Suzanne & Loretta Hayes & Nyhan - Empire Girls

I’d always wondered if the physical contrasts between Ivy and myself were a manifestation of our distinctive personalities and constant disagreement. I had light hair, where hers was dark. I carried more of our father’s looks, though my hair was not quite blond enough, and my face had more angles. When I was a little girl, still free to daydream about things, I liked to imagine that our parents picked up bits and pieces of the distant lands they’d explored, and Ivy and I were born with those traits, as well.

As I got older, I began to believe Ivy was born of their more exciting adventures, while I was born of more bland destinations. I did have one feature that could be construed as mysterious, though. My eyes. They were a bright, icy blue. Ivy’s eyes were light green, calm like a tropical sea. I swear, I often thought that some terrible mistake was made. Ivy had an aloof streak that would go along with my eyes, not hers. And for whatever reason, Father and Mother—when she had been with us—could never see it.

“She has the soul of an Egyptian Goddess!” Father would say when she’d do something absurd. When we were little scraps, those statements would make me cringe, slam doors and run to my room. After Mother died, I had no time for tantrums, so I grew used to Father’s adoration of Ivy. Just as I grew used to Ivy’s way of curling around Father’s feet like a cat, or waking him up early in the morning when he’d shout, “Aces high in the ever-lovin’ sky!” to greet the new day, and the two would erupt in rollicking laughter. I’d listen from my own tidy room and pray they wouldn’t bring any neighbors over. Or stray cats.

But I envied her beauty and simply adored her thick, exotic hair. I almost went mad when she came home from town with her hair bobbed the previous autumn. I was weeding in the garden, planting tulip bulbs at the precise time of the season our mother would have been doing the same.

“Ivy! Your hair!” I said, getting up and pulling off my gloves so I could touch the ends that angled in toward her face.

Father, who’d taken her and approved of the drastic cut, smiled. “I think it’s marvelous. All the modern women are doing it, Rosemary. You should, too. I’ll take you next week, if you’d like.”

“I’d rather die,” I said, and went back to my chore. Ivy and I didn’t speak for days. She glared at me with those eyes of hers, and I glared right back.

Father and Ivy finally sat down at the dinner table. I looked through the doorway to the grandfather clock and noted the time.

“It is almost seven, you two. I simply cannot keep chasing you around. Soon you’ll have to make your own dinners,” I said, giving them both a good stare as I ladled the stew out into their bowls.

“Your eyes are a peculiar color for a practical girl, Rosemary,” Father said, reaching for a biscuit. “People might get the wrong impression of you.”

“Her posture will erase any sort of misunderstanding about our Rose’s disposition, Papa. She stands straight like a board. No flexibility whatsoever,” said Ivy.

“I’m going to agree with you, sister. I am vain about my perfect posture. You should try it, you know. Mother always told us...”

Ivy shot me a look across the table. She was right to stop me. Father didn’t like it when we talked about Mother. It made him sad, and that was one place where we agreed. We both loved our papa very much...even if it was for different reasons.

“Ivy,” said Father. “Be a love and pour your old papa a drink. And Rosemary is right, you know. You should stand up straighter. It’s a skill that comes with practice, not birth. You do slouch, my darling.”

“Papa, you shouldn’t! It’s not good for you. And you’ve barely touched your food. I made your favorite on purpose.”

He’d been picking at his meals for weeks, and I couldn’t tell if it was worry, or if it was his health or if it was a simple matter of our father beginning a new project in his mind. He was a botanist and illustrator, and he frequently lost himself in new ideas for drawings, books and experiments.

“Oh, Rose. Don’t be such a stick. I wonder, do you ever get tired of worry? It must be exhausting.” Ivy went to the cupboard under the china cabinet and brought out a bottle of Scotch. Father had bought cases of it before prohibition became law.

She poured father his drink.

“Thank you, Ivy,” he said, pushing himself back from the table a bit and taking a long sip.

“And you can have another if you’d like. I’ll keep the bottle right here,” said Ivy, looking straight at me as she said it, holding the neck of the bottle protectively.

“If that bottle makes a ring on my lace tablecloth, I’ll have to soak it for a week. You could be careful with my handiwork, even if you don’t want to be careful with our father’s health,” I said. It was a mean thing to say.

One would think my sister and I would be closer. We even shared a bedroom when we were small. It was a sweet, lovely space with whitewashed walls. Mother and Father knew that I liked things clean and crisp. Not Ivy, though.... As soon as Ivy turned seven, she demanded her own room, stating, “I hate all that white. May I have a bedroom that is painted blue?”

Our distance doesn’t come solely from our separate rooms; it comes from differing priorities and versions of the world. Ivy always saw things in a way that I could not. The world, it seemed, was made for her. Every tree, every idea, every bit of love was created for her, and she was determined to take it all. I didn’t understand her “the world is my oyster” view of life. Hard work has always been the thing that makes me proud. In the time since our mother’s death, I’d become the provider for our household, as well, making lace and sewing clothing for the dress shops in Downtown Forest Grove.

As Father picked at his meal and drank his Scotch, I looked at the three of us closely. Memory seems to understand important moments before our consciousness has a chance to catch up. I suppose a part of me knew that everything would be different in the morning.

I looked at my sister, who was trying to hide her boredom, looking over her shoulder at the clock. She was eager to leave the table and didn’t like to wait until everyone was finished.

And then I looked at Papa, ready with a smile or an approving nod for each of us, sitting at the head of the table, holding court. With Ivy and I on either side. His companions.

I was about to clear the table when a visitor came calling. Father rose quickly and had to steady himself before he walked slowly into our foyer to answer the door.

“Who do you think that is?” Ivy asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

There were murmurs, and Ivy started to get up, as well, but I motioned for her to stay put.

“Yes, I am aware,” I heard Father say, and then the hushed dialogue continued.

“Join me as I smoke a pipe, won’t you, Lawrence? This is a lot for me to take standing up,” said Father as both men walked into our line of vision. Father looked into the dining room as our visitor took off his fedora. We’d known Lawrence—we all called him that, because Father did—for two years. He’d become our solicitor. He was a tall, thin man who reminded me a bit of a willow tree.

I stood up with as much grace as I could muster and walked to the two of them.

“Lawrence, how nice of you to stop by. Are you hungry? I have plenty of dinner left over. You remember Ivy, of course.”

“Of course,” said Lawrence. “Talented Ivy, who we are sure will be famous one day.”

Ivy got up and gave a large, exaggerated bow.

“And Rose, it’s been only a few months since I saw you, but you seem so grown-up now.”

“She is grown,” said Ivy. “She’s twenty-two, and that makes her a spinster.”