About My Sisters (19 page)

This was not to be. First of all, it was an extremely unattractive cat. It was white, with short hair that always looked damp and unkempt, and it had a giant rear end that was completely out of proportion to the rest of its body. It didn't walk, it minced. It also hissed and hated every human being it came into contact with, except Norman. And the human it hated most was not me, as one might expect, but Blaze who was also the only human aside from Norman who liked it. While I was still in love-the-man-love-his-cat mode, Norman cajoled me into letting the damn thing sleep on our bed, which would have been acceptable, if not ideal, were it not for the fact that the cat didn't appreciate being relegated to the foot of the bed and consistently weaseled its way into the space between us. For many weeks, I woke up with my face full of dirty white cat butt. The cat's head, of course, was nestled next to Norman. It didn't take me long to believe that this was jealousy, plain and simple.

“Does this cat have to be in the bed?” I asked Norman.

“Come on, it's the only thing I've got that's really mine,” he said. So I let the cat stay until it attacked Blaze, scarring his lip with a kick and scrape of its back claws when Blaze tried to “rescue” it from beneath the covers. I was nearly hysterical over this assault to my four-year-old.

Norman said, “Poor thing, it was probably terrified.”

“It? You're calling Blaze
it
?” I said, incredulous.

“I was talking about the cat,” Norman said. “Do you know how scared a cat has to be to attack with its back legs?”

“I want the cat out of the bed,” I said.

After the scratching incident, I was no longer a friend to the cat. But my aversion was nothing compared to Maya's naked loathing.

“I hate that thing,” she said. “It's the most horrible beast I've ever seen. And I am telling you, when it gets fleas, and it
will
get fleas, either it goes or I go. You know how I feel about fleas.” Indeed, I did. Fleas were, and still are, Maya's bête noire. The sight of a single flea is enough to send her into hysterics.

“It won't get fleas,” Norman said. “It's an indoor cat. It never goes out, so it can't possibly get fleas.”

The cat got fleas, followed by flea baths, and bombings and flea collars. Maya stayed. The fleas came back. Norman grew more and more resentful, although he had started taking regular trips back to New York to “tie up loose ends” and I was often left to take care of this thing he cared about so deeply. Maya took every chance she got to insist that the cat be removed from the house.

“I'm telling you,” she said, “that cat has to go. If it doesn't, it might accidentally get killed. You wouldn't want that on your head, would you?”

“How can I make him get rid of his cat?” I asked Maya. “He loves that cat.”

“I found a flea on Blaze's arm today,” Maya responded. “On
your son's
arm
! Have you lost your mind? This is your child we're talking about.”

“What can I do?” I told her. “I hate the thing, too.”

Maya voiced her discontent to the other members of our family, who had become, by this time, completely disenchanted with Norman, his problems, and his cat. “The whole relationship,” my father muttered, “isn't worth the hassle of dealing with a single flea.”

What finally sealed the cat's fate was not the litter box, fleas, or even the scratch on Blaze's face. Rather, I had what I could only call a showdown with it one night when Norman was in New York and Maya was out. I was sitting on the couch and it stood in front of me, in total defiance of the no-cat-on-the-coffee-table rule, and gave me the coldest feline stare I have ever seen. I was convinced, at that moment, that I was not looking at a cat but at some sort of fur-wrapped spirit, perhaps a witch's familiar.

“Why don't you just leave?” I asked it out loud. “Make it easier on everyone, just take off. Nobody can stand you here. Don't you realize that by now?”

The cat leveled its green stare at me and hissed. Then it spoke to me. I know, I know, but I
heard
it speak, clear as the bell on its flea collar.

Fuck you
, it said.

When Norman got back from New York, he was already planning his next trip. It was springtime, less than nine months after we'd all moved in together.

“The cat has to go,” I told him.

Norman shook his head, looked at me in an
Et tu, Brutus?
kind of way, and said, “My cat. So now it's my cat, too?”

“What do you mean
too
,” I said. “Like I'm out to get you. Like I'm not trying to help you.”

“Please,” he said. “You've made this as difficult as possible from the beginning. I'm the one doing all the compromising in
this relationship.”

“What?!”

“You know it's true. I'm the one who's uprooted his whole life and tried to fit into yours. I've got nothing, except my
cat
, which you're now forcing me to give up as well.”

“What about me?” I sputtered. “You haven't got me? Wasn't that the point? Isn't that why you decided to come out here?”

“Again, your idea,” he said.

I'd had enough. Echoing the cat, I shouted “Fuck you!” at him and stormed out of the bedroom onto the landing.

“What do you mean?” Norman said.

“Which word didn't you understand,” I barked, “
fuck
or
you
?”

Norman slammed the door, fuming. I stood helplessly on the landing for a second, vibrating in my anger. I looked down to the living room and saw Maya looking up at me. She was laughing. “Good one,” she said quietly. It seemed as if it had been so very long since either one of us had found mirth in anything. I couldn't help it, I had to laugh along with her.

A few weeks later, we found a home for the cat (and a good one at that) with a woman whom Maya and I worked with in the restaurant. She had several cats already and, for reasons that remained mysterious to us, really took a shine to this one. “I can understand how traumatic it is to give up a pet,” she told us. “You can come visit it anytime if you want.”

“I don't think so,” Maya said. “Better to make a clean break, don't you think?”

Much as he professed to love it, Norman didn't miss the cat at all once it was gone. I was beginning to believe that this was how he approached everything he claimed to love, including me. This belief was confirmed three months later when Norman took another trip to New York and simply never came back.

Over time, I became thankful to Norman for taking off, because it was something I never would have done. I'd made a
commitment to him and I would have stuck it out, trying to honor the spirit of that commitment, until there was nothing left but gutted remains. In other words, much longer than would have been healthy for either one of us. As it was, we'd been at odds almost from the first day we moved in together. I can only imagine how ugly and destructive it might have gotten had we continued. At the time, though, I was anything but thankful. I was angry, confused, and deeply depressed by what I considered a spectacular failure.

Maya and I began a desperate search to find another place to live because our lease was up and we couldn't afford the rent on the one we were in. To add insult to injury, I had to pack up and move what Norman had left behind along with everything else (nothing vital, as it turned out, because Norman had either left in New York or subsequently taken back everything that was important to him). And, of course, there was the huge, gnawing question of what happened to the love. Had there ever been any at all or had I been gaslighted by my giant desire for a happy ending?

Maya and I found a little condo nearby and signed another lease together. She never once said anything even remotely along the lines of “I told you so.” Nor did she offer me a shoulder to cry on. As far as she was concerned, we were all well rid of Norman and she couldn't understand why I'd even be sad that he was gone. On our last night in the house, we were on our hands and knees, giving it a thorough going-over with solvents and carpet cleaner so that we'd be able to retrieve our deposit. Maya wiped at a black mark on one of the walls, and said, “You know, I never liked this fucking house.”

“I know,” I told her.

“It was never right,” she said.

“I know.”

“I can't tell you how glad I am that we're out of here.”

“I know that, too,” I told her.

And at that moment, I also knew this:

Men leave.

My sister would always be there.

It's been ten years since that awful summer—long enough to reevaluate the conclusions I reached then. I am no longer sure that men always leave, not that I've given one a chance to do so in all that time. For something that lasted such a short while, the Norman episode left some long-term marks on my heart. I am, however, still certain that my sister will always be there for me, just as I will be for her, no matter what men come, go, leave, or stay. I don't know if this means we will live together for the rest of our lives (my Italian-spinster-aunt vision dissipated a long time ago, so I no longer see the two of us sitting in rocking chairs wrapped in black lace shawls and surrounded by Hummel figurines), but what would it matter if we did? The point is, I don't worry about it and neither does Maya. There is an ease in our relationship now that has been hammered out and refined by time. In the ebb and flow of days upon days, we are each other's most constant of constants.

This is why, despite the diversity of our backgrounds, I can see the two of us in Gwen and Judy and the two of them in us. They spent many years apart, when each was raising her own family and their physical proximity to each other has only been close for the last fifteen years or so. But they have been sisters for a long, long time. The effortlessness of their interaction, the unspoken communication between them, is testimony to the power of this kind of time in the indestructible bond between sisters. I can feel this time, the melted warmth of it, as I sit next to Judy on this beautiful summer evening watching our sisters play.

When the concert ends and Maya scrambles around delivering tickets, cash, and receipts to the treasurer (she's the orchestra
president and in charge of these things), I take a bit of the load off Judy and carry Gwen's violin as well as Maya's. I order Blaze to carry Judy's chair.

“Why are you the only one with free hands?” I ask him. “Letting the women carry everything?” I don't care if this is sexist, it's time for him to pull some weight.

“Oh yes,” Gwen says. “The fragile women.”

Blaze snorts in disagreement. I can understand why. This boy has grown up around women who are anything but fragile or helpless. What can I expect?

“These damn knees,” Gwen says. “I can't wait for the new ones.”

On the way home, Maya and Gwen discuss Gwen's upcoming knee replacement surgery and then move on to the tastier topic of orchestra gossip. Judy and I remain silent in the back, listening. Nobody mentions singing again, which is just as well because it's hotter now than it was a few hours ago and we're all tired.

We say good-bye and switch cars back at Gwen's place. Blaze has taken my admonishment to heart and helps Gwen and Judy into the elevator with all their gear. When the three of us are back on the road home, I tell Maya, “Those two are so young looking and acting. I can only pray I look that good when I get to be their age.”

“It just goes to show you,” she says. “It's all about attitude.”

“And good makeup,” I say. “Genes don't hurt, either. Judy looks fabulous. She's younger than Gwen, isn't she?”

“Oh no,” Maya says, “Judy's older than Gwen—the same difference as we have, I think, maybe even a little more.”

“She looks really great,” I say. “I can hardly believe it.”

“Gwen says she never goes out unless her hair and makeup are perfect. She reminds me of you, actually. She puts on makeup every day and does her hair. She has a boyfriend, too.

Can you imagine? At this point, a boyfriend.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just, you know, to have a boyfriend at this stage of the game…. To still be working things out, building a relationship. I don't know, it just seems kind of…
tiresome
.”

“Maybe that's what's keeping her young,” I offer.

“Maybe,” Maya says. She looks over at me and smiles.

“See?” she says. “I told you she reminded me of you.”

september

Lavander is turning thirty-one and our brother has inexplicably decided to host a brunch in her honor at the apartment he shares with Déja and Danny. Birthdays, and we have eight of them in our family (nine, if you count Danny), are a
big
deal with this group. Nonbirthday months are November, October, and April. Thanksgiving, which is arguably an even bigger deal than a birthday for us, falls in November, taking that month off the calendar as a free one. There is usually some sort of Halloween thing happening in October as well, so that month could be considered a draw. When you get right down to it, then, April is the only month when there isn't an obvious mandate for a party.

Over time, our birthdays have gotten bigger in scope, importance, and significance. People expect more, prepare lists of gifts they'd like (or must have), and request menus and specific kinds
of cake for birthday dinners. Buying an off-list gift can be a dicey proposition because, like so much in our family, gift-giving is competitive. Gifts have to be store-bought, but also creative. Creative, because giving cash or gift certificates makes the statement that you don't care enough about the person to put any thought into a gift. Store-bought, because if the gift is homemade (paintings, soaps, poems, etc.), it implies you are too cheap to buy one.

Cards are also a very important requirement and are, perhaps, even more competitive than the gifts because they come with fewer restrictions. One is allowed (even encouraged) to make a card, although this is a rare occurrence. My brother has created a niche for himself in the card department by never buying a card that is appropriate to the occasion. For example, on your birthday, you might get a card from him that says “Bon Voyage,” or “Congratulations on Your Bar Mitzvah,” or, his favorite, a juvenile birthday card with all kinds of digits added to the single one on the outside. Lately, he's been particularly fond of giving cards in other languages. On our parents' last anniversary, he outdid himself and wrote his entire message (most of which didn't make any sense) in Spanish.

I'm not sure how the birthdays got to be such a tour de force with us, but I suspect that my mother was the primary catalyst. Many years ago, she and my father celebrated one of those milestone wedding anniversaries (I can't even remember which one now, which was part of the problem to begin with), and none of us (their children) acknowledged the event. Actually, that's not entirely true; my brother did present them with a giant bag of M&Ms, which, unbelievably to the rest of us, placed him on the only-child-who-cares list for quite some time. Determined not to be forgotten or overlooked again, my mother created a birthday and Mother's Day gift wish list for herself (no combination gifts allowed!) and now owns the month of May when both of those
events take place. It didn't take long for everyone else to jump on the big birthday bandwagon.

Which brings me to the most important element of these birthdays, the party. There is always a meal involved, usually prepared by Maya, who is also the person who always bakes the birthday cake. Since nobody in my family eats eggs, store-bought cakes are usually out of the question. Maya demonstrated her skill with eggless confections a long time ago—nobody else can even come close—and so she is the designated cake-baker in the family. Unfortunately, this means that she also has to bake her own birthday cake, a situation she complains about every year. Occasionally, we'll collect en masse and go to a restaurant for a birthday lunch or dinner, but home-cooked meals are always the preferred ones and so the venue is most often Maya's and my house. Attendance at these affairs is strongly suggested. For example, “If you don't care enough about me to be around on my birthday, that's fine, but just remember that the next time yours rolls around.”

I don't mean to imply that we don't have fun at these gatherings, because we do. Like any repeating event, though, some are better than others. Some are even inspired. When Blaze turned fourteen, he requested that the family join him for sunset and cake on the beach. This turned out to be one of the most enjoyable and relaxed afternoons we'd ever spent as a group. And one year, I decided to take everyone out for dinner on my own birthday, which ended up being one of the finest parties we'd ever had. But one of the best was my brother's last birthday which fell on the same day as the Academy Awards ceremony. We had a blow-out combination event, complete with an Oscar pool and hors d'oeuvres. My brother ended up winning the pool in addition to a series of side bets he'd made during the actual telecast and added a pile of cash to his collection of birthday gifts.

Mostly, though, it's Maya who prepares the food for the parties.
It's Maya who has the reputation for being the master chef and caterer. That's why it's odd that my brother has suddenly decided to host an event (and prepare food) at his house. Generally, he's not too fond of having people (family members or no) in such close proximity to his personal space. Plus, if an event is in your own home, it's very difficult to flee if things start to get uncomfortable. I notice that nobody mentions any of these things, however. The novelty of a Bo-prepared fete is too enticing to ask for further details.

Brunch is scheduled for sometime between 11 o'clock and noon. Several hours earlier, I take my daily constitutional. These walks are my version of the gym. Gyms have never worked for me. This is not for lack of trying. We live in a gym-obsessed part of the world here and the pressure to join one is fairly intense. Maya is always dependable in this respect. She's joined a wide variety of gyms and followed a stunning array of programs—none of which seem to last very long. I joined a gym with her once and the two of us nearly killed ourselves jumping up and down on the aerobic step.

“I don't think it's such a good idea to turn purple,” I told her as the two of us dripped sweat and gasped for breath.

“But it's good for you,” she panted.

Maya dropped out of the gym shortly after that. Then it was Tae Bo. She bought all the tapes and was extolling its virtues for weeks. “Look how I'm sweating and I've only done the instructional video!” But when it came down to doing the actual regime on a daily basis, she dropped out of that too. I picked up the Tae Bo slack for a while, religiously working out to the tapes in our living room until I hurt my back doing some sort of weird scissor kick and had to give it up. Maya's next effort was to find a personal trainer. She was involved in a band that was playing odd gigs in coffeehouses and the drummer had a fireman friend who doubled as a trainer.

“Mmm, a fireman,” I said. “Send him over.”

“This is my personal trainer,” she said. “Forget about your fireman fantasies.”

The fireman came over exactly once and didn't accomplish very much.

Finally, Maya opted for yoga classes, joining several different programs and dropping them until she found one she liked with our mother. For the last few months, her attendance at this one has been pretty good.

Lavander has an interesting relationship with the gym as well. Usually, her method is to spend a lot of money joining whichever gym or system is most popular and then never go. I think the idea is that if you've paid for the thing, the rest will just come on its own. Déja's recently jumped on the fitness bandwagon as well and now she and Maya alternate swimming in the pool at Déja's apartment complex and yoga. They've tried to rope me in to these pursuits, but I'd rather walk. I've never been a driver, so walking has always been my default means of transportation, but now walking has become essential to my mental well-being, never mind a means of keeping in physical shape. It's a way of convincing myself that I am continuously moving forward. Sometimes, when I slip out the door and prepare to make my rounds, I fantasize that I could just keep going until I reach the end of whatever edge I'm walking at that moment.

This morning I'm following my usual route, which is to wind down the hill and to the supermarket. There's always something that needs buying, so the supermarket is ever a logical destination.

I reach the store and head over to the ATM inside. Before I get there, though, I see a good-looking guy chatting up one of the female checkers as he pays for his groceries. It takes only a fraction of a second for me to realize that the guy is my brother. I stand still, in the vicinity of the check stand without being close enough to get in anybody's way or attract attention. I am
curious to see how long it will take my brother to notice that I am standing there and to recognize me. He continues to flirt with the checker and gathers his bags. I start to entertain the notion that he's going to walk right by me without so much as a glance. I spin a future scenario in my head:

“Hey, Bo, how'd your shopping go this morning?”

“How do you know I went shopping?”

“I saw you. I even know what you bought and what checker you were talking to. She's cute.”

“How do you know that? Were you spying on me? Watching me? Where were you? What were you doing?”

My brother is fairly paranoid and while it's amusing to imagine playing on this paranoia, I start feeling a little annoyed that I've been standing here for a couple of minutes already and he hasn't even sensed my presence. For a paranoid person, he's not too well aware of somebody staring at him in a supermarket. I'm going to have to mention that to him as soon as he notices me.

Finally, as he is making his way to the door, he turns his head in my direction. A kaleidoscopic rush of expressions runs across his face in lightning succession. The first is a suspicious “Why is that person staring at me?” look. This is followed by a “There's a
girl
looking at me” expression, and then “It's my sister!” Finally, there is one more layer: “It's Debra!” As the eldest sister of the four he has, I am the original font of adoration. This is when he breaks into a huge grin, paranoia dissipated, and the transformation from slightly dark, enticingly mysterious player wannabe to baby brother is complete. “Debsies!” he says with genuine pleasure. “What are you doing here?”

“Took you long enough to notice me,” I say. “I thought you were going to walk right by me. You don't look around much, do you?”

“You know how I feel about that,” he says. I laugh, remembering the time a couple of years ago that Maya and I came to visit him at his summer job unloading cartons in the warehouse
of the county fair. When we were still several yards away, I could see an admiring look on his face as we approached. By the time we got up close, that look had changed to one of mild disgust.

“What's up?” I asked him.

“I hate it when I'm checking out a couple of hot chicks and they turn out to be my
sisters
,” he spat out.

“Maybe you should try directing your stare at their
faces,
then,” Maya said. “That's never a bad idea.”

“I would, if you weren't dressed like that,” he said.

“I'm guessing that's a compliment,” I told him.

I steer him away from the door now and into the floral department in the supermarket. “What are
you
doing here?” I ask him. “I don't usually see you around these parts.” My brother has a long list of places he refuses to go, usually because he doesn't want to be recognized, although by whom and why it would bother him if they did, nobody has been able to figure out. It's not like he's graced the cover of
People
magazine anytime lately.

“Shopping for the big do,” he says, holding up his grocery bags. “I've been to three stores this morning. Got bagels, a variety of juices, some fine coffee, and other tasty treats. Even bought pastries—two kinds, thank you very much. Raspberry and apple. And fruit. The fruit's for you, Debsie. Because I know how much you like fruit. Can you think of anything else I need?”

I smile at him. He's so cute, I can hardly stand it. “I think you've got it covered, brother,” I say. “You're very well prepared, I must say. What's the deal, anyway? Why the sudden desire to have a party at your house?”

“Because I am the
man
,” he says. “Maya's not the only one around here who can put together a shindig, you know. I'm going to show her up.”

“Don't get too cocky,” I tell him. “Soon all the parties will be at your house if you keep it up.”

“Oh no,” he says. “See, it's all part of my master plan. When
Maya sees how well I can put this together, she'll be determined to outdo herself in the future.” He winks. “I'm no fool,” he says.

“No, ‘fool' isn't the word that immediately comes to mind,” I tell him. “By the way, I think it's great you've decided to put together this party for Lavander, considering you didn't even bother to show up on my birthday.”

“You know, you really need to get over that,” he says.

“And I'm still waiting for my gift,” I tell him.

“Yes, well, I've got to be off,” he says. “Got to start preparing. Don't be late, okay?”

“Wouldn't think of it,” I tell him, and he's gone.

He's such an odd duck, I think, as I watch him go. On the one hand, he's so intensely private, a hoarder of secrets that everybody already knows and an inventor of mysteries where there are none to be had. Even his simplest plans and activities (what he had for breakfast, what kind of shirt he wants to buy) are shrouded in cloak-and-dagger secrecy. It's impossible to get information out of him if you ask for it, and he gets downright surly if pressed. On the other hand, his outside persona is outgoing and absolutely charming. He is so personable and sincere that people like him instantly. He's always been popular with both sexes, but women, especially, find him captivating. And I know this is true because I've witnessed it firsthand. He is unfailingly polite and respectful, but never condescending or chauvinistic (in public, anyway). He has a fundamental understanding of the differences between men and women, but he's not one of those men who claim that women are an unsolvable mystery. He is genuinely warm and always seems interested. And he never appears to be faking it. Women love this. Just love it. Pleasant personality notwithstanding, I believe that my brother is able to consistently pull this off because of us, his sisters. That's right, I'm taking credit. And I pity, that is, feel genuinely sorry for men who have grown up without at least one sister. If you ask me, they (the men) get better life training from their sisters
than we (the women) get from our brothers. Of course, my perspective on this issue is fairly skewed. Let's put it this way: I'm still not sure how my brother learned to walk because, for the first two years of his life, his feet never touched the ground.