White Ivy(56)

Roux and Sylvia seemed embroiled in a low-key fight. It started when Sylvia took a dig at him about his morning donut runs. “Other guys would be thrilled to get three home-cooked meals a day,” she said, “but you don’t eat a thing because you fill up on that junk.” Roux finished chewing, then wiped the sugar powder from his mouth with the back of his hand. “One person’s trash, another’s treasure,” he said. “Maybe you can stop bitching all the time.” Everyone except for Gideon, who was outside taking his usual morning swim in the ocean, rain or no rain, was still at the breakfast table drinking the last sips of cold coffee. Ted’s face went through a comical range of expressions from shock to anger to resignation as decades of training to pretend pleasant deafness kicked in. Ivy expected Sylvia to implode at Roux, but Gideon’s sister only said in a strained voice, “I wasn’t implying anything.” Poppy pressed her lips together in a quaking frown, her only outlet for what must have been internal fury, as she scurried over to Sylvia to smother her in frivolous sentiments. Roux asked Ted if he had any cigars. Ted said, “No, Roux. I don’t have cigars lying around.”

Roux’s rough demeanor almost reminded Ivy of Tom Cross, only Tom’s rudeness was condescending, meant to prove a point, whereas Roux’s rudeness held no contempt. That was why Roux could speak that way to Sylvia, even to Ted and Poppy (Roux and Gideon did not speak unless it was in a group setting, and even then, the neutral politeness was obviously a mask for mutual disinterest), and they tolerated him—because he didn’t look down on anyone. He didn’t know any better.

Sylvia pushed her mother away with a petulant scowl. It was impossible to reconcile this sulky girl with the sophisticated, unflappable Sylvia at her dinner party all those months ago. Maybe everyone reverted back to infantile habits around their family members.

It seemed like things were on the verge of an implosion. However, that very evening, Roux and Sylvia were drunk and intertwined on the armchair, cooing at each other in their baby voices. The next day, when looking for a quiet place to study, Ivy came upon them in the piano room, sitting cross-legged on the floor. An Italian film was playing in the background on Sylvia’s computer. Ivy apologized for interrupting, but Sylvia waved her in. “I’m glad you found us. This movie’s a snooze. I don’t understand a word so Roux has to translate everything, but I think he’s making it all up.”

“Perché sei ignorante,” said Roux in a passable accent.

“What are you guys working on?” Ivy asked, noting the paper and pencils scattered over the coffee table.

“My coloring book,” said Sylvia, showing Ivy her pages filled with geometric flowers and castles, the same sort of coloring book Ivy kept in her classroom for her first graders. “Roux’s working on a new sketch,” she added in afterthought.

Ivy glanced at the drawing on the table. A gas station, Ferris wheel, what looked like a woman in a baseball cap pumping the gas.

“It’s Vegas,” said Roux.

“I get that,” said Ivy, though she hadn’t.

“Never mind. It’s garbage.”

“It’s amazing,” said Sylvia coldly. “Tell him, Ivy.”

“It is,” said Ivy. With minimal black-and-white strokes, he’d managed to capture a specific mood and emotion on the page: the moment before violence descends. And here she’d assumed his interest in art, much like his interest in vintage cars, was a nouveau riche status thing, without any appreciation other than for the price tag. He’d said it himself that first day: I enjoy procuring what everyone else wants. “I really like it,” she said again.

Roux shrugged. “You want it?” He tore the page from the spine and handed it to her.

“How generous of you, kangaroo,” said Sylvia. At first Ivy thought she was being flippant—how presumptuous of Roux to assume anyone would want his silly old sketches—but when she glanced over, Sylvia was practically frozen with anger.

They heard Gideon coming down the hall. Ivy folded the drawing and quickly slid it into her book; she excused herself from the room.

That’d taken place Monday night. It was Thursday now, and Ivy noticed that Sylvia had pretty much stopped speaking to her after that. Overnight there seemed to have sprung an invisible force field that prevented Gideon’s sister’s head from physically turning in her direction. She wasn’t even rude; Ivy had simply ceased to exist for her. Was this punishment, Ivy wondered, for the cat? Could a person be that petty? Or was this just another amplified symptom as a result of being cooped up together?

Gideon was, of course, oblivious to the undertones between his girlfriend and sister. Sometimes, Ivy would hear Sylvia’s low voice coming from the alcove speaking in low, unbroken murmurs to Gideon about some important private topic—or to give the impression of speaking about an important private topic, to prove a point, Ivy thought. Her Giddy, his Sibbie. And as Ted’s only hobbies were reading the newspaper, his golf magazines, and his five o’clock beers, that left only Poppy as Ivy’s sole remaining ally. They’d spent a happy hour that morning looking through Gideon’s baby photos, a rite of passage for any girlfriend and one that Ivy hadn’t expected to come so soon. She especially loved the photo of a toddler Gideon wearing a pink tutu, one ballet slipper, and a gold tiara on his head, pushed on a swing by an identically dressed Sylvia, “when you have a sister”—Poppy laughed in little hiccupping sounds—but a few photographs struck Ivy as being distinctly strange, mostly because of Poppy’s explanations.