by Rand, Naomi;
“Forgave you? Shouldn’t it have been the other way round?”
The three of them had perched atop the library dome, eating the sandwiches Amelia had lovingly prepared. From up there they lorded it over the other students making their way to and from class, those foolish souls all terminally earthbound.
“I have news,” Louise had announced. “I’m engaged.”
Muriel beamed. “Congratulations, how wonderful.”
But Amelia’s expression had darkened. “I thought you were going to say no.”
“I changed my mind,” Louise insisted.
“Did you? Because that man is a Neanderthal.”
“What a horrible thing to say,” Muriel interjected.
“Stay out of this,” Amelia warned, turning her back pointedly. “He’ll make you give up your career,” she told Louise. “He’ll want you at home raising his children. Does that sound rewarding?”
“Bert hasn’t said to give up my studies. He wants me to take a little time off,” Louise said, butting her chin out.
“Why bother coming to school at all? Why work so hard? Why bother doing any of it, when you’re just going to throw it away?”
“But I love him,” Louise insisted.
Amelia made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. Then she stood and walked to the very edge of the roof.
“Come back,” Muriel begged.
Muriel stood, meaning to go to her. Louise pulled out a camera. “We’ll lose the light,” she said softly.
Amelia didn’t budge.
“Darling, I am sorry,” Louise said, and then she got up, walked over to her friend, and embraced her. They made a fine tableau, framed by the setting sun. Amelia made a brave attempt at a smile. And Muriel knew what this was about. She felt sorry for her sister, even though she’d been jealous of Louise, of their apparent closeness. You always took a risk when you opened your heart.
“Go ahead,” Amelia said. She meant go ahead with all of it. Then pulled away, crouched on the roof, and offered her profile to the lens.
Radcliffe owned the photograph. In it, Amelia stared off into the distance. She had on a smart hat and that long navy blue jacket, with the black skirt. People thought her so serene and regal, a figurehead, stuck onto a prow of a boat, always cutting first through the waves.
Let them. Let them make Amelia theirs. They have no idea who she really was. Amelia knew better than to reveal too much. She didn’t even tell me certain things. But I could see what was going on with her that day, up on the roof. I knew how much she loved Louise. And how that fueled the critique. Amelia didn’t want to lose her friend to this man. Is that a crime? If so, most of us would be guilty of it, Muriel thought. I was jealous of Louise. Amelia was jealous of Louise’s lover. So it goes. The heart is such a fragile thing. And needs so much protection. That girl, Samantha Barry, was right. Amelia hid herself from public view. A slip of a girl saw my sister’s hand in her own creation. And I suppose I continue the tradition. The question is, who am I protecting here? Not poor mother, she’s long gone. Not Amelia either. She is hardly in a position to know or care. So I must do it for myself, I’m still trying to prove that I’m the better sister. Some things never change, no matter how old you get.
Muriel smiled, thinking of that. But lunch was over. She pulled on her coat and headed out into the warming day.
“Were we really ever that young?” Louise asked. Then she gave Muriel a hug. The taxi pulled up. Louise got inside and was spirited away.
What a funny thing love is, Muriel thought, how curious an emotion. Why do we imagine that it’s borne by the heart when all the heart is, is muscle. It beats sparrow fast from a burst of adrenaline, then slows down to a dispassionate crawl when you drift off to sleep. It’s the mind that tricks us into loving someone.
Muriel shut her eyes and found the three of them again as they’d been at the end of that day, sitting on the curved roof. The sun had set, a yellow fireball plummeting, tinting the sky orange, then scarlet. Night came and they lay back, using the metal for a pillow. Amelia had taken Muriel’s hand and their fingers entwined. Above them, the quarter moon sliced the sky. Everywhere else the stars made pinpricks of light.
NOW, PARKED FURTHER down the street where she’d left it, she saw Albert’s Caddy with its imperious headlights. She’d kept his car, giving away her decrepit Volvo sedan. The Cadillac was unwieldy, an ocean going cruiser that moved slowly and serenely with the current. I almost died today, Muriel thought. Whether it was true or not, it was true that she’d wanted to. But now that it was over, she felt differently about it. She had never liked the car. And she ached for something sleek, a vehicle that would slice through the water, throwing off a foaming wake.
Snow was thick on the tree branch. Muriel dug her gloved hand in and grabbed some, then shaped it. Then she threw it. The missile smacked the window of a passing bus, making a pleasurable thud. A passenger leaning against the glass started, and then stared out, trying to spot the culprit. He looked past Muriel, thinking her too staid and sedate, not up to making mischief. That was where he was wrong.
10
Amelia
November 1980
THAT DEEP-THROATED LAUGH marked her. It really was Louise. Amelia would never have known her. Her hair was no longer dark and waist length, but china white and cut into an unflattering bob. Her nose, set against sunken cheeks, was even more prominent. Muriel had just been writing about the three of them and that visit to Columbia when the phone rang. Had the fear that gripped Amelia when she realized she might miss this chance of getting to see Louise too, done it? There’d been an extra edge of desperation in her attempt; she’d thrown her arms round Muriel’s neck at the last moment, actually begging, “Don’t leave me here!” Then she was mounted on her sister, riding out the front door and into the snow-dappled day.
AS THE FOOD arrived, Amelia’s stomach responded with a roar of distress. She watched Louise work on her soup. Stray voices of the other diners teased the air; a man pronounced himself “amazed” while his female companion was “distressed.” Was she really here? Amelia touched her own arm. It seemed substantial. Still, she’d done this test countless times before. And Muriel had stepped through her, slicing her body in two. She’d been reconstituted. She’d tried and tried and tried. Now, miraculously, she was here. But was she really here?
They’d hung a mirror directly across from where Amelia stood. It was meant to create an illusion of depth, extending the room outwards, again and again. The diners were reflected in it. No sign of Amelia. Where she stood, an unbroken line of flocked wallpaper. Yet, today had obviously been different. She’d been allowed out of her Mudford cage. Her sister, Muriel had borne her here. It was really magnificent. Look at how energetic everyone was, waitresses and busboys rushing to and fro, bearing trays weighed down with goodies.
The car ride had been incredible enough. Muriel had unlocked the driver’s side door and Amelia flung herself forward. She went headfirst, smacking against the other side of the car but staying put. Why hadn’t she gone straight out again? There was no logic to it. But she didn’t care. At least, she was out. Out of that house and there with Muriel as her younger sister clicked a belt round her middle and revved the engine. Backing out the driveway, Muriel swerved to avoid a trash can set by the curb. Twisting the wheel, she headed down the street, muttering, “I’ll be late.” Her right hand reached out blindly and spun a dial. A man sang, “New York, New York, it’s a hell of a town.”
Boston was, too, at least this incarnation. Tall buildings sprouted like a sea of giant sequoias. These were man-made, cut out of glass and stabilized with poured concrete. The cars on the road were sleek. Some had elegant fish-shaped fins at either end. Others were boxy. The biggest surprise was the way Muriel drove, commanding the wheel with quiet confidence. The speedometer worked its way from fifty-five to sixty m.p.h. Was this the same Muriel who had clutched the handle of the car door whenever Amelia took a curve too fast? In this imagined
world, the rules were there to be broken. Maybe that was the point.
A perfect parking job, there, down the street, Muriel grabbed her purse and opened her door, Amelia slid out right after her, keeping so close she could see the hairs on the back of her sister’s long, ropy neck. “Late, as usual,” Muriel said aloud. They climbed the stairs in tandem. Muriel opened the door of the restaurant, and Amelia clung to her side like a leech.
Muriel waved and headed to the back, Amelia with her. She finally released her hold when Muriel got to the table. Partly, out of shock. Was that really Louise?
I never thought I’d see you again.
Amelia choked up. She averted her eyes, hoping to regain some semblance of control. There. Turning back, she saw Muriel reach for her water glass. And take a sip. Muriel set it back down and then swatted the back of her own neck. What an odd thing to do. Had a fly been hovering? Amelia bent closer, observing her sister’s expression. Odd, she looked calm, like a statue, so still. Wait, she wasn’t breathing! Was that possible? Instinctually, Amelia put her hand on Muriel’s shoulder. It stayed. And she saw everything. Her nephew growing up and growing older, becoming a teenager, sprouting hair on his face, gaining wide shoulders and thinner hips, turning from that into a man. That same man marrying, Muriel proud of him at the wedding, prouder still as a grandmother, terrified when he went off to war and relieved when he returned relatively unscathed. His life lived. And then, unraveling. That man lying in a hospital room in a white gown laced at the back, shrinking away, shrinking down to nothing, suffering and then finally gone. “Oh,” Amelia exclaimed, she tried to pull her hand away but it was stuck to Muriel’s shoulder. They were twinned.
There was more. Albert going from youth to middle age to old age, his girth widening. Albert, standing behind Muriel in that same hospital room grieving for their son and Muriel’s fury, turned on the one closest to her. Muriel was brutal in her judgment of her husband, his grief not as evident as her own. Muriel demanded what was wrong with him? Her life was wrecked, how could he go on? The days when she stayed in bed and refused to talk to him because her pain was deeper, it had to be. After all, she was the mother. Albert fighting with her and for her, persistent but gentle, forcing Muriel back into the world, trying to be courageous for the two of them, stifling his own feelings to save her from herself. But then there was Albert’s desertion. She saw Albert, clutching his chest and falling to the floor. She heard her sister’s voice. No house to return to. No clothing to pack up and give away. No ache to live with, day in and day out.
So that’s it, Amelia thought.
“You’re not getting away so easy!” She pinched Muriel right where she always did when she wanted her attention, hard, on her forearm. No response at all.
What now?
Her thoughts flew back, far back, to Worthington, that last good summer of their parents’ marriage. It was the morning she’d nudged Muriel awake and escaped the still house to the barn. Atop the pony, they’d raced off together into the woods. Pine needles snapped under Indian’s hooves, one kick and he was cantering; the next, he broke into a gallop. Trees fell away. They blew through a meadow strewn with wildflowers. And the sun rose red, a coin stuck onto the clean blue sky. Amelia saw herself lifting her own arms and letting go of the reins like a circus rider. Pidge refused to do it. She kept her hands clasped round Amelia’s middle. If I go, she does too. Doesn’t she know that? But Pidge wouldn’t budge so it was up to her to pry her sister’s fingers loose. To force her to balance.
Don’t do this. Good things can still happen!
What good things? Muriel’s ironic voice sounded back. Amelia knew what she meant. She knew how Muriel had tested out letting it all slip away. How she’d climbed the stairs and tried the gun, shoving it into her mouth. But she’d thought better of it.
Easier? Think again. You’re not doing this, not on my watch.
Amelia tried again. She grabbed both of her sister’s shoulders and urged her up, out of her chair.
This time it worked. Muriel rose like a marionette, tortured by strings.
AFTERWARDS, IT WAS hard to concentrate. The diners stared at Muriel and at her savior, Louise. Muriel pretended nothing had happened. Amelia had done the same more than once, walking away from a smoldering wreck. Louise was talking about Muriel’s spring break visit to Amelia at Columbia. It hadn’t been at all like that; perhaps she’d been a little less than generous about that boy, Bert, but honestly, she’d thought Louise was joking. She knew exactly what she’d said to her. “You’d murder him sooner than marry him.” It was only afterward, when she saw Louise’s expression, that she realized it was serious. Still, she had to say her piece. You couldn’t let someone you loved make that kind of mistake. You had to try and stop them.
In the end, Louise had broken off the engagement and married someone else. Amelia had known she would. She’d known her better than Louise knew herself. But Muriel and Louise were shrugging on their coats. Amelia pursued them out the door and down the icy stairs, onto the winter street. Here. Here they all were. She stayed close to Muriel as Louise flagged a taxi.
They hugged.
Muriel waved.
Louise got in. It was now or never.
“Louise!” Amelia yelled and then, rushed past Muriel to pursue Louise who was stepping off the sidewalk and into the street. She got to the taxi almost in time. The door shut in her face and she reached out to bang on the window. Her hand touched the glass. Louise turned round, blinking, but the taxi was pulling into the street and rushing away. It turned the corner.
Amelia stared after it, dully.
She must have imagined the expression of surprise on Louise’s face.
As she was imagining the chill, moving up from her the soles of her feet to her ankles. Up through the ankles to mid-calf. Looking down, Amelia saw she was ankle deep in slush. Backing up, she made the curb. Her whole body tingled. The air was crisp, her nose hairs singed. A man strode toward her and, looking up, saw her then swerved round.
Did that happen? Was it possible?
She turned to stare after him.
Then realized she’d forgotten Muriel. Her sister was opening the driver’s side door of her car. Amelia ran to catch up and slid on the icy pavement. She went down hard, her legs splaying out.
The Cadillac was off, leaving her behind.
A boy stared down at her.
“Do you need help?” he asked, offering his gloved hand.
She hesitated, then took hold, the leather smooth under her fingers, his hand inside of it, inside of hers, amazing . . .
She was on her feet.
“Did you hit your head? Should I call 911?”
911? Was it code for something?
“You do see me.”
He gave her a searching look. “I’m going to call. You might have a concussion.”
She didn’t. She knew the signs of that. “I’m fine,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, thank you so very much.”
“No need to thank me.” He looked relieved. He was likely late. Late for an important date. He rushed away.
She was here. Here on Newbury Street, according to the sign. Not the same Newbury Street she’d walked down countless times. There were shops where there had been private homes. Right in front of her, a dress store. The dresses were cut indecently short, thighs exposed almost completely. And there was her reflection winking back at her. I know that woman, she thought. She was wild eyed, her hair tousled, her cheeks flushed. Yet undeniably herself, she was her own Amelia.
Whose stomach rumbled discourteously. She’d thought she was hungry before; now, she was famished. The wind blew. Amelia opened her mouth, swallowing stray flakes. They melted on her tongue.
The door of the next store, Al’s Deli, opened. The aroma of home cooking wafted out. The window display was enticing, a mix of savory and sweet; a whole roasted turkey, a ham on the bone, furrows of dried apricots and prunes, peaches and trays packed
with baked goods, apple strudel, tri-cornered hamentashen, chocolate tipped cookies. Amelia’s mouth watered.
Stepping inside, she discovered a cafeteria. Trays were stacked at one end of a glassed-in counter. Behind it, two men wearing white smocks filled orders. The menu featured Boston themed specials; there was either the over-stuffed Harvard Square, a roast beef sandwich topped with lettuce, tomato, mustard, and mayonnaise on your choice of bread or the Red Sox platter, a hot dog with all the fixings and a choice of two sides. And there was traditional Hebrew fare. She and Louise once split an overstuffed Reuben at Katz’s deli down on Houston. Amelia had been surprised by that sandwich, the base of peppery pastrami covered with melted tangy cheese over a layer of sauerkraut, all of it drenched in a sweet dressing. It had been a fine adventure, walking through the Lower East Side that day, remarking on all they saw. And since it was Louise who had ignited this change, she would order it now.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
She ordered a Reuben, a side of potato salad, a spinach knish, and a slice of apple strudel. Drinks were kept inside the wall. She pulled the handle of the glass-faced door and discovered it was a cunning icebox. Amelia chose the one drink with a familiar name, a metal can of Coca Cola.
At the cash register, the woman said, “That will be six twenty four.”
She gasped. It was outrageous. Only then did she stick her hands into her pockets and discover a more urgent problem. They were empty; even the cigarettes and lighter were gone. The food sat there, taunting her. She was faint from hunger. Would they let her wash dishes for a meal? Because, apparently, she was stone cold broke.
“Do you need to put something back?” the woman asked. The line was growing restive. At a restaurant she could have ordered and eaten the meal before the bill came. That English Tea Room was right down the block. In desperation she searched every pocket, went through her jacket, even the hidden one in the lining she used for her emergency cash. And discovered it was there, the entire stash. She had a thousand dollars in fifties. Peeling one off, she gave it to the cashier. The price was three times what a steak dinner at Delmonico’s cost. It was highway robbery but what did she care?
