Glamour and Rage To Come Home

Down deep was the memory in her tummy, the wild beat of her heart. It roared in a determined whisper for her to come home to her womb, her body, her voice. But, she was lost in the cities of tall buildings, charity functions and networking groups. After all she had to work to make money since. She was the one who had decided to build her own business from scratch.

She did not know why…but she was enamored by the light shows and movie screens of the entertainment world. She didn’t know as an agent she’d lose her soul to the corporate arrogance of playing god to artists and writers. Her naivety caused her to believe she could stamp out the stench of money deals, watered down romantic comedies and bad suspense stories. Revamp the way producers murdered women to diet until their bodies were perfectly perfect to force audiences to gape in jealousy and appeal to mass inferiority. Thinness had no meaning except to make the actor’s vagina or penis bigger, sexier, when plunked into the face of public viewer. This way they’d compare and wonder if they stood up to Hollywood standards of how their own bodies should look. Then on top of it there was the Hollywood happily ever after endings, or unhappily ever after endings. Most often being that the female would die of, typically, breast cancer. And of course, she die telling everyone not to cry for her...she would be the courageous martyr until the end, never fighting for life…accepting death as a friend to her boring existence.

Dark knots of disappointment and frustration kept her up at night with its howls of hurt. Her pain never ceased. How could she hold this fury? She had bargained her life to the Devil. The one who tripped her and drank her blood whenever she’d follow her urge, her vision to get out of jail and pass go, and get out of a system that kept her a slave to her fear. Her plan didn’t work. She failed. She was caught up again in the glamour allowing her cleavage to pop out during business luncheons while she drank a martini and laughed like she was warding off the ferocious winds of an oncoming storm. She was in the beast of the belly and she had become the beast.

When did she lose her way home? Forget how to be ordinary, sit and remember herself as she drank a warm cup of tea, listening to the beat of her own soul saying, “I am here.”

Why was she so afraid to break the golden mold? When had her strength failed to ignite her passion? To push her own will and bust through the hell she had created? The vampire way she sucked her own blood and then threw away the inner world that sprang from the depth of her despair had become despicable. She could not hold her pain. She would never ask anyone to hold her pain in fear of being called a victim. Even though she was a victim, the world ignored her, blamed her for being raped and beaten left for dead. Why was she walking alone at night down unlit streets? A woman alone is a target. How could she ever stop being a victim when the world kept her enslaved in her victimhood? She couldn’t even walk the night streets by herself. This was a dangerous proposition. There wasn’t a war out there, was there?

Rendevous

A flutter of shock glided across Jeri’s blue eyes. What did Fran say?

“What?” Jeri forced a smile.

“I said. It would be great if you were married. Or had a boyfriend, or something.”

“Well, I sleep with Topper, my Irish Setter. Will he do?” Jeri picked up the wine glass, sipped the Pinot Grigio.

“You know what I mean. A foursome. It would be fun.” Fran brushed a red hair from her fleshy cheek.

Jeri tapped her goblet. “I see. That’s why I never see you on the weekends. That’s why I’ve haven’t met your husband Jack. I’m your during the week night acquaintance.” She stole a sip of wine then slid the glass across the table. “I thought when we met at Yoga you were a real woman, not one of those fake ones afraid I’ll steal your husband.” She laughed, “You want fun? What about a threesome?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Fran touched her hand.

“Don’t patronize me.” Jeri shoved Fran’s hand away. The restaurant was empty. Green linen curtains and blue flowers swirled in circles. She stood up, grabbed the chair so as not to fall.

“What’s your problem? Fran grabbed her wrist. “I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not. You’re guilty.” She snatched her white fur coat and ran.

She knocked over the dessert tray as she raced through the restaurant. The smell of garlic and oil made her heave. Jeri pulled the glass door open and lunged into the cold night. Frozen air slapped her awake. Her eyes began to tear. She wrapped her woolen coat around her slim body. Traffic noise droned in the background. Street lights beamed down on Jeri, protected her like angel eyes as she scurried toward her apartment on Seventy Second and Lexington. A taxi emerged from the void like a ghost. She waved, but the cab drove past her.

“Am I freak’n invisible?” She hunched over fighting the frigid winds. Only ten blocks, ten blocks.

Finally, she made it to the two story town home, fumbled keys into the lock and slammed the door behind. She took a deep breath into the warmth. Jeri heels tapped across the wooded floor and she dropped, flung her coat and bag across the red L-shaped couch.

A head popped up. “You’re home.” His face was sweet, youthful, too youthful for her fifty years. He slithered across to her and kissed her neck. Jeri threw her head back and sighed. “When are you going to show me off to your friends?”

“I have no friends.” She pushed him away, walked over to the mantle and picked up a picture. A man, surrounded by dark-skinned children, waved, smiling.

“He’s dead, Jeri.”

“He’s my husband. And I don’t know if he’s dead.”

“I know his body wasn’t found. But, I was there. Why do you hold to this delusion? It’s eight months.”

Jeri stood frozen gripping the picture; her eyes flinched as the front door slammed. She screamed. “I want my key back.”

Lucy had a Broken Heart and a Superior Attitude

Lucy had a broken heart. She felt this brokenness from the time she was born. It scattered her senses into the universe and held her captive to a small teary eyed vision of who she was. When she went to feel her heart she slammed up against an invisible wall that separated her from the beauty that lived within her. No matter how hard she tried, how deep she’d dig, she could not find where she was hiding inside of her heart. She was truly lost.

Each and every morning Lucy would squint at her reflection in the large bathroom mirror and examine her deep set blue eyes, small round face, strong Jewish nose, wide lips and shiny black hair. Some saw her as an exotic beauty; others saw her as an unpredictable woman with an eccentric demeanor. Still others saw her as she was, a woman with an empty gaze detached from anything human. There wasn’t a day that went by that Lucy didn't know exactly what she was supposed to do; get up, glance at the rising sun, pop her daily vitamins with a protein drink, go to work, listen to her very rich clients who bought foreign art objects from strange lands, complain about everyone they hated in their lives, eat a lunch of salmon, rice and salad, AND go home at six. At night she would talk to a few so-called friends about whatever irked them that day, eat a plate of chocolate ice cream covered in a cool mound before bed and then sleep, a dead sleepless sleep, always and forever squelching the ache in her heart.

Lucy knew, if ever she dared to talk to anyone about her brokenness it would scare people so wildly that they would kill her on the spot. You see Lucy knew and was raised to know that humans were born to be afraid of brokeneness and could not look straight into its deep blue eyes. E Lucy herself hid herself from all types of monstrous fears, whether they were short, fat, skinny, long and so on…so nothing and no one could touch her. But that didn't stop her from stating her mind about her fears. As a result she became the object of everyone’s fear and invisible to herself.

One day, as all days, the sun rose. But on this particular morning there was a majestic redness encircling the edges of the round brightness. The shock of color made Lucy stop dead in her tracks. It paralyzed her to such an extent that she could not walk to the bathroom to brush her teeth. And nothing, I tell you nothing came before her teeth brushing, face staring and body showering or she’d feel out of kilter for the rest of the day and for all she knew the rest of her life. Involuntarily, like an ant to crumb in the grass, she was trapped by the sun’s glare. The miraculous splendor pulled her into a deep spell. A shiver went up her spine and caused her to sneeze, and sneeze, three times, four times, five, six and on and on, until she was unable to catch her breath. She threw herself on top of her carefully cornered sea green sheets and huffed and puffed until the rippling tickle in her nose calmed down. Being she had never really sneezed hard in her whole life she considered this to be a bizarre and strange occurrence.

Lucy touched her forehead to see if she had a temperature, but her skin was cool and smooth. “Oh well. Never mind. Just a trick of fate.” With that thought she jumped to her feet. A trick of fate! She did not believe in fate. What would put such an awkward idea into her head? There was no fate, just destiny. Destiny! Ridiculous thing. Who was saying these absurd things in her head. She shook her head, held her breath, and released a winded sigh. Lucy was not naïve. Life was not for the living, it was for the defiant ones. The ones who thought life was inconsequential to living. How else could our society continue? No one could continue functioning on the planet if people decided to live--virtually everything would fall apart. There wasn’t any destiny, fate, determination or will. All anyone had to do was put one foot in front of the other. This was automatic anyway. It allowed everyone to fit into the corners of one’s own mind far away from anything living and breathing. Oh yes, there were some that actually believed that they were the masters of their own fate. These poor misguided souls would make Lucy laugh herself to sleep at night. “If that was true,” she would sarcastically retort to one of those many "masters of their own fate" party poopers, you know, the ones who wore silly party hats at cocktail parties and drank till their faces looked like their skin was fitted onto a hanger, “If that was true, then we all wouldn’t be living on this non-living of a planet and be living the so-called life of Riley, whoever that moron was.” She would laugh hysterically right in their faces and up their noses, which would make all those do-gooders frown and call her a miserable bitch. But, Lucy didn’t care what anyone thought of her since she knew the average I.Q on her planet was lower than the ground she walked On. Her I.Q fell between the superior and super superior level. Anyway, call it fate or destiny it all came out the same. When you’re dead you’re dead and when you’re alive, well you certainly weren’t walking on water or drowning for that matter, you just weren’t living on this shriveled up planet with its shriveled up brains for matter. Lucy, being the superior being she was, knew that.

Having all this knowledge and insight always left Lucy in a dilemma, which was, what the FUCK was she doing on this planet? As of this time she had not figured that out, so she just kept doing what she was doing and ignoring that she was even here, wherever here was.

Lucy wiped her strong nose, which of course, defied all the laws of Jewishness being that it was short and not long, and ridded herself of the memory of all those horrendous sneezes. She dressed in her typical black suit, with her typical red shoes and her typical hair done up to keep the strands out of her eyes and left for work. She arrived at her destination, after elbowing herself on out whack trains and buses to her own special shop of art objects. The sign above the door read, “Rare and lively works of art for the hard hearted, hard headed, and for those who hardly know anything about art at all.” That drew in clients from every corner of the planet with hardly any debits, just credits. As she pushed the key into the lock she noticed that there was a slight change in the way the door stood on its hinges. A big hurrumph escaped from her larynx. This was a word she had not said since childhood. She ignored her own ignorance and struggled to put the door back to its usual way of hanging on the hinges. The door would have none of that and kept popping out of its screwed up door joints. Well! Hurrumph again! Lucy slapped her hand over her mouth. What ever was happening to her! Hurrumph twice in one minute of time. “Well, damn you to earth.” She screamed at the swaying door. She knew of course that this curse she damned the door with, no one would say to a real person since no one ever wanted to be damned to earth. That was an eternal damnation. So you knew Lucy was really angry.

Lucy straightened her lily white collar and marched through the doorways porthole into her dark and shady store that carried hardly any art objects but many hard objects of art. White dust particles spun through space falling here and there, on this frame, that stone hand, those porcelain table tops, over there in the corner on top of those rare marble heads. Lucy walked to the back of the shop and turned on the lights. Before she could reach the back wall where all the Neanderthal fish heads hung, a voice sprang out from nowhere.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Lucy turned and sneezed. “Who’s there? I’m not ready for business.”

“Business? Is that what you think you do?”

Lucy peered through the dusty light, “Who are you? What do you want?”

A strange silence made Lucy cringe. “Are you going to speak up or do I call the police?”
From between the slips of space a man walked forward. He was tall, but not too tall, slim, but not too slim. His eyes were dark with a tinge of green light, and he seemed to blend into the surroundings. The only distinct thing about him was his smell.

Lucy drew closer to get a good look at him. “Is that rose petal dew that emanates from you?”

He grinned. “No it is dew petal rose a distant cousin of the extinct and hidden flower.”

She grinned back. “You draw a curiosity from inside my head. Why did you tell me not to turn on the light.”

The man coughed. “Is that what I said? Don’t turn on the light?”

Lucy saw, now that she was up close to his chin that he was an older man. He had a soft curve to his cheeks and a slender twist in his smile.

“Isn’t that what you said.” Lucy tilted her head.

He laughed a dolphin type of screeching laugh. “I said I wouldn’t do that if I was you. You presumed I meant turn on the lights.”

She rustled her skirt in irritation. “Well it makes no difference what you said because I can see now you don’t belong here. Please leave, you’re disturbing the paintings on the walls. They are beginning to shake. Besides which you could never afford what I have for sale.”

His eyes widened. “You think your superior I.Q. makes you superior? It’s merely a number on a piece of paper. You don’t know everything my dear backwards lady.”

Lucy leaned closer. “You are a rude older moron aren’t you?”

The stranger leaned even closer. “Not as rude as the smidgen on your face.”

Lucy stomped her foot and threw her hands in the air like she was about to conduct a symphony or throw the man for a loop. “I cannot stand this anymore. You are upsetting my ethers and are throwing me off my sharpened pinhole of insight. Now get out! NOW!

The older put out his hand on her shoulder, “You shouldn’t talk to me in such a fiercely determined way. I could show you the stars and destroy your sense of reality.”

Lucy pushed him away, knelt over and slapped her bony knee. “That is priceless. You are trying to scare me. You couldn’t scare a walnut out of its shell let alone wake me out of a stupor".

The older man stood right up to her and stared. He waved his arms around like a loose wire. “Nothing up this sleeve. Nothing up my other sleeve. Now watch closely.” He held out his hand and snapped his fingers in slow and deliberate circles, then quickly, without a minute to waste, touched Lucy on the forehead in the most gentle way imaginable, then he was gone.

Lucy’s eyes skipped about from angle to angle but could not find the man hidden anywhere in between the cracks. This day is much much too odd, she thought. Much too odd! Everything was just fine a second ago and now nothing is fine. Nothing at all! Before she knew it, Lucy picked up a rare piece of art that sold for whatever price she wanted it to and threw it across the room. Its smashing sound quaked her body in a screaming rumbling way making her crave more smashing to erupt her senses. The crackling sound of broken pieces of art seemed to be music to her ears and sent a thrill into the big toe on her right foot. Suddenly the big toe began to pulsate, reverberate in such a way that it pained and ached her soul. It hurt so much she wanted to cut it off or better yet inject it with some of the pink serum the junkies in the alley shot up. She hobbled toward the back door and kicked it open. Darkness and gloom blocked out the sun’s rays and filled the narrow passage with a bleakness only mourners and liars experienced. Without much hesitancy she stalked the alley, watching, waiting, looking for a druggie to come out from the shadows. But none did. Her toe pounded in pain. Pounded so hard it made her mouth drool and her eyes squint in agony.

She hobbled to and fro screaming. “Help me. Someone help. I’m in pain!”

A tall dark figure appeared and grabbed her by the arm. “Pain? What sort of pain are you in?”

Lucy hopped on one foot, pointed at her toe. "My toe. Oh my god. The pain is crawling up into my head. I feel it will devour me. Strangle me.”

The tall dark stranger stared down. “Your toe is fine. It is not your toe. It is in your head. Somewhere in your head.”

Lucy screamed. “No. No. My toe is killing me. Can’t you see it throbbing? Beating its way into my soul. I will not be able to breathe soon. Not breathe. Help me soon. Shoot me up.”

“Shoot you up? With what? Shoot you up? Calm down. You’re near lunacy. Just breathe and think, think what happened a minute ago. Nothing really happened.”

It was too much for Lucy to bear. This man. This crazy man was telling her that nothing happened. Like a wild boar, an animal with fangs she bit at his face and pulled his pockets, tore them to shreds.
A long pink needle dropped to the floor as he ran away back into the foggy mists of the dank alley ranting as he disappeared, “You don’t know. You don’t know. You don’t know.”

She scooped the needle up, directed it toward the nearest vein in her arm and was about to dig its sharp tongue into her skin, when suddenly, a swarm of translucent pink bubbles sprouted from the eye of the needle and blurred her vision.

A voice from the afar shouted in her head, “Pain or death. Pain or death. Are you ready to die? Really die?”

A gust of wind smelling of wet sweat and dingy shoes swished her around. Words and images swirled in her mind. This shot, this one shot could kill me. Or the pain could kill me. Or not? Or not! Or not! What if? What if, Lucy thought, what if I just...?

Lucy tossed her superiority into the nearest trash can, threw the needle against the dark red bricks and ran.

(To be continued)

Grandma Sarah's Legacy

My grandmother came to America in a pickle barrel, my mother acted like she lived in one and I'm still trying to wash off the smell. Slosh, Slosh, Slosh, goes the smelly water. It’s dark and dirty in the pickle lagoon of marshy waters. Green, damp, sticky, smelly liquid swooshes around my ankles, into my belly button, up my nostrils.

Someone save me from drowning. Save me from myself. For, I have become the monster in the green lagoon. I will jump out and grab you by the soul, wash you away into a sewer of dark green garbage. We will go down together.

A hand is gripping the edges of my heart, tearing my muscles to shreds, ripping my skin off my body. This feeling, this emptiness, this pain is my legacy. It is grandma Sarah’s gift. Her legacy to me. My dowry from her Russian—Polish clan. Will the ache ever go away?

To hide within is my only way out. Quick, I will run into the forest, melt into the greenness, wallow in the cool darkness where no one will find me. Deeper and deeper I will run, deep into the blackness where there is no sound, no wind, no voices, no visions. Just dark, black, nothingness.

“Is anybody there? Is anybody there?”

"I'm here."

"Who are you?"

"Nothingness."

"What do you look like?"

"I am whatever you want me to be. Enter me."

“I'm afraid. I need someone to hold me."

"I will hold you. My darkness is soothing."

"Will I die?"

"You will shed your masks and be born again."

"Is this true?"

"At the end of every dark nothingness is light."

"Is it the only way out?"

Do any of us dare to enter into the shadow, the place where we have buried our bones?


Come with me.

Rambling Deli Love

Each time the ashy smell of smoked meats filled my lungs
with piled high sandwiches
spilled over with fat, grease and garlic soaked into rye bread
One bite of the corned beef and pastrami sends me whirling into my tongue
thick with the juicy chew that soaks my mouth and tumbles
down into my stomach
the warm sumptuous morsels take me to heaven
Behind the counter my father winks, he sees me
but only biting down into his prized possession
I see him, and eat to make him happy
connect to him without words
or truly knowing each other
Beneath and beyond
the rows of salami, turkey and roast beef
that separate us.
Then the song begins
The counter men wearing their sticky, stinky white aprons,
a choir sing, Marta, Rambling Rose of the Wildwood
Their serenade from my childhood deli ecstasy
My father blows me a kiss
without even knowing I exist

Come Swing on a Star

The telling of a story

Is an awakening of the soul

The mystery of the holy grail

The dive into the abyss

When I was twelve, every Saturday afternoon I walked ten blocks to Flatbush Avenue to the Brooke Theatre where I bought a box of bon-bons, shimmied into one the theatres read cushioned seats and watched my favorite stars flit across the screen. Natalie’s Wood’s dark sumptuous eyes, Marilyn Monroe’s curvy hips, Bette Davis’s, “darling,” and Veronica Lake’s sultry voice saying, “how ya doing mister?” mystified me. They were my heroines, my wild women dreams and my escape.



I dreamt of becoming a Hollywood dream girl not only for the glamour and beauty, but for the expression of their story. Walter Mitty’s adventures were my adventures, Dorothy’s trail was my trail, and Peter Pan’s flight was my flight.

Dark and deep

Cold and lacey

Hot and foamy

Juicy and alive

Hollywood dream girls strutted in front of the camera and stared detached, longing and lost into an unknown part of me that yearned to know myself. Hollywood dream girls evoked my deepest hunger for love, my ache for salvation and my lust for power and revenge. They played the roles that loomed inside of my unconscious waiting to be discovered.

Images of dandelions

Rosebud

Cary Grant’s dimpled chin

Ginger Rodgers slinky gowns

Memories of song and dance



Cinema, the footage of life and wonder, possibility and failure, glory and destruction sparked my unresolved need to be seen, to be heard, to be freed from my own mediocrity and pain. Stories of fallen angels, villainous traitors, and imaginary mermaids floated across my mind’s eye as I watched the movies.

My mother, a fallen songstress, who resembled Lana Turner in her younger years, buried her dream of being the next Judy Garland underneath her depression and rage. My father, a controlling and demanding man with Marlon Brando looks and charisma, disapproved of my desire to become an actress. He said, “Only tramps become actresses. If you want that kind of life than I will disown you.” My father’s words broke my heart and I froze in terror never venturing out from Brooklyn to Hollywood to swing on my star. Instead, at sixteen I went into therapy to cure me of my acting dream and the internalized father that screamed mercilessly in my head “stupid!”





Bogie’s Casablanca, “here’s look’n at ya.”

Garbo’s, “I want to be alone.”

Follow the Yellow Brick Road

And click your red glittery slippers



As I matured the movies took on a different meaning. No longer being the star struck little girl the stories became a journey into my soul.

Ordinary People; the fear of death and survival

Space Odyssey; the adventure into the core of creation

West Side Story; prejudice, love, murder

Annie Hall; Woody Allen; my Jewish roots

Encounters of the Third Kind; Lost in the Bermuda triangle

Lost horizons; Utopia dreams of a better world

Shawshank Redemption: the fight and survival of freedom and innocence

Time Machine: the possible future of mankind

Phi – suspense and the mathematical equation proving the existence of God

Requiem for a Dream – the horrors of addiction

These visionary stories confirmed, validated, stirred my spirit and enlivened my joy and pain of life.

Destinies unknown

Traveling through time

Next stop infinity

Players of my soul

Show me the way

Tell me the story

Of life…

Movies were and still are my burgeoning unconscious, my race after the illusive butterfly seeking meaning in a sometimes meaningless existence. To play tag with imagination, write tales that make hearts flutter, a child scream with laughter, a couple cuddle in a kiss…to provoke anger, joy, sorrow boils my blood with excitement. Stories are what we are made of, what I live for. God created the greatest story ever told…Adam, Eve and, maybe a new twist…Adam, Eve and Lilith. Anything is possible in the movies. A new myth yet to be unraveled and painted across the big screen….coming attractions….coming to your screen…posing new questions…new images…new horizons… a filmmakers dance.

I love the movies! Just give me a bag of popcorn, a bag of twizzlers, a diet Coke, lights out, cameras roll…and I dive into myself where darkness meets the light.

Sister Pearls

Sheila twisted the top of the Dove moisturizer until her fingers were red. Her mouth squeezed into a tight lock of frustration, and then she threw the jar. It exploded and the cream splattered across the tropical, Florida hotel wallpaper like clumps of white mud. Pieces of shattered glass cracked into a small pile in the corner between the tub and the toilet. She shook her head, left the mess for the housekeeper to sweep up. She examined her face in the flat mirror. Her chopped-up auburn hair waved in different directions. Sheila rubbed her neck where a huge rash slithered across her neck. “Calm down, Sheila.” Her cleavage popped out of the black satin gown. “You’re tits look like a baby’s ass.” Sadness blended into her light brown eyes as she gazed down and strangled the dress around her belly.

A wet towel snaked around her ankles. Sheila picked it up with her toes like a contortionist, grabbed the corner and flipped it into the tub. “Ouch, damn.” She stepped on a tiny splinter of glass. She slapped down the toilet seat, plopped on the edge, crossed her foot and tugged the small piece out from her big toe. A minute droplet of blood seeped through her stocking. She spat on her hand and wiped it. A dot of a tear started to pull at the hosiery. “For god’s sake.” Sheila grabbed the pink nail polish and dabbed it on the rip. “Damn.” She placed the polish back, slumped over and cried. Soft whimpers turned into short grunts. She glanced over at the magnifying mirror on the counter and patted her eyes dry and stroked another coat of mascara on. Sheila blinked as if lost in a fog. She pinched her cheek, laughed. “Always a lady.” She leaned forward, slid her dress up and fumbled with her pantyhose.

The door suddenly swung open, “What’s wrong with you? Why’d you leave like a maniac?” It was Nancy.

Sheila let her dress drop then kept applying make-up. She couldn’t look at Nancy’s natural blonde hair, her flat stomach, her high cheek bones, the pretty sister, the one who resembled mom. “Oh you look just like your mother. So, pretty.” How many times did Sheila hear that comment from her mother’s card-playing cronies As an afterthought one of the gin ladies would say, “Oh, Sheila, such a sweetie.” Sheila straightened up. She wasn’t going to demean herself with that memory. With a quick sigh she forced a cold smile. “What’s up?”

Nancy’s Chanel 5 five swept through the bathroom. “Are you crazy? There are two hundred people waiting for me on the beach to get married.”

Sheila breathed, braved a long glance at her sister. Nancy’s wedding dress shaped her body into perfection of silk, pearls and rhinestones. Sheila picked up a brush and highlighted her cheeks with a dash of blush. “You look out of a fairytale.”

Nancy lifted the hem of her dress and snatched Shelia by the wrist. “The photographer is waiting.”

“Oh, I should smile pretty for the camera?”

Nancy bent down, stroked Sheila’s face, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Are those mom’s pearls?” Sheila grabbed Nancy’s hands.

Nancy broke free and wiped a smudge of black from under Sheila’s eye. “What are you talking about? Snap out of it. You’re my Matron of Honor. Get off your ass.”

“Come here.” Sheila waved to Nancy to sit on her lap.

“What’s this now? Nancy climbed into Sheila’s fold and placed her head on her shoulder.

“Remember when mom and dad went out we’d dress up and put on mom’s jewelry and long gowns and pretend to be grown up? Sheila tapped each pearl as if she was playing a piano. “Remember I’d always say, ‘I want mommy’s pearls when I get married?’”

Nancy played with Sheila’s bangs, pushed them to the side. “Those were fun days. Weren’t they?”

Sheila closed her eyes, “Sometimes. Sometimes.” Then opened her eyes watched her sister smile, remembering. She softened her touch against her sister’s hand. “Why’d you take the pearls?”

“The pearls, the damn pearls. You were the big sister. So I got the pearls.”

Sheila slapped her sister’s hand away. “Crazy liar. I fought mom for those pearls. Mom kept arguing the gold bracelet suited me better. And that was that.”

Nancy stood up, smoothed the crinkle in her dress, and leaned against the door. “I made mom promise them to me for my wedding day.”

Sheila quivered a half smile, “What do you mean, when? Where was I?”

“This is my day, not yours.” Nancy stomped away. “It was mom’s choice.” Nancy raced through the bedroom, past the living area and the modern edged black couch. “Sheila. I’m warning you, don’t start.”

“What do you think I’m going to do? “ Sheila caught her by the arm and led her to the couch. “Sit down.”

“For a second.” Nancy slid her hand into Sheila’s.

They sat down, their dresses expanded like a garden of satin and lace. Both stared at each other. Sheila wondered if she’d ever totally trust her sister again. Oh, not because of the pearls, but for the fact that their mother favored her. As soon as Nancy was born all bright eye and busy tailed, Sheila became the child that played in the shadows. Sheila never had the spunk and energy that Nancy was born with. She was more silent, more engaged in trees that talked to her and clouds that shaped into flowers and angels.

Sheila sighed, “Why do you do these things to me?”

“I don’t do anything to you.” Nancy held down the puff of her gown.

A knock on the door diverted their attention. “Housecleaning.”

Sheila raised her voice. “We’re fine. Come back later.”

“Okay. Our little talk over? I want to get married.”

“I want the pearls.” A cloud shaded the sun and shadows spread across the room. The crystal vase that sat on the white desk held a lone rose that curved into the silky light. Sheila tilted her head. “It might rain.”

“Why are you wishing that on me? You want my wedding to be ruined?” Nancy sprang up, walked over to the window. Her gown swished against her ankles. She pulled the gold curtains aside and stared out and up. “I better get down there, talk to George, make sure the in case it might rain back up plan is in effect. I should have known better than to plan a wedding in the summertime in Florida.

“Yes, but you demanded a beach side ceremony. You demanded Naples at the Ritz. You demanded everyone wear their hair up, when you know I have short hair.” Sheila placed her hands by her side. “Even this dress, black. What Matron of Honor wears black?”

“And for that matter. It’s look tight on you. Did you gain weight?”

“Sheila you’ve been a pain in my ass from the day you were born.” Sheila’s eyes widened, she slapped a hand over her mouth.”

“You mean that, don’t you?” Nancy barely turned her head toward Sheila.

“No. No. I didn’t. I just wanted those pearls. Just that one thing Nancy.”

“You do mean it. I’ve felt it my whole life.”

“And how do you think I’ve felt my whole life trying so hard all the time to not fall between the cracks of invisibility?” Sheila fingers dug into the couch.

“You know. You’re doing it. You’re doing it. This isn’t the time or place. I came here to get you downstairs. I left my own wedding party. Family photos. Happy family photos. That’s what I want. Now.” Nancy started to cry.

“Oh no. Don’t pull the tear trick. I know you don’t give a shit.”

Nancy turned full face toward Sheila, knocked over the vase with the rose. It crashed and water trickled across the beige carpet. “You’re right. I don’t give a shit. Why should I?” Nancy spun around and marched toward the door. The trail of her gown obediently followed her. “Why should I? Do you know what it feels like to have your older sister jealous of you? Do you?”

Sheila leapt off the couch, ran after her sister and reached for the pearls. For a moment, time stood still, both locked eyes, as they crashed into each other. Nancy struggled against, attempted to stop Sheila from snatching the pearls. “No. Nancy. No. It wasn’t like that. I just wanted you to be my sister. Stop that cutesy act with mom and dad and give me some respect, a morsel of consideration. ”

The two lost balance. They fell to the floor holding tight to the other, and then both landed side by side, trying to protect the other from hitting their heads against the table. Sheila opened her palm, the pearls lay broken in her hand.

Nancy smacked Sheila’s hand and the pearls flew across the room.

Suddenly, Sheila screamed in pain. “Something is wrong. Oh my god.” She sat up, grabbed her stomach, crunched over in agony.

Nancy bent over and grabbed Sheila, “What’s happening. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I don’t…Oh god, Nancy, the pain is excruciating.” Sheila put her hand under her dress. “I’m bleeding. I’m bleeding!” She ripped her stockings off. “Sheila, damn, Sheila, help me get this dress of.” Again, she yelped, started to sob.

Nancy rolled over and pushed herself up. She ran over to the phone. “Help. Send a doctor, medics, anyone, hurry.” She slammed the phone down. She hugged herself and trembled. “Sheila, I don’t know what to do.” She plopped down, her gown exploded around her body. She started to cry. “Ouch.” She groped under her dress. The pearls were stuck to her back of her legs. She picked two out from her skin, held them in her hand and stared at them, and crawled over to her sister, zipped the dress down, helped her undress. Blood circled around Sheila’s hips and between her legs.

“Are you…are you… pregnant? Holy, shit, are you pregnant? Why didn’t you say anything?” Nancy tossed the dress aside. “Hold these.” Cupped the pearls into Sheila’s hand. She gripped the edge of the table and dragged herself upright. “I’ll get towels. I’ll get towels.” She sloshed away. “They’re coming. Hold on.” She disappeared into the bathroom.

Sheila opened her hand. The two pearls were smooth and creamy. For a moment her pain stood still. Froze in time. She was a little girl laughing, playing with her sister, dress up. But, only for a moment, the deep gorging ache caused her to shrill out like a lost kitten hungry for milk.

Nancy rushed to her sister snuggled the towel tight between her thighs. She held Sheila, wrapped her arms and legs around her. “You’ve ruined my wedding.

Sheila gave her a pearl, and kept the other. “You ruined mine.”

They held each other, rocked, and cried in each other’s embrace.