Helen Yglesias - The Girls

Sleep, sleep, if only she could fall asleep. She lit the dim lamp over the bed and propped up the slippery pillows, hoping that the two current magazines she had brought with her would tire her eyes enough to put her out. Instead everything she read stirred her up. The newsweekly bits were horrifying — unthinkable killings, scandals, betrayals personal and public, national and international. She switched to the slicker magazine. She couldn’t understand most of the cartoons — their references were a mystery. I’ve lived too long, she thought, and dropped the periodicals over the side of the bed.

When Jenny came back to the funky motel after a good enough breakfast at a health-food bar, there was a message from Flora to call her at once. She didn’t. She would do the research into Naomi’s bank accounts first.

She took a bus that was filled with passengers, though it was after nine o’clock. Her white hair immediately earned her a seat given up by a young woman tourist. The breezy, sunny morning had lured the foreign tourists out in their vigorously sporty outfits, newly tanned legs and arms bared, noses burned red, light-colored eyes opened wide to the wonders. Across the aisle was a very old Jewish woman in an all-black outfit, her scrawny legs exposed in black tights, her scrawny ass barely covered by a black skirt, her face masked by makeup, her hair drawn up into a wide-brimmed felt hat, her poor feet stuffed into papery boots with stiletto heels. A Flora type, but worse. There were a couple of the usual seedy men who seemed to be perpetually coming from or going to the track, and there was the usual mix of languages, colors of skin. The bus driver was black but didn’t speak. Unidentifiable. Two middle-aged women deep in a lively conversation in Spanish sat near a group of quiet youngsters, male and female look-alikes, toting backpacks. A young man in a yarmulke leafed through Esquire.

Their route took them along a wide boulevard skirting a waterway lined with yachts, some for sale, some private, some large excursion yachts available for day trips. On the opposite side of the boulevard the condominiums and hotels soared in their fantasy shapes and embellishments: pyramids of Egypt, camels, swans, immense carved giraffes, a building whose huge pillars supporting the entranceway were the draped bodies of slaves. Fun and pleasure. Miami life was all about eating, drinking, loafing, swimming, boating, driving, tanning, conning, fucking, shopping, dancing, praying.

And dying.

The bus made a sharp right across a bridge into an area of chic little shops, restaurants, doctors’ offices, banks, a church, an imposing new synagogue. Naomi’s bank was on a corner of this broad tree-lined avenue. Jenny had been here on an earlier visit, before the first breast cancer operation, when Naomi had wanted Jenny on all her accounts “just in case.” That was a year and a half ago. The decor was the same — plush, comfortable armchairs and sofas, little tables, coffee served, good lavatories — but the very pleasant Cuban woman Jenny had dealt with then was gone.

The woman now handling Naomi’s accounts was a Russian Jewish émigré who spoke excellent English. Her open face had a Middle American look, with its fair-skinned, blue-eyed evenness and its beauty parlor hairdo. Her slightly overweight body was neatly held together in a light-green polyester suit, and she wore a gold chain at her neck and gold hoops on her earlobes. Jenny chatted with her about her move from Minsk to Miami Beach. She had studied English all through school back in the Soviet Union. It was a popular language there, lots of students took English. She had come to the United States because she loved freedom —the word as she pronounced it appeared in italics. She also loved Miami Beach. She had come seven years ago. She didn’t miss Russia, no, and anyway it was very bad there now, she had family and friends, they were suffering, they didn’t know from one day to the next what would happen. Economically. Nobody cared about politics anymore. But economics, that was a different story.

She praised Naomi. “Mrs. Rybinski is a lady. A lot of these women at her age, they’re hard to deal with, but Mrs. Rybinski is a lady. We never have any trouble. It’s a pleasure to deal with your sister. She likes to know what her balance is maybe a little too much, every few days, but she’s a lady when she asks.” She paused, proudly presenting Jenny with her business card, on which her name appeared as Tatyana Weiss. She invited Jenny to call her Anna. “More American,” she said. “Easier to pronounce.” Everything between them was pleasantries until her face closed down against whatever she was reading on the computer screen.

“You’re Flora Strauss’s sister?”

“Yes,” Jenny said.

“How many sisters are you?” Tatyana Weiss seemed to be continuing their casual conversation, but her expression was suddenly formal.

“Four, actually, counting myself.”

“And your name is …?”

“Jane Witter,” Jenny said. “I’m on my sister’s accounts. I’m the name on my sister’s accounts.”

But the pleasant face had entirely closed itself off. “I can’t give you any information about Mrs. Rybinski’s accounts,” it said, and turned aside as if the transaction had been completed.

“I don’t understand,” Jenny said.

“That’s the only information I can give you.”

“That’s preposterous.”

“Bank policy,” the woman said. “Have a good day.”

“Can you tell me if I am listed on my sister’s accounts?”

“No information,” the woman repeated. “Bank policy.”

“I filed a power of attorney with you. For my ninety-year-old sister. Are you telling me that it’s no longer operative?”

“Yes, madam. It is no longer operative.”

“And I’m no longer on her accounts?”

“I can give you no further information.”

“Can she do that? Change everything? Without notifying me? And how about the bank — shouldn’t you have notified me? Or something? Doesn’t the bank have any responsibility? To me? To the fact that the woman is ninety years old?”

“Would you like to see the manager? He will be available after two o’clock. That’s all I can do for you, madam.”

“What’s the matter?” Jenny said. “We were a couple of human beings a few moments ago. What happened? I’m just trying to determine the state of my ninety-year-old sister’s accounts.”

“Have a good day, madam.” Tatyana Weiss picked up her phone and turned her back on Jenny altogether, gathering up the remains of their formerly friendly paper cups of coffee.

There was nothing to do but face Naomi. Jenny had spent weeks with Naomi during the first breast operation, seeing doctors, lawyers, bank reps, checking on CDs, Dreyfus, money market investments, getting the power of attorney and the medical papers virtually putting her in charge of Naomi’s life and death. “Just in case,” Naomi had said. But Naomi had made a remarkable recovery. Until the cancer flared up again eight months later.

What was going on? Was she going to have to go through that whole song and dance again? Had Naomi said “just in case” to someone else? When just in case was clearly so much nearer now, had Naomi displaced her sister Jenny with a nearer and dearer just in case? Was it Flora? It had to be Flora. But it couldn’t be Flora, because for all her faults Flora wouldn’t prey on Naomi’s fears to muscle in on her money. It must be someone outside the family, trying to take advantage of Naomi. Retirement homes were always after their residents’ assets, Jenny knew.

She decided to walk to Naomi’s residence, a distance of about a mile. Though the sun was hotter, there was still a pleasant breeze. The shops had let down their awnings, and Jenny strolled, telling herself she was enjoying the splashy displays in the shopwindows. The fact was, a familiar bitterness had invaded her system, spoiling everything. Family. What a mess.