We Found No Peace on the Island

There was a bargain struck between the two to keep what happened on the island a secret. Solidarity was key. Now and again there would be the opportunity, and a sort of yearning to tell would jerk forward into their chests, attaching to it the hope that things might finally end if only someone knew. But terror—terror was always quick to follow. And terror is a deceptive beast, which convinces you that it is much larger and much more dangerous than it really is, but a child cannot be expected to know that.

People often remarked that they were an odd pairing, the sisters. One exuded gold, in appearance and in demeanor. She was a malcontent star, glistening in the heavens and desperate to reach the earth; and clinging to anyone who might deliver her to it. The other was soft charcoal pressed against the white of a piece of parchment—burned and bruised and messy. They were the other’s antithesis. And still. No one could divide them.

Marie balanced on her heels and looked over the carefully manicured lawn displayed before her, and wondered, briefly, about the condition of her husband, pressed into the crowd of a smoke-swallowed bar. She wondered if he had ever really loved her. She had loved him, of course, the way she had loved every man before him: brightly and blindly, as if hearts were designed to be so totally disposable. As if that were love at all.

She stood on the walk and she wondered.

And then forward she moved. One step, then two. As she walked the short distance over the grass to the offices, the ground sucked in her heels, swallowing them a little each time, as if even the earth herself was begging her to stop, (to think!) but she would not appease her.

Soon she had reached the building, and then the room, and she thought to herself suddenly, “Oh, I haven’t got a key!” and for a moment she almost went home, but then her husband’s aide saw her. Jenny. Fitting.

“Mrs. Symanski! How are you?” She smiled at her, and Marie almost felt pity for her. My God, she thought, She still has braces! It hadn’t struck her before how young Jenny was. Wasn’t she a victim, too?

No. No, it wouldn’t do to think that way, not now, when she was so close to finishing things. She smiled back. “Hi, Jenny, right?” of course she knew, but she sort of wanted it to sting, like she wasn’t worth remembering.

“That’s right!” Jenny laughed a little. “Jacob—Mr. Symanski isn’t here right now, do you need me to let you in?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” Tart.

Jenny turned the key in the lock and let Marie into the office. “It’s so funny, Mr. S didn’t say anything about you coming in today. Is this a surprise?” she leaned in. “I promise not to spill the beans.”

Marie smiled, really smiled. She settled against her husband’s desk. “Yes. Well, sort of. Do you do that a lot? Keep secrets for him?” I bet you do.

Jenny shifted her weight uncomfortably. “Um,” she chuckled. “That’s… I guess. Like, grades and tests and stuff.” She shifted again, as if she were standing on too-warm pavement. Maybe it had been her hips that had enticed him. Or maybe those big brown eyes. Or maybe it was just because she was different from Marie.

“You’re very pretty, you know.” Marie felt calm, in control for the first time in years. Jenny laughed again. “Don’t laugh.” She snapped, and Jenny stopped.

“Sorry.”

Marie looked down and dragged her finger along the edge of the desk. Had it been here? In this very room? Was he that brave, that daring? He never had been with her. She turned back to Jenny, smiling again.

You are, you know. Pretty, I mean. Sort of exotic. Oh, we’re not supposed to say that anymore, are we? Well, you are. Not like me.”

“Don’t say that, you’re totally hot, Mrs. Symanski.” Jenny assured her.

“I know.” Marie said, and that took Jenny by surprise. “I just mean I’m not exotic. I’m European. French, actually.”

Jenny grinned, nodding. “That makes sense. I can totally see it. Do you speak French?”

“Oui.” She said, and Jenny giggled.

“That’s so cool!”

“Merci beaucoup.” She spun the globe on the desk. God, Jacob was so pretentious. She stopped it with her pointer finger. It landed on Uganda. Without looking up she asked, “Does Jacob ever tell you?”

Jenny choked. She cleared her throat. “Tell me what?”

“That you’re beautiful.” Keep up, idiot.

Jenny looked down, and that was answer enough. She moved toward the door. “That would be inappropriate, Mrs. S. I have to go.”

“I’m sorry,” Marie said, and she was shocked to find that she meant it. She really was sorry for her. For what her husband had done to her, and for what was to come. “Can I ask you one last thing, Jennifer?”

Jenny paused, her hand on the doorknob. She sighed. “Yeah, what’s up?”

Marie looked at her, really looked at her, like she was memorizing her. She looked like a child. Innocent. Oh, but you’re not, are you? Marie thought she saw it just there, in the moment before Jenny smiled. A little telltale sign that she wasn’t quite what she let on to be.

“What is it, Mrs. S?”

“Just… Just when do you think he’ll be back?”

“Probably about forty minutes.” Jenny said. She opened the door and positioned herself so that she was half in, half out. “Is that all?”

Marie nodded. “Adieu.”

When the office was empty she pushed off the desk and strolled. She ran her fingers over the tomes on the shelves, and looked out over the campus. All those students, milling about. The blinds would have to close. Couldn’t risk anyone discovering her plot before it was time. Jacob had to be the one to find everything, just as she arranged it.

She pulled a letter from her coat and held it between her fingers. She’d written it in French; Jacob hated when she spoke French. She scoffed. Most American men would have loved it, but not him! He was so, so intent on being different. Setting himself apart from his peers was so important, but look at him now!

Look at us all! She thought.

There would be no children left behind, no weeping cherubs to look after. Jacob couldn’t have them, didn’t want them. No pets, either—he couldn’t stand the smell. No friends to wonder why she hadn’t said something; all her friends were really his. There was no one but her sister, far away in Toulouse.

She couldn’t think of her now. She was so close! It was almost time.

She danced as she set it up, to her private symphony. She pulled on the cord until it was taught. She hoped the weight of everything wouldn’t pull down the ceiling. How humiliating that would be! Oh well, it would have to do.

She took off her heels and climbed up on the desk. She kicked off the globe. She took a deep breath.

Now or never.

Jump!

Drip…

Drip…

Drip…

Isaac was not a smoker, especially when his mother asked, but on the few occasions he did smoke, he preferred to do it in the bathtub.

Today Isaac filled the tub with warm water (just hot enough to turn him pink), turned on the radio, and lit a cigarette. The window was cracked just a little for the smoke, and he could hear the city beneath him.

Damn, he was going to miss this.