The Language of Sisters

  When the brothers called her, out of their minds with humiliation, she told them that if they didn’t back off the dock project that she would post the other videos she had made of them in different costumes, including the Scottish warrior and the pirate.

  The brothers made threats of impending lawsuits. She referred them to the contracts she had them sign, and of which they had copies. She had had her attorney slip in a clause about how Tweedle Dee Dum and Tweedle Dum Dee gave her permission to film them and to “use the film and their names in advertisements, marketing, or in any public domain, including Facebook, Instagram, and YouTube.” Lindy stripped while they were “studying the contract,” and they signed it.

  Tweedle Dee Dum had a poor kick and was an unattractive woman.

  Tweedle Dum Dee could not joust. No princess would ever want him now.

  The brothers were toast, hence, You Are Toast Day.

  * * *

  “You Are Toast Day was today. Did you see it?”

  “I did,” Nick said.

  I rarely called him at work. I couldn’t say anything more. We both laughed until I was making hyena-like sounds, which made us laugh harder.

  I saw Ricki laughing again, hobbling back to the bathroom. “I’m going to have to run home for fresh panties!” she yelled.

  Nick heard it and cracked up. I made the hyena sound again.

  * * *

  I called Lindy next. All I could do was laugh. She said, “I waited until you came back from Russia. I didn’t want you to miss out on You Are Toast Day.”

  “You’re a true friend,” I gasped out.

  “So are you, Toni. My best friend.”

  My hyena laugh and I hung up.

  * * *

  That night I went to Lindy’s place to celebrate You Are Toast Day. I was still laughing thinking of the slumlord man-woman in a red dress and a knight who could not joust.

  I was not the first one there. Vanessa and Charles had already arrived. Jayla and Beth were there, both in scrubs. Daisy was there in a blue hat with daisies around the rim. Take-out dinners from a local seafood restaurant arrived, from Georgie and Skippy, aka Slash and Slugger.

  Nick walked in, strong and lovable, and I hugged him. Lindy was smiling. She was wearing a pink blouse and brown skirt and a new pair of glasses.

  “I don’t think we have to worry about the dock shutting down,” Charles said.

  We cheered to that, glasses clinking.

  “Splendid work, Lindy,” Vanessa said. “Although”—she tipped her head down and glared—“I don’t want you to do this anymore.” She waved her hand.

  “There are other jobs that you would enjoy,” Charles said, “and are better suited to your intellect and your ambitions.”

  “Safer,” Jayla said.

  “More interesting,” Beth said.

  “This job needs to stop,” Nick said, his tone brooking no argument from her, “before you’re killed.”

  “I quit. I’m going to school to become a librarian. Being around books makes me happy. I like the smell of them.”

  We cheered.

  “Being around whales makes me happy,” Daisy said, her daisy hat bopping. “Being with my river family makes me happy, too. I love you.”

  “We love you, too, Daisy,” we said.

  “Being around shrimp and steak makes me happy,” Charles said. “Shall we eat while it’s hot? And thanks to Slugger and Slash.” Charles cleared his throat. “I mean, uh, thanks to Georgie and Skippy.”

  “Thanks to my sons, naughty boys!” Daisy said. “They took my bullets out of my condom box.”

  Those naughty boys. We ate shrimp and steak on Lindy’s houseboat, the sun went down, and we celebrated. Jayla did a spot-on imitation of Tweedle Dee Dum in his red dress dancing like an electrified pig, and Beth was clearly talented in her saber skills. “My name is Tweedle Dum Dee, and I’m a knight,” she declared. “See me fence.” She put the “sword,” a small stick, between her legs, up by her crotch.

  We about died laughing.

  Daisy sang at the edge of the dock that night, the moon in front of her, high and white, like a ball dropped from the clouds, an invisible string holding it in place. She wore her whale hat. I had never seen it before. It was blue. She’d sewn a blue tail and flippers. Googly eyes. A yellow daisy was sewn onto its head.

  Nick and I sat together in my chaise lounge. I leaned against his chest, his arms wrapped around me as Daisy sang “You Are My Sunshine”; “Yesterday,” by the Beatles; and “Crocodile Rock,” by Elton John. She finished off with “Hallelujah” and “Jesus Loves Me.”

  Every note soared into the sky, waltzing or crashing or busting along, depending on the tune, a story in itself.

  I could see why Skippy and Georgie couldn’t sleep at night until their mother had sung them a lullaby.

  At the end of a song about a mother’s love for her son, she shouted, “Whale, whale, where are you? Laughing with the fish, dancing with the dolphins, into the deep blue, I’ll come and visit you.”

  We heard her footsteps down the dock, then she opened the door to her houseboat and stepped inside.

  * * *

  The Tweedles agreed not to close the dock if Lindy took down the videos. They agreed to all repairs. They agreed not to build any slumlord apartments near us, or anywhere else, and to make repairs in the existing slumlord apartments. “Or else.”

  The videos came down.

  The next day, by coincidence, a court date was set for all of their slumlord crimes. The Tweedles’ callous recklessness had finally caught up with them.

  The Tweedles’ wives filed for divorce.

  Rumor had it that both men were moving to Idaho.

  * * *

  Skippy pounded on my door at seven-thirty in the morning on Saturday.

  Nick flew up and was at the door, his jeans yanked on, before I even made it to the stairs.

  “Momma’s gone,” Skippy panted.

  I skidded up behind Nick in my socks. “What?”

  “Momma’s gone.” Skippy had his hands in his hair. He was pulling it. “I came by to check on her this mornin’. Last night Georgie was here, and he said Momma was makin’ up rhymes about whales, talkin’ to her whale hat. He got her into bed about ten, stayed to make sure she was asleep until midnight, then went home.”

  “Maybe she’s on a walk,” I said.

  “She likes to walk,” Nick said. “I see her often.”

  “I know, I know, but the problem is”—Skippy said, almost hyperventilating—“that she left all of her daisy hats on her dresser stand. She has twenty-one. I counted. All there today, but her whale hat with the daisy on it isn’t there.”

  I felt cold. Sick. “That’s not right.”

  “I know, I know!” Skippy, in his expensive clothes, shined shoes, a face that had been hit more than once, started to cry. “It’s not right.”

  “We’ll help you,” Nick said, a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m coming, Skippy.” I ran up the stairs, Nick behind me, and we threw on clothes, then ran back out. Skippy was on the phone, crying harder, talking to Georgie. Then he said something that I’m sure neither Episcopo son has ever said. “Call the cops, Georgie! Call the cops!”

  * * *

  Everyone in the marina was soon searching for Daisy. We covered the dock, people’s boats and homes, the streets above, the neighborhoods and shops beyond that. People drove downtown, following the route that Daisy always took.

  Charles and Vanessa took their boat out, as did others, including Lindy, who had the most expensive boat. She’d named it Hookin’ It. The police were there, on the dock and out on boats in the water. Nick and I went out on Sanchez One, knowing the futility of it all, but trying anyhow.

  Daisy was eighty-five years old. If she was in the water, she was long gone.

  And that’s what it ended up being. Daisy was long gone.

  We searched all day long, into the night. She was on the news. She was on our online newspape
r immediately. I wrote the article. She was listed as missing. We hoped that she had taken a walk and simply gotten lost, but I knew that wasn’t true.

  Nick and I stood at the end of the dock at two that morning holding hands. It had been a long, long day. Jayla and Beth were there beside us, as were Vanessa and Charles, and Lindy. Georgie sat on the dock, his feet in the water, and cried. Skippy had his arm slung over Georgie’s shoulders.

  Daisy Episcopo was a ball breaker, a bar owner, a tough single mother who had kicked a man out of her house because he beat her, and raised her boys on her own. She was smart, hilarious, generous, and loyal. She was an outstanding businesswoman. She sang like a nightingale, like a Madonna, like a beer-brawling, rough-talking son of a gun.

  I knew without a doubt that she had gone to talk to the whales, to take her last ride on their backs. My guess is that her mind slipped that last millimeter and she took a step off the edge of the dock, drowned quickly, her mind and body shutting down, and the river took her out to the whales in the ocean.

  She had been headed for a nursing home, probably within weeks. She would have hated it. She would have felt as claustrophobic and trapped as she had when her own hard-drinking father locked her in a closet. This death was more merciful than any nursing home could ever be.

  I would miss her. We would miss her.

  Nick pulled me in and hugged me.

  It was Skippy who started singing.

  We joined him in “Amazing Grace.”

  Daisy would have like that.

  Then we sang Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog” and followed it up with a couple of raucous drinking songs.

  She would have liked that, too.

  * * *

  I had Nick help me. We waited until it was nighttime, stars sprinkled across the sky, a few clouds, grayish blue across the black.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Toni?”

  “Yes, I’m positive.”

  We carried it up the dock and into his truck. We drove to the white house with the red door. We quietly grabbed the two-seater red kayak and put it to the side of the house.

  I left a note. “I hope you enjoy many happy days kayaking with your family.”

  I knew that I could not be in that two-seater kayak again, nor did it belong with me anymore. It belonged to a new family who would make new memories.

  Nick and I climbed back into the truck and drove off.

  We held hands all the way home, then he spent the night on my tugboat and we made love on the red bench in the captain’s wheelhouse.

  “I like being the captain,” Nick murmured.

  “Aye, aye, handsome.”

  We watched for shooting stars together.

  “There’s one.” He pointed. I hugged him close.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, coming home from work, I saw a huge cardboard sign in front of the white house with the red door. Clearly, the kids had painted it. There was a picture of the red kayak and four people in it, with the words, in purple, THANK YOU! WE LOVE IT!

  I smiled.

  27

  Nick took me out on his boat. We headed downriver, to the quiet part, then stopped, dropped anchor, and watched the sunset, our lounge chairs side by side. Nick was wearing a sweater and jeans, as was I. I had borrowed one of his coats.

  I felt it then ... peace. Utter peace, the sky glowing, a mammoth, moving painting.

  He took my hand and held it. We didn’t talk. Nature was enough. Geese flew overhead. We watched a river otter swim by. A fish jumped, then another.

  When the sky was still purple, lush and soft on top, orange and yellow swirled together below, he sat up, turned toward me, and said, his voice skimming on the edges of ragged, “Toni, we need to talk.”

  “Okay.” I tensed.

  “I love you.” He held my hand, and I sat up and faced him.

  “I love you, too, Nick.”

  He leaned over, and we had a soul-touching kiss, warm and yummy. The wind drifted around us, and I relaxed into his kiss, into him. He pulled away, kissed my forehead, then leaned our heads together for a few seconds before pulling back.

  “I started falling in love with you the day we met, babe. You know why I love you, I’ve told you a hundred times.”

  I smiled, kissed him again. Yes, he had.

  “I remember being in my houseboat, the first time we made love, after months of trying to get you to go out with me, to be friends, and I thought to myself, ‘This woman is now my life.’ I meant it then, I mean it now, I’ll always mean it. You are my life. I’m happy with you. I’m truly happy. I know we can be happy together, forever. I know we can grow to be a hundred together, and we’ll still have things to say to each other, we’ll still laugh, and we’ll still be in love.”

  I was so happy, I almost embarrassed myself by giggling.

  “I want to marry you, Toni. I would have asked you before we even made love the first time, but I knew you weren’t ready and you’d bolt. But please, honey, marry me.”

  “Marry you.” I whispered it, trying those words out for size. I waited to feel guilty, but I didn’t. I felt Marty, but only for a second. I saw him smiling at me, then he was gone, into the sunset, and Nick filled my vision, and hope filled me, hope of a future with Nick, with a bunch of kids, with love.

  I laughed. “I love you, Nick Sanchez.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes. That’s a yes.” He smiled. I loved that face. Loved that smile. Loved that man.

  “Now you have made my whole life happy. We’ll get married and we’ll have kids and eat bananas dipped in melted chocolate chips in the bathtub as you like to do.”

  “Kids, plural?”

  “Yes. You’ve said you want kids, and so do I.”

  I knew that truth to my bones. “I do. Many children.”

  “We can have as many as you want. Pick a number. Try to keep it out of the double digits. And I hope they all look like you. If they look like me, they’ll look like criminals.”

  We laughed. “You don’t look like a criminal, Nick.” I kissed him, linked my arms around his shoulders. “Okay. Maybe you do. A sexy criminal.”

  He pulled me up into those mongo-sized arms, and we made love on his boat, on his bed.

  We really rocked that boat.

  * * *

  The next night, at sunset, waiting for Nick to come by so we could go to dinner at Pepper’s Grill, I saw Dixie, my blue heron. She was on the bank, blue and elegant. She turned and stared right at me for long seconds, then spread her wings out, majestic and proud. The sun was tunneling through the puffy clouds, creating that golden staircase, from here to heaven.

  I watched as Dixie soared this way and that, following the wind, before climbing higher, soaring near the trees, closer and closer to the staircase. When she disappeared, I knew I would not see her again.

  “Ready to go, babe?” Nick called, stepping onto my tugboat.

  He was smiling, strong and gentle, protective and smart. I loved that man with all my heart. “Yes, I’m ready.”

  * * *

  Our wedding was beautiful. I wore a red, lacy dress. We had it overlooking the river on a sunny day, then my parents closed down Svetlana’s for the reception. There were about 250 people there. My family, Nick’s family, his parents loving and welcoming, his uncles, aunts, cousins, our friends from high school and college, everyone from the dock, Ricki and my friends at the paper, Nick’s friends from the DEA, friends from the church, the staff at Svetlana’s, Ralph and Charlie, who played the piano, and Marty’s parents, of course.

  At my parents’ invitation, Nick’s mother brought her favorite Italian recipes and Nick’s father brought his favorite Mexican recipes. The staff cooked the food, along with our Russian favorites. Yes, at Svetlana’s Kitchen on our wedding we served something other than Russian food. Miracles do happen.

  We danced. We drank wine. We had a couple shots of vodka. There were funny toasts.

  Nick and I were married, and
everyone had a fabulous time.

  But Nick and I had the most fabulous time of all.

  28

  I told Ellie and Valerie, in my head.

  Ellie called me immediately, joyful. “I heard that!”

  She was teary, I was teary. We talked for an hour. “Congratulations, Toni.”

  Valerie called me. “I’ve been trying to get through. You were talking to Ellie, I’m sure. Anyhow, I am thrilled.”

  We laughed, she was teary, I was teary.

  “Congratulations, big sister.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ellie, Valerie, and I met at Ellie’s house later that week. We were each making two pillows.

  I am having twins.

  When Nick found out, he was so happy he said, “Nice work, Toni,” then wiped a napkin across his eyes.

  My parents were, for once, speechless.

  They are not shy about crying. “We love you, Antonia. We love you, Nick. And that,” my father said, “is my final word.”

  And so it was.

  * * *

  The language of sisters is a gift from our mother. It came down the Sabonis line, like genes, through our widow’s peaks. From the Romanovs, to Lenin, Stalin, Germany’s invasion, the siege of Leningrad, the Cold War, we have heard each other.

  Passed from mother to daughter.

  Father to son.

  Sisters and brothers, we hear each other.

  It’s a gift. It’s a curse.

  It is us.

  Living on a Tugboat, Talking About Homes

  BY TONI KOZLOVSKY

  I am moving. As I have told you all before, I live on a yellow tugboat in the Willamette River.

  I am pregnant with twins, and morning sickness is not pleasant when waves are rolling underneath you. In fact, it feels like my stomach is being constantly shifted by an invisible, watery hand. The slight movement never bothered me before, but the storm we had last weekend was enough for this pregnant woman.

  I will miss my ducks, Mr. and Mrs. Quackenbusch; the Sergeant Otts, the otters; Anonymous, the bald eagle who makes rare appearances; Maxie, the golden eagle; and Big Teeth and Big Tooth, the beavers who built a new home. I will take the memories of my blue heron, Dixie, with me. I will miss the river, the weather, the views.