To whom it may concern-
That’ll get ‘em, Eve thought, her fingers snapping at the typewriter keys like Hungry Hungry Hippos. Her laptop lay, upside down and forgotten, on the sofa. This felt more personal, which was fitting given that it was her family that was whom should be concerned.
I have, these past few years, been suffering grievously- the clubfoot and the lupus especially have troubled me- and you’ve all done fuck-all about it.
There it was. The line that launched a thousand angry phone calls. She didn’t even know what lupus was- something to do with wolves?- and clubfoot had always seemed to her like a fake problem made up by people who didn’t like normal shoes, but then she was sort of faking so it felt right. It’s not as though anyone knows, she said to herself. It’s not as if they’ll check. Or maybe they will. That would be interesting. Who would they ask? She didn’t have a doctor. Yet.
Inasmuch as this is the case, I am writing today to tell you all that I will be pawning- that’s right, pawning, in the year of our lord two thousand and twenty-six- mother’s tiara, along with several of our family’s other historical relics. I do not, of course, anticipate top dollar for these items. The economy is what it is for middle-ancient things, but nevertheless my straits are MTV and I lack a even a microwave oven with which to warm them.
Let them chew on that one for a while. She imagined Daniel would get there first. Daniel Ranthony had a penchant for finding the buried. Often it was dinosaur bones or the occasional pocket of oil, but it extended out to referential humor as well. Tiffany had no chance. Lawyer. Stephen would need the radio on but in the event might catch it, if he could be bothered to take a break from those damn computers he was always working on. Mother wouldn’t get it because mother wouldn’t get it. Anyway they could all go straight to hell, the lot of them. She pictured the phone call after her letter arrived, then realized it wasn’t realistic and changed her mental image to the much more likely scroll of blue and white bubbles. Or maybe green and white. Tiffany. Eve rolled her eyes.
Her cat leapt onto the desk, reached out a paw, and pressed the L key while Eve daydreamed. The harsh snap brought her back to the present and she swore. Goddamn cat. She grabbed it around the middle and lifted it. All four paws disgorged claw and raked her arm in a three-hundred and sixty degree arc that would sting in the shower for days if she took one. “Namilia Ann!” she shouted, dropping the unperturbed bundle of fur and standing up. The cat- Namilia Ann when it was in trouble, Nani when it wasn’t- looking more as though it’d done what it’d done from curiosity than any kind of malice, cocked its black-and-orange head, licked its nose, and then walked away. How very appropriate, Eve thought.
The Neosporin was in the bathroom. A fresh tube. The day was getting better all the time. The letter she was writing had been the first positive thing, the first break in the clouds. Then she’d found ten dollars in the pocket of her mumu. Now the tube. She twisted the top, felt the cap break. A beautiful thing, that. The breaking of the seal. She felt sad that she’d not be able to do it again with this particular tube. It was almost pornographic, and she shook her head to clear it while she slathered the ointment across the wounds given by her ungrateful- which was to say, bog standard- cat.
Her wound clean, she walked back into her living room. It was warm. Her whole house was warm, exhaustively so. And she could turn the air conditioner up or down, could turn on the fans or turn off the fans, could leave the freezer open and assail the gods- it wouldn’t matter: the house would be warm, oppressively warm. It was 68 according to the thermostat but it felt 78 and the bitterness started to creep back in. It had to be captured. She raced back to her typewriter.
The time since the incident has not been easy for me, as I’m sure you all know. The lupus and the clubfoot were in themselves never enough to suppress my spirit or dampen my joie de vivre- the Essence of Eve remained very much intact- but since the mishap at the lab I have found each day becomes harder to attack than the previous, and that the horizon of my future becomes dimmer, darker, and more tempestuous. It is a financial burden to me, true, though the worst of the happenings must surely be my continued isolation in these trying times.
They could choke on it. Not a word from them. Three whole days and not a peep from her siblings. Well. They’d get what was coming to them, as soon as the post was taken, transported, lost, rerouted, left on the truck, unloaded, reloaded, and then finally accidentally delivered by a Postal Service employee who hadn’t gotten the internal memo about expectations. She had no illusions that this would be a quick process, but then she would be helping a challenged population stay relevant and anyway she’d already chosen the typewriter as her means of construction. Speed didn’t really factor. Three whole days. It was too long, no matter how good this one was beginning to feel.
The day of the mishap had begun like any other: she’d taken off her sleeping cap, taken out her curlers, and peeled off her mask. She’d brushed her teeth. She’d filled Nani’s water (with water) and her puzzle feeder (with wet food; Nani only got wet food; the day Eve was dead she’d give a cat of hers dry food). She’d put on her dress- a flashy number with a bit of ankle exposed; one could never know when Dr. Tarpenian would decide to ask her come and visit the cadavers and she had had a feeling that day might just have been the day for it. Her stockings were as opaque and crisp as the skin of a 1950s apple. Once she finished applying her makeup, slipped on her loafers (the ones with the tassels, of course) and was out the door it had only been three and a half hours since she’d awoken. Tragedy awaited her, though she didn’t know it. If she had, she might not have hummed Mr. Sandman quite so loudly on the elevator.
And so it is with a heavy heart that I take the decision I have taken. I will, as mentioned, be taking several things of dear and intrinsic value along with me to Bishop’s Pawn on 28th and Night and therein depositing with Mr. Bishop the items for such value as they may fetch. Poor as it may be. I take it as read that each of you, in your own turn and way, would wish to help your sister but I-
Eve raised a hand, in anticipation and denial, then realized what she was doing, stopped, and sat back. She was getting too involved and it was coming through. How could it have the intended effect, be the effect of change it must necessarily be, if she wasn’t able to detach herself and look at things with a critical eye? How could she torment them effectively without herself being absent in the composition? It wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t. She rose, went into the kitchen, and boiled some water, into which she deposited one tablespoon of dry rose hip tea, and set her egg timer for five minutes.
A five minute timer. If only. She’d arrived at work a few minutes late. It could have been prevented with just a few minutes more. Her lab coat hung on its accustomed peg and she had draped it about herself in the accustomed fashion. Whoever was doing the washing was shrinking it but it still hugged her beautifully. She stared in the mirror, alone in the locker room. The others- Peggy and Meg, Mabel- were surely already in the lab but she knew perfectly well that work didn’t begin until they were all present. This suited Eve fine. Fashionable is fashionable, and Dr. Tarpenian would know who the alpha was at a glance. Her hair, reflected, was stiff, sturdy, in place. Perfect. Her glasses were delicately perched on her thick, round nose, brown square frames translucing glamorously to the skin behind them. The battle lines were drawn. She pushed out into the lab, stared straight ahead while the others glared in envy, and sat at her workstation with a perfectly studied and cross-legged contempt.
The fall was nigh.
The timer went off and Eve scooped the leaves out with her fingers. The water scalded them, but she’d already put Neosporin on and it seemed pointless to waste it- and dirty up a spoon- by attempting to injury when she was already protected. And besides, what was her life anymore? Nothing mattered. Except the letter. She took a sip and felt sufficiently detached to continue.
-but I couldn’t possibly allow any of you to take time from your own dear ones to come and comfort me, lost lamb as I am. I simply wouldn’t have it. And I know you all know, and that is the reason for your silence on the matter. But as I do certainly wish to maintain myself on my own two typically sturdy feet, sacrifices must be made, and I feel I can no longer support myself without access to the meager hidden riches left to us by mother in anticipation of her death. Of course I won’t be writing to her, as our falling-out is well known, and so I would deputize any of you who see fit to inform the old cow that I will be taking the necessary action in response to recent events. I love you all.
That ought to do it, she thought, smiling over her tea. The less embellished and expected a declaration of love, the more effective as a knife in the ribs. And oh did they deserve it, the self-absorbed bastards. She spilled a bit of tea on her mumu, but as it was a pattern specifically chosen to hide stains without being washed she didn’t take much notice.
She’d taken up her tools- the eyedropper of cocaine, the frog-prodder, the electrodes connected to the nine-volt battery- and addressed herself to her task. The frog in question- a new one, but still basically the same as the old one, and the one before that, and the one before that, since they were, as mentioned, frogs, and she was a normal human person- looked up at her blearily from inside its plastic box. She cocked her head at it. It cocked its head at her. So many fascinating things happened at her job. She couldn’t wait to discuss them over a quiet dinner at home with Dr. Tarpenian after she’d snared him and they’d gotten married.
And then all hell had broken loose.
That being the case, and as my lupus has flared, I must cut my letter short. There are only so many things a woman in my position may splurge herself upon, and the cost of ribbons has, as we all know, skyrocketed in the past few decades.
Meg and Peggy had been watching her too closely. She could see that now, could see it in their beady eyes. Mabel, face drooping like a cartoon dog not drawn by a Disney, didn’t do anything, though she rarely did and even more rarely counted. But Meg and Peggy had been active, and not to notice had been Eve’s mistake. The nine fifteen bell rang. The frog, which she had taken to be staring blearily, leapt- a high, arcing leap, such as one sees from the trained frogs in documentaries and never in real life, legs behind and akimbo, and the whole thing flying- into her beautifully stiffened hair in a swooping motion only describable as singular and fell.
Her instinct aroused, she had reached up to grab it, but she hadn’t worn her gloves- the nails on her hands so perfectly puce it would have been criminal to cover them- and upon touching the frog and discovering its moist, hideous skin she had become so ill that the previous evening’s dinner found its way up among the doings at the back her mouth. Whatever they were. She wasn’t sure. Her dentist would pretend to be, if she’d had one, but at the time that had all seemed to be beside the point and she withdrew her hand to cover her mouth. She could still rescue the situation if only she could stem that particular rising tide.
At that very moment, the door opposite opened, and in strode Dr. Tarpenian. The other girls- Meg and Peggy and that horrible Mabel- smiled their deep, treacherous smiles at him, beaming freshly with ill-gotten, undeserved youth and as though nothing whatever was happening at Eve’s station. Eve, for her part, looked up, and as she did the solid weight of the beast upon her scalp made itself known once more and she, horrified, forgot herself for the briefest of moments. Out it all came. The fish, the wine, the lemon square, a significant portion of the rice, and one single carrot circle. Right into the frog’s box where it pooled, contained and visible like a museum exhibit.
If the office was a beauty contest- and Eve felt in her bones that it was- this surely wasn’t the way to attack the talent portion. She hadn’t even been able to show Dr. Tarpenian her eveningwear, and given that she’d had it for thirty years she was certain it would have been quite spicy for him. But that was then, before the expulsion, and she snatched up her frog prodder. Meg and Peggy, cows, snickered at her from behind frightened eyes. What did they know? Clearly everything, but also nothing, and Eve was trying to find a way to reconcile these ideas in her head satisfactorily when Dr. Tarpenian approached, a calm hand raised and a smile on his lips, and she stabbed him in the webbing between his fingers.
Gasps circled the room like a swarm of cartoon bees and Eve, committed now, ripped free the prodder and set herself after Mabel, the worst of the lot. Mabel, seeing this marauding Fury encroach upon her, simply cocked her head, rolled her shoulder, and sucker-punched Eve in the temple, whereupon Eve had dropped to the floor insensible.
And there it was, thought Eve. Her shame. If only she’d have been five more minutes late. Accursed bell. Accursed Meg and Peggy. Goddamned Mabel. She looked down at the typewriter, saw her hands shaking and beads of sweat forming on the knuckles. It was always so warm in the house. It might have been comfortable with Dr. Tarpenian lounging on the couch behind her, watching House re-runs or whatever it was doctors did when they weren’t docting. But here, now, it was stifling. Insufferable. Just like Daniel. And Tiffany. And Stephen. Mother too, although that may not have been entirely fair, what with her being in the home now. Eve assumed it was a hellhole, though of course she had never gone to visit. Imagine, Eve in a place like that. Sweat ran down her ribs, a single bead, through to her hip and burying itself in the floral fabric in that swaddled her. Bastards.
Give my utmost love to those whom you care for. I hope they cherish, much as I would were it bestowed upon me. But rest assured, the lack of care shown me has neither dampened my spirits nor diminished the true and tender feelings I have for each of you. I, for my part, rise above.
Rise above, she thought. Rise above. She took a deep breath. The pads of her fingers hurt from snapping at the keys. It would never do to let any of them know, never do at all for them to intuit that this letter had cost her pain, actual pain. The effectiveness would wear. She re-read it and decided that, though it had indeed been a throw-in, it wasn’t worth the cost of a ribbon to re-write the end. She was satisfied with her pathos. Now it was time to come up with the pith, the bittersweet ending that would drive it all home. She cracked her knuckles as best she could, which was poorly and always had been, and set her fingers once more at the keys.
She stalled. Mabel. What a bitch, she thought. And Meg and Peggy just standing there, tittering! She decided she had no patience for teenagers anymore, which didn’t make her old, it just made her mature. They would never have survived the nineties. Or the eighties. Eve tutted and tapped her hair. Still stiff. Perfect. Just because one was home was no reason to wash perfectly good product away. She thought of Dr. Tarpenian. Of his wild eyes during the kerfuffle. He had been intrigued, she could tell. He’d only fired her because he had to. She knew it. Soon enough he’d come knock on the door. She could feel it from the sweaty depths of her slippered feet.
Nani pawed at her. One claw got stuck in the fold of her mumu and, in a panic, the cat rolled over and over trying to free it, doing nothing more than twisting it into a knot and wrapping her paw hopelessly in the fabric. Eve watched this happen with the same look of curiosity Nani had offered upon raking Eve’s wrist, until, when the damn thing had finally worn itself out, she gently reached down, grabbed whatever the cat’s equivalent of a wrist was, and plucked the paw free. Nani, grateful this time at least, pawed again, got stuck again, and the whole thing repeated, at which point Eve looked at the clock on her mantlepiece- a gloriously tooled wooden scroll clock, mahogany with Swiss workings- and realized it was time for Nani’s dinner.
She rose from her desk and went to the kitchen. It still smelled of rose hips and she took in the fragrance while she opened a can of wet food and slurmped it out into Nani’s bowl. It was the last can, but she thought of the ten dollars she’d found and how she’d die before she fed Nani dry food. She watched her set to, ferocious and without even a thank you meow. Wet food, Eve thought. You thank a person for wet food. Well, it was her lot in life to be unappreciated. She sighed. She knew someone who would appreciate her. As soon as things had cooled down at work. Then maybe they’d heat up in this apartment. Not that she needed more heat, precisely: her mumu was drenched in all the inconvenient places.
She shook her head, clearing the sidetrack. The letter. That was the important thing. She needed the capper. The one to send them all swarming, abuzz with concern. What would it be, she wondered. She sat back down, her fingers ready. She snapped off a carriage return. She sighed, sat back, smiled, and then set to.
But even risen, no matter how far above, needs must be met. I know you all are busy, have all your own lives to lead and linger within. Neither pity nor weep for me. I ask for nothing. I will sustain myself upon the returns from these tokens of our childhood that I even now have packaged into a box awaiting a neighbor’s assistance to load down to the bus stop from whence my journey must commence. I am, as you are no doubt unaware, without transportation of my own. I do so wish you all a cornucopia of joy, and hope you remember your dear sister and her trials as you all deservedly revel in the the carefree nature of your beatific lives.
Happily, Eve Ranthony.
And there it was: One down, three to go, she thought. A photocopier just wouldn’t be the same.
