by Sarah Bird
I barely have enough energy to struggle into the burka and shuffle over to Seneca House. At least the house is cool and smells good. Best of all, though, with the princesses in their new Serve Mankind Mode, I can default to the caterer’s friend: giant packages of microwavables from Sam’s.
Fatima slings the edibles onto the table. Thanks to the transformations wrought by Millie, no one seems to notice or care much that breakfast is a hillock of Jimmy Dean sausage biscuits paired with a flight of Capri Sun juice pouches. There is an ease and humanness about all the women that I’ve never seen before. Kippie Lee has lost the frantic, unhinged look she’s had for months. Bamsie has stopped straightening her hair and allowed it to frizz up, transforming her into the ridiculously cute troll doll she was born to be. Cookie Mehan has abandoned the makeup she usually trowels on and looks much better with her face, freckled brown by the South Texas sun, happily exposed. Maybe they are more relaxed. Maybe I just never really looked before.
Driven by hunger from their respective hidey-holes, the actual residents of Seneca House appear and slump into chairs around the table. For the first time, residents and visitors all sit together, noshing and gabbing. The ladies seem to be taking it as a tribute to their newly evolved benevolence that “the staff” is now acting like they own the place.
Jerome and Bamsie filibuster at each other as if words were oxygen and they are filling up their tanks for the very long dive back into their own worlds. Missy tiptoes in on bare feet and proceeds to load up a plate with a lumberjack-size pile of sausage biscuits and microwaved pancakes.
“Girl, what have you been doing to work up such an appetite?” Cookie jokes. “Must have been pretty wild.”
Everyone is enjoying a kindly laugh at the impossible image of their Scripture demon doing anything wilder in bed than working a crossword puzzle when Sergio enters. There is a split second of ricocheting glances from Sergio smiling blissfully to Missy looking away quickly, then the laughter stops dead. Lips form into unspoken oh s of comprehension and no one will ever think of Missy Quisinberry in quite the same way again.
Olga fills the ensuing silence with tales from the Russian Mafia. “Da, when I am with Organizatsiya, we run all uf Moscow. I only leaf after gank boss Solonevich steals icons from Donskoi monastery. Even half a billion rubles is not enough for bribink. Is blut bath. No problem. I come here. Find job in titty bar. But the smuck. I cannot stand to breathe the smuck in titty bar. So I get scholairship for university and because I want to meet rich husband”—the ladies nod approval at this career path—“I get jop workink for queen bitch caterer.” Olga glances pointedly at me hidden beneath my burka.
Fatima growls the tiniest bit behind her grille. It is all the protest I dare to make, and Olga knows it. Every bit of the saintly Sunday-school sanctimony that Millie has juiced up would evaporate in seconds if the ladies knew who was really slinging the Jimmy Deans their way. Seconds? It wouldn’t take that long. All they’d need would be enough time to whip out a phone and tell the IRS exactly where to find me. Or at least where to come and claim the body, which would be battered beyond recognition after the ladies had finished with me.
No one notices Fatima’s whimper of a growl as the women crowd around Olga to find out which husbands and, even more riveting, which wives had been open to her wiles. Olga starts listing the mates known on the circuit as strayers and players. One name in particular gets a huge reaction.
“Jebediah Quisinberry?” Missy shrieks.
Olga blows a languorous smoke ring. “Da. Major, major poossy hound.”
Missy has one apoplectic moment before Sergio catches her eye, drops his velvety lashes, and smiles in a way that leaves Missy a newly philosophical woman. “Oh well, boys will be boys, I guess.”
Kat and Nikki wander in with tackle boxes of manicure tools and styling products and start pushing back cuticles and painting free highlights on any takers. Nikki compliments Kat lavishly on her work. “Mrs. B. is so going to love you. Course, she’s out having her baby so Jackie’ll be supervising you.”
“Supervising? Me?”
“Uh, yeah, duh. What? You think you can get your license without supervision? Or maybe you like living in a minivan.”
“You mean?”
“Mean what? Did you think I was not going to come through?”
“No, but you hadn’t really said anything for a while and…”
“Well, I signed a lease. It’s only got one bedroom but, shit, after living in a minivan—”
The rest of Nikki’s comments are lost in Kat’s squeals of delight.
“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Put the brush down. You’re getting highlights all over me.”
With Kat still in ecstasy, I nuke another platter of forbidden food, throw it on the table, and consider my work done.
I collapse on the futon couch on the side porch next to the living room, intending only to close my eyes and “check for light leaks,” as we used to say back in photo lab. But I am completely exhausted, and the couch is so soft compared with a pool table, and the soothing drone of women’s voices whispering in the background is the best white noise machine ever, and, without another thought, I drop into coma-level sleep. Nothing penetrates. I am dimly aware of Big Lou, a blubbery watermelon, landing on my stomach and aggressively kneading my flesh, but I can’t rouse myself enough to shove her off. Sounds of furniture being moved, pots clattering, a vacuum cleaner whooshing, laughing, all barely intrude.
At one point, the couch jostles beneath me, but even that is absorbed in a sweaty nightmare of being strapped on a gurney and heading either for eyelid surgery or death by lethal injection, I can’t make out which. Then, again and again, I watch a white limo driving away. In spite of the prickles of anxiety that slip in—a dream of being unmasked by the princesses, of being stripped of the burka and driven naked to Dog Crap Lane where Agent Jenkins garnishees my tortillas—I sleep on and on.
Finally, a distant tinkling, like the sound of the silver bells that Lakshmi used to ring to call consciousness back to bodies stoned on yoga, intrudes on the dreams. I fight my way out of a nightmare in which my disguise is being torn away by the ravening pack on Dog Crap Lane. I try to run, but the burka swamps me. I wake with a start. It is dark and I am sodden with sweat. My heart doesn’t stop pounding until I touch the grille in front of my face. Thank God, the disguise is still in place, I am still safely hidden.
It is the last evening. If I can survive the next couple of hours without the princesses discovering my true identity, we’ll have it made. Checks will be deposited and I will have done what I can to save the house and Millie’s work. As soon as the ladies are dispatched, hopefully in a shower of generous tips, I will do what everyone in the house, especially Millie, wants most and leave without a word. Kat is moving in with Nikki, so I can reclaim the van. I will sneak away tonight. Whether my mother and Griz like it or not, I am going to move in with them until I get on my feet. In another state. Under another name.
When I am solvent again, I’ll settle up with the IRS. But only after I’ve made amends to Millie. Which will take the rest of this life and probably several more in the future. But I’ll try.
I follow the tinkling sound into the living room. It is dark except for a few lit candles flickering amid a bank of unlit ones. Everyone, princesses and staff, is gathered around the candles. The word “coven” flashes through my mind, and I imagine myself staked out on the dining room table with a pentagram painted on my naked belly and Kippie Lee holding a dagger.
In the candlelight, Millie is a Victorian heroine dying of consumption, her beauty a spectral, haunting thing. Unshed tears glisten in her eyes. Sanjeev stares at her like a castaway floating on an endless sea, watching the last light on his sinking ship slip slowly beneath the dark waves.
Kippie Lee speaks. “First of all I want to thank the staff of Seneca Falls Spa for turning the kitchen and the house over to us this evening so we could have this ceremony. The last candlelight ceremony any of us h
ad was probably back at the Kappa house. Or Pi Phi. Maybe Camp Mystic. Anyway, those were all important places to us girls growing up in Texas, but I think everyone here tonight will agree that none of them was as important as this place, this week, has been. There are a lot of reasons why it’s been so important, but the main one is Millie Ott.”
A huge round of applause from all the princesses and all the residents follows.
Kippie Lee continues, “I know that what she said to each of us is secret. What we said to her is secret. So secret, sometimes, that until we told Millie we didn’t know the true things we’d been hiding, even, or maybe especially, from ourselves. I know that I’m not the only one whose life has been changed. Probably saved…”
The ladies clap and shout agreement. Sanjeev, however, looks like a man being turned slowly over a spit. He grimaces, bites his lips, hyperventilates. Millie contains her heartbreak beneath a serene smile.
“Millie only agreed to this ceremony on the condition that she not be the center of it. I will honor that promise and instead focus on the one thing that I know all of us learned from her: how important our friends are. We all sort of pay lip service to our girlfriends; that’s what I used to do. I talked about how important my friends were, but, until this week, I never understood how really true that is.
“Friends. Our friends exasperate us. They annoy us. They compete with us. They gossip about us. We gossip about them. But we wouldn’t be who we are without them. Millie told me that each friend God gives us is sent for a reason. Maybe she was sent to comfort you. Maybe you were sent to comfort her. Maybe she was put in your life to prod you to become more than you think you can be. Maybe she is the aggravation in the oyster that makes you form a pearl. Maybe she was sent to make you laugh or talk or think. Maybe she was the one you told when you got your first period. Maybe she helped you buy your first bra. Maybe she will be the one you tell when you get your first hot flash or shop for falsies after a mastectomy.”
Kippie Lee stops, picks up a slender taper, and uses it to light a candle. “I light this first candle in honor of my friend Cookie Mehan. When everyone in town knew my husband was cheating on me, only one person was a good enough friend to step forward and tell me to my face. Cookie came over with a big box of Wom Kim’s peach pudding and told me. And for that one evening we forgot about starving ourselves to death and ate that pudding with warm cream poured over it and wondered, ‘Who needs men when we have Wom Kim?’ This candle is for Cookie, who always lights the way for me.”
Cookie’s no-bullshit, tough ranchwoman mask falls away, and a glimpse of the vulnerable girl she was, and no doubt still is, peeks through.
Kippie Lee holds out the taper. “Would anyone else like to honor a friendship?”
Cookie takes the candle from her friend. “I would die for Kippie Lee Teeter and I think she knows it, but I should probably tell her. A little Wom Kim because she’s getting dumped by an asshole who’s not fit to shine her shoes and never learned how to give decent head is nothing. When my son, Jacob, died of leukemia when he was four years old, I went into a really, really dark place that no therapy or religion, comfort or hope, could light. Even my husband at the time could not or would not follow me there. The only person who did was Kippie Lee. I wouldn’t let anyone in my house, but Kippie Lee just kept coming back. Again and again and again. She didn’t bring flowers or food. And, thank God, she didn’t bring advice. Words were empty for me. She just came and listened and let me pour out all the pain that probably would have killed me because I didn’t see any way to live with it. This candle is for Kippie Lee Teeter, because I wouldn’t be here without her and that’s God’s honest truth.” Cookie lights another candle, then nods her head decisively to signal that the case is closed and holds out the taper. “Anyone else?”
Juniper is the first Seneca House resident to take the taper. “My candle is for Olga. Last semester I mentioned to her that there was a problem with my mammogram. Even though I said it wasn’t that big of a deal, Olga showed up when I went in for a needle biopsy. She waited with me and held my hand while they did it. And even though I hate the bitch for being too skinny for me to borrow any of her clothes, I love her anyway.”
Olga jabs a finger at Juniper. “You! I luf you!”
Kat stands next and, eyes glued to the floor, steps uncertainly to the front of the group. “I’m not like what you call a public speaker or anything. Nikki is the one who’s good at that.”
Nikki grins and it is hard for me to see the angry street kid I first met.
“Nikki is my best friend. I can tell like a gazillion stories but this one time? These frat jerks were all doing their rush or whatever and they came over and started panhandling me like that was so funny or something. They were all, ‘Why are you panhandling? You’re fat. You should give us money.’ Then they took everything I had made that day. Which never would have happened if Nikki had been there. I hated myself for letting them take my money. I hated myself for having to ask for it in the first place. I hated that all I could do was sit and cry like some fat stupid baby. But when Nikki got back she just goes, ‘Those fucking assholes. Fuck it, we’re taking the day off.’ And she drags me off to see LOTR Two and we sit through it twice even though Nikki is not into Lord of the Rings. But I am.” Kat’s hands float up, trying to express what she can never express. “She did it for me.”
Kat lights a candle, sits down, and Nikki leans her head over onto Kat’s shoulder and rests it there.
Gruff, grumpy Jerome elbows his way to the front and takes the taper. “This is going to sound so unbelievably gay, so fuck all of you. I don’t care. I’m lighting this motherfucker for Lute. The asshole. He is the only one I told when my father had cancer and I had to fly back and forth to New Jersey way more times than I could afford and Lute gave me all his miles which he was saving to go home to Australia. So fuck you all, this one’s for my boy, Lute.” He lights a candle, shoves the taper back at Kippie Lee, and lumbers back to his chair. Without ever making eye contact, Lute holds his fist up and Jerome taps it.
Kippie Lee holds out the taper. “Anyone else?”
When Millie steps forward, I assume it is to deliver what everyone wants from her, a valedictory. The candlelight burnishes and blurs the faces that turn toward her. It brings out the girl at her first sleepaway camp in all the women present. Millie looks into the eyes of every person gathered before her, collects herself, and, voice strong and clear, begins speaking.
“Thank you all for what you have given me tonight. When I am asked why I was not ordained, I always say that it was because of my lack of speaking ability. That’s true. But only half-true. The other half is that I don’t believe in heaven and, apparently, that’s a problem if you want to be a minister. What I do believe, though, is that we make our heaven on earth, right here, right now, and if we believe anything else, we’ll never have our heaven. We’ll live and we’ll die and we won’t have our heaven. You all, every one of you in this house, you are my heaven. But the candle I will light tonight is for the friend who brought us all together.”
Everyone beams fond glances at one another as they try to figure which one is the special friend while simultaneously avoiding being trampled by Fatima, who is frantically elbowing her way toward the back.
“We each walk a different path, but thanks to my friend, that path has led us all to shelter here together beneath the same roof. The details of our lives are different. Some of us have husbands. Some of us do not. Some of us have lovers. Some of us do not. Some of us have children. Some of us do not. Some of us have money. Some of us do not. The one thing we all have in common is this: We all have friends. I grew up believing that I was destined to live my life without friends. Then I moved into this house and I made a friend.”
A kind of nerved-up resignation grips me. I know as clearly as I’ve ever known anything in my life what I have to do. I stop running away and begin fumbling with the acres of cloth hiding me.
“The candle I ligh
t is for the friend who opened doors for me that I would never have walked through without her. I wouldn’t be here right now without her. Wherever she is tonight I want her to know that I love her and will always love her. I light this candle for my friend Blythe Young.”
Lost in the burka, I can’t see the looks of horror and disgust that I am sure cross the faces of all my former friends, but I clearly hear a collective gasp at the mention of my name.
“Would anyone else like to light a candle?” Millie asks.
I know that facing the music is going to be ugly, but nothing will stop me now from stepping forward. I prepare to throw off my disguise. Unfortunately, this bold gesture is hampered by the feet stepping on Fatima’s burka.
Before I can free myself, I hear a voice with the bounce of Bengal ring out. “I would. I would like to light a candle.” I stop struggling and reposition the grille over my face in time to see Sanjeev step up and take the taper from Millie’s trembling hand.
“For too long I have lived in fear of losing my life on earth when all the time I was with the person who is my heaven. I light this candle for Millie Ott.”
The room is so silent that we can hear Millie’s candle flaring to life.
“And now, please,” Sanjeev requests. “If you all will bear with me for one moment, there is something I must do and I must do it immediately. Here, in front of the community that brought us together.”
He presses a key on his cell phone, and a number dials. The room is utterly silent as Sanjeev, speaking in clear, ringing English, declares, “Father, it is Sanjeev. I have something to tell you. Something you won’t like and something that I will not change my mind about. Father, I cannot marry Bhavani Mukherjee. You know that I love another. I can live without my family, my caste, my country, but I cannot live without Millie Ott. That is final. Hello? Hello! Father!”
Sanjeev holds the phone away from his ear and stares at it. “I don’t know if Baba hung up or if the connection was lost or if he had a—” Before he can say “heart attack,” Millie puts her arm around him. They fit together with a kind of inevitability that makes everyone feel obtuse for not having seen it before.
