SISTER ROSE

1960

“The world is changing!” Rose cried, skipping ahead of Evelyn on the tree-lined sidewalk. “Can you feel it?”

“Changing how?” Evelyn replied.

“New decade, new president on the way. Isn’t it exciting?”

Evelyn shrugged. “I don’t know. Depends on who becomes president, I guess.”

Rose twirled around in circles, her arms extended like helicopter blades. “Don’t worry,” she said. “There’s no way people will vote for grumpy old Richard Nixon. Jack is so much more—” Here she stopped, pressed her hands to her fluttering heart, and tossed back her head. “Appealing!”

Evelyn grinned. “That’s true,” she said. “But don’t let Daddy hear you talk that way. About anybody.”

“Oh, crumbs. Daddy’s just a hopeless stick in the mud.”

They walked along one of downtown’s busiest boulevards. Clusters of people moved up and down the sidewalks, gazing into darkened shop windows. Several children, each licking a runny ice cream cone, rode high on their fathers’ shoulders. On one corner, a woman in a clown costume sold foil pinwheels from a wagon. On another, a barbershop quartet sang “Oh! Susanna.” A broad banner strung between two lampposts proclaimed in looping blue script: HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY.

Weaving their way among the revelers, Rose and Evelyn soon reached their destination, Hoffmann’s Antique Camera Shop. They stood for a moment in the shade of the striped awning, then turned toward the door. A CLOSED sign hung in the window, but Rose, undeterred, rapped on the glass with her knuckles, and presently the round, bespectacled face of Mr. Hoffmann emerged from the shadows. A porcelain bell tinkled as he cracked the door open.

“Ah!” Mr. Hoffmann sighed, gesticulating with his hand. “Can you not see we are closed? It is holiday! You pesky little urchins must find some other place to play.”

“But Mr. Hoffmann!” Rose cried. “It’s me!”

Mr. Hoffmann squinted his eyes, feigned profound puzzlement. He scratched his bald head. “Yes?” he said. “And who is ‘me’?”

“It’s Rose! Rose and Evelyn! You know who we are!”

Mr. Hoffmann grinned. “Ah! Rose and Evelyn! Of course. For you, my dears, the shop is always open.” And with that he swung the door wide for the girls to enter.

They followed Mr. Hoffmann through the shop. Their footsteps echoed against the high, stamped-tin ceiling. The accordion bellows on the boxy cameras displayed along the shelves resembled mechanical elephants’ trunks. Lenses, buttons, levers, and knobs winked at them from the shadows. Mr. Hoffmann’s office door, just visible at the far end of the room, stood slightly ajar. The faint odor of darkroom chemicals grew stronger as they approached.

“Got any new pictures to show us today, Mr. Hoffmann?” said Rose.

“Of course,” he replied, ushering them through the door, then shutting it firmly behind him. He stepped across to the back wall, where a second door—sealed along the edges with strips of black rubber—faced them. “Do you know secret password?”

Rose squirmed her shoulders, stomped her foot with impatience. “Oh!” she moaned. “I don’t like this game!”

Mr. Hoffmann shrugged. “We must follow rules.”

Rose sighed, then glanced up at the ceiling and scratched her chin. “F-stop?” she said.

“No.”

“L. J. M. Daguerre?”

“No.”

Rose snarled. “Rumpelstiltskin?”

Mr. Hoffmann laughed. “You are in rare form today, little one. Perhaps we try again tomorrow?”

Then Evelyn spoke up. She’d been scanning the shelves above Mr. Hoffmann’s desk, where dozens of bound volumes stood in tightly-packed rows, their titles stamped on the spines. Some were in Hebrew, others in Polish, still others in English. Of the words she could make out, all shared a similar flavor: Kabbalah, Zohar, Guide for the Perplexed. She raised her hand. “Shibboleth?” she said.

Mr. Hoffmann’s eyebrows leapt so high up on his forehead that Rose burst out laughing. “Ah!” he cried. “And how did you get so smart, eh?”

Evelyn grinned bashfully. “Mother teaches Sunday school,” she said.

“Well, my dear. That is indeed secret password. Follow me, please.”

Mr. Hoffmann snapped off the lights, plunging the office into blackness. Then came the sound of a door sliding open, followed by Mr. Hoffmann’s feet shuffling into the darkroom. “Pull the door shut behind you, little ones,” he said. Rose and Evelyn groped their way forward. A red bulb suspended from the ceiling switched on, casting weird shadows over the cabinets and bulky equipment. The three of them gathered around the large central table.

Mr. Hoffmann stretched out his arms. “Welcome, once again, to my Magic Laboratory,” he intoned.

“Ooh, I just love it in here,” Rose said, shivering. “It’s so spooky!”

Evelyn shook her head. “Rose, I’m not sure that’s the effect Mr. Hoffmann is going for.”

“On the contrary,” said Mr. Hoffmann. Then he turned and plucked a wet print from a line on which he’d clipped a series of new photos. He placed the picture face-up on the table. “This one I call ‘The Scene.’ ”

Rose and Evelyn leaned forward to study it. They saw a vast room, empty except for an iron bed, lit by intense but spectral light. Two dark human shapes—blurred by time-lapse—converged on the bed, engaged in some unreadable activity.

“Are they fighting or embracing?” said Evelyn.

“Is that blood?” said Rose.

“Are they in love?” said Evelyn.

“Or underwater?” said Rose.

Mr. Hoffmann chuckled. “Excellent questions,” he said. “Now for next picture.” He retrieved a second photo and placed it beside the first. “This one is called ‘Food of the Gods.’ ”

A smoky cauldron filled with bubbling liquid rested on a stove. Great tongues of fire emerged from below, lashed against the cast-iron shell, then stretched all the way up to the top of the frame. Dimly visible behind the image was the double-exposed face of a man screaming in pain.

“What’s in the pot?” said Rose.

Mr. Hoffmann smiled. “Chili,” he said. “Seasoned with fresh Habanero peppers.”

Rose whistled. “That’s powerful spicy.”

Evelyn looked up, her brow furrowed. “So chili is the food of the gods? I don’t get it.”

Mr. Hoffmann shrugged. “Perhaps it is only my sense of humor,” he said. “Next.” He placed the third picture below the first. It depicted a barn flying to pieces in the middle of a driving storm. A young woman stood unharmed among the wreckage, leaning slightly forward with a look of grim determination.

“What’s this one called?” said Rose.

“ ‘Loss of Illusions.’ ”

“How’d you take it without the girl inside getting killed?”

Mr. Hoffmann winked. “A true magician keeps such things to himself, yes?”

“Oh, crumbs,” said Rose.

Then Mr. Hoffmann brought down the final photo. He placed it with the others so that the group composed a giant square that nearly covered the table. “And now for grand finale,” he said, “I present ‘Afterward.’ ”

A very old man sat on a stool in an underground cellar, walled in by racks of bottles. His piercing silver eyes stared straight into the lens.

“I like this one,” Evelyn said.

“It’s a humdinger,” Rose agreed. “You know what I love best about your pictures, Mr. Hoffmann?”

“Tell me, child.”

“They look like they were taken by an alien from outer space.”

Evelyn groaned and clapped her hand to her forehead, but Mr. Hoffmann roared with laughter.

“Ah!” he cried. “This is great compliment. I will tell Ruby you say such fine things about my work.”

Mr. Hoffmann switched off the red bulb, and the three of them retraced their steps through the dark. At last the office light snapped on again, and they found themselves back where they’d started.

“Thanks for the private showing, Mr. Hoffmann,” said Rose.

“Always a pleasure, my dear. It is good to have such a receptive audience.” He opened the door that led back into the shop. “But now you must be on your way. The attic is unlocked. Be sure to see Ruby on your way up. She always enjoys visiting with her favorite girls.”

“Naturally,” said Evelyn.

A deep alcove—cluttered with boxes and shelves of labeled inventory—opened at the back of the shop. A wooden staircase rose along one wall, stopped halfway up in the corner, then turned and resumed its course all the way to the ceiling. The door to the Hoffmanns’ apartment stood at the top.

Rose and Evelyn mounted the creaking steps. As they ascended, the temperature increased slightly, causing their skin to prickle. When they reached the upper landing, Rose knocked gently on the door, and the voice of Mrs. Hoffmann rang out from within.

“It’s open!”

Rose turned the knob, pushed, and the girls entered the apartment. Dark walnut paneling, ponderous paintings, and heavy drapes gave the room a moody, mysterious air. A lantern-shaped light fixture hung from the ceiling. An old-fashioned phonograph, complete with sound horn, stood against a bookcase. Mrs. Hoffmann sat in a floral-print armchair, gazing out the windows onto the busy street below. When she saw Rose and Evelyn, her eyes lit up.

“Look who’s here!” she cried, and stretched out her hands.

“Hello, Mrs. Hoffmann,” the girls said in unison.

Then Rose added, “How’s your book coming along?”

“Fine and dandy,” Mrs. Hoffmann replied. Her thick, wire-rimmed glasses flashed in the sunlight. “I’m closing in on the end of Part Two.”

“Golly. What’s it all about?”

“Reconstruction.”

Mrs. Hoffmann ushered the girls over and arranged them on either side of her chair. Up close, the creases in her face appeared deeper, almost sinister; she looked much older than her forty-five years. She draped a hand over each girl’s shoulder, pulled them toward her. Swiveling her head back and forth, she studied them with her fiery green eyes.

“You’re both progressing nicely,” she said, smiling. “Every time I see you, you look more grown up.”

Rose blushed. “That’s kind of you to say.”

“Yes, your time is nearing.” She ran her bony fingers up and down their naked arms. Her voice trembled. “Your moment is very close indeed.”

Rose and Evelyn exchanged glances.

“What do you mean?” Evelyn said.

Mrs. Hoffmann let her hands drop to the armrests, sighed deeply. “Tell me,” she said. “Do you girls know of the Sibyls?”

“No,” said Rose.

Mrs. Hoffmann nodded. “In antiquity, the Sibyls were a kind of priestess—young women gifted with the power of prophecy. When inspired by the gods, their words reached the ears of kings. The poet Virgil describes one such girl who guided Aeneas through the underworld and across the River Styx. Without her, there would have been no Roman Empire.”

“But those are just stories,” Evelyn said. “I mean, they’re not real.”

“It is customary,” Mrs. Hoffmann continued, “for the elders of a civilization to search among the young for a suitable vessel, a soul with the inborn strength and vision to assume the burden of ultimate knowledge. When such a one is found, she is sent to a secluded spot where the ceremony of transmission takes place.”

Rose and Evelyn backed away from the chair.

“Don’t be afraid,” Mrs. Hoffmann said. “Just remember what the philosopher says: When the fruit is ripe, a touch will make it fall.”

Now the girls stood frozen in place.

Mrs. Hoffmann smiled. “But I know you’re here to work in the attic,” she said kindly. “Why don’t you get started, then? You know the way, of course.”

“We sure do,” said Rose.

And with that the girls bolted away from the chair and wound their way through the apartment. When they reached the kitchen, they opened a narrow door beside the icebox, revealing an empty closet with a wooden ladder inside. The girls entered the closet, shut the door, then climbed into the attic.

Once they’d lifted themselves through the hole in the floor and stood upright on the rough planks, Rose and Evelyn gazed down the length of the spacious room. The ceiling, being the underside of the building’s roof, sloped sharply on both sides, ribbed at regular intervals by heavy support beams. Two dormers jutted out on the lefthand side, and yellow light streamed in through the windows. The far wall divided the attic into two separate chambers. A silver padlock hung from its paneled door.

The attic was freshly-swept, sweltering, and empty except for a towering object, wrapped in canvas, standing in the center of the room. Rose’s tools and materials lay stacked around the base.

“Jeez Louise,” said Evelyn. “It’s hot up here. How can you stand to sculpt in this heat?”

“Help me open the windows,” Rose replied. “Then I’ll show you what I’m working on.”

With the windows ajar and a light breeze now blowing across their backs, Rose and Evelyn grasped the edge of the canvas and marched in circles around the sculpture. After four revolutions the sheet fell away and billowed to the floor. As Rose gathered the sheet up into her arms, Evelyn stood gaping at the nearly-completed piece.

She saw a mythical female creature, at least six feet tall, with a shock of wiry red hair bursting from her scalp. Four different faces, each blending into the next, circled her head, their expressions moving from beatific to angry to fearful to sad. A pair of elaborate wire wings unfolded from her back, and she held her powerfully muscled arms outstretched. One hand clutched a bloody hammer, the other a slender caduceus. Her breasts, large and plump, rested on her swollen belly, and a garland of baby skulls hung loosely from her neck. From the waist down, her body assumed the form of a primate. She crouched on thick, hairy haunches. Her ape-like feet gripped the planet on which she stood. Her knees spread open, she displayed the deep folds of her sex, from which the smooth head of a child was beginning to emerge. A mermaid’s tail grew from her rump and wrapped around the planet, forming the sculpture’s base.

“Good heavens!” Evelyn cried. “That’s really something.”

“Thanks,” said Rose, dragging a large sack out from behind the creature’s tail. She plunged her fist into the sack and began pulling out clumps of white feathers. “I just have to glue these on, then it’ll be done.”

“Need any help?”

Rose shook her head. “No,” she said. “This is the first one I’ve done all on my own.”

As Rose began smearing glue over the wire wings, Evelyn turned away and crossed to an open window. On the street below, the festival was winding down, but a crowd of townspeople still moved listlessly between the curbs. Scraps of colored paper littered the road and sidewalks. A low murmur wafted through the air.

Evelyn glanced over at the paneled door in the attic’s rear wall. Its silver padlock sparkled. She stared intently at the lock, as though mesmerized—then noticed that the bolt housing had actually dropped away from the gate.

“I’m going in here,” Evelyn said, heading for the door.

“You can’t,” said Rose, two feathers pinched between her teeth. “It’s locked.”

Evelyn lifted the padlock and dangled it on an outstretched finger. “Oh yeah?” she said, grinning.

Rose removed the feathers. “Evelyn, don’t you think that’s supposed to be private? You’re going to get us in trouble.”

“Well, I’m curious.”

Rose sighed. “Just don’t make too much noise,” she said. “I don’t want Mrs. Hoffmann coming up here. She’s obviously in a weird mood.”

Evelyn opened the door. The lintel was only as high as her shoulders, so she ducked her head before stepping through. When she straightened again on the other side, she found herself in a dimly-lit storage room crowded with dusty furniture. Lamps, bureaus, armchairs, beds—row after row of objects filled all available space. The two windows here had been covered with fabric, giving the room a grainy, purplish cast. No other light source seemed to exist.

Then Evelyn’s eyes fell on a small wooden cradle, intricately carved, resting at her feet.

“Rose!” she cried.

A moment later, her sister’s head appeared in the doorway.

“What?”

“Look at this.”

Rose entered and stood beside Evelyn. “Golly,” she said. “How’d they get all this stuff in here? That door’s too small. They must have built the wall after everything was already in place.”

Evelyn pointed to the cradle. “I’m more concerned about that.”

Rose reached forward and touched the filigreed wood, causing the cradle to rock gently, creaking back and forth. “Oh, Evelyn,” she whispered. Then she stepped closer, gazed down into the empty frame, and dropped her hand inside. When her palm touched the cradle floor, a powerful jolt seized her entire body. Her hand pinned in place, she struggled in vain to cry out.

“Rose!” Evelyn shouted. “Let go, Rose!”

But the force was too powerful.

A sleeping infant lay wrapped in lambskin. From the open window, a wedge of moonlight fell across his body. On the nearby nightstand, beneath the extinguished lamp, a tiny music box played. When the chiming stopped, the child’s eyes opened. Finding himself in a darkened nursery, he spread his gums and wailed. The nurse entered. Her flapping robe billowed as she charged, silver scissors clutched in her whitened fist. Down came the blades, plunging, plunging, and pierced the downy lambskin. Blood pooled gurgling in the child’s throat. The cradle filled up like a butcher’s tub. When the crime was discovered, the child’s mother fled to the forest. Running headlong through the trees, she tore her blouse with trembling hands, freeing her naked breasts. Her anguished howls slashed the chilly air. She arrived at a circular clearing. She stood at its center, flung back her head, then sank to her knees. A ring of angels appeared among the pines. They stepped into the circle, spread their wings, and sang a requiem.

Rose pitched forward, sobbing, and landed hard on her hands and knees.

Evelyn swooped down beside her. “Are you all right?” she cried, stroking her sister’s hair. “Rose? Honey? Can you tell me what happened?”

“He’s dead,” Rose whimpered. “I saw it. I saw it all!”

“Who? Who’s dead?”

Rose lifted her face, stared into Evelyn’s frightened eyes. “Their son,” she said. “Murdered!”

Evelyn touched her palms to Rose’s temples, then leaned forward and kissed her brow. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go to the window. You must need some air.”

Together they struggled to their feet. Arm in arm, they made their way to the near dormer, pulled the curtain aside, and opened the window. A warm breeze blew in, fanning their reddened faces.

The street below was empty.