The Language of Sisters (16 page)

“How about nine hours?”

“ No. ”

His arm was heavy over me. Nick is a muscled man. He was warm. He was comforting. He was protective. When I was with him, I could forget. Until the guilt hit and sent me into a tailspin.

I had brought my mother's meat and vegetable pie over. On the Specials board it was listed as “You Eat, Trust Me.” Meat and vegetable pie sounds terrible, but as soon as customers try it, they love it. I also brought chocolate cake. My mother called it “Alexei Sexy Chocolate Cake.” I knew I'd get calls about my sexy father the next day.

“I'll make you an omelet in the morning if you stay.”

“I can't.”

“You won't.”

“Don't bug me about this, Nick. I've told you, from the start, that I don't want this to be anything more than what it is.” Man, I sounded cold.

“You did tell me that.”

“So live with it.” Freezing.

“I'm trying. It's tough.”

“You're a tough man. You can do it.” Hypothermic.

I moved to get up, though I didn't want to. He flexed and held me down, then lifted his arm when I pushed again, and sighed. I am not modest and I did not care that he was watching me, that I was naked, and I was getting dressed in front of him.

I bit down on my lip so I didn't cry. I pulled on my jeans, my knee-high black boots, a black tank top, and my lacy, black hippie style blouse over it.

I looked down at Nick before I left. He was sitting up in bed, his hands together. He stared back at me.

I blinked, then left. I heard him get out of bed and pull on jeans.

“You don't have to walk me home.”

“Yes, I do.”

I walked down the dock. I heard Nick behind me. I kept my footsteps quiet, though I knew the neighbors knew that I slept with Nick. I didn't care that they knew. I have been through too much to care what anyone thinks of me, ever, but I didn't want to wake people up, either.

“Good night, Toni.”

I didn't answer. I was mad at him. Mad because Nick was pushing me to a place I couldn't go.

I took a shower, showering off Nick, while I thought of Marty.

Then Nick's and Marty's faces blurred, and Nick's became clear and Marty's faded, which made me feel awful.

I wrapped myself in a towel and went outside, in the rain, opened the kayak house, and sat in our two-seater. I listened to the water hit the roof.

* * *

“This dress looks like toilet paper.” Ellie lifted the skirt of the fluffy white wedding dress.

“Yes, it does,” Valerie said. “Unraveled toilet paper.”

“It's not quite you,” I said.

“I can't believe,” my mother whispered,
loudly,
sitting beside me in a blue lacy dress and pearls. “She marry a Italian. Not a Russian. She marry nonrusseman. I make that word up. I make this word up, too: badchoicey. It one word.” She held up one finger. “More efficient.”

The four of us were in a bridal salon in downtown Portland. It was lush. Whites and pinks. Mirrors everywhere so brides could lose their frazzled minds while staring at themselves from three directions.

“It looks like you could take it apart sheet by sheet and use it in the bathroom,” Valerie said.

“Do you have to be so blunt, Valerie?” I asked.

“I like honesty.”

“Honesty can be combined with kindness, creepo.”

“What about this one? Mermaid style, satin train.” The shop assistant, a woman in her twenties, held up a dress. She looked exhausted, hair falling out of her bun, shirt slightly untucked, mascara smearing. We'd been there for two hours.

“I don't think so ...” Ellie said. She took a paper bag out of her purse and blew into it.

My mother threw up her hands. “What? You no like that one, either, Elvira?”

“What about the silky one you tried on earlier, sewn by La-Toine, with the scalloped hem?” the assistant asked, only slightly pale. “You looked like a princess.”

“That was a gorgeous dress,” Valerie said. “But you looked bad in it.”

“Valerie. Come on,” I said, getting ticked. “You're not helping.”

“I help,” my mother whispered, again,
loudly.
“I take her away. Morning of wedding. Kidnap Elvira. You come, too, Antonia. You be quickie at kidnapping, that what I think.”

“No,” Valerie said. “I meant that the expression on Ellie's face was bad, like this.” Valerie rolled her blue eyes back in her head, her body went slack, her tongue slipped out of her mouth and she made gagging noises. “You didn't look happy in it.”

“I wasn't happy in it. I'm not a princess,” Ellie said, semi-gasping. “I think it's ridiculous for women to want to resemble a spoiled, entitled, elitist princess on their wedding day, happy to have a man whisk her and her flighty brain off to a drafty castle and slay the dragons. I can slay the dragons myself.”

“We were never princesses growing up,” I said. “I admired the witches more. Clever and temperamental.”

“Pickpocketers weren't allowed in the princess category,” Valerie said.

My mother cringed. I cringed. I don't like the word “pickpocketers” used near my mother. It brings up a riptide of pain and yet another family secret.

“I refuse to buy into this whole fairy tale idea,” Ellie said. “I do not want a prince to ride up on his white horse, or a Porsche, and rescue me. I can rescue myself. I don't want his castle. I have my own. It's a home by the river.” She stopped to wheeze into the bag. “I don't need protection from him, I have a gun. I am not a mindless princess, grateful to be entering into a relationship of sexism and servitude. I'm a woman who can stand for herself.”

The shop assistant, poor thing, not expecting such an anti-princess tirade, halfheartedly held up another white dress, plunging neckline. “This elegant design is by Perunia. Beading hand sewn. Not princess-y at all. Modern. Sleek. For a woman who knows her own power.”

“You've got the figure for that one,” Valerie said. “I wish I had your body, Ellie, I do. Boobs and butt and a skinny waist. I would kill you but I won't because I know how much time you have to spend in jail nowadays for murder.”

“Do we have to talk about murder when she's trying to find a wedding dress?” I pulled on Valerie's hair, lightly. I didn't try to yank it out of her head.

“My daughters!” my mother said, disapproving, mouth tight. “Valeria be with the criminals and throws them in the jail and always talks blood. Another one marries a Italian and cannot breathe without bag. And the oldest one, she live on a tugboat. Like she a sailor. Too skinny sailor!” She eyed my disappointing figure. “I always say to you three: Put on the lipstick and earrings before you leave the house unless the house on fire. But no! Sometimes, no lipstick, no earrings. That's not right for lady.”

“Okay, Ellie,” I said, ignoring my mother because I needed out of that shop. “Of all the dresses you tried on, narrow it to three that you like.”

She couldn't think of even one she liked.

“What about this one?” the assistant said, picking up one dress, then another, eyes glazed. “Or this one ... you seemed to like the Italian lace on the skirt here, it adds a whimsical flair ... this exquisite strapless gown with the satin piping enhances the bustline ... the glittering rhinestone belt offers a touch of glitter and glam ...”

“No ...” Ellie said. “No ... not that one ... too fluffy ... too loud ... too intricate ... I'm too fat for that one ... don't like the neckline ... not that one, either.” She took another drag on her bag and flopped down, like a rag doll. Anxiety attacks are exhausting.

“What is it, Ellie?” I asked.

“I am having a hard time envisioning myself walking down an aisle, clinging to Papa's arm because, by tradition, he is giving me away. I can't stand that concept. No one gives me away. I won't give myself away. What I'm doing is getting married, not handing myself over like a cow to its new owner. I'm supposed to squish myself into a white dress, which traditionally is supposed to symbolize virginity, though I am not a virgin, and I think it's ridiculous that society would value virginity anyhow. We should always value women on their character and personality, not on their hymen. So the color white is bugging me.”

“Maybe you should wear another color,” Valerie said.

“If I wore what I wanted to wear, it would be purple, as that is my favorite color.”

“Wear purple,” Valerie and I said.

“
Purple?
” My mother threw her hands in the air, eyes wide, oh, the horrors of it all. “For the wedding dress?”

“Gino would have a fit.” Ellie put the bag back to her mouth.

“That's a bad sign right there,” I said.

“Man, I need a shot of vodka,” Valerie said. “At home. Not here. I have my car. You three should come to my house and get drunk after this. We could have so much fun.”

“I don't like hangovers,” I said. “I find them depressing.”

“Brave it, Toni. So, Ellie, what'll it be? You have to tell us before our saleslady hides in the back room and starts slamming straight shots.”

“I won't—” The saleslady's expression changed. “Well, I might... .”

“I don't like any of them,” Ellie said. “I'm sorry. I don't.” She lay down on the floor of the shop with her bag and closed her eyes. “Reach within yourself for your personal truth, Ellie,” she singsonged. “Be with your body, not your mind ... go to a meadow, a lake ... breathe a gentle spirit into your true self and be one with nature and your organic identity ...”

“How about be honest with yourself, smart one?” Valerie said.

My mother, in a state, stood up, marched over to her prone and chanting daughter, and put one leg on either side of her. “See? What I say?” She bent down to make her point with Ellie. “I have daughter with bag on face. What I done wrong? What happen? This black magic curse because of the Italian stallion.”

“This isn't about the dress,” I muttered.

“Duh, Sherlock,” Valerie said. “It's about the nonrusseman.”

“She made that word up,” I said.

“I know. Impressive,” Valerie said. “More efficient.”

My mother unceremoniously flipped Ellie over and smacked her on the butt. Twice.

“Ow!” Ellie said. “Ow!”

“You get yourself together, bag daughter. I not leave Soviet Union so you marry Italian who you no can breathe around.”

I slipped the saleslady a large tip and we left, Ellie leaning heavily on my arm.

“If you can't breathe around a wedding dress, it's probably a sign,” Valerie said.

“Shut up, Valerie,” Ellie said. Bag inflated, bag deflated....

* * *

“Hello, Daisy.” I fell into step beside my neighbor on the dock. “You're off early this morning.”

“That I am. I saw you crying in your kayak. Poor lady. Sad. I'm going duck hunting. I'll bring you home a duck so you'll feel better.” Her white curls bopped about under a green hat with a yellow duck on it. A necklace of fake white daisies hung to her waist.

“Duck hunting?” Oh, that was bad, bad, bad. She was not carrying a visible rifle, though.

“Yes. I've got my duck hat on and my duck galoshes.”

Her galoshes were pink with white ducks, and she did have a hat on with a yellow plastic duckie on the brim. The hat had fake pink daisies stapled to it.

“And I'm wearing duck underwear. I had Georgie find them for me. He had to order them on the computer thingie.” She pulled up her skirt. Indeed, there were two yellow duckies on her bottom, which she let me see by bending over.

“Those are friendly ducks, Daisy.” I pictured Georgie, tall and menacing, searching for duck panties for his mother online. I tried not to laugh.

“I can have him get you some, if you'd like.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” I had to say yes. The thought of Georgie, aka Slash, buying me duck panties was too precious to give up.

“Quack and quack. How's your shot? Mine is ducking perfect. It's from the Bad Years.” She pointed a fake rifle at the sky and shot it off. “I had to kick Georgie and Skippy's dad out when they were little ducklings. He beat me with his wings. Walked in the door one time, drunk as a snake on snake oil, and I pulled up my rifle and pointed it at his ducking head. I told him, ‘You son of a female dog. I didn't get married so I could get beaten up twice a week. Now take your sagging butt and your orangutan face and get out.' ”

Daisy's memories of the past are often much more clear than those of today or yesterday. “What did he do?”

“He argued. Said he would change. I'd heard that before, so I told him he had had seven years to change, then I shot at him.”

“Did you hit him?” I could see her burying the body.

“No, I missed on purpose. Couldn't go to jail, what about my two small ducklings? Skippy and Georgie, what would they do without me? He took off running, quacking. We never saw him again. But I needed money, needed a business, or I'd lose our home. In those days, women were supposed to stay home and take care of ducklings. But not me. I started buying the moon, the sun, and the earth, and I was in business.”

“How much was the moon?”

“Expensive. But I had money squirreled away in a hole in the wall, like nuts. So I bought the moon, then got the sun at half price, and the earth I bought from a friend when he had to get out of town fast on account of a killer chasing him down. He owed the head duck a lot of money, but I didn't.”