Afterlife - Julia Alvarez Page 0,16

question her statistics. Leave it for Mona to challenge the numbers. Anyhow, Tilly says, one neighbor in particular, a gossip and troublemaker, brought over an Easter basket when Tilly’s kids were little. Along with dyed eggs and jelly beans there was a little bottle of red dye and four nails. I mean, give me a break! Tilly shakes her head. Ruining a three- and five-year-old’s Easter by bringing up the crucifixion!

Well, that is what Easter is, Antonia could have defended the woman. She has heard Tilly’s story before, but she listens again without commentary. It gives Tilly such pleasure to tell it. Part of Antonia’s turf, storytelling, which she periodically relinquishes to the others. Give them a turn to tell the story.

So I told her we were Jewish. Ha! It was like I’d personally crucified Jesus myself. Soon thereafter, the neighbor moved away. Tilly gloats, exactly what she had hoped for. That bitch was like a wolf in cheap clothing!

Antonia laughs but, again, offers no correction. Tilly laughs too, thinking it’s her story that has amused her sister.

In every shop, the salesladies—they are mostly women—are effusive about Tilly. We love your sister. It’s nice to see that Tilly has made her mark here. She has always been the low-profile sister, letting the others win the prizes, get the As and the attention. Give her her cigarettes, a bottle of rum, someone to screw. You guys are the stars, she always would say to Izzy and Antonia growing up. What about me? baby sister Mona would pipe in, aggrieved.

You’re the fucking meteor! Tilly would howl with laughter. She was the first to enjoy her own jokes.

In that book Antonia will probably never write on the lives of the anonymous, she’ll advance her theory about people who are the salt of the earth, the laborers in the vineyard, the migrant workers, the unremarkable siblings. They do not need to be famous, important, visible; there is an aggression to fame, a violence to it, whereas anonymity is companionable; we’re all in this together; first, I bring my girlfriend, then I help you bring yours. I’m nobody! Who are you? So many stray lines from her teaching days.

You are soooo lucky to have her as a sister, one saleslady gushes at their third stop. The older woman, petite and perky—sparkly earrings matching her sparkly eyes—has been following Antonia through the store, highlighting this sweater or that set of glasses they just got in. Your sister is so special, the saleslady keeps saying.

She’s amazing, isn’t she? I’m very lucky. Thanks for your help, Antonia says, hoping to conclude the chat. Unlike its positive effect on Tilly, all this friendliness is getting on her nerves.

Let’s not go to any more stores, Antonia suggests when they exit the shop.

I thought you wanted to see what I do with my day?

How about what you do besides shop?

They drive over to the gym where Tilly is enrolled in several elder exercise classes. A quick tour of the place, she promises. The old Black man at the reception desks asks Tilly, Where’s my hug? Everyone missed her today in class. I’ve met the nicest people here, Tilly claims. Nobody’s perfect in an elder exercise class—everyone’s fat, hurting from arthritis, needing to recover some skill they’ve lost. We love each other as we are, Tilly brags.

Some people would say that’s a definition of Christianity, Antonia points out to get a rise from her sister.

Go to hell, Tilly curses.

On the way home from her typical day, Tilly brings up Izzy again. So, has Felicia been in touch?

Good thing she’s not here to hear you, Antonia banters back. Izzy is particular about people not using her given name. She hates Felicia. What a setup! Like I’m supposed to always be happy or something. Truth is, except for Tilly, the other sisters are particular, too. Mona hates Ramona—used only by their mother in scolding mode—and Antonia doesn’t like anyone using her nickname. Tilly, meanwhile, says call her whatever the fuck you want: Tilly, Matilda, fine with her.

Antonia recounts her recent conversation with Izzy. The cultural center, the Latino takeover of Western Mass. Yet one more of Izzy’s grandiose ideas. Hopefully, it won’t happen, and Izzy will settle down to the humble job of taking care of herself.

I guess you haven’t heard the latest? Tilly interrupts. She’s going to buy an abandoned motel.

A motel? What for?

To house the artists, of course, Tilly says, as if Antonia is a dummy to ask the obvious.

But she didn’t