Sisterly Love is a serialized novel. To savor the full narrative experience, start at the beginning and work through the chapters in order. You can find chapters on the Home page or in the Archive.
CHAPTER 29
The airline agent at the check-in counter at Fort Lauderdale–Hollywood refused to be fazed by Alan. So Alan trained his irritation on Rose, whom he had put in charge of making their reservations. When at last the airline agent located Summer’s reservation, Alan’s relief was short-lived because the agent could only offer a seat in the rear of the aircraft. Summer attempted to assure Alan that the seat was fine, but Rose gave Summer a look. So Summer returned to where she had been waiting beside their luggage—which was also serving as a divider between her and Sofia. She folded her arms and thrust her hip to one side—even at a glance a passerby could not mistake the familial stance and facial expressions of aunt and niece, despite Latino traces in one and Caucasian markings in the other—and watched with dismay as Alan first cajoled then bullied the agent, before angrily resigning himself to the inconvenience he would suffer in New York while his entire party waited for Summer’s baggage, which had been checked through coach since there was no available seat in first where Rose, Alan, and Sofia would be traveling.
As often happens when fate intervenes, Summer’s luggage came trundling along the conveyor at JFK just moments after the belt began rotating. When it ground to a halt, Alan had abandoned them for a business meeting in Manhattan, leaving Rose to sort out the mess with their bags, which had failed to show. It was noon by the time Summer loaded her bag into the trunk of Rose and Sofia’s cab. She waved them off then hurried back up the escalator where she rode the Air Train to Jamaica Station then connected with the Long Island Railroad to Manhattan. At Pennsylvania Station, she pushed through the revolving doors and fell in with the wave of humanity that was moving unceasingly along Sixth Avenue.
New York was everything Frankie described, and Summer rejoiced in the thrill of blending in with these sophisticates. She had no plan, even though Frankie had dictated a list of things to see when, earlier, Summer had slipped into the arrivals hall at JFK and telephoned: the Empire State Building, the Tenement Museum, The Cloisters.
“And take the boat trip to Ellis Island, it’s the best way to see the Statue of Liberty,” Frankie instructed. “There aren’t many icons of women in New York,” she added with a hint of cynicism. “It’s a man’s town, even Liberty’s a nobody.”
Frankie offered an apology then for the way their call had ended the previous day, and Summer replied that in fact it was she who should be sorry and that Frankie was right, she needed to prioritize their news. Then she described the tensions between her and Sofia, and Frankie became alarmed, invoking her intuition and suggesting that Sofia’s behavior must certainly be linked to her parent’s beliefs about Summer’s way of life. When Summer rejected the notion that her sister might be homophobic, Frankie accused her of naïveté and then of wearing blinkers when it came to her sister. Their conversation ended with Summer stating that she did not intend to rock the boat and that was all there was to it. Frankie backed down then but not before insisting that Summer take some time for herself, away from the tensions.
Summer acknowledged this sensible suggestion as she made her way through Manhattan’s streets and avenues, ducking, weaving, crossing, turning; unable to ignore the sense that everyone but her had someplace to be. At the crosswalk at West 13th Street, she caught sight of a rainbow flag flickering over the entrance to an Art Deco building. Drawn to the unmistakable symbol of Pride, she found herself moving toward it and almost immediately she felt her environment change; the piercing sirens and loud car horns that had been a constant since she stepped onto the Avenue of the Americas became distant and rainbow flags appeared all around her, in shop fronts, in window displays, protruding on poles. This was the famed West Village Frankie had told her about.
She attempted to recall the meaning of the colors of the rainbow, reciting them as she skipped along. Hot pink: sex; red: life; orange she couldn’t recall and moved on to yellow, which is... ah, yes, sunlight, and that makes green pasture... no, wait! nature; turquoise is magic, of course it is! Indigo, serenity and violet... what is violet now? she asked, arriving at the enormous flag she had spotted from Sixth Avenue. She saw that it belonged to the Museum of Lesbian History and bounded up the steps two at a time. Pushing through the double-doors and into a large, airy lobby, she took in the majestic ceiling, turning in a circle to experience the full effect of the light filtering through the colored glass in the dome. She took a moment to get her bearings and that’s when she spotted a woman, who she assumed was a lesbian, observing her from behind a large desk near the rear of the lobby.
“Hi!” Summer said, making her way over, “I love your hair!” She pointed to the rainbow-colored beads that adorned the woman’s cornrows.
The woman did not reply.
“It’s so cool to have a museum just for lesbians,” Summer said, then concerned that she might be coming across as silly, she added, “We have no such thing in Australia.”
The woman gave her an even stare and Summer was unsure what to do next. She looked around for some guidance, a visitor’s map perhaps that in her enthusiasm she had marched by. But there was nothing. She turned back to the woman.
“I’ve not been here before, what is there to see?” she asked.
The woman reached beneath the desk and passed her a flyer.
“Thanks,” said Summer, scanning it. “So, how much is it to see all four exhibitions?”
The woman tapped a long pink fingernail at a sign requesting a minimum donation of fifteen dollars. Summer fumbled in her purse and questioned her initial assessment—maybe she’s not a lesbian after all, she could be trans identifying as a lesbian, that would explain the nails. She’d ask Frankie later. Frankie had a better grasp of all the genders. She passed the woman a twenty-dollar bill.
“Change,” the woman said.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you want change?”
“No. That’s fine. Thank you.”
“Receipt.”
“Thank you.”
“So do you want it or not?”
“I’m sorry, do I want what?”
“Your receipt?”
“Yes, yes... thank you,” said Summer.
Summer chuckled good-naturedly as she approached the stairs. She ran her fingers lightly over the cool marble handrail and wound up two flights. At the top she passed through an archway into the main gallery and there before her stood a life-size oil painting of two women in an embrace. She let out a sigh—familiar ground, at last.
+
When Summer emerged from the subway station at Columbus Circle, Central Park was draped in the colors of dusk. She pushed with the crowd through the turnstiles and up the steps onto Broadway, where she found herself in a heavily trafficked six-way intersection. Instantly, she lost her bearings and walked west four blocks before a friendly doorman sent her back east to Eighth Avenue. By the time she arrived at the Brooklyn Diner on West Fifty-Seventh, Rose, Alan, and Sofia had been waiting for twenty minutes.
“I went ahead and ordered you a cheeseburger,” said Rose, breaking the embrace with her sister.
Summer slid into the booth next to Sofia, who was bent over a soda. Sofia straightened and glared at her mother. Alan pushed a glass of wine toward Summer with the tips of his fingers.
“They’re a little slow here,” he said, “so we ordered you a glass of wine as well.”
“It’s a Malbec,” said Rose, looking expectantly at Summer. “It’s good.”
“Drink o’clock!” Summer said, then when no one responded, she remarked favorably on the fruity flavor of the wine.
Alan shared his knowledge of the science of oak aging, describing in detail the nuances in the milk and cocoa ingredients that give the wine its sweet tobacco finish. He spun the liquid around in his glass as he spoke, his blue eyes never leaving Summer.
Summer glanced at Rose, who seemed unaware of Alan’s flirtation.
“Rose said you wanted to go off on your own today,” Alan said.
Summer sensed an accusation in Alan’s question, and again she looked over at her sister. Rose gave her a vacant smile, as though she were a child in need of encouragement, and Summer experienced the same discomfort she had felt at the airport check-in. On the subway ride uptown, Summer had determined to set aside her reservations about Alan and her concerns for Rose. She had committed to building relationships with her niece and future brother-in-law; her family. The idea of not having these people in her life was intolerable. She turned to Alan.
“This city’s something else,” she said, with genuine admiration. “Who was it who said, ‘If you can get through the twilight in New York City, you’ll live through the night?’”
Alan shrugged and gave an impatient frown, and Summer, seeing that poetry would not win Alan over, launched, somewhat nervously, into her own impressions of the city: The frustrating diagonal intersections that seemed to pop up everywhere; the vexing streets that change suddenly from a number to a name then, just as suddenly, back to a number. She waved her arms to indicate her confusion, which she said was at par with New York etiquette “...particularly in the way no one makes eye contact!” And when again there was no response, she added, “Tactically, I’d argue that the best way to survive the streets of New York is to stay out of everyone’s way! Right, Sofia?” She gave her niece a friendly nudge. Rose made wide eyes at Sofia, who returned to picking at the electric blue polish on her fingernails. Feeling her earlier resolve slipping away, Summer reached for her wine and gulped, then struggled on; rushing through the events of her day, editing her reactions to people and places in the hopes of shifting the focus away from her, and in the process, completely omitting her visit to the West Village—the only place where she had felt at home since her arrival in the United States.
“Well, I’m pleased you had a nice time,” said Alan, placing a hand on Rose’s knee. “We’re not fans of the City ourselves.”
Rose nodded and screwed up her nose, “You were brave to ride the filthy, rat-infested subway though!”
Summer ignored Rose’s remark and turned to Alan. “So, did you make your business meeting alright?”
Rose answered, “Alan is now a Broadway producer!” she announced, making a Ta Da! gesture and flashing her eyes at Alan.
From beside her, Summer heard Sofia groan.
“Really!” Summer said, “I thought you were a developer?”
“He’s an investor as well,” Rose said, “and because he’s invested so much money in this play, he gets a producer’s credit. Basically, how it goes is the more you put in, the bigger your credit, right, Baby?” Rose didn’t wait for a response, “Alan could’ve been an executive producer but since this is his first foray into Broadway, he wanted to play it safe.”
Summer wanted to ask Alan just how much he’d paid for the producer badge. Instead, she asked what he got for his investment. She had heard that in the movie business—which in her mind extended to plays and musicals—money could get you anything you wanted: A small walk-on role, naming rights, you could even demand a new ending if you didn’t like the one the writer had crafted.
Alan laughed and said he anticipated a strong return. So Summer asked what the play was about.
“It’s about the American Civil War,” said Rose. “One of the greatest events in our history.”
The server brought their burgers and Summer nibbled on a fry as she considered Rose’s new nationalism. She couldn’t recall Rose ever talking about America and its greatness in her letters. If anything, Rose had been scathing about the country. The reason she had given for homeschooling Sofia was the quality of public education, which she described as “abysmal,” and the hit and miss charter schools.
“Is there anything else I can bring over for you?” the server asked.
Alan drew a circle in the air over the three empty wine glasses, indicating another round.
The server nodded, “Can I bring you anything else to drink?” she inquired of Sofia.
“I’ll have another Coke,” Sofia replied, looking at her mother.
This was the first time Summer had heard her niece speak a full sentence, and she was touched by Sofia’s girlish inflection. She studied Sofia as she looked to her mother for permission and saw that in spite of her apparent sophistication the little girl was still present in the lilt of the thirteen-year-old, and Summer experienced a sense of loss for not having known her niece earlier.
Rose nodded at Sofia, “and I’ll take a Diet Pepsi,” she said.
“You got it,” said the server.
Summer and Sofia reached for their burgers then. Their forearms brushed—flesh on flesh. Sofia jerked away. Summer brought her elbow into her body, replaced the burger on her plate and adjusted herself slightly into the aisle. She glanced at Rose then Alan; neither appeared to have seen the interaction.
“You’re from the east coast, right?” she said to Alan.
“Pennsylvania originally,” Alan said, navigating his burger with both hands. “The family dispersed after Grampa Dewey passed.”
Alan spoke with difficulty as he chewed, and Rose took over.
“Alan’s family is famous for mapling,” she said.
“What’s mapling?” Summer asked.
“You don’t know what mapling is?” Alan cried. He turned to Rose, “She doesn’t know what mapling is! Do you eat maple syrup?” he said to Summer.
“Sure.”
“Well, mapling is the process that gets it in the bottle.”
Alan delivered this revelation as a scientist might describe the Black Hole Theory.
“Got it!” said Summer.
Alan clutched his glass and drained the burgundy liquid, then he fell into a sentimental description of maple sugaring, which he recalled exclusively through a childlike memory of the old sugarhouse where Grampa Dewey had taken him—Alan, the youngest and favored child—and invested in him the secrets of manufacturing the maple.
“The acer saccharum,” he said, emphasizing the tree’s botanic name.
“It sounds important,” Summer said, hoping she did not come across as condescending.
“Alan’s Grampa Dewey learned it from the indigenous folk up in Crawford County,” Rose explained, leaning into Alan and looping an arm through his. “But Grampa Dewey improved it.”
“He made money from it,” Alan corrected. “Instead of giving it away like the natives did.”
Summer looked quizzically at Alan.
“Maple sugar was practically cash, but the natives couldn’t see it,” Alan explained.
“Right,” said Summer. “So is the mapling business still in the family?”
Alan said it wasn’t and conceded that Grampa Dewey’s generosity had been his strength as well as his weakness. Summer thought Grampa Dewey sounded humanitarian, but she kept this observation to herself and instead asked Alan what he meant.
“God bless his soul, he just couldn’t stop helping folk who didn’t want to be helped,” said Alan, who then explained how Grampa Dewey’s refusal to claim the land as his own had left the way open for big agribusiness to “take everything.”
Rose stroked Alan’s arm and suggested that not everyone wants to be a billionaire, to which Alan replied, “Why not?” Rose giggled and went for her wine.
Summer pointed to Rose’s Diet Pepsi, “Can I have a sip?” she asked, feeling an urge to sober up.
Rose slid her glass across the table, and Summer took a long pull through the straw then pushed the glass back to Rose, who immediately brought the straw to her lips.
Sofia suddenly sat upright.
“Mom!” she cried.”
Rose looked perplexed.
“You can’t drink from the same straw as her!”
An embarrassed silence filled their booth; other diners looked on.
“Now, Sofia!” Alan said, trying to affect a firm fatherly tone.
But Sofia was already making her move.
“Excuse me,” she ordered Summer.
Summer jumped out of the booth and Sofia made for the door.
“Wait! Where are you going?” Rose called after her.
“Away from here.”
Rose stood, “Sofia, you wait up!” she turned to Alan, “I’m not having her roaming these streets alone.”
Through the window of the diner, Summer and Alan watched Rose chase after Sofia, tottering on the uneven sidewalk in her stiletto heels. When she had disappeared from view, they both seized their drinks.
“Teenagers!” said Alan, waving for their server with one hand and finishing off Rose’s wine with the other.
But Summer barely registered Alan’s voice for the ringing in her ears and an overwhelming urge to cry. She fought the latter as an old voice inside demanded she pull herself together. The server brought the check. Alan swooped on it. Summer gulped her wine. She felt an urgency to run, to abandon her vacation and take the next flight back to Australia; back home to where she was loved, where she was wanted, where she was safe. Alan was speaking again, now in a business-like voice. Summer needn’t be concerned he was saying because this behavior was very unusual for Sofia who was, in general, a well-mannered child.
“But where did that come from?” Summer said, looking Alan in the eye.
“Excuse me?” he said.
“Sofia’s disdain of me?”
“She’s just a kid... kids pick up things everywhere.”
Summer looked away. She didn’t want to have this conversation with Alan anymore than she wanted her sister to marry this man. She could barely recognize Rose in his company. Rose was never mean; she had never been bigoted and, even with her religious ideals, she had never stoked the animosity Summer was now feeling, not just from her niece but from Alan too. Alan made a move and Summer reached for her bag, which had slipped onto the floor when Sofia rushed out. She spied a penny in the imprint Sofia’s bottom had left in the cushion, and picked it up, turning it over in her fingers.
“e pluribus unum,” she read aloud.
“It’s the U.S. motto,” Alan said, dropping a pile of notes on the table.
Out of many, one, Summer translated.