Trompe l'Oeil (26 page)

Here you'll find overt love of geometry—even her jawline's squared—and a decorative tilt absent from di Cosimo's graceful original. The color is what draws you in—the rich green, the dark rose—before you observe her face. It's a close-up, unlike the Van der Weyden Magdalen, who appears as if on a stage set, unaware of the open fourth wall. Proportions have shifted: this garden Magdalen is much larger than the iris, the iris larger than the tree. She's a giant against the bluff, the distant sky. Nothing obscures her from view. Yet the close-up reveals emotional distance—her fixed concentration, that set mouth? Might she prefer to be alone? She is what we have of the moment: an unknown woman painted by an unknown painter. All the violet, the green, the gold. A color dream. But step back.

INTERIOR WITH CHEERIOS

Luckily he was a sweet boy, Connor. He had Tim's disposition, and the Murphy dimples; he was happy to be held, cooed at the girls. And they were sweet with him, relaxed, often doting: they'd been babysitting for years. But for all the playing and soothing, feeding and diapering, all the households to which they'd come and gone, neither Sara nor Delia had realized how much space a baby could claim. Now here was Connor, toys strewn across the living room, his extra changing space displacing the alcove drawing table; baskets of baby laundry in the kitchen, on the stairs, onesies fresh from the dryer dumped onto the sofa. The upstairs bathroom was overrun with ducks and blue boats (cute ducks, cute boats), baby wash, baby towels. Had Sara and Delia taken up as much space? (Yes and no.) Connor's cries carried through the house, even when they weren't babysitting: how could this be a surprise? They'd neglected to consider the hours during which they'd study or talk on the phone, the usual television times, the nights before meets or exams, when performance depended on rest; or that Connor's moods would be tied to Katy's. Together Connor and Katy were content; together they were miserable.

Nor had Sara and Delia anticipated all Katy's ways of taking command—habits picked up, Sara guessed, from attorneys. Too often, her sentences began,
Sara/Delia, I need you to
_______. At first, Connor's fragile newborn state seemed to justify peremptory demands. But they did not stop, and Katy's tunnel vision did not broaden. She might hand the baby to Sara the moment Sara walked in from her swim meet. Just before the girls' last visit to Beverly, Katy had called, “Delia, I need you to feed Connor,” even as Delia buttoned her coat to leave.

“We're going to see Dad and Josie,” Delia said. “Get Tim.”

“Tim's sleeping,” Katy said. She trudged upstairs to retrieve Connor herself, and from the stairs called, “When will you be back?” as if Tim was in fact awake.

Thoughtless but not angry, not Katy's worst: her yelling could be stippled with rage, which Sara could not bear. Out of proportion, or in response to issues Sara failed to see. In those moments, Nora might speak sternly to Katy, then ignore her, or Delia might snap back; as usual, Sara would freeze until the tirade ended, or involuntarily flee. She found Katy's melancholy less frightening, if as involving. You couldn't get away from Katy's discomfort: she needed, it seemed, to share every bit, as if her body were a country she couldn't stand to live in alone.

When they were not watching Connor, the girls retreated to their now-shared room, often with homework. This was no guarantee: Katy might walk in and sit on Sara's bed and begin with
I need
; or she might stretch out, exhausted, as if hiding out with them. Schoolwork was the best defense. Sara and Delia would leave textbooks open on their pillows, just in case.

This is my study time
, Sara would say,
it's chemistry
or
it's history
or
it's math
, and Katy would leave her.

Away in the shared bedroom, though hardly away. The girls listened to headphones connected to Walkmen. They were in a pink phase, Delia in particular: pink lip glosses, pink nail polish, pink stickers on the headphones. A pink-and-white bedspread (Sara's plain white). They wore jeans; their hamper filled with pink and gray running clothes. Swim goggles hung on the doorknobs, blue varsity jackets, pink swim caps, pink sweatshirts. The pink and the goggles lent them the look of candied Martians. They took to keeping Cheerios and other snacks in their room, so they could hide longer when Katy's moods filled the house, or when they needed to dodge unscheduled child care.

About Katy's encroachments, they said nothing to Nora, who could see it all well enough for herself and had been up several nights with Connor. She smoked off-brand cigarettes on the deck, bought discount Cheerios again. No-Cheerios, Delia called them. Now and then Tim brought leftovers home from the restaurant, which counterbalanced the weirder foods their mother picked up: off-brand peas, dried kidney beans, canned mackerel, generic mac and cheese. She'd gone to a pantry somewhere. Once in a while they'd run out of milk, and a thinnish papery-tasting stuff appeared in a jug in the refrigerator. It turned the tea gray. At least, when Katy found it, she'd shop for two-percent.

Consulting, James repeated. For support he sent token amounts, or brief notes to Nora instead. No one talked about the college funds: Sara and Delia had snooped around in
Beverly, they'd seen some of the bills. At least at James and Josie's, they could relax; at least they always ate well. The girls did not ask for money or food, but late at night, while the others slept, Sara would raid the Beverly kitchen, just as Katy once did, slipping granola and maple syrup and sometimes cans of beer into her book bag. Did James notice? Josie said nothing. Here was one more kind of silence; most weekends, Sara found new jars of crunchy peanut butter, fresh boxes of granola, more Cheerios, and Delia's favorite jam shelved in front.

PARTY NIGHT

It happened on a Saturday, a long late night. A party at which a friend of Delia's became terribly drunk. Got into trouble—too drunk around drunk boys. One of the boys tried to take her somewhere, another room, though she was stumbling, and not speaking clearly. In the house on the bluff, Delia was looking for the friend, and found her in a bedroom, and stomped and yelled, “Get away from her, fuckhead.” Yelled, “I called the police.” A naked boy covered himself, and Delia pulled her friend from the room. From the kitchen of the party house, Delia called Sara, who was just home from babysitting, their mother asleep. Katy had stretched out on the sofa: the TV poured blue light on the carpet.

“Something's wrong,” Sara said, “with Delia's friend.”

“What.” Katy said it flatly, as if to deter interruption.

Sara said nothing more. She took Nora's car and drove up the bluff, the sky starry, the roads dark; then the girls were in the car too, and she drove back down the bluff. Trying not to turn quickly, because the friend, Caroline, was sick. They stopped for Caroline to be sick; after, she was crying. Time seemed to slow as they ferried Caroline to the house. She would sleep in
Delia's bed, they decided, Delia would give up her bed (later Delia would share Sara's). First, though, a shower. They tried not to wake the baby or Nora, but Nora appeared nonetheless. Without reproach she took charge of Caroline, Delia with her.

Sara carried the soiled clothes downstairs to launder, the living room TV still pouring light. On the sofa, Katy appeared pale. Everyone was pale, Sara thought: she might be Caroline in the car, or Delia in the bedroom doorway, or Sara driving.
What can happen
, Sara thought. But Delia, magnificent Delia yelled,
You fuckhead
, and Sara drove. Bad but not the worst: Fuckhead had just gotten started. Now their mother was rinsing the sick from Caroline's hair.

“Mom thinks she'll be okay,” Sara said, and set the laundry basket down.

Katy closed her eyes.

“Katy?” Sara said, but Katy rolled away into the sofa, feigning sleep, waiting, it seemed, for the moment to end.

STORM

Early winter. The low barometric pressure and dropping temperatures drugged them all: no one wanted to get out of bed. That morning Katy was rushing, half-organized at six thirty, but Connor had been up at three, as if alert to the rising wind, the stronger gusts soon buffeting the house. She'd pulled a T-shirt over her stockings and skirt and managed to start breakfast while he was still asleep: now she was cracking eggs, toasting bread in the oven, spilling coffee grounds as she measured. At the counter, Nora made sandwiches, packed brown bags for the girls. She and Katy were both quiet, alert to the uncalm air. Nora stepped over toward the sink and opened the window to strong damp gusts. She stood with her cigarette and black tea, blowing smoke out, the wind pushing it back.

There had been pre-storm warnings, local broadcasters photographing the sky and then cutting to cheerily colored maps of offshore systems, and men with pickup trucks buying gasoline and road salt. High storm surge predicted for coastal towns, which would mean water in the street, seepage in the basement, and another neighborhood evacuation. The access road still dipped low and rose and dipped again, and heavy
storm surges could swamp it, cutting off their street. Last year they'd had damage to the north-facing siding and shutters, the roof. Already, Nora had fastened the storm shutters, taped the interior windows, filled the freezer with ice for the power outage ahead. Though there was the off chance they'd spend a night in a motel or the high school gym.

No Tim: Tim had closed late and stayed with his friend Sal in Hanover. And when the phone rang and Nora answered—calmly it seemed, despite the cigarette—it wasn't Tim, but the neighbor Joanie MacFarland saying the evacuation order came early, town trucks already on the way.

“Girls?” Nora called from the bottom of the stairs. “SaraDelia, pack it up.” And then Connor's cry—the unhappy shock of first waking, the awareness of Katy elsewhere. “I'll get him,” Nora said.

Katy poured the eggs into the skillet, listening. If she could just have eggs, coffee and toast and eggs, she might be able to think.

Upstairs, the girls thumped, murmured, and Connor's crying ceased. “Okay, angel,” Nora said, and then, in a louder voice, “Don't forget your eyedrops. Delia, grab Connor's hat.” A string of reminders. Katy pulled the toast from the oven. “Get that heater. Sara, lights. Would you take him?”

In a moment Sara appeared at the bottom of the stairs with Connor, Katy's round, pink-cheeked boy. He was happy; he was reaching for Katy.

“Hi Connor,” Katy said. “Hi baby boy.” She held him for a moment, and he pulled at her T-shirt, reached for her hair. “Good morning,” she kissed him and motioned toward his
bottle. Sara took him back to feed him, and Katy poured the coffee.

Buttered toast, eggs on the plate, milk into the coffee. “I'll be right back, Connor,” she said, and carried the breakfast upstairs. Connor's packed diaper bag leaned against the wall outside her room, the bedroom itself chaotic. In an overstuffed drawer, she searched for a clean bra, clean stockings; in the closet, she found her empty overnight bag. But her handbag?

“Delia, almost?” Nora said.

Delia's murmur emanated from the bathroom. “Which lip gloss?”

“Love,” Nora said, “just take both.”

And from downstairs, Sara called, “I think the town guys are here.” Katy could hear Connor fussing. “Hey,” Sara said, “hey hey, wait, that's dirty, you'll get it back. Okay?” And louder, “Mom?”

The bell, loud knocking on the kitchen door.

Hooking the bra, buttoning the blouse. Jacket. Shoes. She'd have to wear boots. Delia and Nora headed down the stairs, the diaper bag now gone. From the bathroom, Katy grabbed a makeup case and toothbrush, then followed.

Here was the town guy, Joey Connolly, two graduating classes before her, in his shining yellow slicker and boots: the sleet was blowing in now. Just past low tide, he said, and already they had ponding at the end of the road, a thick film of water creeping up the street-side outside the house. At the door, he took Connor from Sara—held him securely enough—and Sara and Delia hurried with their bags down the stairs to
the wet street and Nora's car. “I'll keep him with me at work,” Nora called, and followed them out, Joey carrying the baby.

Where were Katy's keys? Handbag? And once she found them (living room) and pulled on her boots, she slid the eggs between two pieces of toast and into a paper sack, gathered her overnight things and coat, and hauled it all down to her car. Joey Connolly waited until she'd turned the motor and started down the street, toward the two orange-flag-waving guys directing cars to the access road.

Atrocious roads, atrocious sleet, a blurry two-mile backup at the highway ramp. After several minutes, Katy turned around and made her way through the sleet to the doctor's office at the harbor. Inside, it was quiet. At the reception area, Nora held Connor on her lap while he chewed a pink teething ring and drooled on her jacket. She'd tucked the phone receiver against her shoulder; she scanned the computer screen, typed. In the waiting room, one toddler and mother sat on the floor, stacking blocks; most of the morning's appointments had cancelled. Katy took Connor to an adjoining play mat, Connor oblivious, happy to smash a blue plastic block against the mat, and when he tired of that, happy for Katy to read to him. After stories of friendly pigs, a sledding holiday, and a magic bicycle, Nora announced she'd booked two rooms at an inland motel.