The raised voices he could barely hear from outside are, unsurprisingly, quite a bit louder from within. They are, also unsurprisingly, having more or less exactly the same argument Luce described to him the other day: Daisy and Iris can’t understand what Luce’s problem is, why she won’t just move in with them, and Luce, having stewed with rage for days, is nearly incoherent. She keeps shouting things like, “Personal autonomy!” and “Didn’t even ask!” without any of the surrounding context, as though the other parts of her sentences have flounced off in a huff. Occasionally someone—Sam is almost certain it’s Joey—is throwing in a supportive “Yeah!” or “That’s right!” after she speaks, though is generally immediately drowned out by the other two.
Taking a deep breath and trying not to think about Jake or how much easier this would be with him to hand, Sam steps into the dining room. He’s not surprised to see it’s hemorrhaging customers; he wouldn’t want to continue eating somewhere where this was happening, either.
The three of them are positioned as though preparing for battle. Luce is on the employees-only side of the deli counter, running a furious hand through her short, dark, and currently partially purple hair over and over again. Across from her, Daisy and Iris’s faces are twisted into matching expressions of icy fury. The two of them have their lighter hair pulled back today, smoothed down and twisted into the sleek knotted buns they’ve both favored since high school, and which Luce, whose hair has their father’s curlier texture, has never been able to pull off. Sam wonders if they did it on purpose, to make Luce feel the differences between them more acutely, and then feels uncharitable for even considering it.
They’re all standing the same way: arms crossed, shoulders thrown back, feet planted slightly apart, and holding so much tension in their respective necks that Sam thinks he could probably play them like guitar strings. It’s a familiar position: Mara, Sam remembers in a dizzying wave, had always stood like that when she was furious. He can practically conjure the image now, even though it’s been years since he’s seen his mother angry. The last time, barring the accident, was during the Great Yom Kippur Schism, while she and Deb were sniping back and forth at one another about seemingly every grudge they’d ever carried.
Sam’s often wondered if it might have been easier for the two of them, him and his mother, if either one of them was more like Deb, and preferred just fighting things out to avoiding them. He’s fairly certain that’s why it’s been so long since he’s seen Mara get mad. He’s had the sense for some time now thatshe feels too guilty about what happened after the accidenttoget angry with him, or even in front of him, not that she’s ever managed to admit as much. Some days he feels good about that, vindicated in his lingering sadness and hurt. Some days it depresses him so much he can hardly stand to think about it.
Today, watching her posture sketched over his sisters’ shoulders, it makes him want to cry.
“Girls,” he starts, instead of telling them this. It’s how he would have approached an argument between them when they were children, and it’s a mistake; they all turn to glare at him. Wearily, he thinks at least it’s stopped them glaring at each other.
Only briefly, because: “We’rewomen,” all three of them snap, and then, looking horrified to have been caught doing the same thing in the same moment, turn back to one another and resume fighting.
“Of course you are,” Sam says, not that they’re listening to him anymore. “I just meant—I was hoping—for God’s sake, would you justlistenfor a second?”
All three of them fall silent, which alerts Sam to the fact that he delivered that last bit more than a little too loudly. The last remaining customers in the deli glance up at the volume and then scurry out, leaving the place as dead and empty as it was at the peak of the aftermath ofJake’sKiss of Death review. Would any of this even have happened if not for that stupid review? If Luce hadn’t had the excuse of wanting to help out at the deli? If Sam hadn’t been so wrapped in everything, been paying more attention to what was really going on?
“What?” Iris snaps. “You think you can fix this, Sam?You?You’re not even part of this! What do you know about?—”
“Iknow,” Sam returns, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register, “how easy it is to lose yourfamily, Iris, all right? I know! The three of you are acting like?—”
“Thethreeof us?” Luce demands, throwing Sam a glare that makes him wince. “I’m notactinglike anything;they’rethe ones who don’t even think of me as a?—”
“Wewere just trying look out for yourfuture,” Daisy cries. “We’ve never lived apart, and you’re the one we always had to carry, you know! Never making your own friends, or?—”
“I make my own friends!” Luce looks and sounds near tears of rage now. “I have plenty of friends! And a partner! And a job lined up, which is more than either one of you has got! Just because I wasn’t invited to as many birthday parties as you when we wereseven?—”
“Thethreeof you,” Sam bellows, drowning them out, “are acting like there aren’t any consequences to this! Like you can just stand here and be horrible to one another and then let it all pass under the bridge, because you’re family and that’s what happens. But sometimes itisn’twhat happens! Sometimes youbreaksomething, and you can’t ever take it back or put it right again, and then you have to carry it?—”
“Oh my God,” Iris says, rolling her eyes, “not everything is aboutyourtrauma, Sam, okay? You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, and?—”
“Actually,” a soft, female voice says from somewhere behind Sam, “in my experience, he’s got that one dead right.”
All four siblings spin, mouths dropping open, to see Deb standing in the doorway.
Once he’s over the shock of seeing her—and with no small amount of relief—Sam lets Deb take over. He’s grateful when she instructs him to go to his office and wait for her; he’s even more grateful when, a few minutes later, the shouting dies down, and she saunters in sans triplets, looking pleased with herself.
“I sent them over to Joanie,” Deb explains, sitting down in the chair across from the desk and smiling at Sam. “You’d never believe it based on how in touch she, uh,reallyisn’t with herownfeelings, but she’s great with this kind of thing for other people. She’ll make them all sit in a circle and agree that they can only talk when they’re the one holding some weird crystal or amulet or whatever else from that junk pit of a shop, and shut them up when they go too far.” When Sam makes a doubtful face, she laughs. “I’m serious, you know. I’ve seen her do it. How do you think your mother and I get through funerals and bat mitzvahs without making fools of ourselves?” When Sam blinks in surprise, she winks and adds, “What? I don’t tell you everything, you know. Anyway, it’ll be easier for Joanie than you. You’re too close to be objective.”
“Well, that’s…probably right,” Sam admits, and slumps down slightly onto his hands. After a second, feeling the oddness of their positions acutely, he adds, “Do you want to switch seats? It’s weird being on this side, when it’s, uh, technically your office.”
“Nah,” Deb says, and, grinning at him, kicks her feet up onto the desk. “Kinda like the view from this side, honestly. Much less to worry about over here.”
“That’sdefinitelyright,” Sam mutters, and sighs, and then smiles back at her, helpless not to. “It’s good to see you. Thanks for coming.”
“Oh, sure,” Deb says, waving a hand as though it’s nothing. “Talya’s off presenting a paper at some academics-only conference this week, and it seemed like a good time to stop in, see how it’s all going. If I’d realized it was going to be World War III when I showed up, I might have picked a different week, but maybe it’s for the best that it worked out like this. You don’t, sorry to say it, really have my expertise in sister-on-sister crime.”
Sam grimaces, thinking of some of the fights he witnessed between Deb and Mara before the Great Yom Kippur Schism, after which communications between them largely ceased. He hates to even think it—it makes him so sad for the triplets he can hardly bear it—but: “Is that how you and my mom were, then? At their age?”
Deb laughs, a bright, bell-like peal. “Me and Mara? God, no. Of course not. We weremuchworse.” In the tones of a fond reminiscence, she adds, “We did have a couple of humdingers like that here at Silverman’s, I’ll grant you. She threw about half a tub of whitefish salad at me once, you should haveheardmy mother go on about the cost and the mess. You missed meeting your grandma Sandy, but she could really blow her top when she was mad enough.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’ve got the sense that’s a family trait. The three of them are certainly giving one another a run for their money.”
“Oh, stop, that’ll work itself out in the end.” Deb waves a hand. “Part of the reason youhavesisters is to fight with them. It’s how you grow. I would’ve kept fighting with Mara ’til the day one of us died if she hadn’t bowed out, and I still would now, if she ever showed up ready to go a few rounds. Sometimes I even wish she would. It wouldn’t be fun, but.” She shrugs. “A lot of what’s worth doing isn’t any fun. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it.”
“I’m not sure if I should take comfort in that,” Sam admits, “but I do, a little.”
