Two weeks after I’d graduated from Northwestern, my sister Irene called me from her summer home on Martha’s Vineyard and requested my company for a long weekend on the island.
“Can you make it by Friday?” she asked. “There’s somebody I’d
like you to meet.”
The following morning, I traveled by Uber from my parent’s house in Greenwich, Connecticut, to Woods Hole, Massachusetts, where I boarded the Steamship Authority ferry. I spent the six-mile passage standing in the ship’s bow while the sea breeze brushed away the June swelter.
On our approach into Vineyard Haven harbor, I spotted Irene on the dock waving, and as I came down the gangplank, she greeted me with a clutching hug and a robust air of confidence. We were soon seated across from one another in The Little House Café, her favorite restaurant on the island.
“So, tell me about your friend,” I said.
“Bunny and I met during our residency in Chicago. We’re opening a practice together.”
“Radiology?”
“That’s the plan.”
“And how goes it with Kyle?”
“Our divorce is complete,” she explained. “I got the island house and alimony. Kyle and his millions are tucked away in Nova Scotia. I do hope he’ll stay there permanently.”
“So, it’s over for good?”
“Yes,” she said firmly.
I was astonished by her self-assurance, and in that brief instant, I understood she’d reached her prime in the three years since I’d last seen her.
The murmur of patron’s voices and the clink of toasting wine glasses gave way to the woosh of a flambé, and I felt the first sips of wine going to my head. Waiters came around lighting candles, and as evening approached, the room took on a flickering ambiance. Irene was very excited as our food arrived. She’d picked for the two of us, and we dined on pan-seared Ahi tuna with a light lemon caper sauce and bowls of clam chowder. Night had fallen by the time we piled into Irene’s Audi for a thrilling drive to Edgartown. We pulled into the driveway of her colonial-style home.
Fireflies flashed green-yellow, and constellations glimmered in the crystalline night as I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk and followed her down the flagstones to her front door.
“This is some light show, so many fireflies,” I said.
“Aren’t they adorable? Bunny and I played night crochet to their little flashes on occasion. We can do it tomorrow evening if it pleases you.”
“Can you see well enough in the light of fireflies?”
“Of course not. It’s silly good fun, is all.”
She pushed the door open.
“Wow,” I said, looking around the living room. “You’ve made changes.”
“The walls are pecky cypress. The rug is Persian. It adds weight to the room.
“And the American flag box kite?
“It belongs to Bunny.”
“She’s patriotic?”
“After a fashion.”
“You mean to say imperfectly patriotic?”
“Precisely, you’re in your standard room on the second floor. I’ve got work to do. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Ok,” I said.
By Bahçelievler travesti work, I assumed she meant teleradiology–reading x-rays from home, a common practice among radiologists attempting to avoid the recent plague. Outbreak monkeys aside, I took my suitcase upstairs and squared away my travel kit before sitting in a wicker lounge chair and falling asleep.
I awoke to the ticking wall clock and morning’s glow saturating the bedroom windows. It was 6:15 a.m. and quiet about the house. I went to my morning routine, then stepped into the hallway, starting down the staircase, stepping over a creaking bottom step, and making my way to the kitchen. I helped myself to orange juice and a slice of bread before stepping outside and heading down a sandy access path to the beach, where I walked with my thoughts. Waves crashed the shoreline, streaming into the shallows before rushing backward into a relentless undertow. A sparkling glint ran to the horizon under a cloudless sky.
A man approached from a slight distance, a captain’s hat set atop a scarecrow in need of straw, stumbling forward with decrepit limps, watery eyes, and rioting brows. He held a metal detector. I wondered what sand-buried treasures the old codger might seek, coins, perhaps jewelry. I passed him by as my thoughts shifted to Bunny. Would she have charm, polite austerity, a doctor’s self-possession? Would she be single? I’d thought to ask Irene if Bunny was attached but was suddenly concerned over Irene’s reaction to the question. I didn’t know why. I only knew Bunny from the pictures Irene had shown me, but the images were enough to spark my imagination. She was Irene’s age, six years my senior at twenty-seven, a Doctor of Medicine. For my part, I’d finished school near the middle of my class, distracted and rebounding from a three-year relationship gone sour.
Irene was up and cooking breakfast when I returned.
“What’s on the menu?” I asked. “Eggs, Benedict?”
“Ho! You wish,” she said with a laugh. “It’s a bit simpler, scrambled eggs and hash browns.”
“That suits me fine. Which room will Bunny be staying in?”
A moment passed while Irene peeled a potato at the sink.
“Bunny sleeps with me, Alex.”
“I knew that,” tumbled out of my mouth, and I felt my ears turning red.
“Knew what, that your sister is a lesbian?”
“No–I mean yes–I mean… Ok. I’m surprised, is all. This is new.”
“I’m happy, Alex, for the first time.” She threw her arms around my neck and rested her head on my shoulder. “Be happy for me,” she whispered.
“Why, because you’re irresistible?”
“Don’t tease.”
***
Bunny’s Carrera GT pulled into the driveway two hours later. I called Irene, who was in her office, then turned back to the window, my eyes fixed on Bunny as she climbed out of the Porsche wearing a prima cotton skirt that hung loosely above her ankles and a sleeveless blouse. An ocean breeze blew the flap of her sunhat back, and, reaching Bahçelievler travestileri to catch it, her skirt wrapped around her legs. She was svelte, tall, with aquiline features and a pouting mouth.
Irene exited the office, saying, “Be nice, Alex.”
How could I be anything else; I nearly tripped over my feet trying to get Bunny’s luggage. She caught my arm and saved me from the Pratt fall.
“Easy, Kiddo,” she said.
“Oh, that was nothing,” I replied, catching a waft of her exotic scent. “A trifle; you should catch me on an awkward day.”
“I’m trying to imagine.”
“Well, don’t imagine too hard, sister; I only do one show daily.”
She laughed charitably at my blustering wit.
“Oh, that’s a good line,” she said, “I’ll use it next time I fall on my ass.”
“Did I forget to mention she’s savagely attractive?” Irene said.
I’d forgotten my sister was on my heels. Another gust blew in, and my eyes dropped to the outline of Bunny’s hips as her skirt rippled. I tried getting my eyes back, but they dragged along her body until I encountered her face and her sultry understanding of my attraction in one sympathetic and encouraging glance. The next moment, her expression was changed, the fire gone from her eyes, but something unmistakable had passed between us.
Irene quickly hugged Bunny, saying, “I can’t believe you’re here!” I followed their trail into the house.
Irene said, “Alex, would you be a dear and take Bunny’s luggage to my room?”
I smiled and nodded, “Of course,” I said. What could be more natural?
I set the luggage down in Irene’s room, glancing at the bed and wondering what might occur there in the next twenty-four hours. What would I give to be a fly on the wall? My imagination raced, and the images came faster.
Bunny, hard at the wheel of her Carrara, putting the car through its paces, downshifting, and taking us around hairpin curves, then into a straightaway, shifting gears while I leaned forward against the acceleration force and gripped the inside of her thigh.
I went to my room and started rearranging my closet to brush Bunny’s sensuality out of my mind. But it was no good. I sat in the wicker chair, still imagining.
Bunny was fresh out of a shower, wearing a terry cloth robe and a towel turban, her breasts swelling under the material as she tossed the towel aside and stood in a full-length mirror, combing her raven-black hair. She’d purposely left her bedroom door ajar, wanting me to peek in on her while she set the comb down and let her robe slip off her shoulders.
I heard footsteps in the hall and glanced past my door to see Bunny disappearing into Irene’s room carrying a travel bag. The door clicked shut, and I returned downstairs.
“So, what do you think?” Irene asked.
“What do I think about what?” I asked, trying to avoid discussing Bunny for fear Irene would see through me.”
She slapped my arm, saying, “What do you think about Bunny?”
“I travesti Bahçelievler like her. She seems pleasant.”
“That’s it? That’s the best you can come up with. Pleasant?”
I shrugged. What did Irene want me to say? Could I tell her Bunny’s effect on me, how my pulse had raced, admit I’d fantasized about my sister’s lover within ten minutes of meeting her? I couldn’t shake Bunny’s smoldering gaze from my mind, the sensuality of her mouth, her hips. Everything in her bearing said yes when she caught my eye; I’d do that with you. Yes, I follow your lead. Where should we hole up, Tanzania? Had something passed between us, or was it only my desire to have this seductress find me attractive?
Irene had asked me to be happy for her. It seemed simple enough then, but that was before I’d seen Bunny. It was plain jealousy over what Irene had, and I didn’t. She had her winning way, and I had my resentment. It wasn’t the first time, of course. How often had the scenario played out? How often had my sister brought me into her circle of friends when my social awkwardness had prevented me from finding my own groups? She’d always been a step ahead of me.
“I think she’s….”
The bottom step creaked, and I heard a voice from behind.
“Anybody for a stroll on the beach? It’s kiting weather.”
I turned and smiled. Bunny was wearing clam diggers and a white blouse with horizontal black stripes.
“I’m game,” I said, glancing at Irene and searching her face for signs of disapproval.
‘It’s fine by me,” Irene said, “so long as we can make Black Dog Wharf by noon. I’ve chartered a sailing excursion.” I wondered if Irene had already seen through me.
I followed Irene and Bunny out the back door, making for the beach path while trying to manage the kite and eat a bear claw simultaneously, but there was too much wind for it, and as we reached the beach, I tossed the pastry aside. No sooner was I wiping the glaze off my hand than a gull swooped down for the treat.
“Oh, look,” Irene said, pointing down the beach.
Several paramedics were kneeling near the shoreline. Had somebody been pulled into the undertow? Irene and Bunny rushed forward. I kept my distance, trying to control the kite against the shore breeze, then noting the old man’s metal detector lying on the sand. I wondered if this meant an end to our walk, but then Irene and Bunny were helping the old man to his feet and brushing the sand from his clothing.
“I’m eighty-three years old, eighty-three!” said the old man, shaking his fist at the paramedics. “You sons-of-bitches ought to come on time when a man loses his detector. Where’s my fucking metal detector?”
The kite wriggled and spun under a gust of wind. I gave her string, walking backward to the shoreline while letting her sail. She climbed aggressively, pulling left and right, challenging my grip on the string reel. Not since I’d been a schoolboy had I experienced that singular thrill, and now the memories rushed back to me, the many moments I spent with my kites, how distant and alone they’d seemed while aloft. But it wasn’t the kite’s loneliness; it was my own and I was overwhelmed with sad remembrances, all the failures and lost opportunities in my life. And then my sister and Bunny stood beside me, and my spirits rose. For in my heart, I loved them both.
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