OLYMPIA HAD PROMISED HER SISTERS that she’d arrive in Hastings at three thirty at the latest. But it was close to four thirty when the train she was on pulled into the station. She felt guilty, of course—but maybe not that guilty. It wasn’t as if she could just leave work after lunch. Also, their father wasn’t having open-heart surgery. As Olympia understood it, it was a routine procedure. In truth, she’d only come out to Westchester to avoid the censure of Perri, who’d given her a guilt trip on the phone the night before about not helping out, even as she’d insisted that she was the only one who could handle Carol and Bob. Though it was probably also true that some escapist or standoffish impulse in Olympia made her particularly unhelpful on days like these. In any case, she was here now. Olympia stepped onto the platform and looked around her.
Between the train tracks and the Hudson lay the scourge of her hometown—namely, the remnants of two possibly toxic factories, both of them now enclosed by a barbed-wire fence. The shell of one, the Anaconda Copper Wire and Cable Company, had always reminded Olympia of a giant hunk of Parmesan cheese that had been painted black. The other one, reputed to be more noxious, had been flattened and paved over, but nobody who knew anything about Hastings-on-Hudson had been fooled. (It was the newcomers who were pushing for a riverside park.) Zinsser Chemical, producer of dyes, pigments, and photography chemicals, had made a mess of the site. Ironically enough, factory founder Frederick Zinsser’s name lingered in the form of an idyllic suburban park off Edgar’s Lane which featured a jungle gym, baseball field, and community garden. It was by the lamb’s ears that Olympia had had her first kiss back in junior high courtesy of Billy Rudolfo.
The house in which Olympia had been raised, and in which her parents still lived, was a short walk from the station—up steep West Main Street, now home to a chichi hair salon and French restaurant; past the public library, with its sweeping views of the Hudson; then down Maple Avenue, with its elegant and well-preserved Carpenter Gothic houses with their upside-down V embellishments. From there, it was a left onto dead-ended Edmarth Place. The Hellingers lived one house in from the corner. At the end of the block, you could see straight across the river to the Palisades. Rectangular, striated, and a rich shade of brown, the section of rock that faced Hastings always reminded Olympia of the Russell Stover chocolates that her great-aunt Helen, famous for her piano legs and thunderous laugh, used to bring over for the holidays.
The block’s other distinguishing feature was that every one of its porch-fronted late Victorians was the mirror image of the one across the street. Or, at least, they had been until people started adding on eat-in kitchens and extra baths. As a child, Olympia had become obsessed with what she imagined to be her “shadow house” across the street and, by extension, “shadow life”—as the deaf daughter of the Lumberts, a children’s book illustrator and UN translator, who kept to themselves. Every morning, just before eight, Victoria Lumbert, who had yellow-blond pigtails, would climb aboard a mysterious school bus. Olympia never found out where she went. And then, one day, a moving truck came, and the Lumberts vanished forever.
It was Gus who answered the bell—looking marginally spiffier than usual, in black corduroys, a white oxford, and a men’s black suit jacket. Apparently, Carol and Bob were still at the hospital. “Sorry I’m late,” said Olympia. “Work was crazy.”
“Was it ‘impossibly crazed’? Oh, sorry—that’s Perri’s favorite expression,” said Gus.
“No, just crazy,” said Olympia, rolling her eyes.
“Fisticuffs broke out over the correct way to fry a wiener schnitzel?”
“Something like that,” said Olympia, still deciding whether to laugh along or to be mortally offended by Gus’s clear mockery of her professional life. “Oh, and nice to see you too.”
“Likewise,” said Gus. Olympia hung up her coat, then followed her younger sister into the living room. In the twenty years since Olympia had left home, her parents had made minimal changes to the decor. It was still a light-challenged mix of wobbly antiques that had been passed down through the family and “contemporary” pieces purchased at Bloomingdale’s in the Galleria mall in White Plains in the 1980s, upholstery now fraying and veneers beginning to chip. Paperback novels that hadn’t been opened in twenty-five years (Watership Down, The Thorn Birds) filled every last air pocket of the bookcases. Ethnic tchotchkes cluttered every available surface. As empty nesters, Bob and Carol had taken one trip through the unfashionable countries of Eastern Europe (Bulgaria, Albania), with a stopover in Athens to see the Parthenon; and another trip through West Africa. The living room walls were deep maroon and decorated with blobby pink monotypes, which were by Carol’s sister, Suzy, and reminiscent of Rorschach inkblot tests or mutant udders, depending on your perspective. For as long as Olympia could remember, the house had smelled faintly yet inexplicably of rubber cement.
Perri sat cross-legged in Grandpa Bert’s old Morris chair, thumbing through the Times Magazine. The cover story appeared to be about kids with peanut allergies. Hadn’t they run a similar story only twelve months before? “Hey,” said Olympia, taking a seat on the old leather sofa opposite her big sister.
“Hi,” Perri said curtly and without looking up. She was clearly in a grumpy mood. Not that Olympia could blame her. “How did it go at the hospital?” she asked.
“Fine, I’m about to head back there to retrieve them.”
“Oh—cool. Thanks.”
Perri didn’t answer.
“So, how was Dad going in?” Olympia tried again.
“Dad was fine. It was Mom who was the problem. She’d been there approximately four minutes before she started complaining that no one had been in to see her husband yet, and what was taking so long?”
“That sounds like Mom.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, I appreciate you taking them,” said Olympia, trying to be conciliatory.
“I just had to postpone two meetings and a conference,” said Perri. “No big deal.”
“Sorry about that,” said Olympia, who didn’t appreciate being guilted, even when she felt guilty. “I really need to get my license renewed. Though I probably couldn’t have gotten out of work any earlier. We have a big concert this evening at the museum, which I’m obviously missing to be here.”
“It’s the first night of the Falco reunion tour?” suggested Gus. “He was the first punk ever to set foot on this earth,” she began to sing. “Amadeus, Amadeus, Amadeus, Amadeus.”
“No, it’s an experimental chamber music ensemble from Vienna,” said Olympia, sighing. “And for the record, the Falco guy died in a car accident.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Gus.
“Well, now you do.”
Perri’s eyes shifted from her magazine to Olympia’s feet. “New shoes?” she asked.
“Sort of. I got them at a consignment store in Brooklyn.” She angled her leg so Perri would have a better view. “What do you think? They’re Chloé.”
“Not bad.” Perri wrinkled her nose. “But did you spray them with something before you put them on?”
“Not all of us are germaphobes in need of institutionalizing,” said Olympia. She was going to add “or rich” but refrained, money being a far more fraught subject between them than mildew.
“They’re your feet,” said Perri, shrugging.
“Well, in case anyone’s curious,” began Gus, “I spent the first half of the day trying and failing to convince a notoriously sexist judge to issue a restraining order on behalf of a client of mine who’s walking around with a huge black eye.” She took a seat on the other end of the sofa. “All the fucker cares about is letting the kids see their father, even though their father is a violent drug dealer who has never done anything for them.” Gus tutted with derision.
“You don’t think the kids should be able to see their dad?” asked Perri, flipping a page.
“I don’t give a flying cojone about their father!” Gus replied with a quick laugh.
Olympia felt an unexpected surge of warmth toward her younger sister. “If the guy was violent with her, can’t he be charged in criminal court?” she asked.
“He could,” said Gus. “But my client wants to avoid that situation.”
“That’s so weird,” said Perri, her eyes back on her magazine. “Basically, no one in Israel is allergic to peanuts.”
“Weird,” Olympia deadpanned.
Perri motioned with her chin at a cardboard box on the coffee table. “Speaking of food, Sadie made some cupcakes as a get-well present for Dad. But I don’t see him eating a dozen of them just after surgery. So help yourself.”
“I wouldn’t mind, actually. Thanks,” said Olympia, happy both for the change of topic and for something sweet to snack on. She opened the box and discovered a dozen mini cupcakes, each with a perfectly executed red heart drawn atop its chocolate icing. Within each heart outline, tiny alternating silver and pink block letters spelled GET WELL. It was clear that Sadie had had some help (and then some). When did Perri find the time to do stuff like this? Olympia wondered. And why did she bother? “No trans fats, I trust,” Olympia went on, somehow reluctant ever to give Perri the full thrust of her respect or appreciation.
“Only homemade buttermilk,” said Perri.
Olympia bit into the cake, and said, “Mm.”
Perri put down her magazine and stood up. “Well, since I’m the obese sister and have no willpower and it was my daughter who made them, I’m going to have another one!” She jammed her hand into the box.
“Stop,” said Olympia.
“Excuse me?!” said Perri, her mouth already crammed full.
“I mean, stop saying you’re fat!” said Olympia.
“Why? It’s true,” said Perri.
“It’s not true. You look fine,” said Olympia, taking momentary pity.
“Boooorrrrringnoonecares,” muttered Gus, who, like Olympia, was slim without much effort.
“Anyway.” Perri dusted imaginary cupcake crumbs from her lap and stood up. “I should head back to St. John’s. Dad is probably already out of surgery.”
“I can come help if you want,” said Olympia.
“No need,” said Perri. “If I’m gone long, maybe you guys can order something for dinner—if that’s not too much to handle.”
She had to sneak in that last dig, Olympia thought. (And Round Two goes to Perri!) “Not too much at all,” said Olympia.
Perri double-wound her pashmina around her neck. Then she walked out. The click-clack of her low-heeled pumps grew fainter as she neared the front door.