The Story Sisters

She wasn’t afraid of the dead. She’d grown accustomed to being there alone. Tall pine trees loomed, and the path was often slippery with mud. Each time she went, she left a stone behind. There was one for every day her sister had been gone. Meg’s belongings had been moved out of the bedroom. There was only one bed in the attic now. But Claire had kept a box of her sister’s possessions: a collection of Dickens novels, the battered copy of To the Lighthouse without its cover, velvet headbands, the boots Meg had been wearing that day. There were shards of glass embedded in the leather, as if sharp slices of the sky had fallen to earth. Claire still carried the piece of paper with the word orange written on it. She’d taken it out of Meg’s pocket before the hospital disposed of her clothes.

When Pete came into the kitchen that night, Claire looked up, surprised to see him awake at this late hour. She herself got by on five hours of sleep. She was such a light sleeper a single bird settling on the branch of the hawthorn tree could wake her and make her sit up in bed.

“Can’t sleep?” Claire’s voice, unused for so long, was soft and flat. You had to listen carefully or it faded into empty space.

“Sleep is overrated.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” Claire went back to her reading.

“And my stomach’s acting up,” Pete explained. He didn’t mind how quiet Claire was. He’d lived alone for a very long time. At one point he’d gotten so accustomed to silence that the sound of his own voice startled him. He took some Maalox from the cabinet, then sat at the table and gazed at Claire’s notes. “The Russian Revolution. Interesting time.”

“People dying for nothing. Isn’t that what history is?”

“Nope. History is about love and honor and making mistakes.”

Claire smiled. She knew that Pete slept with her mother. The blankets and pillows left on the couch were for her benefit. “You’re a romantic,” she said.

Pete went to the window. The walk he’d shoveled was already being covered by white drifts. In the morning, he would have to clear it all over again. The truth of it was, despite his bad back, he really didn’t mind. Claire was a smart girl. She was absolutely right. He still wanted to believe that people could survive their misfortunes. He believed that was all anyone had.

Thief

I didn’t let him in the door until he promised he wouldn’t take anything precious. He crossed his heart. He wanted comfort, nothing more. Robbery was tiring work. He slept in a corner, curled up. When he awoke he was famished. I cooked him eggs and toast. I kept an eye on him. He kept his hands to himself. The silver candlesticks were still on the table. The pearl brooch was at my throat.

He made a list of all the things he’d taken. He wanted redemption and faith and I offered him both. When daylight came I asked him to stay. I could see from his face this had happened to him before. Women wanted to rob him of the life he led, the road, the dark night, the open windows, the stars. The whole world belonged to him. When he left he swore he’d be back. It didn’t matter. He’d already taken everything I had.

IT WAS A GOOD PLAN, BUT PLANS FALL APART. ONCE ONE THING goes wrong, everything else can easily unwind and there you are, left with nothing but the hole you’ve fallen into. It was supposed to be safe. They would talk people into handing over their money. Lorry liked to do things that way, use charm rather than force, tell folks what they wanted to hear. People would sign away their savings of their own free will. No more breaking into houses, ferreting around in people’s closets, running risks. They’d had several close calls out on Long Island. One had been particularly nerve-racking. Lorry said it was a sign for them to find a new direction. They’d been casing a house in Roslyn for several days, and when the family went out, Lorry got out of the car. He stretched his back, then slipped around to a window left ajar. People were trusting, especially in the suburbs. They wanted to believe they were safe from harm, when it was everywhere, unavoidable, no matter how protected you thought you were. Lorry hoisted himself inside. He was on his way to the bedroom in search of the wife’s jewelry when he unexpectedly came upon an eight-year-old boy, left at home. They faced each other in the hall in pure silence. The boy seemed terrified. Then Lorry had said he was there to fix the TV. He said it so matter-of-factly that the boy led him to the den. Lorry told Elv the kid been left home alone as a punishment for bad grades at school. Lorry fixed him a bowl of cereal before he left with the flat-screen TV.

It was Mr. Ortiz who did them in. He was smarter than Elv had guessed. It was almost as if he was a spider spinning his own trap and Elv had dropped right into it. When he notified the authorities, they sent a policewoman who pretended to be his wife. She could have been an actress on Broadway. She was that good. She shrugged and gestured to make it clear she didn’t speak English, so Elv didn’t mind if she sat with them at the kitchen table. But she understood everything. She was wired to tape the conversation and smiling when Mr. Ortiz signed his bank account over to Elv so she could invest it for him. In earlier meetings Elv had explained how he could double his money and not have to pay taxes. She would handle everything. She would give him an official receipt. The water there is so blue you’ll cry when you see it. All your tears will remind you of your childhood and how free you were before you came to New York and had to navigate the concrete and the dark tunnels and the avenues where nobody cares about you. The banks want to rip you off taxes are chipping away at all you worked so hard and long to save.