When Women Were Dragons(95)
I undid the latch and opened it, awash all at once with the scent of rosemary, marigold, and thyme. I closed my eyes for a moment and took it in. The box appeared to be simply a place for mementos and keepsakes—old photographs, a hymnal, several rings, a bone carving of a startled-looking fish, a necklace with a seal pendant, tiny dolls made entirely of knots, and an ancient slide rule. I noticed the false bottom right away. I lifted it out, along with the first contents, and found two manila envelopes underneath, both of which contained the relevant information on the accounts, along with the name, address, and phone number of the nice man who managed them both.
The next day, my aunt insisted that she fly me to Madison first thing, despite my protestations. (No one will give us a passing glance, she insisted. Not with this many dragons crowding up the sky. She was incorrect. Everywhere we went, people stopped and stared. One old lady took our picture. A man threw rocks, though he could not hit us.) Marla waited with Beatrice outside as I went in to meet with the banker. He was about the age of my father, with delicate, tapered fingers and a rather dusty wool suit. He had been my mother’s friend at school, and the moment he saw me, he clutched his heart for a moment.
“Surely you must be told all the time that you’re the exact image of her,” he said breathlessly. I merely smiled. Actually, no one had ever told me that. He showed me the files and explained that he was simply following my mother’s precise algorithmic instructions, which accounted for the fund’s success. “She was a marvel, your mom. An absolute marvel,” he said with wonder. Included in the portfolio was a share in a small farm that produced a tiny profit every year, because my mother insisted that money should be tied to the land, and a building in an industrial area that was both out of the way and also not too far from campus. And was between tenants, the manager said apologetically.
I still hadn’t found an apartment. Mrs. Gyzinska’s search for untapped funds had been fruitless thus far. I looked at the map. The building was a short bike ride to campus.
“Great,” I said. “Let’s keep it that way for now.”
And I moved in.
With my sister.
And four dragons—Marla, Clara, Jeanne, and Edith.
Clara the singer. Jeanne the construction specialist. Edith the caretaker. Marla, who made sure that everything worked. Their presence was my aunt’s idea—or should I say, her demand.
“You’re going to need some help,” she said in a matter-of-fact sort of way that I found instantly annoying. “And we’re here. Alex, I spent far too many years not intervening when I should, and not speaking out when I must. But I’m your aunt. And I’m . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say Beatrice’s mother, but the words still hung there—still unacknowledged, and still true. She closed her eyes for a moment before recovering. She crouched down and held my gaze. “And I’m here now,” she said. “And I insist.”
The dragons were large, obviously. And loud. Big opinions, big voices, a massive presence. Beatrice took to all of them right away, gawping at her reflection in their shiny scales or climbing up their backs and hanging on to their long, lovely necks. She sat on their laps and told them stories and was delighted to have someone new to talk to. I, on the other hand, was accustomed to the controlled, hidden world that I lived in with my sister. That I maintained and managed all by myself. It was me and Beatrice, rulers of our own little universe. And then, quite suddenly, I had to share.
It took me a long time to make peace with it.
When we first moved in, we knocked out several extraneous walls and ceilings to allow greater freedom of movement for the larger residents. The dragons had decided to learn the art of brickmaking, harvesting the clay from southwestern Wisconsin (the colors are prettiest there) and using their own resources to fire the kilns. They then used the bricks to build a large oven and subsequently took up the practice of breadmaking. They became quite good, selling their wares to high-end restaurants and cafés and at their little stand at the farmers’ market. People in Madison, as a general rule, tended to be far less leery of doing business with dragons than folks back home. It’s a university town, after all, which leads to a certain level of open-mindedness. There was even a sort of Madisonian who went out of their way to buy bread specifically from the dragon bakers and then would speak loudly of how proud they were to be doing business with dragons and wasn’t it just terrible that some people couldn’t see past their own prejudice? My aunt loved this sort of shopper, as they could always be relied upon to buy something extra. And also, they left tips.
“Income is income,” Marla liked to say. “No matter how insufferable the source.”
It was her hope that their efforts would generate enough business to keep us financially afloat once my mother’s money ran out—we had enough to fund the rest of my education, and save for Beatrice’s education, and to cover the living expenses of two girls and four dragons for a while. But eventually we would need a different source.
I was grateful, frankly, for my father’s ambivalence toward my mother and his laziness when it came to the duties of being a father. If he had known about my mother’s accounts, he would have liquidated them for sure—and swallowed every drop. I was also grateful that my aunt was there to explain what all of it meant. When I turned eighteen right after prom, I became my own custodian. I inherited all that my mother left me, but I also inherited my own life. It was a strange feeling. I also became Beatrice’s guardian, in point of law in addition to point of fact. It shouldn’t have made a difference, but it absolutely did.