Josie and Jack (24 page)

“Or coming?” I said blithely, but the words had a spiteful undertone and I thought, my God, I sound like Jack.

“Clever. Now get your stuff. I want to get the fuck out of here.”

“I’m not so sure, Jack.”

He sighed and sat down next to me. Then he reached up, pushed a stray hair from my forehead, and placed one finger lightly on the tip of my nose. “Beloved smaller sister. Tell me what there is not to be sure about.”

Lily’s apartment was in one of those beautiful old prewar buildings, and everything in it had the kind of clean, simple lines that could only have been exorbitantly expensive. The main part of the apartment was an enormous open room. In one area, two long white couches faced each other over sleek glass coffee tables; in another part, a matching table and chairs served as the dining room. The space behind one of the couches formed a corridor leading to three closed doors, which opened on the bedrooms and the bathroom. The layout wouldn’t have worked if the apartment had been any smaller; as it was, the room was like a decorator’s display, the kind of place where the empty space was as important as the furniture. There were vast expanses of white silk-covered walls and thick white-on-white rugs; the only color in the room came from the thick green leaves and the pale pink throats of the huge, waxy flowers that sat in crystal bowls and vases on every available surface. The air was filled with their strong sweet smell.

“Lilies, obviously,” Lily said proudly and pointed at each vase in turn. “Santa Barbara, Madonna, All-In. My florist downtown makes sure I always have fresh ones.”

“They’re lovely,” I said.

“My favorites are in here.” She led me to the kitchen—chrome and steel, but the pristine marble counters and the tiles on the wall were, of course, white. She pointed to a small round globe about twice the size of my fist, like a miniature fishbowl, that sat on top of the island bar. It was tightly packed with glossy green leaves and short stalks of creamy white bells, dangling all in a row down the length of the stalk, like hanging pearls. There was an identical globe on the other end of the island.

“Lilies of the valley,” she said. “They’re not really lilies at all, or so my flower guy says. But the name works.”

“They’re beautiful.” I touched one of the green stalks. The delicate bells hanging from it trembled slightly.

“They’re damned expensive, is what they are. You wouldn’t believe. They’re weeds, really. My parents’ summer place in Maine has an entire flower bed covered in them. That’s where they got my name,” she added offhandedly.

Jack was standing in the living room watching us, a faint smile on his face.

“The others I rotate, but I always have lilies of the valley,” Lily continued. “When I was a kid I had a cat that died from eating them. Sad.” She shrugged and went to Jack, who slung an arm across her shoulders. Looking up into his face, she giggled. “This will be so much fun. Just like a slumber party.” She kissed my brother and then smiled at me, revealing even rows of white teeth. Then she reached out to me with an alabaster hand. Her nails shone like glass.

“I bet you’ve never even been to a slumber party, have you, Jo?” She gave me a sympathetic look. “Jack told me all about your father, keeping you locked up in that crazy old house all by yourself. It’s so
Flowers in the Attic.
And I thought my childhood was creepy.” She laughed again, as if she’d made a joke. “It’s a wonder you two turned out as normal as you did.”

“We’re not that normal,” Jack said and winked lasciviously.

She smiled. “Forgive me if I hold out a shred of hope for your sister.”

“Her? She’s the sick one. Far worse than me.”

I drifted over to a window, pulled aside one of the sheer white curtains, and looked outside. The sky was clear and blue, and down the street to my left, the Hudson glinted on the far side of a lush green park. We’d had trees in Alphabet City, but they were withered, scraggly things that starved in holes cut for them in the sidewalk, fenced in by low concrete borders decorated by neighborhood artists and bums with beer cans and bits of cut glass. In Lily’s neighborhood, the trees had leaves; six stories below me, the street was shady and lined on both sides with proud buildings and sleek, shiny cars. It felt like an entirely different city from the one that Jack and I had been living in for the last month.

I heard my name and let the curtain drop. Lily was standing behind me, obviously waiting. Jack’s arms were wrapped around her shoulders and her arms were crossed over his, her small, perfect hands on his wrists.

“I said, do you want to see your room?” Lily pointed to one of the closed doors. “It’s that one. It’s not much. It’s where my parents stay, when they come.”

I looked inside at the big bed and the lacy curtains. There were no flowers here; the only lilies were pale watercolors hung on the walls, trapped in silver frames.

“It’s all yours.” She shrugged. “What there is of it.”

“It’s great. Thanks.”

“No problem.” She smiled broadly.

We went out that night, just the three of us. By the time I was actually able to crawl into that white-on-white bed, I was exhausted, but the mattress was soft and welcoming and the sheets were clean. I still couldn’t bring myself to trust Lily, but I didn’t much miss Alphabet City.

The next morning, after we’d all eaten our bagels and Lily had gone to work (she worked at a fashion magazine, but I got the impression that she didn’t work very hard; her father was on the publishing company’s board of directors), Jack grabbed me by the waist and spun me in the air like a child. The new cologne that Lily had bought for him was strong in my nostrils.

“Beloved sister,” he said. “My sister, my dear, my darling love, my angelically beautiful sibling: is your brother not brilliant, and are you not blissfully happy?”

His smile was wide and his green eyes were happy and relaxed. Suddenly, despite the new haircut and the expensive clothes—both Lily’s work—he was my Jack again. The past two miserable months vanished into memory. I thought, there are people who live their entire lives and never know this kind of love. This will work out. This will be okay.

“Blissfully,” I said.

That evening, I was washing dishes and Jack was sitting on the white marble counter watching me, when we heard the door open. Lily called out, “Jack? Are you there?” and came into the kitchen a moment later, wearing a white leather jacket and pearly blue boots that peeked out from the hem of her jeans. I became acutely aware of my cheap plastic sandals.

Jack held his arms out to her and she stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

“Good day?” he said.

“Every Friday is a good day.” She patted his chest. “You want to go out for dinner tonight?”

“Sounds great.”

Then Lily looked at me. I was wearing a T-shirt and cutoffs. There were huge water splotches from the sink on my stomach and my hair was falling down around my face.

“We’ll have to do something about you,” she said. “Let’s have a look at your clothes.”

I followed her into the bedroom where I’d slept the night before and dumped both of the shopping bags that held my clothes onto the bed. She poked the pile once or twice, a look of vague distaste on her face, and then shook her head.

“You’ll have to borrow something of mine.” She looked critically at me. “You’re a little shorter than me. We could do a skirt. What do you have in the way of shoes?” Lily led me into her bedroom. Another globe of lilies of the valley sat on her dark wood dresser, and two lilies of a deep, vivid scarlet sat in crystal vases on the small tables next to her bed. They stood out like twin drops of blood in the white room. The smell of the flowers was lighter here than in the rest of the apartment, although I was growing used to it. I’d opened a window earlier and the fresh air had been a shock.

“Well,” I said and closed my mouth.

“I should have guessed.” She sighed and threw her closet doors open wide. “Your brother wasn’t much better at first. He’s got a great sense of style, though. He always knows exactly what he wants, and it’s always the right thing.” Her clothes were lined up by color, like a pale, expensive rainbow, the lightest silver on one side and the lightest pink on the other. There was a pocket of black and a pocket of grays next to that, and on the other side of the grays were two or three men’s shirts in dark colors. They looked a lot like the one Jack was wearing that day.

“Red lilies,” I said.

“Bright red for danger.” She laughed. “You know what those are called? Science-fiction lilies. I’m not kidding.” She pulled two hangers from the closet. “When in doubt in New York, wear black.” She handed me the hangers and ordered me to get dressed while she took a shower. I heard the bathroom door open and shut. The water started, and then the door opened and shut again and I heard voices.

That would be Jack.

Lily’s clothes felt thick and luxurious between my fingers. She had given me a black turtleneck sweater and a longish black skirt, both made of the same smooth wool. I put them on and looked at myself in the mirror. The dark material made my skin look pale and greenish. Even my hair looked sick. It was falling out of the ponytail I’d yanked it into that morning, and bits stood out from my head like straw.

I look like an overdressed scarecrow, I thought, and sighed. Then I picked up Lily’s hairbrush and went to work.

The water shut off and I heard Lily laugh. She came into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel and a cloud of sweet-scented steam.

“Where’s Jack?” I asked, working the brush through the split and ragged ends of my hair in front of her mirror.

“He went to have a smoke,” she said, watching me. Her wet hair fell in thick, healthy chunks over her eyes.

My own hair felt like a wig in my hands. Lily’s mirror was wide and clear and honest. When Jack and I had lived with Raeburn, my hair had always been thick and shiny. Jack used to beg me to let him brush it, or at least let him watch as I did. Now it was Lily who watched me, wrapped in a towel and dripping on the white-on-white lilies woven into her imported French rug.

At least it still grows, I thought of my hair. At least it’s long.

“Hold on,” Lily said suddenly and disappeared.

She was back in a second, carrying a plastic spray bottle and a small jar. Tucking the towel more firmly around herself, she took the hairbrush away from me, lifted my hair, and sprayed it with water until it was soaked through. Then she opened the jar, scooped out two fingerfuls of the pale yellow cream inside, and rubbed it between her hands. She ran her fingers through my hair, over and over again, and a sweet, rich smell, like caramel, surrounded me. I watched in the mirror, fascinated.

Finally she stopped and wiped her hands on her towel. The little beads of moisture on her shoulders had dried. “There,” she said. “That’ll help. Go dry it. My hair dryer is under the sink.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say.

She waved dismissively. “You’d have pretty hair if you bothered to take care of it.”

I stood where I was a moment more, awkwardly, staring at her.

“Can I get dressed now?” she asked finally.

“Sorry,” I said and fled to the bathroom.

The cream made my hair silky again. I twisted it into two long braids and tied them with bits of black ribbon that I’d found in a drawer in the bathroom. When Lily came out of her bedroom, wearing the blue boots and a matching dress, she handed me a pair of clunky Mary Janes and said I looked cute. We went to a restaurant that served delicate Italian food, completely unlike the heavy pasta in red sauce I was used to eating. Then Lily led us to a bar downtown where the only light came from spotlights that shone on single roses in bud vases. She bought us cosmopolitans. We got very, very drunk.

At 4
A.M.,
when they turned on the lights in the bar, we stumbled our way out to the street and into a cab. Jack sat in the middle and said that he was surrounded by beautiful women. “How am I supposed to choose?” he said, touching my hair and kissing Lily.

“Well, one of us is your sister,” she said pointedly.

He pulled me close on one side, kissed her again on the other. “True, very true. Now if I can only remember which one.”

“Here’s a hint,” Lily said. “She’s the one that doesn’t have her tongue in your ear.”

He laughed and bent to kiss her neck while the hand at my shoulder found one of my braids and stroked it. The cab swerved and dodged in and out of the traffic on Broadway, and silver light from the bars and restaurants and streetlights moved through the windows as we passed.

Back in the apartment, Lily said, “This way a sec, darling?” and pulled Jack into their bedroom. The door closed behind them and for a moment I sat on the couch where I’d fallen. There were noises from behind the door: Lily’s squealing, Jack’s laughter, low and rich and teasing.

I forced myself up and made my way unsteadily to my room. Lily’s turtleneck went carefully back on its hanger. There was a mirror hanging over the low dresser, and I stood in front of it in my bra and pulled the black ribbons from the ends of my braids. Lily’s cream had done miracles, I thought as I started to work through the braids with my fingers. I let myself take a small drunken pleasure in the soft feel of the hair in my hands: satiny, gentle, mine.

I heard Lily’s door open and the bathroom door shut. Then I felt somebody watching me. I turned around.

Jack stood in the doorway. His expression was intent.

“Hey.” I turned back to the mirror.

He moved behind me and then his arms were around my shoulders and his hands were on top of mine on my braid.

I let my hands fall.

His fingers began to move on the rope of hair, stroking it, his fingers probing into the twisted strands and unweaving them. In the mirror, his fierce green eyes were fixed on me and I couldn’t look away. The locks of hair that he’d freed brushed against my bare skin, moving gently with the motion of his hands. There was a rushing in my ears, from the alcohol in my blood and the music in the bar and the warmth of him next to my naked back. He lifted my hair, running his fingers through the length of it and letting it fall like water onto my shoulders.