The Ladies' Lending Library E-Book

Janice Kulyk Keefer

• Herausgeber: Atlantic Books
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

From the award-winning author of Honey and Ashes and Thieves, The Ladies' Lending Library is a richly evocative story for anyone who has longed for the heady days of bygone summers and the risky promises of change. During the languorous summer of 1963 - before the Beatles, before JFK - the women of Ontario's Kalyna Beach anticipate the long holiday season ahead... With their husbands away in the city, the wives break up monotonous days of children and chores by gathering together for their weekly 'lending library' - an excuse to exchange 'daring' novels and the latest gossip. As heavy waves pound the sand and the sun beats down on their beach-cottage steps, gin is poured, secrets are shared and they become ever closer. Meanwhile, their adolescent daughters are making discoveries and forging intimacies of their own... Consumed by thoughts of marriage and sex, by memories of the past and longing for the future, innocence gradually gives way to new understanding. And as the summer gradually draws to an end, the women of Kalyna Beach come to realize that nothing will be quite the same again...

Leseprobe

ALSO BY JANICE KULYK KEEFER

The Paris-Napoli Express

White of the Lesser Angels

Transfigurations

Under Eastern Eyes:A Critical Reading of Canadian Maritime Fiction

Constellations

Reading Mavis Gallant

Travelling Ladies

Rest Harrow

The Green Library

Marrying the Sea

Honey and Ashes

Anna’s Goat

Thieves

Dark Ghost in the Corner

Midnight Stroll

THELADIES’ LENDINGLIBRARY

JANICE KULYK KEEFER

First published in Canada in hardback in 2007 by HarperCollins Publishers Canada.

This revised edition first published in the United States in 2009 by HarperCollins Publishers US.

First published in trade paperback Great Britain in 2009 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd.

Copyright © Janice Kulyk Keefer, 2007

The moral right of Janice Kulyk Keefer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

978 1 84354 748 8

Designed by Joy O’Meara

Printed in Great Britain

Atlantic Books

An imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London WC1N 3JZ

www.atlantic-books.co.uk

For Vera and Gus

THELADIES’ LENDINGLIBRARY

THELADIES’ LENDINGLIBRARY

Janice Kulyk Keefer is a bestselling Canadian author widely admired for her novels, short story collections, poetry, and non-fiction. The Ladies’ Lending Library is her fifth novel to date and the first to be published in the UK. She lives in Toronto.

THE LADIES’ LENDING LIBRARY is not an institution; though communal, it certainly isn’t public. It’s just a group of women up at the cottage for the summer, alone with their children all week and needing something to amuse them, to get them through each long and repetitious day, and to look forward to at night, in the privacy of their rooms with their half-empty beds. Something to remind them that a few things in the world are designed for people over the age of twelve—something to give them a way of feeling sophisticated and daring: women of a wider world. And so, seven of the women spending the summer at Kalyna Beach decide to pass around the books they’ve chanced upon in drugstores in the little towns on the way up to the cottage, or that they’ve smuggled in from home. Not just The Carpetbaggers and The World of Suzie Wong, but books that Nadia Senchenko come across doing courses at the university: Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. But never mind the titles: the whole point is that it doesn’t matter, the books aren’t supposed to be that kind of “educational.” That’s why Sasha calls it the Ladies’ Lending Library; that’s why they meet for gin and gossip at Sasha’s cottage every Friday afternoon, as their husbands are starting the long drive up from the city.

There are women who would never allow themselves to be part of the Lending Library, women whose blazing virtues are a scourge to the kind of fiction making the rounds of the cottages, slipped from hand to hand, wrapped up in a beach towel or a petaled bathing cap. Women like Lesia Baziuk and Nettie Shkurka, for example. They don’t belong to anything; even their cottages are on the extreme edges of Kalyna Beach, one on the west side, one on the east. Lesia, for all her peddling of cosmetics, would go to the stake rather than read a dirty book; and as for Nettie, Sasha jokes that Nettie has vinegar in her veins and stuffs her bra with leftover Communion bread.

The Ladies’ Lending Library is not wholly an affair of gin and gossip, though the group refrains from any discussion of the literary merits of the books they read. The women talk about certain characters as though they were their dearest, oldest friends or else their fiercest enemies; often they whisper questions to one another, lying on their blankets down at the beach while their children jump across the sand. Valley of the Dolls is a big hit, as is Fanny Hill, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure. Sonia makes them laugh with this one—at first she’d refused to read it, confusing it with the Fannie Farmer Cookbook. It’s Sonia, too, who is most apprehensive about being a receiver of doubtful goods: she insists that they remove the shiny jackets from the hardbacks and make covers out of brown-paper grocery bags for the paperbacks. Though, except for Nadia, all the women hide the books at the bottom of laundry hampers or in the farthest reaches of their night-table drawers. They read them late at night, when the kids are not just in bed but asleep, and their husbands are back in the city. Not that Ivan would care if he caught his wife reading Fanny Hill—he’d be sitting beside her, turning the pages, Sasha jokes. But she likes the forbidden, hide-and-go-seek side of the Lending Library, which is far more exciting, at times, than the hot parts stashed between a book’s covers. When she is recovering from sunburn one day, Sasha sends her kids over to Sonia’s and stays in bed reading most of Tropic of Cancer, from which she derives sadly unfulfilled expectations regarding subway travel.

About sex, the Ladies already know everything. Almost all of them married young; they had their children right away—there’s never been any time to wonder if things could have worked out differently. Sex and haste and exhaustion, sex and the fear of kids barging into the bedroom at any and all hours of the night. Never, ever, sex in the morning, sex in the afternoon. A kiss in the kitchen while you’re mashing the potatoes for supper is the warning signal for what will happen later, after you’ve done the dishes and tucked the kids in for the night, and he’s watched the hockey game or the news: not his hands, first, but the whole weight of his body sliding like a great warm seal on top of you. It takes forever, like being in a lineup at the checkout counter at the supermarket, but finally you feel the one sensation you are guaranteed: your husband’s body crumpling in your arms, for all the world like a baby that’s drunk its fill at your breast. Then he pulls away into a dead sleep, sometimes making room for you to lie close against his chest, sometimes turning his back to you, drum-rolling into a snore.

Oh, the women have read it all, at the doctor’s or dentist’s office, in articles in Reader’s Digest and Chatelaine. How to save or add zip to their marriages—but who would go out and buy the expensive perfume, the sheer nighties (all needing to be hand-washed) like the ones they sometimes, somehow, see in cartoons from Esquire, not to mention the French wine and slow-burning candles the articles call for? It’s all too much like work, another version of the sessions at the washing machine or kitchen sink, and besides, the magazines never tell you what to do with the children, who are likely coming down with chicken pox or getting their fingers stuck in doors, or waking with nightmares just as you’re struggling out of your girdle into the negligee you’d have had to ask him to pay for, anyway, and of course he would have groused at the expense. And the awful, remarkable thing is this: the women aren’t really resentful, most of them; they know they’d have much more trouble surviving if they had to make room, find the time—that’s always it, the time—for any slower kind of sex than what they’re used to.

Sometimes, serendipitously, they have known moments of feeling so intense that pleasure seems too mild a word for it. In the pitch-black of the bedroom they bite their lips and close their eyes: if this is orgasm, they are wary of it. It happens far too rarely to be something they can count on, yet even if their husbands had the gift of pleasing them with the reliability you’d expect when switching on the burners of your kitchen stove, they would remain uneasy. The idea of physical passion—of becoming a prisoner, not to a lover so much as to your own body, its needs, its urgings—they are afraid of this. Though they’re curious, of course, as to what happens to those who give way, as the saying goes, to passion. Bored, safely buttressed as they are, they are dying to know what happens, how, and why. Which may explain why, this summer of the Lending Library, the subject they discuss most often and with the most intensity isn’t a book at all but the new film of Cleopatra: the film and its aftermath, the outrageous, irresistible love affair between Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. A passion they read like the most forbidden, most enticing, and thus the dirtiest book of all.

Dirty books—this is, after all, the best, the only description that will do. Dirt is what they desire and dread in these books—no pleasure without shame, like a smudge, a soiled collar that must be scrubbed clean. For they are, above all else, respectable women: some of them may have had their lapses before marrying, but what you do in the cramped, guilty dark, you hide, and as long as nobody ever finds out, you can hold your head high. God forbid that you’ve been open, ignorant, unashamed: the way Olya had been, parading her belly for the whole world to see; marrying when Darka was five months short of being born. The way Darka gives every sign of being and doing, parading around in her two-piece, like some teenage, tin-pot temptress of the Nile.

No one intends any harm to come of the Ladies’ Lending Library—no one believes any book, never mind a Hollywood movie, could do any kind of damage to the families gathered at Kalyna Beach. You could argue that what happens this summer has nothing at all to do with Sasha’s brainchild, except that the Library has added something to the atmosphere, a sense of possibility that breaks out like some contagious disease, something secret, underground, as distinct from what the women think of when they hear the word dirty. They are all pretty incorruptible, even after reading Fanny Hill; that is, they remain afraid. That’s why what happens this summer appears to them a calamity, the social equivalent, Sasha thinks, of an earthquake or a hurricane. How it came to happen they can guess at from their reading—the step-by-step science of the thing. But that it should have happened in the first place, that it should have been allowed to happen by Whoever Is Supposed to Watch Over Us—this is the mystery, and it is terrible.

Because it will end up changing everything: they will lose their innocence by gaining imagination, understanding that it can happen to any of them. That you don’t have to be Elizabeth Taylor to give way, to give yourself away. That it can happen in Hamilton as well as Hollywood. That you can make it happen.

PART ONE

LADYBUG

Olya moya,

How I hate this place! I can’t stand the sound of the waves crashing, and the hevyness when the water is still. Water and sky and sand—there’s nothing else up here, nothing to keep me from thinking. I wish, how I wish we were girls again—things were hard then, but we could hope for anything. But we went and got married, and now there’s nothing but the ever-after. Children keep coming, days keep passing, but I’m not alive any more—my life has stopped. Oh, why did we come here at all, Olya, was it only for this? If I could wish myself back to the Old Place, the way it used to be, I’d go in a minute. I swear it. I’d leave it all behind, husband and house and even, God help me, the children. Sometimes I catch myself looking at them at the brekfast table, seeing them at the bottom of the lake. All four of them in a row, holding hands and sitting still, so still, the waves lifting their hair, ruffling the frills of their bading suits . . .

Sonia Martyn is staring at the empty place on the mantel, where a small plaster statue used to stand. She looks down at what she’s just written; crumples it in her fist, but this isn’t good enough. She takes the ball of paper to the fieldstone fireplace. In her thin pajamas measled with roses, she hunkers down and lights a match. The letter flares up, quick and bright as tears, then falls into ash. She stabs it with the poker till it breaks into small, bitter flakes. In the thriller Sasha’s loaned her, a detective is able to piece together a letter that the murderer burned in a grate, picking up the charred pieces with tweezers. Sonia isn’t taking any chances.

Dear Olya,

I hope things are going well for you and Walter in the city. Everything’s fine here, no need to worry about anything. Darka’s a big help with the children and she makes herself useful with cooking and cleening, too. You’ll be happy to know she’s settled down. Of course it’s so quiet here—not much going on for a girl of her age, thank heven. Only two more weeks and the summer will be over, and we’ll bring her back to you, safe and sound.

It’s not yet six; she should go back to bed. Outside, the air is misty, as if someone’s poured cream into the sky, though the sun’s already scraping at the edges. Another fine, bright, endless day. Sonia opens the kitchen door, examining the shadfly skeletons still hooked into the screen, bleached ghosts of the insects that shed them. How, she wonders, do they crawl out so cleanly, leaving behind this perfect trace of their bodies, even the legs, thinner than eyelashes? Do they miss their old selves, do they ever mistake their cast-off bodies for some long-lost friend or forgotten twin? She doesn’t dare step out onto the porch: she’s afraid the hinge will squeak as it always does and waken Darka. A bad idea, giving her that poky room across from the kitchen. They would have put her in the sleep-house across the lawn, except that Sonia had promised Olya to keep both eyes on her daughter.

Olya, her best friend before their marriages: they hardly saw one another now, living as they did at opposite ends of the city, and in such different circumstances. For Olya had married Walter, a cutter at Canada Packers—had had to get married, while Sonia had bided her time until what they used to call “the right man” came along, a man with a profession, a future ahead of him. That future had turned out to contain, on his side, endless work at the office, and on hers, four children to raise. Walter Marchuk may have been as busy at the plant as Max Martyn was at his law office, but while Sonia was struggling with diapers and baby carriages and booster shots for her brood, Olya, who’d had only the one child, spent her time cleaning the houses of women who lived in suburbs similar to Sonia’s, but who had names like Brenda and Patty and Joan. For Max and Sonia had moved from downtown to a big house in a development that had been farmland ten years ago. Whereupon Olya had found excuses to decline Sonia’s invitations to visit and had stopped inviting the Martyns over for sloppy joes or lazy holubtsi at the duplex on Bathurst. It was Olya’s pride, Sonia’s mother had said; there was no forcing a friendship past the point of such pride. So now the Martyns and the Marchuks saw each other once a year, at the Martyns’ shabby cottage at Kalyna Beach, where Olya and Sonia would cook together and reminisce about their immigrant girlhoods, pretending things were just as they’d been before husbands had barged into view, before addresses and occupations had started to matter.

Sonia had promised to take Darka for the summer, see her through a difficult patch (she was driving Olya crazy) allow her to earn some pocket money, teach her some housekeeping skills—and keep her out of harm’s way. This last part of the promise had been broken their very first night at the cottage. How could Sonia have known what Darka would get up to, disappearing into the bathroom once everyone else was in bed, experimenting with a jar of peroxide bleach she’d smuggled up in her suitcase? Max had grumbled about having to secure a box of Miss Clairol (Basic Brown) from the city so that Darka’s hair could be dyed back at summer’s end. Olya and Walter need never find out—but this turns Sonia into a traitor as well as a liar, as far as she can see. For this is the first summer that the Martyns have failed to invite the Marchuks up for a weekend. Darka has made it a condition of her staying on in this hole-in-the-wall at the edge of nowhere. She’s promised not to hitch a ride into Midland and, from there, back to the city, on two conditions: that Sonia let her live this summer as a blonde and that Olya and Walter be kept in the dark.

Sonia puts her hands to her face, rubbing her eyes with her fingertips. Another half-hour’s sleep might make all the difference between a good and a bad day, between drifting or dragging herself through the duties required of her, but it’s so peaceful when she’s the only one awake, the children cocooned, still, in their dreams. With the irresponsibility of a ghost she glides from room to room, watching her daughters sleep: Laura and Bonnie in the shady, sunken bedroom off the screened-in porch; Katia and Baby Alix in the sunny room across from her own. Opening the doors so softly, imagining herself all tenderness, beautifully good, like the Blue Fairy in the movie of Pinocchio. They are all of them so beautiful, so good when they are lying sleeping, whatever wounds they’ve got or given healing gently, as if without scars. She loves them so, she could be such a wonderful mother if only her children were always still like this, and lying sleeping.

On her night table, like a corpse waiting to be discovered, lies the paperback she should have finished by now: Death by Desire. Halia had passed it on to her, saying she’d stayed up till three one night to finish it. Sonia has been trying for a week, now, to get through it. Three people have been murdered so far, but she couldn’t care less: she doesn’t like any of them, she doesn’t believe in them. They’re all parties and yachts and sex, sex, sex—nobody phones their mother or has a kid up all night with the croup . . . That’s the point, Sasha would say—it’s supposed to be an escape. But what good’s an escape made of paper and ink, Sonia sighs. Instead of racing through the book to see what was going to happen next, she kept putting it aside; kept walking back into the warm rooms of her familiar worries.

Sonia shoves Death by Desire into the drawer, to the very back, where no one will find it unless he’s looking for it. Now the night table’s all innocence, showing the nicks in the dull-white paint, paint thick like her own skin, skin of a thirty-nine-year-old woman who’s had too many children too quickly. Bare, dull-white paint with something marring the finish—a bead broken off a dress: if she were in the city right now, she’d say a small jet bead. Though it’s not black at all, but dark red—she pushes at it with her finger, and legs spring out; it waddles off. Sonechko. The children have another name for it, an English name. They sing a nursery rhyme, too; she knows what the words are but not what they mean. She understands nothing of this childhood she’s given them by this miracle she’s never quite believed in—a new life in a new country. Their skipping games, the poems they learn at school, the cards they make for Christmas, birthdays—foreign territory in which she’ll never be at home. The very idea of a card for a birthday, of wasting something as precious as paper!

Flat on her stomach, face pressed into the dough of the pillow, Sonia plays at suffocation. Tonight Max will arrive with his sister Marta and there’ll be endless rearranging. She’ll have to send Darka to the sleep-house for the week: Katia and Laura can’t be trusted together, they are always at each other’s throats. Why, oh why can’t they get on? There’s a hard little lump in Sonia’s heart, like the pit of an apricot. If only she had had a sister, someone to talk with, confide in—how different her life might have been. All the things she could never tell, even to Olya; hurts and shocks from the village in the lost, the long-gone country. Or the most private things, secrets crawling up and down the inside of her skin. How tonight he’ll walk in while she’s sorting dirty laundry for the next day’s wash, will plant a kiss on her neck, and she’ll stiffen; before she says a word, he’ll feel her body closing up against him, and it will start all over again. He’ll tell her how exhausted he is, fighting traffic the whole way up, as if he were a frontline soldier. And she’ll answer back, without meaning it to spurt out the way it always does: “Do you think it’s any picnic for me up here, with four kids, and Darka too—I can’t take my eyes off her for a second. And now you bring me your witch of a sister. What am I supposed to do with her? I’ll go to the office and you stay here with her—you look after her and the kids all week, see how you like it.”

And he will, yes, how could it ever be otherwise, he’ll turn away from her in the hallway where she’s getting out the sheets to make up Marta’s bed. He’ll kiss whichever of the children are still awake, take them out on the lawn to look at the stars, not even thinking to ask if she’ll come out with them, because of course she can’t, she has a million things to do before they can all go to sleep for the night. And the children will leap to him like fish, like sunfish to a scrap of bacon, even Laura who loves no one and wallows in her own misery; the children he almost never sees and who love him all the more because of it, more than they’ll ever love her. And then, once she’s got them all into bed—which they’ll fight like little Tatars after the excitement of being out under the stars, laughing and shoving each other till Marta will call out, in her vulture’s croak, “Can’t you keep those children under control?”—then he’ll come to bed at last, smelling of the city and the cigar he’s smoked out on the porch. For the children and the stars are only an excuse to indulge himself. He knows how she hates the stink of cigars.

He’ll undress in the dark, roll in like a driftwood log beside her, the sag in the mattress pushing their bodies together, no matter how hard she tries to keep to her side. Tonight he’ll be too tired, highway-tired, much too tired. But tomorrow, after a day spent fixing the roof or tinkering with the septic system, or replacing the rotten wood on the porch steps; after getting too much sun and putting up with the kids quarreling over who is to hand him the nails, and who will hold the hammer when he doesn’t need it—then he’ll turn out the lights after they’ve undressed with their backs to one another; he’ll turn to her and she’ll lie there beneath him, good as gold. What else can she do, when you can hear through the skin-thin walls every sigh or cry anyone makes in their sleep?

Max wants a son. Ever since she was pregnant that first time with Laura, he’s had the name picked out: his father’s name, Roman. A boy called Roman had followed her home from school all one winter, a skinny, dwarfish boy she couldn’t stand to have near her. Give him his son and he will never bother her again, that’s what it means, his turning to her each Saturday night, his body so heavy it crushes the life from her. And yet no one is a better dancer—so light on his feet, whirling her across the floor as if she were swan’s down chased by a summer breeze. She sees herself and her husband like those tiny dolls placed on the top tier of wedding cakes, gliding over the stiff white icing, while all around, people are watching, envying. Law’s such a respectable profession; he’ll go far, all the way to QC. Such a handsome man, so distinguished-looking in his tuxedo, the spotless white cummerbund, the deep red carnation in his lapel. He would always bring her a gardenia—roses were common, he used to say: she deserved something as rare as she was. A gardenia, a cummerbund—had she really married him for that? And has it really led her to this? A house in the suburbs, a tumbledown summer cottage, a body scarred with stretch marks, like silver-fish crawling over her belly and across her thighs: an aging body stranded in the washed-out garden of her pajamas.

Never mind, she has one sure consolation: her dress for the Senchenkos’ party. She has hidden it away, like the book in the night-table drawer. Sonia tiptoes to the closet, reaching into its soft depths, finding the dress—the gown—by the metallic feel of the fabric. She can hear her mother’s tongue clucking at the clinging folds, the low-cut neck, but as she holds the dress up against her she is overcome by its sheer gorgeousness, the cloth dropping from her breasts like golden rain. Slippery and cool like rain, her skin drinking in the gold. If she were to step into the dress, study herself in the mirror, move in the clinging fabric as if she were on a runway and about to launch herself on a sea of unknown, admiring eyes . . . But she resists the lure: she makes herself shove the dress to the very back of the closet; she swears not to look at it again, to try it on, until the night of the Senchenkos’ party, lest she damage its rareness with too much looking.

Sitting on the end of the bed, facing the stained satin headboard (too good to be thrown out, too soiled to use back home), Sonia counts the waves beating against the shore as if they were knocks at a door she’d double-bolted. She longs for the city—not the vast, empty-seeming suburb where she lives now, but downtown where she used to work: the streetcar sparks and honking of horns, the wholesale fabric sellers on Queen, the roar of sewing machines in the factories on Spadina. Her mother’s house on Dovercourt Road: sitting out on the porch on summer nights, people walking by, calling hello, everyone breathing in the scent of melting chocolate from the Nielson factory nearby. And it doesn’t matter how hot it gets on summer days, how steamy and drenching; in spite of the lake, in spite of Sunnyside pool, no one expects you to jump into the water.

Whereas here, if one of the children were drowning, she wouldn’t be able to run in and rescue her. It’s got so bad now that she can’t go down to the water’s edge without the hairs on her arms sticking into her like pins, her fear like a rag in her mouth. Even if all four of them were to plead with her from the bottom of the lake, their arms stretched out, their mouths wide open, she wouldn’t be able to put a foot—not so much as a toe—into the lake to save them.

THE CHILDREN THINK it must be God’s hand drawing ridges in the sand beneath the water every night. The God whose eye is painted on the dome of the cathedral back in the city: one huge, blue, unshuttable eye, trailing gold and locked in a triangle.

There is no church-going at Kalyna Beach: no onion-bulb cathedral, no bishop with a glass eye and thick black veil strung from a pillbox hat high on his terrible gray head. No cross to kiss, no thick, consecrated bread to force down to an empty stomach, no incense smoking from censers in front of the icon screen with its gold grape vines and glimmering lamps. Here there’s just the bay, what they call “the lake,” though it’s a mere scallop on a gigantic body of water stretching farther north than any of them has ever dreamed of going. The lake and the cottages on the bluff above it, and the tree-tunneled roads behind them. And the beach, of course, a snaking shore of sand coasting up to dunes with spikes of grass like long, green needles stuck in a cushion.

Sometimes the lake’s a pale blue, cloudy as shards of glass smoothed to pebbles by the waves. Sometimes the lake is orange, rose, peach, after one of the perfectly calm, bright days, when the children have camped out at the beach, except for the naps they’re forced to take in the afternoon, lying in cedar-scented rooms, watching leaf-shadows dart and flicker on the walls. After sunset, when darkness pools in the roofs of the cottages and the cars stranded beside them, the lake becomes the color of night itself, so that if you were to flout the rules and sneak down for a swim, the children think, you would emerge with skin blue-black, telltale as ink.

But their days are far too full of sun and sand and water for them to think of anything but sleep by the time dark falls. Under the covers of their narrow beds, the older ones may read with flashlights, but when they hear the grown-ups yawn and stumble off to sleep, the children finally give in. Letting their eyelids shut at last, they walk out the doors of their dreams to shores where it’s impossible to tell where water ends and sky begins.

A GILDED BARGE with sails of purple silk and a hundred silver-mounted oars beating through the oiled and snaky waters. Pyramids on either side of her; palm trees like huge green moths overhead. Charmian and Lotos kneeling with jeweled beakers of strawberry juice. Languid under a canopy of cloth of gold, her raven tresses fingered by the breeze raised by her slaves’ ostrich-feather fans, her bosom rising like dough in a mixing bowl, she waits for Marc Antony. Together they will rule the world and found a dynasty of mighty kings and queens.

Sails billowing, oars beating through the waves—but the harder they beat, the clearer it becomes that the barge, far from moving, is stuck in water thick and stiff as week-old Jell-O. She is about to call to her oarsmen to go faster, faster, when the chief slave, who has the face of her younger sister Katia, turns to her with her hands on her hips, saying, “You—Cleopatra? Who do you think you’re kidding? You’ve got no breasts, your hair’s the color of dirty dishwater, and you wear glasses. Big, ugly, blind-girl glasses!” And then the voice alters: “What on earth do you think you’re doing, spilling strawberry juice all over the clothes I’ve just washed!” For Katia’s taunts have turned into their mother’s exasperated scolding; the billowing cloth of gold is a ripped flap of screen, and waves, not oars, pound at her ears.

It’s still dark when Laura wakes, though she can make out a streak of light at the window, feel it like a tongue against her open eyes, as if she’s got specks in them that have to be licked away. She wants to close her eyes and turn herself back into Cleopatra on her way to Tarsus: if she only tries hard enough, she will be able to shove the light away. But it has woken Bonnie, too; here she is, shivering beside Laura, a corner of the bedsheet clutched in her hands.

“I’m scared, Laura. Please, can I come sleep with you?”

Laura sighs and shoves herself to the edge of the mattress. “All right. If you promise not to kick.”

“I promise. But sometimes I kick and I can’t help it. Tell me a story, Laura, please?”

Bonnie is nine, by which age Laura would never have dreamed of confessing night terrors or daytime fears. Laura is the only one who knows Bonnie’s secret, and she marvels at her small sister’s talents as an actress. Of all the sisters, it is Bonnie people describe as open, sunny, just like a little daisy. They know nothing of the monsters lurking in cupboards and drawers, waiting to jump out and grab her the moment it gets dark each night. It’s become a ritual at the cottage for Bonnie to fall asleep next to Laura, who must then lug her back to her own bed and tuck her in as best she can. It’s become a ritual, as well, for Bonnie to crawl back beside Laura as soon as she wakes up each morning. It’s just as bad at home, where Bonnie has a room all to herself, a room Laura has to inspect each night, closing every drawer, shutting the closets, making sure the windows are locked tight.

That night last winter when they’d watched Boris Karloff in Dracula, Bonnie had taken a small pad of colored notepaper and drawn a cross on every sheet. Then she’d torn them all off and thumbtacked them to the headboard of her bed. Laura’s face burns to remember how cruel she’d been—telling Bonnie that she, Laura, was really Dracula, and that just when Bonnie was drifting off to sleep she would steal to her room and bite her neck till the blood ran dry. What use, then, could paper crosses be? Bonnie had ended up in Laura’s room, burrowing into her bed and pleading, “Even if you are Dracula, won’t you let me sleep with you?” How stricken she had felt and how full of love for her sister, who’d so wholly forgiven and forgotten. As if Bonnie really were as carelessly bright as a daisy, and as incapable of resentment or revenge.

Bonnie snuggles as close as she can to Laura, hands clasped over her heart like the Praying Hands on the Easter card someone’s stuck to the wall. Laura doesn’t need her glasses to see the look on her sister’s face, so warm and so golden. If she hates Katia for being quick and clever and pretty, then why doesn’t she hate Bonnie even more, since, though she looks so little like their mother, she is still, as everyone says of Sonia, perfectly beautiful? Bonnie has never fought with their mother, nor has she staged the astounding tantrums Katia has—Laura is prone to sulks, instead—yet Laura loves Bonnie with that fierce, selfless love she’d have given to the dog she will never be allowed to have. Because I have enough to do as it is; you can’t even pick up after yourself, how are you going to take care of an animal? It isn’t a toy, you know, I can’t just throw it in a box when you’re tired of playing!

Feeling Laura’s body stiffen beside her, Bonnie unlocks her hands, stroking her sister’s cheek till Laura gives in.

“All right—but just one story, a short one, because I’m still sleepy. I’ll tell you how Caesar arrived in Alexandria after—”

“Not a Cleopatra story, Laura. Tell me the one about Our Mother. When she worked at the sportswear factory, and Mr. Streatfield picked her out from all the sewing-machine girls.”

Laura sighs; she is as tired of this story as Bonnie is of Cleopatra.

“One morning at Modern Sportswear, the owner, Mr. Streatfield, happened to be walking along when he saw a beautiful young girl behind a sewing machine, and he said to her, ‘You ought to be modeling those shorts instead of sewing them. Come to my office this afternoon, and we’ll see what we can do for you.’ And so Our Mother went to his office with a hatpin hidden in her sleeve—”

“Because Baba Laryssa told her to watch out for men,” Bonnie prompts.

Laura gives a sigh disguised as a yawn, knowing that this time, like all the others, she won’t be allowed to leave anything out. “Because Baba Laryssa always told her, ‘Men are like that,’ and Our Mother would say, ‘Like what?’ and Baba just said, ‘You’ll find out.’”

Bonnie closes her eyes. Laura goes on with the story, wondering all the while how many weeks or months her mother had worked in the sportswear factory before Mr. Streatfield discovered her. Why was he in such a dingy place, if he was such a famous designer? What did the other girls think when he singled their mother out like that? Mr. Streatfield is an old, fat, bald man with yellow-stained fingers, so why would their mother have needed that hatpin? Her mother has never ever struck her, even when she gets so mad her lips go white. How would she have dared stick a hatpin into Mr. Streatfield—and where?

When Laura reaches the part of the story where the handsome lawyer notices Sonia Metelsky’s picture in an ad for Beaver Bakery in the Ukrainian Herald, she waits for a whole minute, listening to Bonnie’s soft breathing weave through the beating of waves on the shore. Gently, Laura disengages her arm, which is falling asleep under the weight of her sister’s head. She lies back on the pillow, shutting her eyes as best she can against the sun that has risen higher and higher with each sentence of the story being told. Crash, crash, crash goes the water—there must be a wind, perhaps a storm’s on its way, although the sun promises another hot, clear day. She loves the sound of the waves breaking; she can never hear it enough. It’s the part of being at the cottage that she misses most when they’re back in the suburbs, in the big, split-level house where no one else has lived before, with the trees chopped down, and all the grass in patches on the front lawn, sewn together like a quilt.

Laura stares up at the ceiling, void, now, of the cracks and stains that will leap into view when she puts on the glasses that sit on her nose like a fat blue butterfly, glasses she’s tried and tried to outgrow. When Elizabeth Taylor auditioned for the lead in National Velvet, they told her they wanted someone taller; she went home, grew three inches, and got the part. That’s what it says in the Cleopatra souvenir booklet: “How she accomplished the trick she doesn’t reveal.” Laura’s parents wouldn’t take her with them to see Cleopatra; they said she’d have to wait until she was older, it wasn’t suitable for children. She’d done everything, crying, pleading, being helpful around the house; she’d even gone to her father as he sat in his den, watching the hockey game: “If you love me you’ll let me see Cleopatra. It’s educational, please Tatu, if you love me you’ll take me with you. I bet you don’t love me, I bet you wish I’d never been born.” But it was the Maple Leafs against the Canadiens and she couldn’t tell whether he hadn’t heard or didn’t want to answer her. She’d never asked him again, and so her parents had gone to Cleopatra without her. When they brought her the souvenir booklet, she’d thrown it into the wastepaper basket, snatching it out when they’d left her to mope; staying up half the night reading, learning it by heart.

In a low voice, Laura recites the final lines of the story Bonnie has asked her to tell: “And Mr. Streatfield was going to take Our Mother to California, she was going to model a new line of outdoor wear, when she met Our Father, and he proposed, and she got married and had us instead.” She wonders, for a moment, if her mother had felt the same despair at giving up California as she herself had felt at not being able to see Cleopatra. And then she frowns, lines forming like staple marks between her eyebrows. She isn’t going to make excuses for her mother: that’s bad strategy, you must never feel sorry for the enemy. Listening to the waves slap against the shore, she turns toward her sister, to the small, warm body that smells so sweetly of soap and sun.

“DARKA, LEAVE THEM, it’s better to let them drip-dry. It’s more”—and here Sonia pauses for a moment—“hygienic”—a word she’s learned from Reader’s Digest.

The children have been fed, the soggy Rice Krispies scraped from cereal bowls into the garbage, and the bowls washed, dried, put away. Sonia’s forever telling Darka not to bother with drying, but will Darka ever listen? She seems to enjoy making Sonia feel guilty—little flutings of guilt like burned pastry-edging on a pie—at how hard Darka’s being forced to work. There are beds to be made, clothes to be scrubbed in the old tin tub down in the cellar, baskets of cotton sheets to wring out. Slaving at the wash while they traipse off to the beach, Darka grumbles to herself, hands reddening as she flaps each piece of laundry before pegging it on the line.

At all of the cottages nearby, children are being sent to collect shovels and pails, beach balls and towels; mothers are gathering blankets and baby oil. Family by family, they begin the processions down from the log and board-and-batten and shingled structures cresting the small bluff over the lake, along the zigzag paths between scrub and saplings, to each day’s brand-new, shimmering bay.

By ten in the morning the sun has sizzled you through—you have to wear flip-flops and goggle-eyed sunglasses, you have to don beach hats with wide brims and fading raffia flowers woven into the straw, remnants from distant honeymoons in Jamaica or the Bahamas. You have to cart coolers filled with lemonade and iced tea, picnic baskets with snacks for the children, calamine lotion for insect stings. And even though you’ve remembered everything you could possibly want or need, and have laden yourself and even the smaller children with bits of that everything to carry down to the water’s edge, something will always be forgotten. Messengers will endlessly ascend and descend the zigzag paths of the hill to the abandoned cottages.

Once they reach the sand, the children run straight to the water, hair flying, arms churning. Their mothers snatch up the very youngest and call the oldest back to spread out the blankets, securing the edges with stones so the wind won’t keep flapping them about, flinging sand into everyone’s eyes. No one has beach umbrellas or folding chairs—only the Senchenkos and the Plotskys possess such luxuries, but Nadia never comes down to the beach, and Sasha’s umbrella’s been ripped by her children, who are rough and wild and allowed to get away with murder. Katia spends most of her time at the Plotskys’ cabin, eating Cheez Whiz sandwiches, practicing cartwheels inside the living room, and plotting mischief. Not something Sonia encourages, of course, but she can’t help relying on anything that keeps her two oldest daughters out of shooting range of each other. Why can’t they get along—why can’t they be friends, best friends, like Katia and Tania?

Katia Martyn and Tania Plotsky. They’d begun their conspiracy their first summer at Kalyna Beach, when they were seven-year-olds. Selecting a patch of smooth, packed sand at the edge of the lake, they’d seized their shovels and started to dig. They were on their way to China, they’d explained to their mothers, who were concerned that someone walking along the beach in the dark might trip into the hole and break an ankle. By then it had become quite a deep hole, and they’d agreed to set up a cairn of stones to alert passersby. The next day, when their fathers had come up for the weekend, Mr. Martyn had hunkered down beside them, asking to help with the digging. In the course of the afternoon he’d given them a lesson in elementary geology, explaining how, under the earth’s crust, there was a fiery kind of liquid stone called magma. He’d even taken a stick and written the word magma in the sand for them, as if on a blackboard at school.