rebilled, so I think that was Parker’s way of keeping me quiet. I should have told Cecilia, but that is the problem with sisters and your relationship with them.
You know them. You know how they’ll react.
And I knew that Cecilia, at that point in her marriage, would have blamed me. As twins we have a lot of history. I was the pretty-slutty-valedictorian. She was the fat–athletic one. I had been accused by her on several occasions growing up of boyfriend stealing (never, never true), so I couldn’t risk it.
And Parker the Penis would have denied what happened. Cecilia would have believed me, in her gut, but she would have had to have believed Parker’s version because she loved him. She would have hated me for it. I couldn’t have her hating me, because I knew she needed me so she wouldn’t drown.
Later I found out that Parker told her he tripped in their shed and landed on a propane tank to explain his injuries.
“And you, Janie,” Cecilia spat out, still angry, always angry, “you visited—infrequently—when you knew Parker wasn’t going to be there.”
“I couldn’t be around Parker,” Janie said, “because he made my skin feel like maggots were eating it. One time he shook my hand and I couldn’t use that hand for days. It felt unclean.”
Parker had made a pass at Janie, too. It was about two years after the wedding. He came by her houseboat, shoved his body up against hers. She had responded by leading him out to her deck, smiling. He advanced. She shoved him into the river and stomped on his fingers when he tried to get back up on her deck.
He swam to a neighbor’s dock, but Janie called the neighbor and told him that a burglar was slithering onto his property via the river, and the neighbor had come out swinging with a shovel. The next neighbor, who could see out of only one eye due to a war injury, had a gun and pointed it at Parker’s head, then shot three times into the river.
The police were summoned, handcuffs were snapped.
The usual.
Their divorce was ongoing, messy, and horrible. Compare it to World War III on a microlevel.
Cecilia blew air through her two front teeth. “I should hear the first report in a few days from the detective.”
The waitress brought our food and beer.
“Anything else?” The waitress was sulking.
“Ketchup. Hot sauce. Extra cream for the coffee, please,” Cecilia said.
The waitress rolled her eyes.
“Hey, Beck’s daughter, rude one, try not to roll your goth-decorated eyes when your customers can see you. Get the stuff, wipe the bugger off your nose, and go harangue another fat person.”
The waitress flounced off, then came back and dumped the stuff on the table.
“Parker smiles at me now, with nauseating condescension, trying to convey that he feels sorry for the poor, fat ex-wife.” Cecilia guzzled her beer. “He comes by, gets the kids, gives them a big hug, and in front of me raves about all the great things ‘the four of them, the family’”—she again mimicked Parker’s voice—“are going to do every other weekend.”
I wanted to break my brain on the table I hurt so bad for Cecilia.
“I hate her even more now,” Janie whispered. She separated the food on her plate from the other food. She tapped her fork four times. She shook the salt shaker four times over her omelet. “I’ll put her name in my next book. It’s Constance, right? I’ll give her a venereal disease, a pockmarked face, long earlobes, inverted nipples…”
Cecilia leaned toward Janie. “You know, Janie, I’d appreciate that.”
“You would?” Janie’s voice pitched in hope.
“Yes, I would. You’re a vengeful sister and I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for that.”
“Oh!” Janie dabbed at her eyes. “And you’re a strong Viking woman, a Valkyrie! No need to thank me!”
“I love how you want violent things to happen to Parker.”
“Of course I want violent things to happen to Parker, he hurt you! You’re my sister!” Janie could not go on, choked with emotion.
What a sap.
Cecilia briefly held Janie’s hand and they shared a loving-violent moment together. “That reminds me.” She bit down on two slices of bacon at once. “I had my review at school last week.” She blushed. She coughed.
“Why are you blushing?” Janie asked.
“I’m not blushing.”
“Yes, you are,” I said. “I can see it. I can feel it.”
“I’m not.”
“Who gave you the review?” Janie asked. Her antennae were up and wiggling.
“My principal, Dr. Laurence Silverton.”
She smiled when she said his name. Blushed more. It was as if she was caressing the words.
“He’s the best principal ever at our school. Came from Los Angeles. He loves Oregon, the rain, the outdoors. Loves to ski and hike and bike.” She paused, her eyes unfocused, a blush blooming on her cheeks. “He’s very tall. Kind of big. Not big like me. But big. Taller than me. Big guy.”
“So he’s big?” I asked.
“Yes, he’s big.” She sighed. “He’s nice. He’s the nicest man I’ve ever met.” Her voice was awfully soft. So unlike Cecilia.
That amused me. I winked at Janie.
“How nice is he?”
Cecilia didn’t even blink, off in her own world. “He’s sweet. We all love him. The teachers. The kids. I…” She coughed. She sighed. “He’s so funny.”
“How funny?” I asked, I could barely contain my laughter.
“He has a dry sense of humor. And he sees how things are. You know how most men are so dense? They can’t see beyond words? They never want to find out how you really are? Never want to touch anything resembling an emotion? You know how men see through you? He’s not like that. He’s deep.”
“How deep?” Janie said.
Cecilia’s face got positively dreamy.
Janie stifled a giggle.
The giggle made Cecilia blink herself right out of her trance.
She watched us watching her, our lips twitching as we tried to stifle those laughs.
She sat up straighter and her expression tightened. “Dr. Silverton is a professional. I respect him as a professional and, I believe, he respects me.”
“Of course he does,” Janie soothed.
“Absolutely. A professional,” I said, drinking my beer.
“He’s a fine man.”
“Yes, so fine,” Janie drawled. “And big.”
“Big. Very big,” I inserted. “Not too big.”
“Shut up, you two,” Cecilia said. “Let’s change the damn subject.”
“Oh, let’s not,” I said.
“I like this one!” Janie piped up.
Cecilia’s face got all snarly and vindictive again. “I’ve hired a private investigator on asshole’s girlfriend. We’ll see what comes up on that loose, amoral, plastic Barbie doll with a mind the size and substance of a testicle.”
We would indeed.
We went to a bookstore next, then explored 23rd Ave in northwest Portland, which is filled with