What's Mine and Yours(53)

“Probably not,” Diane said.

“Please don’t tell Mama.” Noelle wiped her eyes. “This is all temporary. We’re going to get back on track.”

“I won’t say anything.”

“And don’t tell Margarita. Do you really think she’s going to show tomorrow?”

“Sure. Papi gave her the money for her flight.”

“Jesus, she had to bum money from Papi? Is our Hollywood empress not empress-ing?” Noelle was back to form, ready to focus all her judgment on their sister. “How’d she reach him anyway? He knows I’m here, and he’s not returning my calls.”

“He’s the same with me. I’ll see him every once in a while, and then one day, I’ll call and he’ll say he can’t come and visit because he’s in Delaware. Like it’s nothing. Like he shouldn’t bother telling his daughter that he moved out of the state.”

“Some family we’ve got,” Noelle said and drained her bourbon.

Diane considered pointing out that Noelle had left, too, but decided against it.



That night, after Noelle was asleep, Diane crept off the couch. Her sister was in the guest room they had told her was Diane’s; Alma was waiting in their bedroom. She had been aloof after dinner, but now she opened her arms for Diane. Her curls were tied up with a crimson head wrap, and she already smelled of sleep, musty and warm. Diane kissed her, and Alma reciprocated, but it was all too mild, as if Alma simply didn’t want to turn her away. Diane tried slipping her tongue into her mouth, sliding her hand between her thighs, but they never caught a spark. She gave up and put an arm around her. What she wanted most was to be close to her. She told her about the blue nose pit, how defenseless she had been in her terror.

“Maybe she just couldn’t get unpinned. Maybe she’s not as strong as she looks.”

“She is strong,” Diane said. “A strong, sweet girl.”

Alma rolled her eyes. “They’re all sweet to you.”

Alma cared for the dogs, but to her the day camp was mostly a business. She didn’t rely on the dogs, like Diane. She had a much wider life. Her Spanish book club and her knitting group. She was open with them about their relationship, and Diane didn’t mind. Her only hard line was her family, which was a relatively small exception in the scope of their whole lives.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Alma said.

“You saw how Noelle can be. She has something mean to say about everyone.”

“So what do you care if she says something to us? It’s just the way she is.”

“She’s my big sister.”

“And you’re a big girl. Besides, she probably knows already. You really think she believes I’m your six-year roommate?”

“They wouldn’t expect it from me.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to love me?”

“They have no idea who I am. And they like it better that way. It’s convenient for me to be Diane, the baby, the sweetheart. It keeps me out of the way while they wage their wars.”

“You like it that way, too,” Alma said quietly. “You’re the one who’s hiding now.”

Diane reached for her hand, but Alma pushed her away.

“It’s getting to me. Soon Margarita will be here, and I’ll be putting on a show for her, too.”

“You don’t get it—this isn’t New York.”

“Please don’t start with your this is the South bullshit. You and I both know plenty of dykes in this town.”

“My mother still hates Nelson. And he’s a man.”

“She may be a bigot, but I still want her to know who I am.”

“She grew up a different way—”

“Jesus Christ, is this some Ventura family tradition? All this lying and pretending? No wonder they call you the good one. You cover for them all.”

“What do you want from me? It’s not like you get to choose your family.”

Alma squinted hard at Diane in the dark, thrust a pointed finger straight into her chest.

“Yes, you do, Diane. Yes, you fucking do.”



They picked up Margarita from the airport next day, and it struck Diane how natural it was to see her, to put her arms around her and inhale the blast of her perfume. She and Noelle embraced, too, and Noelle asked about the flight, offered to help with her bags. Margarita had brought them matching gifts: bath salts and fancy soap made with ossified flower petals. They piled into the car, Noelle riding shotgun, Margarita in the backseat filming out the window. “I forgot how green it is here,” she said.

It gave Diane a sliver of hope. Maybe being sisters was simply this: seeing each other after a long time and finding it was wholly ordinary to be together again.

A pop song came on the radio, a duet between two nineties stars. They all surged with recognition and sang along softly, instinctively. Noelle swayed her shoulders, and Diane tapped her hands on the wheel. Margarita hit a high note wrong to make them laugh.

“You know, you should think about comedy,” Noelle said, raising her voice over the music. “At the theater, I used to meet people struggling to make it as serious actors, but they were so funny. So funny, and they couldn’t see it—”

Margarita stopped singing, and Diane knew that Noelle had done it.