Often, among the Murphy children, squabbling and peace balanced out. Alliances shifted, Theo alternately sought out Katy and ignored her, the two sometimes vying for Molly, whose own mercurial allegiances no one could predict. And Molly pinched; nothing her parents tried had dissuaded her. It began when she was two. She pinched all of them but most often Katy, though with Katy she could also be wildly affectionate. She’d follow Katy until Katy played hide-and-go-seek with her, or at Blue Rock beach built palaces of sand and pebbles. But every week or two, there would come a moment—sometimes preceded by the emptying of drawers or pulling of books from shelves—when Molly would pinch. And watch the reaction—Katy’s or Nora’s, or sometimes Theo’s—with curiosity, a hint of pleasure. The faintest glee at the mark left behind. She knew that Katy would be punished for pinching back, that certainly Nora and James and Theo would not pinch. Simply shouting at Molly could mean trouble for Katy, despite the provocation. At moments of enervation or exhaustion, Molly would wail until Nora rocked her quiet, all pinching then forgotten.
Some rules Molly would follow, some not. She’d steal and eat candy hidden in Katy’s dresser drawer, and then cry and insist on sitting on Katy’s lap until Katy forgave her. She charmed adults, including Lydia, whom she never pinched and around whom she rarely cried. She was the most beautiful of the children and the most affectionate. Strangers were drawn to her in ways they had never been drawn to Katy or even to Theo, a dimpled blue-eyed boy.
In those moments when Molly claimed Katy, Katy felt as if she possessed Molly. But there were other moments, when Molly seemed to be in love with Theo or their father first, or when Molly pinched Katy hard enough to bruise and ran from her instead of begging forgiveness. Worse for Katy were the hours Nora devoted wholly to Molly, because Molly was the youngest or because she had charmed Nora. Or pinched her. On weekends, James and Theo would kick a soccer ball or sail, often without inviting Katy; or they would sit in neighboring armchairs and read silently, together and inaccessible. In those moments, Theo pointedly shunned her, but her father? She could not tell if he was obtuse or unkind. In the family constellation, Katy became the odd number, the extra girl (though Molly was last; it should have been Molly). And there were moments promised to Katy, like tiny birthdays—this afternoon, Katy, we’ll go for a bike ride; tomorrow morning, Katy, I’ll make you pancakes—when instead Molly threw a tantrum or charmed everyone away.
By the time she was four, Molly’s pinching was as strategic as it was impulsive. True: occasionally Katy did pinch back (and was reprimanded) or hid Molly’s dolls, which made Molly frantic; or for hours and without wavering ignored Molly, until Molly began to call Katy’s name and search for her—until she might hug Katy, climb onto her lap, and let Katy reclaim her.
At the hotel in Rome, Molly pinched Katy, a small test pinch, hard enough to leave a mark. It was the day they arrived, before they slept. “Brat,” Katy said, and then their mother walked in. She noticed the red splotch still fading, and ordered Molly to bed. “You too,” she told Katy, but kissed the mark on Katy’s arm.