“It is grand, isn’t it?” He allowed a strand of black hair to fall across his face as he leaned across the cab toward her. “C’mon, you. Hop on out. I’ll give you the tour.” Nadine obliged, and Marlon snatched a picnic basket from the bed of the borrowed truck. With his other hand, he led her down into the field, tall with alfalfa and wildflowers. “They’re selling the whole property,” he finally said, watching Nadine’s face carefully as she assessed everything. He had learned not to push her too quickly or too hard; when she felt cornered, she balked, like some trapped wild animal. Nadine simply nodded her head, her eyes measuring each blade of grass with that sharpness he had come to expect. He spread out the picnic blanket and sprawled on it, popping the cork on the bottle of Champagne he had brought. It fizzed warmly, and they both leaned in to lap up the bubbly spill as it ran down the edge of the bottle.
“Just thought you might want to take a look. You’ve been talking about leaving the city so much lately,” Marlon said with a shrug. “A nice getaway, anyway.”
“It’s beautiful. It’s so nice to breathe the fresh air,” Nadine agreed. “So this place is what, a farm?” She was careful not to appear too interested, but she couldn’t help feeling nervous excitement at the sense of possibility. Some quiet voice that she hadn’t heard for years kept suggesting a new beginning. She didn’t examine this prompt too closely; she would inspect it later, when she was away from Marlon and could think properly, without all the noise and hormonal interference his presence created in her.
I would interrupt here, derailing Zelda’s artful dialogue. She could perfectly capture our parents’ voices, a born impersonator. But I liked the history of the wine, and of the ground that it came from.
“I was thinking a vineyard, actually.”
“What, here? In New York?” Nadine arched her eyebrows skeptically.
“I know, I know, it seems weird. But there’s this Ukrainian guy who brought some vinifera grapes over from Europe, and they’ve done very well. Some other guys are trying it now, and I don’t know, I have this feeling that the region could get pretty valuable.” Marlon shrugged, sipping his cup of Champagne. “Just a hunch.”
“A hunch, huh?” Nadine smiled slyly. “I’m not a complete ninny, you know. I figure you’re the kind of guy who likes to financially reinforce his hunches.”
Marlon glanced at her in surprise. He thought he’d managed to conceal his proclivity for putting his money where his mouth was.
“I like risk,” he said lightly. “And I’m about to take another.” He drew a deep breath. “The real reason I wanted to bring you here. I’ve been thinking.” He paused to stare at Nadine. “I want to marry you. I want to run away with you and give you babies and spend the rest of our lives naked and drunk.” Without breaking eye contact, he unbuttoned the first three buttons of her shirt, then stopped, his hand poised at the open collar, near her throat. Nadine’s face registered only stillness. She waited long enough that Marlon began to wonder if he hadn’t drastically overplayed his hand. But finally, she covered his hand with her palm and slid both inside her shirt.
“Fine. But we’ll talk about those babies later.”
—
Needless to say, whatever conversations they later had about those babies, nothing stuck. I’ve never known if Zelda and I were accidents; at least we both knew that whatever our status, desirable or planned, we were on equal footing. Either we were both wanted or neither was. Perhaps Nadine had unconsciously hoped for kids and grown careless with her contraceptives. Or maybe Marlon had worked his insidious magic until she relented. Our father said we were wanted, “beginning to end, A to Z,” always with a playful grin. Nadine had said that it was a moot point.
By the time we were born, the reality of the vineyard’s disappointing prospects was becoming clearer, and our parents were just beginning to swat nastily at each other, like house cats cooped up too long indoors. We often wondered, as I imagine many children do, whether we were the cause of our parents’ eventual rupture. If they had been different people, a better team, things might have gone differently. This was early days for modern Finger Lakes winemaking, and Marlon’s selection was actually prescient; property prices went up over the next decade, and plots of land like ours were hotly coveted by ambitious investors and hotheaded fools alike. But Nadine and Marlon fought each other viciously on every petty decision. Soon, Silenus transformed from a prospector’s fortune to a time-consuming forfeiture while Zelda and I ran feral and barefoot in the fields, gnawing on unripe grapes and making gowns from the sickly vines as our family and its investments tumbled down around us in molting shudders of decay.
I open my eyes and look at the wreckage. I scan the rubble for any sign of the tractor, which probably would have been in the barn two nights ago. As I suspected, I don’t see it anywhere, and no matter how hot the fire, there should still be something left. Zelda loved that tractor; of course she wouldn’t let it burn. I get up and walk slowly around the perimeter of the burn, letting the flashlight dance over it. A dull, menacing heat still radiates from the ground. Bats swoop in a leathery rush, hunting. I’m looking for a sign, a message from my sister about what happened here. I don’t for a second believe that she’s actually dead. Come out, Zaza. Time to face your sister.
3
Completely irreconcilable with what I’ve consumed, I wake up the next morning feeling surprisingly un-hungover. My bedroom is dazzling in the high summer sun, still way too white. The walls are white, the bedspread is white, the curtains are gauzy and white, and there’s a white sheepskin rug just next to my bed. I chose the color scheme in contradistinction to Zelda’s bohemian-gypsy vibe across the hall; her room is all purples, reds, blues, and golds, fringed shawls, dull lighting. I hear raised voices in the kitchen and grab a cream kimono from my closet. I haven’t unpacked yet. I’m reluctant to do so; I slept in one of my prim nighties from high school.
As I walk down the stairs, I can hear my mother’s shrill voice.
“I don’t care who you think you are, who you say you are, I saw you! I saw you in the cabinets, stealing. You’ve been taking my things while I slept, and I want you out!”
“Calm down, Nadia, it’s me, Marlon.” I hear my father say her pet name in his very best conciliatory tone, though with a small note of panic. My mother is having none of it. Never did.
“Fuck you and your lies. Get out. I’m calling the police.” She sounds scared. I walk into the kitchen, yawning. It is surreal to see both my parents here, surrounded by the walnut cabinets they built together, bickering as though it’s still 2003.
“Morning, Dad, Mom,” I say, heading straight for the coffeemaker.
“Zelda, get this man out of here. He was stealing my jam from the cupboard!”
“It’s Ava, Mom. And that’s my dad, Marlon?”
“Like hell it is. My ex-husband is dead.”
“Not just yet, Nadine,” my dad says with an edge. But his snark is bravado. He looks genuinely harrowed. He glances back and forth between me and Nadine, clearly unsure what to do.
“Zelda, I will count to three!”
“I’m not four years old. And I’m not Zelda. Are you screwing with me again today, Mom?” I study her more closely. She actually looks terrified, and her expression makes me hesitate. I don’t think she’s faking to get a rise out of us.
“I want Zelda!” she wails, and my stomach clenches.
So do I.