The Mermaid's Sister(42)



“Am I to stand there like a statue?”

“This is your role: You play Hatsumi, a princess who has escaped her evil stepmother’s house. You meet no one’s eyes. You do not speak. You stare at the floor and count the sorrows of your life.” Soraya smiles and tucks a stray hair under the wig. “The patrons will weep for you, poor lost flower of the Orient.”

Counting my sorrows should not be a problem, I think.

But I will do this for Maren. To be near her for a few hours. To keep peace with our captors while O’Neill and I plot our escape.

Soraya smoothes the silken fabric of her sky-blue sari. “Someday, if you prove to Dr. Phipps that you can sing or dance or play an instrument, you might share the stage with Jasper and Neelo. For now, you are Hatsumi.” She sets a pair of odd wooden sandals on the floor and takes my hands, helping me step into them. “You need your special tea. And then you must take your place in the gallery before our patrons begin to arrive. For them to see you outside would be unlucky, like a man seeing his bride before the wedding.” She points to the door. “Hurry now, Hatsumi, to your tea. You are longing for it, are you not? Wanting it as a bee wants nectar or a leech craves blood.”

When she smiles with all her teeth showing, she reminds me of a winter graveyard with two neat rows of snowy headstones.



As I wait inside the Gallery of Wonders tent, I can hear Dr. Phipps starting the show. He welcomes the townsfolk to the second night of performances, thanks them for their hospitality, praises their wisdom in purchasing his wares the previous night.

Violin music floats through the air. I imagine it is Jasper who is playing. Whoever the musician may be, the song is beautiful and haunting.

As Soraya foretold, an overturned crate awaits me between the stuffed tiger and the African masks. It is too early for me to take my place upon it. Instead, I wander down the aisles and examine the “wonders.” A clamshell big enough for a cat to sleep in, a two-headed lamb floating in a jar, a costumed rat in a cage decorated like a king’s quarters (he nibbles at his little throne, his lips stained red from the felted cushion), a set of a dozen mismatched eyeballs staring out of glass vials, a table of medieval torture devices, a dressmaker’s form clothed in rough robes (once worn by Saint Peter, according to the sign), a bed studded with wicked-looking nails. A hundred small lanterns hang about the room, casting light and leaving shadows in all the right places.

And at the very back of the tent hangs a golden curtain, and beside the curtain hangs the sign inviting patrons to pay five cents to view “an unforgettable living spectacle, a creature of myth and magic.”

My sister, the mermaid.

I step around the curtain. Inside her jar, Maren floats serenely, fast asleep. She looks no smaller than the last time I saw her, and in no worse health. But the inch-deep layer of pearls on the bottom of the jar testifies to her sadness. My salt water tears fall without a sound, and without increasing the wealth of the world.

I wipe my tears away with my fingertips, careful not to smear the thick greasepaint. I tap on the glass to awaken my sister.

With a flick of her tail and a wriggle of her belly, she comes to meet me. She looks curious and unsure until she recognizes me in my strange costume. Then she smiles and presses both hands to the glass as I do the same.

“I love you.” I say, confident she can read the familiar words on my lips. And then I add, “I am so very sorry.”

Maren shakes her head as if to dismiss my apology. She sinks to the bottom of the jar and curls her tail about her body. If, a year ago, she had been told that today she would be a mermaid living in a jar, enthroned on perfect pearls, she might have delighted in the romance of the notion—if she had not known that the pearls would be her own tears.

She motions with her hands, requesting a story.

I can hear strangers’ laughter in the distance. Perhaps O’Neill is juggling spoons or frying pans; perhaps he is pulling flowers from his vest or scarves from his ears. Soon, the show will end, and after that, the strangers will pay five cents to gawk at the weird museum’s exhibits, including a girl masquerading as a Japanese princess and a live mermaid imprisoned in glass.

“All right, I will tell you a short story.” I lean close, hoping she can hear me. “Do you remember the year O’Neill stayed with us through the winter? He wanted to see snow. We were ten years old, yet he had never seen a single snowflake. Remember how he cried in his sleep for Scarff? Every morning his pillow had to be hung by the fire to dry. But in the daytime, what fun we had!”

Maren nods. Maybe she can hear through all that water and glass.

“On Christmas day, the snow came. Standing outside was like being inside one of those water globes Mr. Peterman sells, the ones you shake to make a blizzard swirl around tiny villages. That snow fell in flurries and then clumps until it piled up as high as the cottage windowsills. Auntie had to threaten us to make us go inside again, even though we could no longer feel our toes or our cherry-red cheeks. And Osbert’s tail was frozen straight out like a blue icicle.”

I pause, picturing Maren and O’Neill throwing snowballs at Osbert, hearing in my memory the unbridled, pure-joy laughter of my sister and my best friend.

Maren taps on the jar impatiently.

“Oh,” I say. “Yes. The snowy Christmas. When Auntie forced us inside, we unwrapped ourselves from our layers of woolens and hung them to dry by the fireplace. And you were the first to notice the heavenly scent of Auntie’s hot grape pudding. Steaming in our soup bowls, as purple as an Easter crocus, with dollops of whipped cream melting into froth. I can still taste it if I close my eyes. Can you?”

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