corrected herself. “Though I guess one of us should stay up and listen for our stop.”
“I’m not sleepy,” Jenny said. “I’ll listen.”
They were on a causeway crossing a stunning stretch of brilliant blue water, its edges lined with smallish homes, little docks, little boats. An unidentifiable flock of white birds lifted into the golden evening sky from a small island so green it shone black in this light. Artificial? The island? The waterway? Did it make any difference if it was man-made? Was it less beautiful?
Naomi’s request shot into her head, followed by the quick, odd retraction. What was that about? Money. Something about money. What else could it be? Money and Naomi and Flora—had to be some such configuration. Naomi had cautioned her not to tell Flora. A family mess about money. In short, a nightmare.
Now they were stopped at a railroad crossing in another sudden change in the landscape, a neighborhood of little factories, seedy stores, strange characters lounging around in the heat on the sidewalks. The train lumbered by endlessly. A skinny white man sitting directly across from Jenny and Flora muttered crazily.
“Goddamn, goddamn, they don’t give a goddamn. Don’t care how they treat us. Don’t care how late they make us. Time belongs to them. They got everything else, and now they got jurisdiction over time. My time.”
He looked desperately unhealthy, unwashed, uncombed, as if he had never eaten right in his life, never slept in a wide clean bed, never taken a long luxurious bath with good soap, never washed his thin greasy hair. His cotton slacks and shirt hung on a frame without substance. Coat upon a stick. Probably bound for the dog races to lose the last penny he had in his grimy pocket. Jai alai, maybe. He quieted as soon as they were moving again.
She thought, I must go to the bank tomorrow and check on Naomi’s accounts before I ask her what this is all about.
The scene had altered once more. They were in an enclave of high-rise condominiums surrounded by waterways, golf links, tennis courts, swimming pools, tree-lined bicycle paths and walks, lush greenery and flowering plants, pretty as a picture. In the distance the huge white arches of a thruway overpass cut into a sky now magnificently stained with the setting sun. Orange, purple, green. Gaudy. Gaudy as Flora.
Brave, extravagant, gaudy, foolish Flora. Her closest sister in age. Her pal, her rival, her self. There but for the grace of God.
Then Naomi, ten years older, a sister-mother, watching over little girl Jenny, combing and washing Jenny’s hair. Delicate, witty, heartbroken Naomi, longing for someone to watch over her, pouring out on Jenny the care she craved for herself.
And Eva, fifteen years older, a mother-sister from the beginning, generous, dependable, loving, hopelessly bourgeois Eva.
And herself? Little girl Jenny? Born last to a mother and father too old and worn. Mothered by her older sisters. Bullied, bossed, and petted by her older brothers. Grown into the disguise of a civilized, self-contained intellectual, Jane Witter, academic, essayist, critic.
Nobody ever heard of you, Jenny, except a couple of your New York women friends. Jane Witter, professor of literature, book reviewer, freelance writer of an occasional article. Not even your true name. Witter — borrowed from a Brooklyn apartment house, the Witter Arms. Jenny Witkovsky masked as Jane Witter. You are of a piece with your sisters. A poor thing. Coat upon a stick. Stop disowning them. They are you.
Suddenly the driver called out their stop. They disembarked hastily and crossed a broad avenue heavy with traffic, Flora hanging on Jenny unsteadily, swaying, pushing.
“I feel horrible,” Flora said. “I need a drink. I hope to God Eva has some vodka in her apartment.”
“She always does,” Jenny said.
They entered through tall wrought-iron gates, past a handsome stone plaque announcing “Villa Rosa.” Eva and a black attendant
“I’m not sleepy,” Jenny said. “I’ll listen.”
They were on a causeway crossing a stunning stretch of brilliant blue water, its edges lined with smallish homes, little docks, little boats. An unidentifiable flock of white birds lifted into the golden evening sky from a small island so green it shone black in this light. Artificial? The island? The waterway? Did it make any difference if it was man-made? Was it less beautiful?
Naomi’s request shot into her head, followed by the quick, odd retraction. What was that about? Money. Something about money. What else could it be? Money and Naomi and Flora—had to be some such configuration. Naomi had cautioned her not to tell Flora. A family mess about money. In short, a nightmare.
Now they were stopped at a railroad crossing in another sudden change in the landscape, a neighborhood of little factories, seedy stores, strange characters lounging around in the heat on the sidewalks. The train lumbered by endlessly. A skinny white man sitting directly across from Jenny and Flora muttered crazily.
“Goddamn, goddamn, they don’t give a goddamn. Don’t care how they treat us. Don’t care how late they make us. Time belongs to them. They got everything else, and now they got jurisdiction over time. My time.”
He looked desperately unhealthy, unwashed, uncombed, as if he had never eaten right in his life, never slept in a wide clean bed, never taken a long luxurious bath with good soap, never washed his thin greasy hair. His cotton slacks and shirt hung on a frame without substance. Coat upon a stick. Probably bound for the dog races to lose the last penny he had in his grimy pocket. Jai alai, maybe. He quieted as soon as they were moving again.
She thought, I must go to the bank tomorrow and check on Naomi’s accounts before I ask her what this is all about.
The scene had altered once more. They were in an enclave of high-rise condominiums surrounded by waterways, golf links, tennis courts, swimming pools, tree-lined bicycle paths and walks, lush greenery and flowering plants, pretty as a picture. In the distance the huge white arches of a thruway overpass cut into a sky now magnificently stained with the setting sun. Orange, purple, green. Gaudy. Gaudy as Flora.
Brave, extravagant, gaudy, foolish Flora. Her closest sister in age. Her pal, her rival, her self. There but for the grace of God.
Then Naomi, ten years older, a sister-mother, watching over little girl Jenny, combing and washing Jenny’s hair. Delicate, witty, heartbroken Naomi, longing for someone to watch over her, pouring out on Jenny the care she craved for herself.
And Eva, fifteen years older, a mother-sister from the beginning, generous, dependable, loving, hopelessly bourgeois Eva.
And herself? Little girl Jenny? Born last to a mother and father too old and worn. Mothered by her older sisters. Bullied, bossed, and petted by her older brothers. Grown into the disguise of a civilized, self-contained intellectual, Jane Witter, academic, essayist, critic.
Nobody ever heard of you, Jenny, except a couple of your New York women friends. Jane Witter, professor of literature, book reviewer, freelance writer of an occasional article. Not even your true name. Witter — borrowed from a Brooklyn apartment house, the Witter Arms. Jenny Witkovsky masked as Jane Witter. You are of a piece with your sisters. A poor thing. Coat upon a stick. Stop disowning them. They are you.
Suddenly the driver called out their stop. They disembarked hastily and crossed a broad avenue heavy with traffic, Flora hanging on Jenny unsteadily, swaying, pushing.
“I feel horrible,” Flora said. “I need a drink. I hope to God Eva has some vodka in her apartment.”
“She always does,” Jenny said.
They entered through tall wrought-iron gates, past a handsome stone plaque announcing “Villa Rosa.” Eva and a black attendant
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