frame, Benny put his hands over his ears. Again and again she slammed the door until one of the hinges came loose and rattled down the front steps. She bent over and picked up the hinge. She looked at it for a second and then threw it into the driveway.
Ma sat down on the steps and Lily came over to her, still sucking her thumb, and curled up in her lap. She was too big for this. Her legs were long now; they dangled down to the very last step.
Benny had disappeared. Hiding, probably. I sat down with my back against the house, plucking at the thick blades of grass, listening to Ma croon, We’ll go away, Lily. We’ll go away someday.
L ily has always been prettier than I am. I knew this from the time that I could differentiate her reflection from my own in the cracked mirror in the bathroom. Before I had the words, I knew that she was beautiful and that I was plain. But this was before I understood the implications of my plainness. Before I understood that despite attempts at fairness, parents are bound to love their beautiful children more. That homely children are not touched in the same way that their more attractive siblings are. That tenderness has less to do with love than with the softness of skin or with large blue eyes and cupid’s-bow lips.
Even now as I watched Lily making dinner, I found myself making the usual comparisons, categorizing the differences between us. Hair, eyes, the gentle curve of her shoulder or wrist. Lily’s thick blond hair was pulled up and tethered by a velvet scrunchy. Her neck long and her skin pale. Even at twenty-nine and only eight months after Violet was born, her body was still long and straight like a boy’s. Her bones were small, like a bird’s. Her eyes were so large and deep-set, they might be startling to someone who wasn’t so familiar with the intricacies of her face.
“Do you still eat meat?” Lily asked without turning away from the counter.
“Gawd yes,” I said. The Swan was mostly vegetarian (that was the latest trend in town) but Peter and I were absolutely rabid when it came to a good steak.
Lily, like my mother, has always been a good cook. I remember my mother’s futile attempts to teach me. It wasn’t that I didn’t like to; it was just that I was so easily distracted. She gave up when I first swore I’d remember and then promptly forgot to check on a tuna casserole we were making. She found me lying on my stomach watching TV nearly two hours after I was supposed to take it out. I remember her standing there with oven mitts on and the room smelling of burnt tuna. She dumped the whole thing into the garbage and never let me help her in the kitchen again.
But Lily loved to be in the kitchen with Ma. She even had a miniature apron that Ma had made with purple and white checks, purple rickrack trim, and a pocket shaped like a heart on the front. Lily made little loaves of bread and little pies. Daddy almost always ate at the bar, but on Saturdays Lily would present him with some sort of casserole or meat on a TV tray so that he could watch basketball and eat at the same time. I’d curl up next to him on the couch and we’d eat while Lily watched to make sure that he was enjoying it.
Tonight, the ingredients were more expensive. The pots and pans not the kind we had growing up: copper instead of the burnt-bottom stainless steel ones in Ma’s kitchen. Lily’s appliances were cleaner and shinier. Black espresso maker, pasta maker, Cuisinart. None of them looked like they had ever been used.
“Do you want a hand?” I asked Lily. She had finished making the marinade for three thick red steaks and was peeling potatoes.
“No thanks,” she said.
“I’ve gotten better,” I said. “Peter’s been teaching me how to bake.” I thought about the plastic containers in the bakery clearly marked Wet and Dry. I didn’t have to do too much besides mix them together and then add berries or bananas to the mix. I don’t know why they never seemed to come
Ma sat down on the steps and Lily came over to her, still sucking her thumb, and curled up in her lap. She was too big for this. Her legs were long now; they dangled down to the very last step.
Benny had disappeared. Hiding, probably. I sat down with my back against the house, plucking at the thick blades of grass, listening to Ma croon, We’ll go away, Lily. We’ll go away someday.
L ily has always been prettier than I am. I knew this from the time that I could differentiate her reflection from my own in the cracked mirror in the bathroom. Before I had the words, I knew that she was beautiful and that I was plain. But this was before I understood the implications of my plainness. Before I understood that despite attempts at fairness, parents are bound to love their beautiful children more. That homely children are not touched in the same way that their more attractive siblings are. That tenderness has less to do with love than with the softness of skin or with large blue eyes and cupid’s-bow lips.
Even now as I watched Lily making dinner, I found myself making the usual comparisons, categorizing the differences between us. Hair, eyes, the gentle curve of her shoulder or wrist. Lily’s thick blond hair was pulled up and tethered by a velvet scrunchy. Her neck long and her skin pale. Even at twenty-nine and only eight months after Violet was born, her body was still long and straight like a boy’s. Her bones were small, like a bird’s. Her eyes were so large and deep-set, they might be startling to someone who wasn’t so familiar with the intricacies of her face.
“Do you still eat meat?” Lily asked without turning away from the counter.
“Gawd yes,” I said. The Swan was mostly vegetarian (that was the latest trend in town) but Peter and I were absolutely rabid when it came to a good steak.
Lily, like my mother, has always been a good cook. I remember my mother’s futile attempts to teach me. It wasn’t that I didn’t like to; it was just that I was so easily distracted. She gave up when I first swore I’d remember and then promptly forgot to check on a tuna casserole we were making. She found me lying on my stomach watching TV nearly two hours after I was supposed to take it out. I remember her standing there with oven mitts on and the room smelling of burnt tuna. She dumped the whole thing into the garbage and never let me help her in the kitchen again.
But Lily loved to be in the kitchen with Ma. She even had a miniature apron that Ma had made with purple and white checks, purple rickrack trim, and a pocket shaped like a heart on the front. Lily made little loaves of bread and little pies. Daddy almost always ate at the bar, but on Saturdays Lily would present him with some sort of casserole or meat on a TV tray so that he could watch basketball and eat at the same time. I’d curl up next to him on the couch and we’d eat while Lily watched to make sure that he was enjoying it.
Tonight, the ingredients were more expensive. The pots and pans not the kind we had growing up: copper instead of the burnt-bottom stainless steel ones in Ma’s kitchen. Lily’s appliances were cleaner and shinier. Black espresso maker, pasta maker, Cuisinart. None of them looked like they had ever been used.
“Do you want a hand?” I asked Lily. She had finished making the marinade for three thick red steaks and was peeling potatoes.
“No thanks,” she said.
“I’ve gotten better,” I said. “Peter’s been teaching me how to bake.” I thought about the plastic containers in the bakery clearly marked Wet and Dry. I didn’t have to do too much besides mix them together and then add berries or bananas to the mix. I don’t know why they never seemed to come
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