became law.
She poured father his drink.
“Thank you, Ivy,” he said, pushing himself back from the table a bit and taking a long sip.
“And you can have another if you’d like. I’ll keep the bottle right here,” said Ivy, looking straight at me as she said it, holding the neck of the bottle protectively.
“If that bottle makes a ring on my lace tablecloth, I’ll have to soak it for a week. You could be careful with my handiwork, even if you don’t want to be careful with our father’s health,” I said. It was a mean thing to say.
One would think my sister and I would be closer. We even shared a bedroom when we were small. It was a sweet, lovely space with whitewashed walls. Mother and Father knew that I liked things clean and crisp. Not Ivy, though.... As soon as Ivy turned seven, she demanded her own room, stating, “I hate all that white. May I have a bedroom that is painted blue?”
Our distance doesn’t come solely from our separate rooms; it comes from differing priorities and versions of the world. Ivy always saw things in a way that I could not. The world, it seemed, was made for her. Every tree, every idea, every bit of love was created for her, and she was determined to take it all. I didn’t understand her “the world is my oyster” view of life. Hard work has always been the thing that makes me proud. In the time since our mother’s death, I’d become the provider for our household, as well, making lace and sewing clothing for the dress shops in Downtown Forest Grove.
As Father picked at his meal and drank his Scotch, I looked at the three of us closely. Memory seems to understand important moments before our consciousness has a chance to catch up. I suppose a part of me knew that everything would be different in the morning.
I looked at my sister, who was trying to hide her boredom, looking over her shoulder at the clock. She was eager to leave the table and didn’t like to wait until everyone was finished.
And then I looked at Papa, ready with a smile or an approving nod for each of us, sitting at the head of the table, holding court. With Ivy and I on either side. His companions.
I was about to clear the table when a visitor came calling. Father rose quickly and had to steady himself before he walked slowly into our foyer to answer the door.
“Who do you think that is?” Ivy asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
There were murmurs, and Ivy started to get up, as well, but I motioned for her to stay put.
“Yes, I am aware,” I heard Father say, and then the hushed dialogue continued.
“Join me as I smoke a pipe, won’t you, Lawrence? This is a lot for me to take standing up,” said Father as both men walked into our line of vision. Father looked into the dining room as our visitor took off his fedora. We’d known Lawrence—we all called him that, because Father did—for two years. He’d become our solicitor. He was a tall, thin man who reminded me a bit of a willow tree.
I stood up with as much grace as I could muster and walked to the two of them.
“Lawrence, how nice of you to stop by. Are you hungry? I have plenty of dinner left over. You remember Ivy, of course.”
“Of course,” said Lawrence. “Talented Ivy, who we are sure will be famous one day.”
Ivy got up and gave a large, exaggerated bow.
“And Rose, it’s been only a few months since I saw you, but you seem so grown-up now.”
“She is grown,” said Ivy. “She’s twenty-two, and that makes her a spinster.”
She was at my side, and she nudged me with her shoulder. I had to look deep into her eyes to make sure she was teasing me. Ivy likes to tease when she’s unsure of herself.
Mr. Lawrence cleared his throat. “As ever, it’s lovely to see all of you.” He looked a bit nervous.
“And you, Lawrence, though I wish it could have waited until tomorrow. My daughters and I do cherish our evenings together,” said Father, and then turned to me. “Rose,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. I could hear the tension, though. I knew it because I shared that trait with him. A tightening of the voice when you want to remain calm. “Mr. Lawrence and I need to discuss business. Might you stay away from the drawing room this evening?”
“But Father, my monologue. I’ve been working on it for days,” whined Ivy.
“Hush, Ivy,” I said.
She rolled her eyes at me.
Lawrence was the one to save the moment. “There’s no reason for us to rush our talk, Everett. Why don’t we all go into the drawing room, I’d love to see Ivy’s monologue. It’s been an age since I’ve been to the theater. I do enjoy a good play.”
“Why, Lawrence, I never took you for a man of the arts!” said Ivy.
“There is much you don’t know about me, Ms. Adams,” he said, taking her arm and escorting her to the drawing room.
“I have always found it odd that you are a young man with an old man’s profession. Solicitors are sneaky characters in novels and films. Are you a criminal, Lawrence?”
“I don’t think so, Ivy,” he replied, and they laughed.
Ivy was always a flirt. She couldn’t help it, really. Her whole body flirted. Her swinging short hair was as good as a wink. Her painted lips were practically a kiss. Her short dress, an invitation. I was both jealous and fascinated by her. And that night, she fascinated Lawrence, as well.
As our father took Lawrence away toward his cigar box and phonograph, Ivy stuck her tongue out at our guest’s back. One thing I do love about my sister is that she can always make me laugh, and at that moment I had trouble suppressing my giggles.
Gathering there together, as was our usual evening ritual, was strange with a guest. My parents used to have parties when Ivy and I were little girls. But as the money grew tighter, there were fewer and fewer gatherings. I’ll admit, that night was exciting because of his presence, even though we all sensed the gathering storm.
Our rituals were sacred to me. Every night, after dinner, we’d gather as a family in the drawing room and end the day with entertainment and comfort. This was the best time of the evening for all of us, even restless Ivy. Though old and well used, the furniture in the drawing room was beautiful, and I always made sure to place fresh flowers in the most curious and delightful places, as our mother used to do. In the fall I replaced the flowers with colorful leaves, and in the winter, pussy willows from the marshland by the lake.
Usually, I’d commence walking up and down the room with books piled on my head, while father smoked his cigar.
Then I’d take out my sewing, and we’d watch Ivy perform.
Ivy, whose lifelong dream was to become a famous actress, would write terribly melodramatic stage plays, and then act them out for us on a platform Father had built especially for her. She was quite good, even if her heroines were overwrought and usually died at the end of her plays, at which time Father and I were obliged to act quite sad.
With
