The Pretty One: A Novel About Sisters (12 page)

At eleven, Perri walked her “nine thirty” to the elevator. At twelve thirty, she did the same with her “eleven thirty.” At twelve forty-five, she shut the door, glanced at a framed desk photo of Noah, pushed away a horrific image of him being crushed by an oncoming train (why did her brain taunt her like that?), scanned a sushi menu on the Internet, placed an order, and readjusted her buttocks in her desk chair. But she couldn’t get comfortable. Her bones felt creaky, her skin itchy. There was a licorice taste in the back of her throat. Maybe she and Mike needed a vacation, she thought. Just the two of them. Somewhere far away with palm trees and white sand. The only problem was that Perri secretly hated vacations. She felt as if she weren’t accomplishing anything. Which, of course, was the whole point—just not to Perri.

Over a yellowtail scallion roll and seaweed salad, she reviewed the previous quarter’s sales figures. They were disappointing. However, considering the wider economic situation in the
country, they were not as disappointing as they might have been. Also, the pastel wicker keepsake boxes were selling like hotcakes. Maybe recessions brought out consumers’ nostalgic streaks?

At two, she met with LuAnn and Troy in the conference room to discuss the upcoming catalogue. (Proposed cover line:
Spring = Spring Cleaning.
) Troy felt it sounded too 1950s—no one cleaned exclusively in the spring anymore, he argued—but LuAnn felt that the phrase had retro appeal. And Perri agreed, clearly irritating Troy, who stomped out with a pissy “Who cares what I think—I’m just a pretentious white guy with facial hair who dresses like a perverted lumberjack and lives in Williamsburg. Right?”

Rather than agree, Perri said nothing.

Returning to her office at two forty-five, she dug her hand into her bag in search of her BlackBerry. She was feeling guilty about her freak-out over
The Backyardigans
and thought she’d send a conciliatory text to Mike, something like “Hope you and N had a good Wheels on the Bus. Sorry I was a big crank this morning.” But was she actually sorry? All she knew was that she hated the idea of him sitting there thinking he’d married a shrew. Along with her BlackBerry, her hand emerged with the credit card solicitation addressed to Ginny Budelaire.

Without thinking, Perri ripped open the envelope, grabbed a pen off her desktop, and began to fill out the application form. She wrote in a fictional date of birth that established her as ten years younger than she actually was. She listed her marital status as “single.” She picked nine random digits as her Social Security number and copied them out. She checked off the box indicating that her annual family income was between $50,000 and $75,000. Finally, with a loopy theatrical hand and with
both the capital G and the capital B dwarfing the back-slanted letters that followed, she signed the form “Ginny Budelaire.” Then she stuffed the form into its accompanying envelope, licked it closed, tucked it back in her purse—and dared herself to drop it in the mailbox in front of the Lexington Avenue post office on her way back to Grand Central later that day.

7

T
AKING PITY ON HER MOTHER
—and with nothing else to do after work now that Debbie had moved out—Gus had been going out to Yonkers to visit Carol every evening or two.

“Let me know if you want me to bring anything else to the hospital,” she offered one still-wintry mid-March eve. “Crossword puzzles. Socks. Fresh fruit. My diary for you to read.” In high school, Gus had caught Carol doing exactly that, which wouldn’t have been a big deal if Gus hadn’t used the pages to confess to an undying crush on the captain of the girls’ basketball team. Whether her mother realized that P.S. was Penny Showalter was unclear. In any case, she’d never forgiven Carol, who’d never apologized, on the grounds that Gus had left the thing sitting out in clear view.

But for once, Carol let the reference fly right by her. “I’d love some green grapes, actually,” she said.

“Easily accomplished,” said Gus.

“You’re too kind.”

“Really, it’s no problem.”

“I suppose it would be nice to have a few books, as well,” Carol went on. “Whatever you find on my bedside table is fine, if you don’t mind schlepping back to the house again. I know you’re busy—”

“Not too busy to secure you a fictional autobiography of a Roman emperor,” said Gus.

“Thank you, my dear. Actually, I wouldn’t mind rereading
I, Claudius.
”

“Sure thing.”

“Auggie.” Carol pursed her lips, her eyes crinkly beneath her mummy-like head bandage.

“Yes, Mom?”

“It’s meant a lot to me that you’ve been here so much, keeping your feeble old mother company.”

“It’s nothing,” said Gus, unnerved though not displeased by the apparent change in Carol’s personality. Indeed, as she emerged from the fog of painkillers, she struck Gus as being newly deferential, even polite, where she’d once been rude and overbearing. As a result, Gus and her mother were getting along far better than usual. It was also clear to Gus that she was attached to the woman in some possibly unhealthy way. But she didn’t necessarily want to be reminded of that.

At the same time, having been awarded Favored Daughter status, if only for the moment, Gus wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to denigrate her Less Worthy Sisters. “On that note,” she began again. “I can’t believe how
little
Pia has been out here to see you. I think Dad’s really offended.” In fact, Bob had never mentioned Olympia’s name to Gus. Not that he necessarily remembered Olympia’s name.

“Well, he shouldn’t be,” said Carol.

“Why not?” said Gus, disappointed.

“Pia has a lot on her plate, between her museum job and raising Lola on her own.”

“And I don’t?”

“I know you do, too.”

“Well, Lola is in daycare, like, seventeen hours a day.” Gus felt guilty ranking on her sister behind her back—but maybe not that guilty.

“Well, it’s not easy for her to get out here,” said Carol, “especially without a car like you have. It’s a good hour-and-a-half commute by public transit, and she doesn’t get out of work until six something.”

“What about weekends? What’s her excuse then?”

“I don’t know about weekends,” Carol conceded.

“Well, my reading is that she can’t deal with people when they’re in need because she’s an incredibly selfish human being.” No sooner had Gus relieved herself of the long-held conviction that her middle sister didn’t pull her fair weight in the family, however, than she found herself doubting her righteousness. After all, it was Gus who had helped herself—twice now—to the petty cash jar in her parents’ kitchen while picking up extra clothes for Carol. It wasn’t as if she needed the money. Between Legal Aid and Fordham, she made a decent living, even if a full fifty percent of it was stripped away by the government. (Despite being a committed lefty, Gus secretly hated paying taxes and occasionally claimed questionable write-offs on her annual returns, such as dry cleaning for “public appearances.” Which, in her case, meant appearing in family court in the Bronx.) But there was a way in which she believed herself to be deserving of those extra five- and ten-dollar bills.

Gus often thought of a story told by her grandmother, Gertrude, who had been a small child during the Depression, as
well as the youngest of six. When Trudy’s mother, Alberta, had roasted a chicken, the pick of parts would begin with her oldest brother and continue down. Poor Trudy would always be left with the near-meatless back or thigh. (Gus could relate.) Not that in the eighteen years she lived on Edmarth Place Carol had ever served them a freshly roasted anything. Ready-made astronaut chicken was another story. Gus had nevertheless felt that her older sisters had consumed the majority of their parents’ riches, such as they were. To Gus’s mind, Olympia had been so beautiful and ethereal that everyone had had to tiptoe around her for fear of her breaking in two. And Perri had been so bossy and histrionic that no one had any choice but to do as she said. No wonder that, growing up, Gus had felt as if she’d had to shout to be heard, even over Olympia’s silences, which in their own way could be deafening. “Everyone’s doing the best they can” was the New Carol’s magnanimous reading of the situation.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Gus. “Anyway, I should get going. I’m heading over to Perri’s for dinner.”

“Send my love to everyone.”

“Will do. Get some rest.” Gus paused. “And stop being so nice. Would you?”

“Pardon me?” said Carol, blinking.

“Never mind,” said Gus, eyeing her mother sideways as she walked out of her room. “See you tomorrow.”

It was only a ten-mile drive, due east, to Larchmont. Driving up Perri’s snakelike driveway in her beat-up old Honda Civic, Gus wondered how anyone could stand to live as her oldest sister did. The pressure to keep up appearances must have been relentless. Gus had no such issues. She lived in an utterly
utilitarian prewar apartment on the unfashionable northern tip of Manhattan. For Gus, its utter lack of attitude—never mind charm—made it that much more relaxing. You could walk around in it in sweatpants just being yourself, or, better yet, no one at all. You could leave the bathroom door open when you did your business. That was also the problem. It felt utterly empty in there without Debbie. Was it any wonder that Gus had been coming out to Westchester so much, spending time with the very family who purportedly drove her insane?

Mike answered the front door with a “Yo.”

“Hey,” she said. Gus had long considered her brother-in-law to be a harmless doofus who was unworthy of Perri in every respect. But she didn’t really mind him, either. As her eyes ran from his flip-flops to his baseball cap—worn backward, of course—she wondered if he secretly liked being off work, or if he found it emasculating, or if he had any thoughts in his head whatsoever. “What’s up?” she went on, stepping past him and into the house.

“Nice pants,” he replied. “I admit I never pegged you as the leather type.”

Gus was suddenly self-conscious. Debbie had accidentally left behind all her motorcycle gear at Gus’s apartment. And Gus had claimed it for herself, even though it was a size too big. It was a sentimental thing, she supposed—maybe an obnoxious thing, too—since she really ought to have returned it. But she didn’t feel like it. Not right now. She was still too angry at Debbie for luring her in and spitting her out. That was how it had felt. Not that it was any of Mike’s business. “But I always pegged
you
as the Dockers type,” she told him.

“They’re actually Banana Republic,” he said.

“This is a fascinating conversation,” said Gus.

She followed him down the hall. She never understood how her sister kept the place looking like a museum when it housed three children under the age of ten. “Gus. You remember my little brother, Jeff, right?” Mike was now saying.

Gus looked up. Leaning against Perri’s marble kitchen island was a person who looked just like Mike, only three inches taller and twenty pounds thinner, chiseled where Mike was doughy and possessed of a full head of swooshy brown hair where Mike’s was inching backward like a receding tide. His biceps, which were visible below an artfully torn olive green T-shirt, had the rippled appearance of challah bread. His legs, which were poking out of a pair of gray athletic shorts, were sinewy and the same color as a shiny penny. His coral choker had certain qualities in common with a dog collar. Gus had first met Jefferson Sims at Mike and Perri’s wedding, more than a decade ago. She’d been a couple years out of college; he’d been a senior on the extended plan at some ski school—she couldn’t remember which one. UVM? Middlebury? Or was it somewhere out west like University of Colorado? To her further recollection, he’d also been incredibly impressed with himself for no apparent reason other than his abdominal muscles, which he’d bared on the dance floor by managing to get himself sprayed down with a Champagne bottle, “forcing” him to disrobe. He’d also been accompanied by his girlfriend at the time, an Amazonian blonde who was reputed to be trying out for the Olympic team in giant slalom. Gus had seen him only a handful of times since then and not in five years at least. “How are you?” she said, raising her palm in a wave. Shaking his hand seemed too formal, kissing him on the cheek too intimate.

“I’ve been well, thank you,” he said, squinting and smiling. “How have you been?”

“Could be worse.”

“So tell me this, Gus. Do you too reside in the greater Larchmont area?”

“No, I still live in the city, way uptown, in Washington Heights,” she told him.

“Washington Heights.” He nodded unsurely.

“I promise you’ve never been there.”

“You’re most likely correct.”

“And you?”

“Of late, I’ve been a denizen of Breckenridge, Colorado.”

“Fair enough.”

“But I’m actually considering moving to your neck of the woods.”

“When did that happen?” asked Mike, sounding alarmed.

“Just toying with the idea,” said Jeff, shrugging. “You gotta grow up some time and become ‘the man.’ Speaking of which”—he threw an arm around his brother’s back—“how’s the job search going, bro?”

Mike made an irritated face and shook off his brother. “At least I’ve had one in the last ten years!”

“I beg to differ!” declared Jeff. “For six long months in the year two thousand nine I toiled in the capacity of chief ski lift operator.”

“Scoring free lift tickets in exchange for a couple hours a week lowering the bar is not working. Sorry, buddy.”

“Maybe not to you.”

“Maybe not to anyone.”

“Do you, too, find my brother exceedingly rude?” said Jeff, turning back to Gus.

“I’m staying out of this one,” Gus said, laughing as again she lifted her palm into the air.

“Wise move,” said Jeff. “Now tell me this, Gus. How exactly have you been occupying your time when not at home in Washington Heights, New York City?”

There was something about his face that seemed to invite confession. Or maybe it was that he kept calling her “Gus.” As if he actually knew her. (In a way, she supposed, he did.) And as if he couldn’t wait to know more.