Afterlife - Julia Alvarez Page 0,17

mention a motel to me, and I just talked to her—what, two days ago?

It was right after the second Mario–Estela phone call. The thought of that reunion intrudes. Antonia wonders how it is going. Right before leaving, she bought the bus ticket online for Estela to pick up at the downtown bus station in Denver. Who will Mario get to give him a ride to Burlington to pick her up? Roger, or maybe the woman they call when all else fails? Mama Terry, the nickname the migrant community has given the gray-haired, Spanish-speaking gringa, who will procure whatever service you need: from rides to airports, grocery stores, doctors’ offices to female company, Vermont girls strapped for cash who want to make extra money on the side or girls in need of company themselves.

I guess a lot can happen overnight with Izzy, Antonia concedes. But where’s she getting the money to fund this grand plan?

I think her house finally sold or is selling. She might still have some money from what we inherited. Or maybe she won the lottery. She’s always buying tickets. You never know with Izzy. Tilly is shaking her head. The truth is they really need to do something about their big sister. Remember at the memorial?

Izzy hadn’t appeared, so they started the service without her. When she finally did arrive, she couldn’t sit still, roaming around the church, taking pictures on her cell phone, a closeup of the candles burning, of the flowers, of the minister at the lectern. Mona had to escort Izzy back to their pew, but Izzy broke loose, climbed up to the choir loft in the back of the church to take photos of the tops of everybody’s head. What Sam sees now, she captioned the photo she texted to her sisters, and then just as the minister was concluding, We all go down to the dust but even at the grave we make our song, alleluia, alleluia—almost as if Izzy had timed it, with that uncanny aptness of the crazed—pings went off on her sisters’ phones in the congregation.

Tilly and Antonia laugh. This is serious, they keep reminding each other, which makes them laugh all the harder, edging closer to the line where hilarity turns into tears.

I’ve actually been thinking of coming east. Tilly lays out a plan she has been hatching with Mona: she flies into Boston, Mona flies up from North Carolina, and Antonia drives down from Vermont, then they all converge on Western Mass, or wherever their gypsy sister will have landed for the moment. Get Izzy into some treatment center or other. A combined sisterhood reunion and rescue. What do you think?

That could work, Antonia says, a lukewarm response that amounts to a no in sisterhoodspeak. (Never say an outright no to a sister. Could be a rule, if it isn’t already so.) But Antonia has no stomach for three sisters ganging up on the fourth. Not to mention that one at a time is her preferred mode of sisterhooding. Tilly by herself or Izzy or Mona, but all together, it’s more than Antonia can handle, especially right now. Her highly sensitive personhood is already in overdrive.

Anyhow, it’s an offer, take it or leave it. Frankly, Tilly adds—a speech mannerism she has picked up from Kaspar, like the pronouncement the truth is, which comes from their mother—frankly, and maybe she shouldn’t say this, Tilly says, she is more worried about their big sister than she is about Antonia in her widowhood.

You always land on your feet, Tilly says.

Is that the truth? Antonia teases her sister, using her mother’s voice.

Tilly takes a hand off the wheel to slap Antonia’s arm. You bitch! Coming from any other sister, such foulmouthed name-calling would bring on a fight, ill feelings, the unloading of grievances going all the way back to childhood. But Tilly can get away with it. It’s her form of affection, like the -itos at the ends of words in Spanish, making the world manageable, kid-size. Izzy always says it’s what she most misses in English.

Tilly’s small house on Happy Valley Road is busy with lawn ornaments, great deals from the resale shops: birdfeeders, houses, and baths; windchimes tinkling from a number of boughs. It looks tacky, an adjective Antonia does not like to associate with her kin, just as she would not want any of her sisters to espouse right-wing politics.

Before they can stop for Antonia to pretend to admire the clutter, the front door opens. Kaspar has been