I.
Judy had broken up with her girlfriend and Serena had agreed to go drinking with her, to commiserate. Judy envisioned a tearful, sloppy bender that would last the entire weekend, while Serena hoped they could wrap up early at an elegant wine bar.
There was simply no way Serena could give up her Saturday and Sunday. First, she had tests to grade. Second, she had to go to the dry cleaners. Third, her fiancé Richard would be indignant, it was her turn to clean the bird cage. Fourth, she was 40. She didn’t have the stamina anymore.
Judy pleaded for company. “Please. I was dumped. I’m bereft.”
“Jude, I can’t. I’m engaged now.”
“Yeah, for eight years.”
“And that takes a lot out of me,” Serena said.
Judith Rosen was a short, buxom redhead who liked long skirts and wore platform shoes to make herself look taller. She worked as a development officer at the University of Pittsburgh, which she’d attended and where she’d met Serena Gallo in a freshman literature class. Serena was ironical and levelheaded, a dark-haired, soft-hearted woman who pretended to be grouchy with her students. She lived with Richard in Mount Washington and taught English – “language arts” – at a middle school in Brookline. Judy lived in Lawrenceville, near the Children’s Hospital. They didn’t see each other nearly enough but they were best friends.
Judy drew herself up to her full height of, almost, five foot one. “Well, I have to say, I’m highly disappointed in you. Your dereliction of duty is, quite simply, egregious.”
“Did you start drinking already?”
“Perhaps. But Reenie, consider the circumstances. Nicole hurt me. Bad.”
“Okay, honey. Let me catch up.”
Friday night they drank lemon drops at a cocktail bar on Baum Boulevard. The martinis were delicious. Several hours later they staggered out. Judy led the way, she wanted to show something to Serena.
It was nearly one in the morning. As they walked south from Bloomfield into Shadyside, Serena admired the quiet, handsome neighborhood. “I’ve always wanted to live here.”
“I know,” Judy said.
“I can picture myself, pushing a stroller and waving to my friends in the organic coffee shops. And I look fantastic, I’ve already lost all the baby weight.” Serena marveled at her effortless dieting, no Ozempic necessary. “I’ve just got a healthy glow, you know what I mean?”
“I do.”
There was still time for children, Judy suggested. Even if Serena couldn’t conceive, she could thaw her frozen eggs and use a surrogate or adopt.
“Magic,” Serena said.
Judy brought them to a dark block on Pembroke Place, in front of a Gilded Age mansion, simultaneously imposing and decrepit, that loomed over them. The house had a steeply pitched roof that was missing slate shingles, and a covered porch, drooping as if disconsolate, wrapped around a tower on one side. The columns of the porch were ornamented with the fading colors of peeling wood trim, and many of the narrow windows were cracked. “Here we are.”
“Um, why are we stopping in front of the scary haunted house?”
“I have the key,” Judy said. She explained that the building had just been donated to the University of Pittsburgh, and she was cataloguing the admittedly meager contents for the school. The heirs, descendants of cousins of the original owners, had litigated with the city, insurance companies, and one another for decades, precluding a proper restoration. In the end they agreed to step away and share a tax write-off. Judy had fended off her great rivals, the development officers at Carnegie Mellon, to secure the gift. “I can be very persuasive. Just not with Nicole.” Judy was getting emotional again.
Serena tried to cheer up her friend. “You know, I always thought Nicole was kind of bitchy.”
“Really? She liked you.”
“Huh.” Serena reconsidered. “I guess she has her good points.” She saw Judy’s face. “I hate her.”
“Thank you.” Judy got a large key out of her purse.
“Wait, we’re going inside? Now?”
“No time like the present!”
She opened the front door, which made the requisite creaking noises Serena had expected. The wooden floor, sagging like the porch, creaked as well. They walked slowly, holding hands and holding their iPhone flashlights in front of them like torches. “This feels entirely safe,” Serena said. “I wonder where Vlad the Impaler is sleeping.”
“The basement, I think?”
“What am I saying, it’s the middle of the night. Those are his office hours.”
A parlor, empty except for a threadbare rug whose ornate groupings of flowers were worn out, like limp posies, was on one side of the entryway, a large library with bare, built-in bookshelves on the other. They stopped to shine their lights on a family portrait, the only painting in the library: a serious, whiskered middle-aged man; his homely, unfriendly-looking, and rather mature wife, whose lips were pressed tightly together and who wore a long dark dress with white ruffles at her wrists, somewhat French in style; and their three raven-haired daughters, who smiled bashfully, probably shy in front of the painter and now, Serena and Judy supposed, in front of them. “Who are they?” Serena asked.
“The Overholts.” Judy had done the research. Jacob Overholt Jr. had been a relative of Henry Frick and, briefly, a partner, before Frick jettisoned him. The wife, Ethel, had been older when she’d married, and she’d had her children – her “miracles,” according to some correspondence Judy had read – relatively late in life, at least by 19th century standards. The girls had never married, hence the house passing to cousins after they died.
“That’s sad, that none of them married. They all lived here?”
“I think one moved away,” Judy said.
The library led into the vast dining room, which was mostly intact. A china cabinet with glass doors stood against one wall, empty except for a dish that held children’s glass marbles, glinting under the light from their cell phones. A long mahogany or walnut table extended nearly the length of the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs with pink pillowed seats, although some of the pillows were missing. The walls were wainscoted, the fireplace was enormous, and the mantel shelf was empty. The gasolier over the table and the various lamp statuettes scattered around the room had been refitted with electric lighting. Serena flipped a light switch, which didn’t work, of course. Then the women looked at each other.
“Reenie, do you hear that?” Judy asked.
“I do.”
They heard women’s voices. The dining room connected through the tight passageway of a pantry to the kitchen. The voices seemed to be coming from there. They crept forward cautiously, still holding hands, and peeked in at the decaying kitchen, where candlelight flickered. An elderly woman, looking antique and nearly Puritan in her brown dress and cap, sat stiffly in a chair at what must have been the servants’ table in a nook at the side of the room, speaking to three younger, although not young, women, obviously her daughters, about the sad state of her health. It was too disappointing that, once again and nearly at the last minute, her intense lassitude and debilitation – these strange pains in her limbs – had interfered with the girls’ long-deferred travels. But if she recovered (when she recovered, the children corrected) then the girls, especially Elizabeth and Minnie, would take turns going to Paris. Blessed Paris, which the dowager had visited long ago with her beloved Jacob on their honeymoon.
Judy was flabbergasted. “It’s them. From the portrait,” she mouthed silently to Serena, first jabbing her index finger in the direction of the women, then jabbing her thumb behind her, in the direction of the painting.
“I know,” Serena mouthed silently back.
The eldest daughter, whose face was plain and thin and whose hair was just beginning to gray, was Elizabeth, called Betsy by her sisters. She wore an old woman’s bonnet, like her mother, and her back was stiffening, but the colorful scarf around her throat suggested she wasn’t acceding to the demands of age just yet. She loved literature and spoke of wanting to commune with the spirits of Victor Hugo at the Panthéon, Balzac at Père Lachaise, and the more recently deceased Guy de Maupassant at Montparnasse.
“I guess she likes burial plots,” Judy whispered.
Serena put her finger to her lips. She wanted to hear more, this was interesting.
Perhaps Minnie, the middle daughter, would go to Paris first. She loved art and music. She was aware of the curious paintings of the Impressionists, for Pissarro’s Great Bridge in Rouen had just been displayed in Pittsburgh, and she loved the strange, fervent urgings of Fauré’s violin sonata. She was the pretty one in the family, well, engaging anyway, and pretty by comparison with her sisters – Serena always graded on a curve. Minnie had a round face and large, round, pained brown eyes; she squinted frequently. Florence, the youngest, although again, not quite young, was ignored by her mother. She resembled her mother greatly in her homeliness and nearly Puritan propriety. It was she who waited on her mother with sedulous care, bringing her tea, plumping the cushion behind her mother’s sore back, offering to place a blanket on her mother’s lap because of the draft that swept through the kitchen.
Ethel Overholt shooed Florence away. “Elizabeth, Minnie, give me your hands,” she directed. “I insist that you should go. If only I get better soon. I’m morally certain I shall.”
“You will, Mother,” Florence said. “And I can stay here, to make sure you stay well.”
Judy nodded her head in the direction of the dining room, she wanted to talk to Serena. They crept backward, trying to remain as quiet as possible, but Serena bumped into one of the dining room chairs, which fell over and struck the china cabinet. The dish holding the marbles flew off the shelf and shattered, and the marbles ricocheted around the room.
The women in the kitchen continued conversing in a low murmur.
“I guess they can’t see or hear us,” Judy said. “We’re invisible.”
“Or they are.”
They picked up the shards from the dish and gathered the marbles as best they could in the dark. “They’re never going to Paris,” Judy said. “That mother’s a horror. There’s nothing wrong with her, she’ll live to be a hundred.”
“Didn’t you say one of the girls got away?”
Judy hesitated. “I think so.”
“And what about Florence, why doesn’t she get to go? The mother’s so mean to her.”
Serena realized she was still whispering. “I feel sorry for her.”
“That’s because you’re the baby in your family. I feel sorry for all of them. And I’m pretty sure Minnie’s queer.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I think she’s cute. You know, it’s weird,” Judy said. “This reminds me of a story I read in college. I can’t remember who wrote it.”
“It reminds me of a movie. What’s it called, with the two women and the house? You know, that long French one?”
“That narrows it down.”
They shrugged. Neither could remember.
“What do you think they put in those martinis?” Judy asked.
“I’m almost sure it was alcohol.”
II.
They moved back toward the women. Inside the kitchen it seemed that a decade or so had passed. The mother was astonishingly old. Mrs. Overholt, as decrepit as the house and cocooned in a blanket that Florence must have fetched, was in self-diagnosed despair that her recent bout of nervous exhaustion and the strange pains in her legs had delayed, once again, the long-desired and inevitably-postponed voyage to Paris that her daughters were hoping to undertake. “But I think I shall get strong enough soon.”
“You will,” Florence said.
“Do you think so, Elizabeth?” Mrs. Overholt asked. “I know you had your heart set on leaving.”
Elizabeth’s bonnet was gone, and her hair was now streaked with gray. She wore a long tunic over a skirt that tightened just above her ankles. She reassured her mother that someday she would have another chance to visit Paris.
“But the McClures were so kind to invite you,” Minnie said. She was wearing glasses, although her weak eyes still had trouble focusing. Life took strange turns, she reminded them, and we never knew when these opportunities would surface again. Not to seize them was an affront to our destiny. She and Florence could stay with their mother. Betsy could still go, the McClures weren’t leaving until New Year’s Day. “You will meet the most interesting people. Perhaps even Anatole France.”
“No, you should go, dear Minnie. You want to see that retrospective at the Salon d’Autumne, you know you do.”
“Cezanne.” Minnie breathed his name with awe. “His tactile values are positively bewitching.” A dreamy expression came over her appealing face.
“Okay, she’s definitely queer,” Judy said. “And she needs to get laid.”
“You can both leave,” Florence said. “I’ll be here, taking care of Mother. The best care.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Mrs. Overholt grasped Elizabeth with a wizened hand. “If I’m gone when you return, know that it was a comfort to me that you were able to enjoy yourself while I was suffering.” Her voice caught and tears glistened on her cheeks. “And know that a mother’s love will always accompany you in your future travels. You’re all my miracles.”
“What a guilt trip,” Serena said.
Judy agreed. “Look at those crocodile tears.”
“The daughters are probably in their 40s now. Betsy might be 50. Time to get the hell out of Dodge.”
Serena and Judy debated which of the daughters should go first if they insisted on taking turns. It felt as though Elizabeth was in danger of aging out of the journey. But they were also worried about Minnie’s eyesight: What if she couldn’t see the paintings she yearned to view? And after all, it was Minnie who had the deepest view of life, of its tragic failures and brief occasions for fulfillment. Shouldn’t she be chosen first? And yet they couldn’t forget Florence. If she couldn’t enjoy her mother’s love, couldn’t she at least enjoy Paris?
They had to get at least one of them out of there; they simply had to. And hadn’t Judy read that one of the daughters had left? Probably Elizabeth, in the end, as she had the invitation with the McClures. But how could they influence them when they couldn’t be seen or heard? Could they touch them? They ventured into the kitchen and poked the women to no avail. They poked Mrs. Overholt especially hard.
“Maybe they can smell us,” Judy said.
“Did you forget to wear deodorant?” This had been an occasional problem in college. Serena sniffed her friend. “I don’t smell anything.”
“I have a cigarette.” Judy took a pack out of her purse.
“You don’t smoke.”
“They’re Nicole’s. I’ve been waiting to give them back to her.”
“Oh, honey,” Serena said. “That’s pathetic.”
“I know.”
Judy lit a cigarette with, Serena assumed, Nicole’s lighter, and blew smoke into Elizabeth’s plain, tight face. Elizabeth wrinkled her nose.
“How is this going to help?” Serena asked.
“I need some air,” Elizabeth said.
Judy shot a look of triumph at Serena. They followed Elizabeth to the front porch. Elizabeth took deep breaths. Her exhalations condensed in the cool night air.
“It’s getting cold,” Judy said.
“Oh, hello,” said Elizabeth, startled by their company.
“You can see us?” Serena asked.
“Of course. Are you beggarwomen?” Elizabeth eyed their clothing warily. “Do you need food, like starving robins?”
“Not so much,” Judy said.
They made their case to her, claiming that they were out for an evening constitutional, despite the late hour, and acquaintances of the McClures, who would be disappointed if Betsy didn’t accompany them abroad. Perhaps the McClures could get a letter of introduction to Anatole France, Serena proposed. “Anatole,” Judy repeated, dangling the word like a wriggling worm at the end of a fishing line; she didn’t know who he was, but she liked his name. Moreover, Elizabeth’s sisters would be distraught if she didn’t go, blaming themselves for not remonstrating with her forcefully enough. She owed it to them to depart. And her mother wanted her to go, too, they were sure of it. They knew that Mrs. Overholt would speedily regain her health, and the knowledge that Elizabeth was embarked on the long-deferred excursion would comfort her, even facilitate her recovery.
“Yes, I shall go,” Elizabeth said. “Mother will be so surprised.”
“I’ll bet,” Serena agreed.
“Pack for a long trip,” Judy called out, but Elizabeth, who’d gone back inside the house, could no longer hear them.
They felt a sense of accomplishment. Somehow it was only a little past one in the morning. They were just a few blocks from Le Mardi Gras, a cocktail bar that didn’t close till two. That establishment, with its smoky interior and its snug booths, its ancient cash registers and the oldies available on the jukebox, was like a time machine. They’d wait there for Ubers to take them home. Judy persuaded Serena to have one last drink, and they ordered greyhounds, a house specialty. “We have to come back,” Judy said. “To see if she left. Tomorrow night, okay?”
Serena groaned. “How are we going to see them? I’m not getting drunk again. I can’t.”
“We’ll figure out a way,” Judy said.
Serena, hungover when she awoke on Saturday, took Tylenol and ran her errands and went grocery shopping with Richard and even managed to clean Kyle’s cage. She loved Kyle, their cockatoo, who was beautiful but could be a real asshole; his bite was vicious. Richard was surprised she was going out with Judy again but didn’t complain. He was generally supportive of her friendships, not clingy or threatened by them. In fact, she would prefer if he was clingier – literally. Their sex life was fine, but she wished he was more affectionate outside of the bedroom. She wanted to be touched more, embraced more. She wasn’t unhappy, but she felt a little stuck in her unexciting contentedness. Richard was an assistant principal at a high school in Mt. Lebanon, they pooled their incomes and lived within their means. In the summers they visited national parks. The past two summers they’d climbed Angels Landing in Zion, with its ponderosa pines and sheer drops, and the chalky buttes of the Badlands, both stunning; and Serena imagined herself as a pioneer, exploring virgin territory, recording these strange and beautiful vistas for the first time. But not really the first time, of course; the Anasazi and the Lakota had been there first. In history there were always antecedents.
During their vacations Judy would bird-sit for them, although she and Kyle hated each other. Judy was a good friend…
III.
They met at a ramen restaurant on Forbes Avenue for an early dinner. Judy produced a small tin of edibles which Nicole had left behind.
“Oh no,” Serena said.
“Oh yes.” Judy gave each of them a gummy. “It’s 2.5 milligrams. That’s nothing. Just enough to give us a leg up. A jumpstart. A springboard. A head start.” She laughed. “Why does the head start first?”
“Are you high already?”
“Maybe a little? I also found one of Nicole’s joints.”
After their dinner and their mochi dessert, after Judy cried, just a bit, because she’d thought Nicole was the one, and after they paid their bill, Serena was flying. “Oh Jude, something doesn’t feel right. I’m way too stoned.”
Judy consulted the back of the tin. “Huh. Turns out each gummy is 25 milligrams, not 2.5. Try not to panic.”
“Too late,” Serena said.
“This explains so much. Mostly my semi-paralysis. You seem okay.”
“I only ate half my gummy,” Serena admitted.
They had planned to take a leisurely half-hour walk from Squirrel Hill to Pembroke Place, but Judy found it difficult to move. Her limbs didn’t seem to be responding in the ordinary way. Serena called a Lyft, which let them off in front of the Overholt mansion. She helped Judy up the stairs to the porch and the front door. Once again Judy produced the key from her purse, only this time it took a lot longer to find. “Maybe we should hire an exorcist for them,” Judy said. “Hey, if you don’t pay your exorcist, do you get repossessed?” She was giggling.
“I don’t know – but they’re not possessed. They’re ghosts, right?”
They crept forward to the kitchen. They were surprised to see Mrs. Overholt up and about in the pantry, but the bent, spry woman turned out to be Florence; she really did resemble her mother, especially with her increasing age. Mrs. Overholt, sitting at the servants’ table in the kitchen, was extraordinarily old, as brittle as a dried flower. Minnie sat beside her. The lenses of Minnie’s glasses were thick now and her hair was speckled with silver, but she was dressed modishly, in a 1920s-style gingham dress embroidered with cheerful daisies. Like Betsy, Minnie hadn’t surrendered yet. Mrs. Overholt bemoaned her infirmities, her mysterious fits that always came at the most inopportune times, just when Minnie was due to leave for Paris. The doctors were no help, they couldn’t even properly diagnose her. Such a pity. The memory of her trip with their father had sustained her for decades now, and those memories endured, like an endowment whose principal she never touched, but whose interest provided her enough to live on comfortably. “I don’t have much more time, you’ll be free soon enough,” she told Minnie.
“Nonsense,” Florence said. She tried to smooth the blankets on her mother’s lap, but Mrs. Overholt pushed her youngest away. Florence joined Minnie at the table, and they talked about Elizabeth. It seemed that Betsy – wonderful news – had never returned from Paris, where she was enjoying a sort of second youth. According to her sisters she sent the most beautiful letters about her experiences, although Mrs. Overholt sometimes forgot about her eldest daughter entirely, or perhaps believed she was dead? Minnie risked straining her eyes, reading these letters again and again, enthralled by Betsy’s tales of the literary and artistic salon hosted on the rue de Fleurus by Leo and Gertrude Stein, the latter of whom wore a suit of brown corduroy: marvelous. Miss Stein sounded fascinating, didn’t Florence agree?
Judy gave a knowing look to Serena.
Minnie wanted to see the Steins’ collection of Matisse paintings, as she’d come to love his work in the annual international exhibitions at the Carnegie Institute. Imagine, to live with these paintings in your home: magical.
Yes, yes, soon enough Minnie would be able to go, Mrs. Overholt said. There was no need to mourn her. The funeral baked meats could coldly furnish the bon voyage party.
“You know, my mom’s really not so bad,” Judy said.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Serena said.
The daughters – the two remaining – fussed over their mother, who thanked Minnie for her solicitude. Minnie’s eyes were wet behind her thick glasses.
“We have to get her out of here,” Judy said. “It’s just not fair.”
“But you said only one of them got away.”
Judy was uneasy. “I thought so… Maybe I was wrong. Reenie, what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Serena groaned again. “Do you have your cigarettes?”
Judy winced. “No.”
“Your joint?”
“Yes!” Judy lit the joint, or what little remained of it, blowing the smoke in Minnie’s direction. “I won’t inhale,” Judy declared, a resolution that lasted a good 10 or 15 seconds.
They succeeded in driving Minnie to the porch, Serena following quickly behind, and Judy stumbling after them, teetering on her platform shoes. They claimed that they’d befriended Betsy in Paris, who’d expressed a desire that Minnie should join her there. Minnie’s mother was already recovering from her nervous collapse, Florence could take good care of her (“the best care”), and Minnie should seize the opportunity. She might feel she was leaving behind her duties in Pittsburgh, Judy acknowledged, but there were also duties to seek: a destiny that called her to France, so that when, or if, she returned home, Minnie would have stored up a cache of significant impressions, a wealth of experience that would sustain her for all her years to come: a treasure just as her mother had possessed.
“That was good,” Serena complimented Judy later.
“I think it’s from that story I read?”
Their intercession was successful; at least, Minnie claimed she would leave for Paris. Serena hoped there would be no butterfly effect if Minnie’s departure somehow changed the course of subsequent history; she worried that they’d discover that the Soviet Union had won the Cold War and that their Uber driver would be speaking Russian to them. In fact, their driver proved to be a nice, gray-haired, Asian gentleman, who lived in Baldwin and enjoyed his vegetable garden. He was Nepali, originally a refugee from Bhutan, which had engaged in ethnic cleansing and expelled its Nepalese community. He told them that he’d lived in a refugee camp for 15 years before coming to the United States. One more reminder, Serena thought, that the past was as scary as the future. She escorted Judy to her apartment, helped her off with her shoes, and put her into bed.
“You’re going to be such a good mom,” Judy said.
“Yeah, yeah. Some day. Maybe.”
“And tomorrow – it’s Florence’s turn.”
“We’ll see.”
IV.
Judy woke up with dry eyes and a headache and an empty pillow on the other side of the bed. Empty… It was such a foolish thing to do, to glom onto Nicole and have her move in immediately, as if Nicole would rescue her from her loneliness, her anxiety. Nicole was lively and affectionate, and Judy, with her big mouth and her big emotions, had driven her away. Ugh. But those were the very traits that had attracted Nicole in the first place. So what was Judy supposed to do? Modulate herself as time went on? She wouldn’t know how to do that even if she wanted to. And she didn’t want to, it sounded exhausting.
Judy went into the living room, sat in an armchair, stared at the unoccupied couch. She’d been trying to make a statement with the upholstery she’d chosen for her sofa. Now she realized that the statement was that she had no taste. She missed Nicole, who had liked to sprawl on the sofa. Nicole Moran was a tall, blonde physical therapist at UPMC Presbyterian, a hard worker and hard partier. She wasn’t always a good influence with her fondness for illicit substances which she enjoyed on weekends. Although here was Judy doing the same thing.
After some arm-twisting over texts, Serena agreed to meet her for a late brunch – also known as lunch. A finale to the semi-lost weekend. Serena had spent the morning grading tests. “One mimosa, that’s it,” Serena said, sitting opposite Judy. She thought she would order scrambled eggs. Although the French toast looked good, too.
“Absolutely. Here, take this.” Judy handed Serena a gelatin capsule. “It won’t be disappointing. Quite the contrary, you’ll feel uplifted. Although maybe a little thirsty.”
“What is it?”
“Ecstasy. Developed in Germany by Merck over a hundred years ago. Around the time the Cubist room at the Salon d’Autumne was mobbed by visitors. I looked it up. In 1911 Apollinaire took Picasso to the opening, can you imagine?” Judy paused to drink some water. “Nicole’s supply. Carefully vetted.”
A third groan from Serena. “She really wasn’t good at packing, was she?”
“It lasts six hours, no more, and we’ll get to bed on time. The merit of the thing is in the prodigious success of the transformation. We start as isolated individuals, we step forward as a team, you and I, we interact with our friends, I call them friends, I mean the daughters, who are otherwise unreachable to us, we effect a change, we are linked to the past, we are, I repeat, transformed by the encounter. As narrow as the passageway to the kitchen, as brief as the interaction, just so intense is the connection. I love you like a sister. You’re my sister.” Judy grabbed Serena with one hand, held her glass with the other, and guzzled the rest of her water.
“You already took one.” It wasn’t even a question this time.
“Yes, I undertook the mission. We work in the dark, we do what we must, we battle for choice. Our fight is our task and our task is our passion.”
“You sound like Henry James. Henry James on MDMA.”
Serena swallowed the pill. A little later she thought the scrambled eggs were the most delicious she had ever eaten. The scrambled eggs were profound.
Mrs. Overholt, now certainly a centenarian, looked mummified: withered, shrunken, erect in her chair as if plastered into place, mostly mute, and desiccated. Florence tended her lovingly. That was no surprise; the surprise was that Mrs. Overholt rallied and expressed her gratitude. “Darling, you’re so good to me,” she rasped. Florence mentioned her sisters, both living in Paris, but Mrs. Overholt expressed little interest in them. “You’re my angel,” she told Florence. Florence, small and stooped, a younger, but not young, version of her mother, positively glowed.
“She’s happy,” Judy said. “She’s given up her life for her mother and she’s finally happy. I don’t know how to feel about that.”
“Me neither,” Serena said. “But I’m so glad we’re friends. Animals have packs, colonies, pods, and herds, but humans, if we’re lucky, have friends. And I’m lucky to have you. You understand me, you put up with me. You criticize yourself but I’m the one who’s judgmental. And you take care of Kyle for me even though you don’t complain. Well, you complain, but not that much. You’re wonderful. I always wanted a sister. I mean, in addition to Amber. She’s kind of annoying. You’re my darling, my angel. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ll meet someone, I know you will, and she’ll be lucky to have you. Because you’re amazing. We’re both amazing. Oh my God, this is amazing, the way we’re connected. Do you have any water?”
“I guess the molly kicked in.” Judy had a bottle of water in her purse. “Here.”
“I love you.”
It was still early. They left the Overholt mansion and walked the two miles to Lawrenceville. They seemed to have limitless energy. They talked to passers-by and shook everyone’s hand and hugged strangers, had conversations that were “awesome” (there was no other word for it; Henry James would agree) and made so many great connections. Just so many. They came to Arsenal Bowl on Butler Street and decided, obviously, to go bowling. They climbed the stairs to the lanes on the second floor. Judy turned in her platform shoes, first anxious that she wouldn’t get them back, then delighted by the red and black lace-ups she received in return. Serena asked if she could bowl in her socks. (No.) The balls were so pretty, so round, and so colorful. The music was beautiful. Also, there was a bar.
“Richard would love this place. He’s a man of the people. Jude, I know it’s bougie, but I want to marry Richard. I’m going to set a date. I’m going to tell him to hold me more. I want to have a baby with him. And I want to move closer to you.”
“Aww. That’s so sweet. Do it. Do all those things. Are you going to get rid of Kyle?” Judy asked hopefully.
“No, I can’t lose my handsome boy. We’re stuck with him. But only for another 50 or 60 years. The pins are so far away, have you noticed that?”
Judy grabbed Serena’s hand and held on tight. “Reenie! I forgot! It’s Sunday, the gay bowling league is here. And look, don’t look, that’s Paula. Isn’t she beautiful? She’s single and maybe this is slut-shaming, but I hear she’s super slutty.”
“She sounds perfect for a rebound.”
“I know, right?”
“Go talk to her,” Serena said.
“I’m worried I’ll get tongue-tied and run out of things to say.”
“I can almost guarantee that won’t happen today.”
Judy scampered off to talk to Paula. She looked tiny without her chunky heels. Serena loved her friend, loved their friendship. And she loved watching the automatic bowling ball return. Magic. She took a deep breath and held a ball to her chest. She marched smartly ahead, pulled her arm backward, then let the ball fly forward.
Image by Harald Hoyer on commons.wikimedia.org, licensed under CC 2.0.
In the past three years, he has published stories in Colorado Review, Catamaran, Brooklyn Review, Potomac Review, and Bellevue Literary Review. He lives in Los Angeles with his husband and their children.
- Serena and Judy Go Bowling - October 27, 2026