The Language of Sisters

  “Exactly. I’ll be harangued until I’m forced to move to Australia and live with kangaroos.”

  “That sounds appealing. Can I come? I like kangaroos.”

  Marty took me to dinner at elegant restaurants. One day we went hiking. Day trips to the beach and mountains. We went to plays and the symphony, things I had never done. I loved both. That surprised me. And in some inexplicable way it made me feel better about myself. In the audience, in the theatre, I listened to the characters’ problems and grief, their tears and aloneness, and it touched me. I could relate to their loss, their fear, their love.

  I lost myself in Bach, Beethoven, Mozart. I always thought people who went to the symphony were snobs. I wasn’t a snob, but I could feel the music.

  When my parents dragged me to church, and Marty was there, too, with his parents, we were polite to each other, not giving out a single hint that we were friends.

  My mother would admonish me, finger in the air. “That Marty! He for you. He a Russian. He make you happy. In the life and under the sheeties. What that bird called, Alexei, that Marty remind me of?”

  “A blue heron. I think you make mistake, Antonia. Marty a true man. Loyal. Faithful. Please. Give that man a talking to, eh? I want what is best for you, he is the best for you, okay?”

  When they weren’t looking, Marty would wink at me.

  Marty finally said to me, after five months of patience and kindness, of smiles and talk, of his waiting for me to come around, to want to be more than a friend, against my rigid resistance, “Toni, I want to thank you for the friendship.”

  We both laughed. We were in my loft downtown. I’d made dinner. Italian.

  “You are my best friend.”

  I sniffled, all emotional. I stared out the windows at the city lights, then back to him. “You’re mine, too, Marty. And Valerie and Ellie.”

  He had such an endearing smile. “Always, your sisters. But we have a problem.”

  “What is the problem?” What? A problem?

  “The problem is that I am in love with you.”

  I swear my heart flipped over and danced a jig. “Ah, that.”

  “Yes, that.” His face sobered. “But you have said to me, a hundred times, spear to my heart”—he mimicked spearing himself—“that you only want to be friends with me.”

  I took a deep, shaky breath.

  “And Toni, I want both. I want friendship and I want the forever.”

  My hands started to shake. He wanted more. I had always known it, felt it. He had been hoping I would change my mind.

  “I need to know how you feel, honey.”

  Breathe, Toni, I told myself, before you pass out and make a fool of yourself and your tongue lolls out of your head and you wet your pants when you’re unconscious. Figure this out.

  “I want to be with you for the rest of my life, Toni.”

  “You do?” Oh. My. Goodness. “We’ve been friends all this time... . ”

  “Friends, but then I think lusty thoughts about you.” He wriggled his eyebrows up and down and made me laugh. “Toni, I can’t have this relationship as it is anymore. It hurts to know that we’re not together and may not ever be together. Lately, it’s gotten worse. I want to get married, I want children, and if I am not right for you, I need to know.”

  “And then that’s it?” I felt an enormous sense of loss. Of breathtaking sadness. “We’re done? No friendship?”

  “Toni, see it from my perspective. I have met the love of my life, funny enough, through my parents, and yours. But I can’t keep seeing you if you will never see me as the love of your life. If I’ll always be only a friend.”

  “You’ve never even kissed me. How would you know if we would be ...”

  “Compatible?”

  I nodded.

  “We are. I’ll show you.”

  And he kissed me. It felt so ... natural, for a second. So safe. So comfortable, so right.

  For about five seconds.

  Then the passion flared up in me like I’d caught on fire, flames shooting toward the ceiling. I had never felt a wave of passion like that in my life. I actually gasped. He took it from there. He led. I followed, panting, responding. He was seductive. He was sexy. He knew how to make love even better than he could kayak or operate on people.

  Darned if Marty wasn’t amazing.

  It was a tumble of uncontrollable heat and passion, as if it had all been bottled up from the second I’d met him, and I stomped it down because I wasn’t ready for it, and it came barreling on out. I was naked before I knew it, my bra off, my panties gone. He pulled me on top of him, and skin to skin, body to body, we were smokin’ smooth velvet. He kissed me as he entered me, and we locked eyes.

  “I love you, Toni,” he whispered.

  “I love you, too, Marty.” The words were automatic. Easy. True.

  I closed my eyes because I could not keep them open anymore, my legs around his hips, our rhythm perfect, my orgasm blasting through my body, followed by another and another, and his, too, all mingled up together, seductive and loving, and trusting.

  And there we were. Panting, all tangled up.

  When we were done panting, our hearts slowing back to normal, we smiled, we laughed. Three hours later, we were at it again. And that was us. We had a sex life that wouldn’t quit, because it was based in love and laughter and enduring, eternal friendship.

  * * *

  They want to kill me.

  I heard Valerie’s voice in my head in the morning, about ten o’clock. I called her from work. I was at my desk reviewing an article I’d written about a couple who had left city life to move to the country. They couldn’t stand the stress of their jobs, the commute, the time they didn’t have with their kids. The father became a high school teacher and a coach, the mother started a candle-making company from home. They restored their house; bought chickens, two horses, three dogs; and they were happy. Ta-da!

  Valerie was not happy, and I was flat-out frightened.

  “The Barton family is psychotic.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Still snarling at me with their semi-toothless mouths, their skeleton tattoos taunting me as I know they would like me to be a skeleton.”

  I rubbed my forehead, right on my widow’s peak. I figured she was doing the same. This whole situation was making me nervous. “Did something new happen?”

  “Yes.”

  “What? I thought you got a security system and cameras at your house.”

  “I did. I do.”

  “Then what?”

  “Taped to my car windshield at work was a note.”

  “And the note said?”

  “ ‘You’re going to die, sister.’ ”

  That freezing-cold snake wound around and up my spine. “You called the police?”

  “Yes. They have the note. They spelled ‘you’re’ wrong. No comma between the word ‘die’ and ‘sister.’ ”

  “They have poor grammar, then.” Black humor. Kozlovskys have to use it.

  “Yes. Psychotics who don’t know how to write. Often psychotics are incredibly bright people, but often not, so this is not peculiar.”

  “I’m worried about you.” I put my hand to my throat, frozen cold now, chilled.

  “I’m not. I’ll be fine. But be listening for me. I’ll tell you where I am in my head if things go south with those tobacco-spitting sickos.”

  We chuckled. It was forced, but it was chuckle or break down into pathetic semihysterical sobs, which would annoy both of us.

  “May the Bartons be burned in their trailers,” my sister said, “run over by stampeding horses, and pounded into dust.”

  “Still so creative in your curses. Love you.”

  “Love you more than Mama’s Russian tea cakes.”

  * * *

  “I am not leaving,” Jayla said, her stethoscope from work still around her neck. “They will have to explode the dock before I will hook up my houseboat and move it down the river.”


  My dock neighbors, not the whole dock this time, only those of us from the six houseboats, were at Jayla and Beth’s, the nurse and the doctor’s, to discuss our mutual problem of losing our home for our floating homes.

  I wanted to see Nick, but he was working late. He had been working long hours. It had given me a breather from the guilt I felt sleeping with him, but I missed him, which made me feel guilty, too. I wanted space, because I didn’t want the stress of fighting this relationship, and yet all I wanted to do was curl up next to that warm body and lose myself for a while.

  I was an emotional mess. I felt like I had a tornado in my brain.

  Beth had made paella for everyone. We chatted first, and poured a lot of wine, then got down to the business of the dock shutting down because of Tweedle Dee Dum and Tweedle Dum Dee.

  “Those damn pink cocks,” Daisy announced, the white daisy in her purple hat flying around. “I want to whip up their insides with my mixer, then dump them in the oven and cook them with no salt.”

  “I’m going to lose my appetite if you talk like that,” Charles said. He smiled at Daisy. I liked Charles. Wise, measured, elegant man. He had won Professor of the Year at the university where he taught, voted on by the students.

  “Dagnabbit, Charles,” Daisy said, slamming a hand down and leaning forward at the table. “You’re right. I won’t talk about cooking people without salt.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “But can I talk about boiling them?”

  “Let’s skip the cauldron image,” Vanessa said. “Too witchy.”

  “Cauldrons! I’m not a witch. Except!” Daisy pointed a finger up. “On Wednesdays.” Daisy was wearing a necklace with a tiny stuffed bear over her pink sweater with red cats. Her black boots came up to her knees and had silver studs on them.

  “We need an attorney,” Vanessa said. “You all have heard of Cherie Poitras? We’ve been friends for years. She has a colleague she recommended for us. Cherie said the woman is a ninja warrior in high heels. Her name is Heather Dackson. She’ll fight for us, and this will give us a head start.”

  “Head start! I know how to make a head start,” Daisy said. “We’ll put their heads on a pick. That’s a start.”

  “I think that’s too violent,” Vanessa said. “But, Daisy, I think we all want to thank you for bringing the blueberry pies tonight. These are scrumptious.”

  “Ya. I know how to make blueberry pies. My momma taught me. She could shoot a fly’s whisker off, toss a rattlesnake without getting bit, and bake pies. She escaped from prison once, too.”

  “Awesome,” Lindy said.

  “Shot a man’s private part clean off,” Daisy said, proud, pointing at her crotch.

  We sat in that vision for a second.

  “Shot another one in the buttocks.” Daisy spanked her own butt.

  “So, the attorney?” Jayla said, getting us back on track.

  We all agreed to hire Heather. We also agreed to put up $500 each.

  “Nah,” Lindy said. “Don’t do it. The dock will not close. I promise.”

  “How do you know, Lindy?” Vanessa said. “We’ve already received notice.”

  Lindy waved a hand. “We’re all safe. Make no plans to move. Don’t get an attorney. I’ll have it handled.”

  “What do you mean, you’ll have it handled?” Charles asked. “We need to keep this legal.”

  “Legal?” Lindy said, arching an eyebrow.

  “What he means is ...” I didn’t know what Charles meant, but I didn’t want Lindy offended.

  “Charles simply meant ...” Vanessa said, fumbling. “Well ... hmm ... he didn’t intend—”

  “No offense, Lindy,” Charles said. “Please. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “We know that you would, uh, uh, uh ...” Jayla said. “Keep it legal.”

  “Absolutely,” Beth said, so earnest. “We trust you.”

  Lindy shook her head back and forth. “Please. Come on. Do you think this is how big business works? Legally? No, we’ll fight this on their level. The level of the Tweedle Dees who are scum. Don’t worry. This will all stop soon. Could you please pass the paella again? This is delicious, Jayla and Beth.”

  “I think we have to worry about this,” Vanessa said.

  “We can’t sit and do nothing,” Charles added.

  “Listen to me,” Daisy said, her stuffed bear swinging from side to side. “All this talk about attorneys. Attorneys are like vultures. They peck away at you and tear your flesh out. I’ll just shoot them.” She pulled a tiny gun out from between her breasts and pointed it at the ceiling.

  We weren’t fazed.

  “Please don’t shoot, Daisy,” Jayla said. “The cat sleeps upstairs, right above you.”

  “The kitty sleeps right there?” Daisy smiled, then tucked the gun back between her boobs. “I will not shoot a furry animal. Never. Or a hairy animal. No animals with flippers. No animals with whiskers.” She shook her head, and the daisy on her hat bobbed. “Only humans.”

  “That’s comforting to me,” I said.

  “I feel comfortable now,” Charles said.

  “Good enough,” Jayla said. “Who wants more blueberry pie?”

  We all did. Daisy went upstairs to get the cat and held it on her lap. “I would never shoot you,” she whispered to it. “Don’t you worry.”

  * * *

  I heard Daisy singing at the edge of the dock that night. Her haunting, melodious voice is a complete dichotomy from her shoot-’em-up personality.

  Skippy and Georgie told me that she used to sing at the bars she owned. The bar would be packed.

  “I saw my momma, many times, drag drunks out of her bars like she was haulin’ coal out, swearin’ like a son of a gun,” Skippy told me. “I can’t even count how many men she smashed in the face with this huge skillet she had. Boom. They’d hit the ground like dead ducks. She drank like a sailor, smoked like a chimney, she fought, and she ran the businesses with a fist full of iron. But when we were home at night, the three of us, she would sing like a bird. She could sing opera, the blues, lullabies.” He wiped his eyes. I noticed his knuckles were scraped, so it made me wonder who he had beaten up.

  “At night she sang us to sleep,” Georgie said. He had a bruise on the side of his face. They had probably been together. “When Skippy and I were teenagers, she’d come in and sing even if we’d been up to no good and she’d paddled both of us a minute before.”

  “I still call her for a song,” Skippy said, his eyes watering. “I’m not embarrassed to say that as a man. Life’s rough, right, Toni? Gets me in the mood to sleep, what with all the stuff I have to deal with. I bought her some new boots. Warm ones. I worry about her feet gettin’ cold.”

  I did not mention that I saw Arthur/Skippy, aka Slugger, and George/Georgie, aka Slash, in the paper again and that they had, once again, slithered out of charges filed against them for money laundering of what appeared to be, but was not proven to be, illegal gambling money, loan sharking, etc.

  So it was almost funny when Skippy said, “I wanted to talk to you about somethin’, so did Georgie, Toni, and, uh, we know you’re a crime and justice reporter for the paper and, uh, don’t believe everything you hear, okay? I mean, it’s embarrassin’. We’re embarrassed that you, uh, heard this stuff and we don’t want no trouble with you, we know you’re a friend to our ma.”

  “Don’t worry, Skippy. To be honest, as soon as I met you I was then unable to write about you, so another reporter always covers your ... shall we say, business challenges?”

  “Yeah, yeah. That’s it. Our business challenges. Hey! I like that.”

  I did not mention the dock closing to Skippy or Georgie. That was for Daisy to do, and she told me she hadn’t done it because “if my boys find out that Tweedle Dee Dum and Tweedle Dum Dee are kicking me off the dock and into the river to sing with the whales, then they’ll send those two wankers off a bridge and then my boys will be in the slammer. They been in the slammer before
and they didn’t like it, so I’m not saying nothing to them until I check with the whales.”

  I decided to keep quiet, too. I did not need the Tweedles’ deaths on my head, and I wouldn’t put it past Georgie or Skippy.

  Daisy’s voice carried over the water. She was singing about a woman who had lost her man.

  It broke my heart.

  12

  “How was your day?” I asked Nick, my voice wobbling like a teeter-totter in his kitchen. I was tossing a salad, trying not to look at him. I had seen enough. He had a bandage on his shoulder under his black tank top, a long bruise on his arm, and a cut on his neck. It made me nervous and upset. Another reason not to be in a serious relationship with Nick: He could get killed.

  “Not as productive as the day before.”

  I felt like crying when I saw that shoulder. I turned away as the tears came and rubbed my hands over my cheeks. He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me.

  I swallowed hard, and snuffled, and wiped my tears with a dish towel. “What happened?”

  “Someone didn’t like me arresting him.”

  I tried to pull away.

  “Toni.”

  I tried to pull away again.

  “Babe, please. I need a hug.”

  “And I need—” I choked. “Not to see you getting beat up.”

  “Doesn’t happen that often.”

  “Happens enough, and I don’t like seeing you like this. It’s upsetting. I don’t like knowing that you could get hurt worse... .”

  “It’s good to know you care.”

  “I care. What do you mean by that?” I snapped, angry.

  “Babe, I can’t even get you to go out on a date with me. You pull away every time we’re together, you go home—”

  I tried to push his arms away from me as I always do when he puts pressure on me.

  He cupped my face with one gentle hand. “Look at me.”