lifting herself unenthusiastically from the booth.

  “Come on, we’ll make it fun,” Iris said. “No one will be around - we can put on Jesus Christ Superstar. By the time we’re done singing through both albums, the house will be clean.”

  “Only if I get to sing the part of Mary Magdalene.” Lily said. “And Jesus.”

  “Oh, sure, and I get to ridicule, condemn and betray Jesus Christ. Great.”

  The mo
st popular fast-food restaurant in the town of Chili remained an important point of reference for Iris, and when school broke for summer that year, she requested to stay on the breakfast crew. She enjoyed riding her bike to work in the cool, early morning hours, and she sometimes took a longer route home at the end of her shift before tackling her daily housework and summer assignments. She was determined to get credit for an extra year of French as part of her plan to graduate early and work full time to earn money for college. She loved the French language, and studying was more pleasure than work. Learning the correct conjugation of verbs and expanding her vocabulary satisfied Iris’s desire for order and improvement; training her lips and tongue to deliver properly pronounced phrases gave her such immense joy, she sometimes laughed aloud when she heard herself. She practiced at every opportunity, provided no other ears were within range. “Je vais nettoyer cette maison!” she repeated, her voice muffled by the whirr of the vacuum cleaner. “Ma mère habite à Paris mais ma soeur habite à Lyon!” she revealed to the washing machine in the basement. “Quelle merveille! La pluit c’est très fraîche!” her upturned face exclaimed to the shower. “Comment vous êtes drôle, Monsieur! Je ne peux pas venir à Cannes avec vous! Je doit me lever à cinq heures!” she informed the inside of her closet, where she spotted her neglected blue valise gathering dust, as she gathered the dirty laundry.

  Iris was already toying with the idea of taking some time off to read that afternoon as she walked to the back parking lot, where she always left her bicycle. She had enjoyed studying Jane Austen in English Literature class, and had decided to read Sense and Sensibility on her own. She was quite taken with the Dashwood sisters and imagined herself and Lily in the shoes of Elinor and Marianne. Maybe things hadn’t changed much for women in the last two centuries, after all. Maybe what her mother was doing made sense. She just wished she didn’t have to pay for it in person.

  It was a hot day, and with the sun already high in the sky, Iris decided to ride straight home and change out of the synthetic uniform that made her feel sweaty and sticky as soon as she walked out of the air conditioned restaurant. She hopped on her bike, and began pedaling across the parking lot to the exit.