by Mary Hogan
“True?” Lidia asked, her neck lolling backward to drink in Owen’s full height. No Warren Beatty this one, she thought, running her fingers lightly down her throat. Nonetheless, he had a full head of hair—dull brown though it was—and pleasant enough features. A woman could do worse. With a quick flick of her eyes, she glanced at his left ring finger. The reflex of a single woman over twenty-five. Madalyn spotted it instantly and reached for Owen’s hand.
“Guess so,” he said, positioning his unwieldy body in what he hoped was a casual pose. His feet hurt in his hard Sunday shoes. His arms seemed overly long and he was cold without the new Members Only jacket he’d bought but left at home. That damn weatherman had said fifty-five degrees. It was forty-eight at best. Madalyn’s hand felt like a claw hammer. Her pouffy hairdo looked ridiculous. Touching it later would feel like reaching behind a steamer trunk in the farthest corner of a spooky attic. His pillowcase would smell like hairspray all week. What he wouldn’t give to be in Providence, alone, at Death Wish II.
“Hah.” Madalyn rolled her eyes. “Last week he dragged me to an old Hitchcock.”
Owen Sullivant stared, blank faced. Why did Madalyn have to say anything? They’d been standing quietly, companionably, minding their own business. She dove into a stranger’s conversation like a humpback on a herring. And the way she spat out, Hitchcock. What the hell did that mean? The man was a genius. She had clung to his arm when the birds flew out of the fireplace, buried her head in his chest as Tippi Hedren ran for her life in that sexy narrow skirt. Afterward, she’d relived every scary moment over tequila sunrises and salted peanuts in the town’s best cocktail lounge. What more did the woman want?
In baby steps, the line shuffled forward. Annoyed, Owen leaned out to see what was going on. Was someone paying in pennies? Pretending to cough, he retrieved his hand.
The plain fact was this: Owen Sullivant’s desires were simple. He wanted order. Each morning at precisely seven o’clock he awoke without prodding from an alarm clock. He fixed himself one perfect cup of black coffee and a medium-size bowl of steel-cut oatmeal. Reusing a paper sack until it dissolved, he packed a turkey breast sandwich on wheat bread—light on the mayo—and a navel orange for lunch. In the fall, when eastern apples were at their peak, he swapped out the orange for a McIntosh, preferring the tart crispness of a Mac to the mealy sweetness of a Red Delicious. On Sundays he drove into Providence because the church there had a real organ. On weekdays, in his morning shower, Owen ran through the particulars of the day ahead comforted by the fact that one day rarely looked different from the rest. The only reason he’d bought a trendy new jacket when his brown suede blazer was still perfectly wearable was because Madalyn had accused him of resembling his father.
“We are closely related genetically,” he’d replied, sarcasm surging past his teeth even as he tried to use his tongue as a sandbag.
“A man in his thirties shouldn’t look like a man in his fifties.”
“Thank you, Madalyn, for telling me how I should look.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, as obtuse as ever.
The awful truth was, Owen had intended to break it off with Madalyn weeks ago but was still searching for the right words. It pained him to crush a woman’s expectations. And he was certain Madalyn would respond overdramatically. Why, a few months ago, she’d been apoplectic when Edith Head passed away.
“Edith who?” Owen had asked, handing her several fresh tissues.
“My God! Audrey Hepburn, Bette Davis, Grace Kelly, Gloria Swanson, Ginger Rogers—she designed costumes for all the greats!”
“Was she an aunt? A relative of some sort?”
“Don’t you think I would have mentioned by now if I was related to the great Edith Head?” Her eyes practically bulged out of her own head.
Owen had quietly sighed. Breaking up with Madalyn was fraught with peril at every turn. The great Edith Head, he found out when he looked her up, lived into her eighties. Had Madalyn thought she was immortal?
So every Saturday night as they made tepid love in the wake of a lackluster date, Owen examined his exit strategies. His mind flashed platitudes like a flip-book. Everything happens for a reason. Time heals all wounds. If we were meant to be . . . blah, blah, blah. None of it sounded even slightly manly, especially not while he was on top of her. And Owen’s current ploy of indifference wasn’t working at all. He had hoped Madalyn would notice what a cad he’d become, storm out on her own, and be done with the whole messy business. But, honestly, the woman was as thick as the goo she sprayed on her cobwebbed hair.
There in Pawtucket, in the chilly snail-paced movie line, he cast about his brain for something personable to say to the narrow-waisted blonde in the leotard, stretchy skirt, short leather jacket, and sparkly crucifix necklace who suddenly seemed to be standing with them. All he could think of was, “Do we know you?” but he was reluctant to use the word “we” since Madalyn took things so literally.
“The great Edith Head was Hitchcock’s favorite costume designer,” Owen said instead, cocking one caddish eyebrow in Madalyn’s direction. Remembering this tidbit of information at that particular moment warmed his whole body. “She did the clothes for many of his classic films, including his best, The Birds.”
Jaw dangling, Madalyn shot him a nasty look.
“Rear Window made me buy curtains,” Lidia said, smiling up at Owen, her cheeks as dark pink as her lips. He shifted his weight to the other leg and moved forward another six inches in line. His tongue felt like a soggy loaf of bread. How do you respond to a statement like that? Of course she should have curtains, or at the very least a pull-down shade, whether Alfred Hitchcock made a movie or not.
“Probably a good idea,” he said, flatly. To which Madalyn rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time and Lidia erupted in high-pitched laughter so loud nobody knew where to look.
“You’re a riot,” she said to Owen. Another statement that stumped him. Owen Sullivant was many things: a graduate of New England Tech; a mechanical engineer who designed cooling systems for large manufacturing plants; a native and resident of Central Falls, Rhode Island; an only child; a single man with no particular desire to marry; a gentle soul; and a wearer of white shirts and white socks. A laugh riot he was not.
“I’m Lidia Czerwinski,” she said to him. Unsure how better to respond, he simply said, “Owen.”
“Do you have a last name, Owen?”
“Sullivant.”
“Nice Catholic boy?” she asked. Not knowing what else to do, Owen chuckled self-consciously and nodded. He was far from a boy, but this girl had a way about her that made his mind misfire.
The movie line finally surged forward. After Lidia bought her ticket, she gave Owen Sullivant such a lingering look that Madalyn snuggled up to his arm, making it nearly impossible to get his wallet out.
Chapter 3
DRESSED IN DARK-WASH Levi’s and a black tee, Muriel pulled open the glass door to the corner market at the Broadway end of her block. She lifted a green shopping basket out of the stack and hung it on her arm, maneuvering in a zigzag fashion through the narrow aisles of the small gourmet store. To be on the safe side, she chose a liter of club soda and enough limes to flavor a pitcher of margaritas. Pears, too, though they were ridiculously expensive, plus heirloom cherry tomatoes, asparagus spears, a baguette, and spiced almonds. All items she’d once read about in a magazine article on effortless, yet elegant, entertaining. “Crud,” she muttered to herself. Why hadn’t she ripped out that page so she’d know what to do with the classy ingredients once she got them home? Does one serve mini tomatoes raw on a plate next to uncooked asparagus? Wouldn’t that look too much like an exclamation point to be considered “elegant” in any way? And surely there must be some sort of dip involved. In the checkout line, she considered asking the girl at the register, but the unruly state of her ponytail dissuaded her.
On impulse, Muriel made one more stop before making her way home. The sturgeon shop next door sold d
elicious smoked salmon and homemade scallion cream cheese. Pia probably wouldn’t want them, certainly not atop the carb load of a bagel, but it would be a nice treat after she left. Perhaps she’d have a smoked salmon baguette sandwich for dinner, with Garrett’s CaramelCrisp for dessert? How long was Pia planning to stay, anyway? Good lord, Muriel thought with a jolt, was she thinking of spending the night?
As Muriel walked home with the plastic grocery bags choking off the blood to her fingertips, she was struck for the millionth time by the curious reality that her sister didn’t know her at all, a woman she’d known all her life. By the time Muriel was born Pia was eight years old. Grown up enough to quickly tire of her sister-doll and wonder when she was leaving.
“Can’t we get a real dog, Mama?” she once said with toddler Muriel galumphing behind her.
In truth, Pia had never been kind to her younger sister. Not that kindness had been encouraged. Theirs was a family unit that surfaced occasionally: an even blend turned odd. A girl was born to please the mother, a boy for the father. Then several miles down the bonding road, when relationships were already well cured, a fifth being arrived after an alcohol-soaked attempt to revive a comatose marriage. From the start, Muriel upset the mathematically tidy Sullivant square. Love, it turns out, isn’t as accommodating as the movies would have one believe.
After Muriel was born, Owen morphed into a 1950s sort of father—silent, awkward around estrogen, spending much of his time at the office or tinkering in the basement with his son. Lidia made an effort at first. Then she grew exhausted by the sheer effort of it. Pretending Pia wasn’t her favorite child felt like lying and Lidia was a good Catholic. Lying was a sin.
“MAMA, CAN I go in the waves?”
It was a sweaty morning at the end of July. The Sullivant family had rented a two-bedroom vacation cottage near Salty Brine Beach on Block Island Sound. Pia had already claimed the orange sunroom with the canopy bed. Lidia had unpacked her trunk in the front bedroom with the window-seat view of the foamy surf. Owen and Logan were “roughing it” a few miles down the road—camping at Fisherman’s Park near Rhode Island’s southern tip. Muriel was assigned the alcove off the cottage living room with the sleeper sofa. “Keep it neat,” Lidia had commanded. “It’s also where we watch TV.”
“Mama, can I go swimming in the waves?”
That morning the Sullivant females had staked out a spot on the shore down beach from their little bungalow. Lidia wore a jet black swimsuit with a plunging neckline that occasionally revealed where her tan stopped and her breasts began. Her toenails were the color of a classroom chalkboard. Shaded by an umbrella, she reclined against a folding canvas chair behind Jackie O sunglasses, sipping cosmos she’d brought from the cottage in a shiny silver thermos.
“I feel a nap descending,” she replied with an exaggerated yawn.
Pia was fifteen, slim legged and utterly fluid in her pastel pink bikini. Muriel was a roly-poly seven-year-old perpetually tugging at the bottom ruffle on her one-piece. Even then she hated the beach. All that sunlight made her feel accused, as if caught in the light of the open refrigerator at midnight.
“Please, Mama, it’s hot.”
Directly overhead, the sun was white. Pia lay flat on a towel, tanning. The three triangles of her bikini covered just enough. In a sliver of umbrella shade, Muriel pushed her sweaty bangs off her forehead. She sprinkled sand on the tops of her bare feet, like sugar.
“Ten minutes. I’ll count.”
Lidia said nothing. Beneath her fly-eye glasses, she pretended to be already asleep.
“I’m getting sunburned, Mama.”
Languidly, Lidia roused herself enough to reach for her straw tote. She unzipped the inside pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. “Take Muriel in the water,” she said to Pia, waving the bill enticingly in the air.
“No way.” Pia didn’t even open her eyes.
Though her blond hair was layered, Pia had gathered it high on her head and contained it in a messy knot. Wisps radiated out like sunbeams. Her tanned arms glistened with golden down as if a rabble of monarch butterflies had just done a flyby. As with her mother, Pia had thighs that didn’t touch at the top. Bathing suits didn’t feel like nakedness. They didn’t bunch up and make red marks.
“Half hour max,” Lidia said, flapping the bill harder. “So I can get some shut-eye.”
“What about my shut-eye?” Pia said.
“Don’t be fresh.”
As the sun shifted, Muriel scooted closer to her mother and the circle of shade. She asked, “Is it possible to get sunburned underwater?”
Lidia sighed. “Pia. Please?” She reached into her tote for another ten.
“Why do I always have to babysit her?” Pia asked.
“Who else?”
“Logan. Dad.”
Beneath her dark glasses Lidia rolled her eyes. Her husband and son were useless, miles away gathering driftwood for their campfire that night or examining the intricacies of beach detritus or some such nonsense. She poured more fruity liquid from the thermos. Ice cubes hit the bottom of her plastic cup with a dull clunk.
“I’m hot, Mama.”
“Pia?”
“God, Muriel.” Growling, Pia opened her eyes and lifted her head off the beach towel. Only then did she see the incentive Lidia was still waving in the air.
“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” Lidia said.
Said Pia, “Twenty-five.”
Setting her drink on the towel and pushing her sunglasses on top of her head, Lidia joked, “Muriel, call that cute lifeguard over. I’m being robbed by a greedy, ungrateful child.”
Muriel made a face. What, she was supposed to walk all that way alone on the hot sand? Suddenly, Pia was on her feet applying lip gloss. To her mother she said, “Ha-ha.” Plucking the two tens from Lidia’s outstretched fingers, she added, “You owe me five bucks.”
“Take your time,” Lidia said, taking a final swig and rolling a dry beach towel into a pillow for her neck. Then she leaned back and let her head fall sideways.
“Get up, Muriel. I have a life.” Pia tugged at her sister’s wrist. Before Muriel had a chance to pull the back of her swimsuit in place, Pia was yanking her up the beach.
“The water is that way.”
“I need to do something first.”
“Like what?”
“Like mind your own beeswax.” Pia let Muriel’s arm drop.
With her toes clawing into the hot sand, Muriel hurried to keep up with her sister. Her skin was damp, the soft blobs of fat at the tops of her legs rubbed against each other in sticky friction. Ahead of her, sugary sand stuck to Pia’s reddish brown calves. Her bare heels were pink.
“Wait here,” she said when they reached the parking lot in front of the Snack Shack.
“Where?”
“Here. Right at this corner.”
“Outside?”
“It’s the beach, you ignoramus. You’re supposed to be outside.” Softening, she said, “I’ll run in and get us some Cokes, okay?”
“Then you’ll take me swimming?”
“Yes.”
“Mama said.”
“I will.”
“She said.”
Pia shot her sister an exasperated look. Then she flitted off around the back of the cinder-block building, kicking up sand in her wake. “Don’t move one inch, Muriel. I mean it.”
Muriel didn’t move one inch. Smoke from grilling hot dogs billowed around her. Her stomach growled. The soles of her feet were hot, hot, hot. She lifted them off the asphalt, first one, then the other. The sun seemed to aim its rays straight on her. A magnifying glass on an ant. It felt like an eternity before Pia’s lean form reappeared around the corner. Muriel exhaled relief. “You’ll take me swimming now?”
Said Pia, “Follow me.” Of course that’s exactly what Muriel did, not even mentioning the promised Cokes that were nowhere in sight. Instead, she asked her older sister, “Do you think jellyfish float on top of the ba
y or swim underneath?”
Typically Pia, she didn’t respond. She made it clear that pudgy Muriel was little more than a barnacle on her life. She was blind to Muriel’s adoring gaze, the way she memorized the dimples in her sister’s lower back, her head-up walk, the lazy lowering of her eyelids when she lost herself in music, the way she flicked her hair out of her face in a quick upward Z motion. Muriel even took to biting her hangnails the way Pia did, spitting them into the air with a pffft.
With her long-legged gait, Pia hiked to the farthest edge of the beach, away from the summer crowds. Scrabbling behind her, Muriel tugged at the elastic edges of her swimsuit repeating, “The water is that way.” In her bored, up-to-here kind of way, Pia clucked her tongue. Without turning around she marched toward a high pile of black breaker rocks at the very end of the beach, leaving her sister to only imagine how cool the water might feel on her hot skin. The way its sea foam would tickle her toes. How the mist would taste salty and the bay would swirl around her ankles in little loop-de-loops. The water would feel too cold at first, but her skin would get used to it. Jellyfish would swim away the moment they saw her feet.
“Hey wait,” she asked suddenly. “Do jellyfish even have eyes?”
Pia of course said nothing. When Muriel slowed down, her sister circled back to snatch up her wrist and pull her through the sand. “I don’t have all day,” she said, sounding exactly like their mother.
“Where are we going?”
Silence.
“The water is that way.”
Nothing.
“Owww.”
Pia plowed on ahead.
“Piiiia.”
Pia whirled around and yanked hard on Muriel’s arm. “One more peep and I’m telling Mom. You think I want to spend time with you?”
Muriel shut her mouth. Not sure what she’d done wrong, she nonetheless knew she’d get it trouble for it. Pia was always tattling on her for something or other.
