Dead Letters(44)

She’d stopped taking pictures when we hit puberty, though, and went through a chubby patch. Or, rather, when I did. My childish, sharp angles softened, my once-spindly arms looked swollen, my breasts grew fleshy and my belly rounded. The camera disappeared into a closet, and suddenly we found ourselves eating kale salads for dinner most nights. Zelda remained angular and fairy-like, but I looked puffy and plump. The phase didn’t last very long. I was a quick study, and I soon realized that home life was markedly less tempestuous if I ate my mother’s tiny green portions without complaint. Without noting that Zelda was given a small heap of pasta alongside her kale. Zelda, pitying me and my Spartan portions, sometimes secreted away starchy treats, which she would sneak into my room at night. Though this was probably motivated by kindness, my competitive self couldn’t help seeing it as sabotage.

For our fourteenth birthday, Zelda was given a beautiful green vintage Chanel dress (size 2) and I was given a two-year subscription to Health magazine and a very expensive juicer. By our fifteenth birthday, I was borrowing Zelda’s Chanel dress, which she usually left in a heap of dirty clothes, and she barely even noticed when I tugged it on over my newly slimmed hips. My mother didn’t comment when I descended the steps in Zelda’s party gown. She did, however, pour me a glass of Champagne and congratulate me on a “very good, disciplined year.”

The memory of that birthday makes me feel relieved and pleased that I haven’t eaten dinner; the dull ache in my belly fills me with warmth, and I smile quietly in the dark. I continue to fiddle with Zelda’s phone, flipping through the screens. I look at all the open tabs on Safari and search through the photos on her photo app. Nothing. Finally, I notice that she had installed the Instagram app.

I tap it open and am greeted with a series of pictures glimmering with filtered light. She has photos taken from Silenus’s deck at sunset, a few pictures of our mother in unflattering poses, one shot of Wyatt. In the most recent photo, I recognize Holly Whitaker, and I squint at it. It looks like she’s in a bar. The next photo is also of her, with her arm draped around a shortish, beefy guy with a crew cut. They’re standing in front of a bar that I immediately recognize. Kuma’s. Or Kuma Charmers, as it is officially named. It’s a strip club located about halfway between Seneca and Cayuga Lakes. I’ve never been inside, but I’ve driven by it on many a Saturday night, when rusty pickups cram into the parking lot just off the county highway, on display for everyone to see. I wonder if this is Jason, if this is what Zelda wants me to find. Walking down the hill, I flick through the rest of the photos but find nothing else that raises eyebrows. I flip back to the picture, studying it for any other details. On closer inspection, Holly has glazed eyes, and “Jason” looks like he might be holding her upright. The way she’s dressed makes me wonder if she could be an employee of Kuma’s.

I stop short in front of Zelda’s trailer when I realize there’s another truck parked outside. Wyatt. He’s sitting on the steps of the trailer, leaning back and looking up at the sky. His jeans are snug, and he’s wearing a tight V-neck T-shirt. Zelda’s work, I suspect.

“Can’t stay away?” I say, wishing I had something wittier to offer.

“I figured you wouldn’t want to stay in the house with your momma, especially with Marlon up there. Thought you might want company.”

“I’ve had an awful lot of company today.”

“I’ll go, if you want. I just thought you might appreciate conversation with someone who doesn’t share any genes with you. To remind you that crazy as you are, you’re the sane one,” he says.

I can’t help smiling. It might be flattery, but I believe him, and it’s what I need to hear. “Well, it is nice to have some confirmation.”

“It must be a madhouse up there.”

“Even my grandmother is here.”

He makes a face; he doesn’t much care for Opal. She’s touchy-feely with him, too, and I suspect she may have been too appreciative of his biceps when she visited for our high school graduation. She hadn’t stopped fussing at me that whole weekend: “Is that lovely boy your boyfriend? He certainly is good-looking. Don’t string him along too long, Ava.” I suspected Zelda of oversharing, but in retrospect, Wyatt’s and my taut game of sexual tension and emotional withholding had probably been painfully obvious to anyone not caught in the throes of high school hormones.

“Icing on the cake. Your mom drinking?” he asks.

I snort. “What do you think?”

“And you?” He knows he’s on thin ice here, so he’s keeping his tone very light.

“A bit.”

“Did you eat any dinner?” I look at him sullenly, guiltily. “You look thin, Ava.” I know it’s not meant as a compliment, but I can’t help it. I’m pleased. “Let me take you for a bite to eat.”

“I’m afraid I have errands to run,” I say in irritation. I fumble in my bag for the keys to the truck, but I drop them on the dark ground. Wyatt moves catlike from his perch on the steps and has them between his fingers before I can bend down and scoop them up.

“Ava, don’t be stupid. You trying to kill yourself with carelessness?”

“Runs in the family. I always was just a little behind Zelda,” I say petulantly.

He squints. “Don’t you fucking say stuff like that. You have to take better care of yourself. Hey, you hear me?” he says when I start to turn away from him.