Esi Edugyan - The Second Life of Samuel Tyne

“Just between you and me,” said Yvette, winking, “she’s completely insane.”

Ama kept her eyes on the table. The girls drank in silence.

“Now I have to go to the bathroom,” said Ama, sliding out of the booth. Once there, she feared Yvette would leave without her, but part of her wanted that to happen. Washing her hands, she took a deep breath and swung open the door.

Yvette had switched sides in the booth. Her face looked tired, almost sensitive, and sitting across from her, Ama felt a pang of guilt.

“Did you fall in?” said Yvette, and Ama smiled at the joke. “I couldn’t sit there any more. The sun was in my eyes.”

Ama cupped the sun from her eyes and studied the face before her, convinced that it was Yvette who sat across from her. But for a moment she’d believed it was Chloe.

“You know,” said Yvette, “Aster used to have what’s called the Aster Family Picnic. Mr. Tyne told me. Even the Stampede couldn’t beat it. They had greased-pig chases, taffy pulls and everything. Potato-sack races, horse races, dancing …”

Across the street people began to rush out of Thorpe’s Diner. There was a blast, cracking the storefront, and voluptuous smoke poured from the windows.

“Thorpe’s is on fire,” said the counterman, dashing outside. An astonished murmur went through Jackson’s. Dazed, everyone dropped their money on the table and ran out to see what was happening.

Ama couldn’t believe it. The yellow awning fell across the storefront, edged in fire. Flames flew off the weakening roof, and a smell of burning plastic weighed down the air. Ama’s chest seized up.

Yvette looked frightened, the light of the fire filling her eyes. Her lower eyelashes were wet.

“I need to go home,” said Ama. “I’m choking to death.”

They walked back in silence. No one was home at the Tyne house. With unexpected tenderness, Yvette put Ama to bed, giving her her medication and insisting on holding the cup for her as Ama drank. Ama lay prostrated, with delusions of sainthood, until an hour later, when they heard the door open downstairs.

It was Mr. and Mrs. Tyne. Reaching the girls’ room, Mr. Tyne looked tired, and a little sheepish, his bowler crushed in his awkward hands. But Mrs. Tyne’s outraged face looked like a stranger’s, her cheeks puckering unnaturally, her eyes cold. Mr. Tyne lowered himself onto one of the cots while Mrs. Tyne paced the room, agitated, making strange movements with her hands.

“How dare you run away like that? How dare you!” Her voice rose an octave. “And without telling me, without even — how disrespectful! And now this fire — don’t you know how terrified I was?” She gestured to her husband. “How terrified we both were? God, you just don’t think! You’re so selfish.” Her whole face trembled, and as she turned to shield her face from the room, Ama was struck by the enormity of their actions. She began to cry.

The crying seemed to ground Mrs. Tyne. She ran a hand over her mouth and assessed them. Her voice sounded parched. “You’ve got asthma?”

Ama was too scared to answer.

“I gave her her medicine,” said Yvette flatly.

Mrs. Tyne didn’t look at her daughter. Turning to her husband, she asked, “Where’s Chloe?” then she turned to Yvette. “Where’s your sister?”

When Yvette shrugged, Mrs. Tyne looked as if she would throttle her. Ama spoke up. “She didn’t come with us. We went without her.”

“She’s still out there?” said Mrs. Tyne. Her angular face made her eyes look huge and sombre. Wearily, as if it pained him to waste the energy, Mr. Tyne rose from the bed and said he would go find her. “Finally, a little help,” muttered Mrs. Tyne as he left. She berated Ama and Yvette for a solid hour.

Afterwards, Yvette and Ama lay on their cots not talking, intermittently falling asleep and reading. At dinnertime, Mrs. Tyne called them down, and the three ate a silent meal of kenkey and spinach stew, which Ama hated but ate out of fear. They were ushered upstairs again, and around nine in the evening they heard the storm door click downstairs. Ama raised her head off the pillow, Yvette shut her book; holding their breath they sat looking at each other.

Only the intonations of Mr. Tyne’s muffled voice could be heard. He sounded tired and a little defensive, and Ama concluded he hadn’t found Chloe. But then they heard a higher, gruffer voice, unmistakably Chloe’s. For once in her life she sounded reticent, even scared. Mrs. Tyne’s voice continued to rise in pitch, culminating in a great scream: “I’ve had enough of this three-way mischief! You’ll sleep in the spare room tonight.”

“The Iron Lung,” said Yvette.

“What?” said Ama.

Yvette turned her face to the wall.

A series of feet trod up the stairs, past the girls’ room, to the small room the twins referred to as the “Iron Lung” because of its cold emptiness, its grey decor, its single frosted window. Behind the wall they heard Chloe pacing.

Ama lay awake in the dark. She thought of how strange the day had been, and wondered if anyone had gotten hurt in the fire. She wondered, too, if it really had been Yvette the whole time in that diner, or if she’d been the victim of one of the twins’ jokes. What most disturbed her, though, was Mr. Tyne’s reluctance to go and find his daughter; in fact, his reticence to enter family life at all. It seemed unnatural. But as soon as this vague thought occurred to her, she felt guilty; who was she to criticize her elders? She closed her eyes, then opened them again. In the dark she could feel Yvette staring at her. No, not so much staring. Listening to her breathe.

“Yvette?” she said, but no answer came.

The next morning, while Chloe showered and Ama helped Mrs. Tyne with the breakfast dishes, Yvette came in to beg her mother for new clothes.

Mrs. Tyne wiped her hands on her thighs. “After the stunt you pulled yesterday? What do you expect me to say to that?”

“But I’m tired of looking like Chloe, like some nondescript goof,” said Yvette.

Mrs. Tyne seemed impressed by the use of the word “nondescript.” “Give me a single good reason.”

“I thought you wanted daughters. Don’t you want me to dress more like a lady? More like her?” Yvette gestured to Ama, who felt a thrill of pleasure. Her cheeks reddened. “In our era it seems more necessary than ever to clearly define gender. Otherwise, you leave me open to censure and the prospect of unmarriageability. Who knows? I might be driven to throw myself on the pyre of parliament. I might actually thwart the divine comforts of housewife-hood and become prime minister. And where would that leave me?”

Mrs. Tyne looked at her daughter. She was too surprised by Yvette’s sudden articulate outburst, her erudition and splendid vocabulary, to sense the insult in the girl’s comment. “You’re a piece of work. I’ll think about it.”

That evening, when the girls retired to their rooms, Yvette and Ama discovered a package on Yvette’s bed. Tearing it open, Yvette sat back, astonished at the colourful, frilly dresses that fell from it. There were five in all, with matching underwear, and even a single, unadorned training bra. The bra mortified twelve-year-old Yvette.

Ama sat beside her on the bed, and whispered, “I’ve started wearing one, too.”

Yvette gave her a look of such disgust that Ama went back to her side of the room. But Ama wasn’t offended; she knew how insecure Yvette was. Yvette flung the bra on the floor, and stepping from her old clothes into the new, she sampled dress after dress, twisting in front of the dresser mirror. Ama rested her head against her knees and watched.

Mrs. Tyne appeared in the doorway, smiling. “Like them?”