Cleo
Although Cleo’s Codependent No More app counseled her to leave Sylvie alone, to “keep her side of the street clean,” to just say, “not my circus, not my monkeys,” and stand by as Sylvie married a liar, Cleo’s sense of duty was too strong. She wanted to save her sister and protect her from heartbreak, even if Sylvie seemed to bring it upon herself, to be honest. Cleo would amass a dossier against Simon Rampling that was irrefutable; fly to England in time to make her case; and then escort her fragile sister back to Miami.
When Cleo opened Cleo Peacock, LLP, on the Upper East Side, she wanted an office that announced she was the best. All of her (male) bosses had had traditional offices with enormous wooden file cabinets and huge, macho desks with a zillion drawers and squeaky (if very comfortable) leather chairs. Cleo had told her designer to go “one hundred percent minimalist,” spreading her fingers wide as she imagined clean lines. “I want a powerful female vibe, none of the heavy, leather stuff.”
The designer had done her bidding. Her desk was gold with a metallic brushed finish. It had no drawers, which had seemedperfect when the designer showed her the design but necessitated Cleo using the bookshelf behind the desk as a catchall: The top shelf was littered with cough-drop wrappers, pennies, business cards, and pens—all the junk that should have gone in a desk drawer. Cleo had called the designer to complain, and the designer had lined her desk and the shelf behind her with plants to hide the detritus and silver bowls to hold some of it. Cleo had to admit it looked cool, but if she ever replaced her five-thousand-dollar desk, she’d get one with a fucking drawer, or even go old-school with the right-hand-side bank of many drawers, some with locks and room for a bottle of Merlot and some gossip magazines.
She had no trash can. “Trash cans are clutter,” the designer had said coolly. Every damn day, Cleo filled silver bowls with napkins and deli sandwich wrappers, and every morning, they were emptied and gleaming again.
Law was a jigsaw puzzle. Cleo’s job was to move the pieces, not to assess guilt or innocence. Perhaps this was why the case of Sylvie’s fiancé, Simon Rampling, fascinated her. For one, he hadn’t hired her, so she could draw any conclusion the evidence led toward, as opposed to turning off the part of her brain that cried outGuilty!For another, it was a chance to atone. Cleo had failed her sister once—unforgivable, though of course she yearned for forgiveness—and she was not going to fail her again.
Heading home after work, Cleo found herself in front of Nordstrom, examining a bandeau top and matching shorts printed with what appeared to be carousels. French carousels, bien sûr. Where would Cleo—or anyone—wear such an outfit? Probably not to a wedding in a castle.
WhatwouldCleo wear to a wedding in a castle? Something long…and diaphanous…Cleo imagined an elaborate “sister of the bride” headpiece, like one of the characters in the musicalSix,about the wives of Henry VIII.
Cleo hadn’t seenSixbut she’d seen the billboards, and theTudor gowns were fabulous. The thought of tomboy Sylvie getting married in Tudor finery in a castle was so absurd it made Cleo suddenly furious. Ifanyoneshould be married in a long, velvet, ermine-lined cape…it was Cleo. She was without a doubt the most queenly of the Peacock sisters!
Cleo lifted her chin, continuing through Rockefeller Center. She imagined Donna as the spiteful, withered queen mother; herself as the reigning queen in her most powerful and majestic years; Emma as a kindly lady-in-waiting (she was such amensch,even though Emma would never know the meaning of the word, since Jews in Missoula were few and far between); and Sylvie as the flyaway-haired princess, twirling on the castle…grounds? Lawn? Whatever, Sylvie was the carefree baby. Even though she was a widow. She was still the adorable child.
Cleo smiled, thinking of herself in a crown or one of those regal pointed hats with a veil floating off the top. But then her mind returned to the present day: She was going to be late again for dinner with her boyfriend, Danny.
Danny would be in the midst of preparing a complicated meal, a dish that would have required a trip to some hidden market or artisan butchery, an expensive knife Cleo could afford but felt resentful about buying anyway. Some nights, to be truthful, she just wanted a yogurt, but she did her best to find enthusiasm. She knew Danny made elaborate meals because he felt like a failure, his novel-in-progress indefinitely stalled. Danny thought they were trying to have kids, imagined himself a stay-at-home dad, but Cleo was still on birth control pills, which she hid at work.
Danny was also hiding something: a giant engagement ring, which he had bought with Cleo’s credit card. She knew a proposal was imminent and wished she was glad. Instead, she felt trapped and uneasy.
Danny was lean and ripped, every inch toned to perfection from his afternoons at Barry’s Boot Camp. He wore his dark hairlong and used a hair dryer to create pleasing waves that framed his high cheekbones. His hands, feet, and penis were large and thin. Unfortunately, the more objectively fat-free and perfect he became, the less Cleo wanted to make out with him. Cleo had once noticed him looking at himself in the bureau mirror as they were having sex. She had opened her eyes and seen him, atop her, watching his own body.
Once in a while, a stranger on the subway or in a shop would hold Cleo’s gaze flirtatiously and she would feel powerful, but she never took it further than this. She was too honest to cheat, and too busy to end things with Danny.
Danny was almost as critical of Cleo as her mother had been. But when Cleo pleased Danny, she felt euphoric, blissed-out for days.
He was harder to please than he used to be.
Danny followed her location on his phone as she progressed home to Brooklyn. He was, he said, worried about her being mugged. He dropped questions into their evening conversations, like “Hmm, by the way…just wondering…were you, like, looking at magazines at the bodega on Forty-ninth? It seemed like a long time to grab milk, haha!”
Haha indeed.
What—did he think she was sequestered in a bodega bathroom, having a quickie with a stranger…or murderous client?As if.In truth, she’d been leaning against a refrigerated case, paging through gossip in theNew York Post. Did he know this, too? Did his phoneseewhat she was doing? When she read gossip at home, Danny looked at her sternly. He left her books he wished she’d read on her bedside table:The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, My Struggle: Book 1, Gravity’s Rainbow. In a tiny act of rebellion, Cleo read erotic romance on her iPad, stories about cowboys and handymen and Parisian chefs intrès chaudekitchens who took their shirts off.
Cleo reached the subway entrance and couldn’t make herselfgo down the stairs, though commuters jostled her on either side. Around Danny, Cleo felt invisible. She wasn’t really herself with him, more like a shape-shifter whorespondedto him. Cleo gravitated to people who made her feel like Donna made her feel. She understood what she was doing cognitively; she’d readNarcissistic Mothers and Their Legacy of Blame and Shame.Danny watched her like Donna had. He required her to adjust herself to his needs and whims. He was as messed up as she was, so it felt as if she could rewrite the story of her life if she could change him.
Cleo had escaped from her family; she’d made it. Here she was in motherfucking Times Square on a beautiful day in a skirt worth a thousand dollars! And yet she was so lonely. Cleo wished she could just stop by for dinner with Emma’s family…or meet Sylvie at the park to see her dog run. Maybe, in saving Sylvie, Cleo could change her patterns, make up for what she had done a decade before—what she had done to Alexander.
5
Emma
-$31,002.70
“Emma,” said Rich, not very quietly. Emma opened one eye. Rich stood at the foot of their bed in a Costco towel. His hair was wet from the shower and he smelled of the tropics because Suave Tropical Coconut was the cheapest shampoo at Albertsons.
“What time is it?” said Emma, pulling a pillow over her head. Her day loomed—endless—in front of her. She rolled to her stomach.
Emma took after her father in more ways than one: their shy grins, stocky builds, and ability to eat dessert without gettingtoopudgy. Emma was named after Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, which…what was there to say? Her mother, Donna, had held baby Emma, peered into her newborn face, and named her after a fictional character who, at the end of her tale, eats arsenic. Emma’s father had not objected. What did this mean? Emma would have to ask her sister Cleo, the only one of them in therapy.
Emma had dainty feet and elegant ankles. She bought a new shade of nail polish almost every time she went to the Dollar General. Even if no one saw her toes (hidden by wool socks from October through March) Emma made sure they were painted.
In a way, her unseen Dollar General toenails were a metaphor for Emma’s entire life. She went seemingly unnoticed no matter how hard she tried to shine, muffled as if covered by a wool sock. Cleo was the superstar, Sylvie the family tragedy—the only role left for Emma was the ghost destined to haunt the middle, a ghost trying to be the glue that would hold the whole broken family together. But how could a ghost be glue? A ghost is intangible! Thus, Emma’s anguish.
