Rachel Eve Moulton - The Insatiable Volt Sisters

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For Susan Streeter Carpenter

M y earliest memories in the house on Fowler Island are of the girlsHenrietta and Beatricetheir carnivorous joy echoing off the walls of Quarry Hollow. The sounds of their fearless jubilation would wake me from my rest no matter where they werehunting for spiders in the extra bedrooms down the hall from their fathers study or playing their monstrous games in the abandoned quarry that abutted the house. Their voices brought me forward. Their giggles and whispers pulsed through me, a heartbeat of their making.

Suddenly, with baby Henriettas arrival, I had become grounded again in a specific time and place, something I had not realized Id been craving. I found that I could come out of the walls, move about the house, stare out its windows. From the turret on the third floor, I could see the limestone quarry, the gaping maw in the land that marked the end of a specific pain for me that I still cant quite remember. We talked all the time, Henrie and I. Beatrice could never hear me, not in those days, but Henrietta translated for her, the three of us in conversation while Carrie and James slept in the farthest reaches of the house. We whispered about the mysteries of the island, and I told stories of their ancestors. The famous Eileen and Elizabeth Fowlerthe sisters who could speak to each other without using their mouthsbuilt the small downtown, the roads, and the Island Museum, which the girls had come to love. I told them about the arrival of their great-great-grandfather Seth Volt, and how hed broken Eileen and Elizabeth apart. And how the sisters, even isolated from each other, planned their revenge, an epic escape that would take generations of women to complete. Henrietta promised me shed never let anyone come between her and her big sister. Henrietta didnt, of course, know what was coming. Even when I warned her about the legend, she did not believe it. But my time with the girls was joyful. I gained substance, depth, found a solidity that allowed me to continue the work Elizabeth had started so long ago, keeping the house sealed tight.

I was in love with those girls. Still am. I mothered them as best I could, heard their secrets and their sadness. Answered their questions and traced their family tree on the ceiling of their bedroom so that they could conquer the madness, following the trail of their history to a brighter place. I wanted to tell them more, warn them, but then I would remember the smack of the water, the weight of it filling my lungs, a whimpering far off in the dark, and the monster sucking me down, down, down.

I did try. Over and over. But, each time, my tongue would become leaden, stuck ruthlessly to the bottom of my mouth. Heavier and heavier it would get until I couldnt make a sound. Couldnt warn Henrietta that the island had plans for them. That it would slowly press in on them, making the dark, sad spots in them grow. Big rotten splotches that would take over their bodies, separate them from each other. Mold over their hearts. And then, when the black and blue fuzz of it had softened their resolve, the island would offer them the perfect solution. Jump.

2000

I m in the photo studio on campus preparing for my last months of college when B.B. calls to tell me that our father is dead. I havent spoken to my dad in monthssix, maybe seven. The last call was about my final tuition payment and whether he would cover it. He always came throughat least with moneybut never on time and rarely without argument. He was stubborn, my father. Grizzled and aggressive and unable to bend to my or anyone elses point of view.

Hattiehe was the only one who called me Hattiecollege is a scam and youre paying for an entire extra year? Ridiculous.

Well, Daddy, I thought you wanted me to spend that first year on drugs and boys.

My father chuckled at that. Sarcasm always worked best on him.

He could never abide that his daughters might lead normal lives. When I told him I wanted to join the Girl Scouts, he said, Hell, no. Those ladies are fascists. In high school, I asked for an SAT tutor to supplement my fancy off-island high school, and he said, Those tests are some extra kind of bullshit, my dear. Try smoking a little weed! Have some fun! When I decided to switch my major to mathematics in my fourth year so I could add something more sensible and structural to my life, he told me I was going to turn into a goddamn robot. Study philosophy or poli sci. Or better yet, dont minor in photography. Major in it!

Ive spent my whole life trying to rebel against my father by being a good girl. Stand up straight. Be kind. Live every day like its a goddamn pop song. It works, mostly.

Now I can hear the background noise of the island over the phonelike a bundle of cats, spitting and scratching, water lapping at their mangled tailsand the sound of it triggers something animal in me. A need to run. To scream. To strip myself bare.

Ive got news, Henrie, my sister says in a quiet voice amid the island noise. Theres still no cell tower on Fowler, apparently, so you have to go down to the dumb ferry dock and stand on the edge of it while pointing your body toward the off-island town of Marblehead to get a call out. I picture B.B. there, tall and beautiful. Her hair blowing in the wind.

My sister is like my dad. Quick to temper. Does what and whomever she pleases and never hesitates to tell me exactly what she thinks of me whether Ive asked or not. It makes sense, after all: she was the keeper. The one who got to stay on island with my dad after the divorce.

B.B.s voice is different tonight though. Hesitant. She shouldnt even be on island. She should be in Boston. In graduate school. The semester hasnt ended yet. All my senses heighten at the realization that she is not all right. She sounds sad, uncertain.

Im dressed for a date, legs shaved and covered by jeans. I have on a white tank top and a white blouse with bright red mouth-shaped flowers and thick green vines embroidered around the collar. Bluebirds dot the vines.

I came to the studio tonight to develop one more photo before heading to the bar to meet my date, but two hours have passed. He is no longer waiting for me.

What news? I have a date to get to.

Its eleven p.m. Jesus, Henrie. You stood him up, didnt you?

I cant hear you. I hear her perfectly well.

Stop saying yes to dates you never plan to go on. Its cruel.

I dont do that, I snap at her, but I do this all the time. When I agree to a date, I have every intention of going, but then I just dont. I lose track of time, I fall asleep, I remember he has some sort of annoying mannerism that I dont want to sit across from. B.B. thinks Im afraid to get rejected. She always says, You cant be afraid to get your heart broken. I never tell her that fear of getting hurt isnt the issue. Not really. Its something else. Something I dont want to explain. Its like not wanting to stand at the edge of a cliff because Im afraid Ill jump. My brain goes to how I will mess it all up. Crush him. Stab him in the heart. Push him under until he drowns. Ive never hurt anyone or anythingI move spiders outside rather than squish thembut there is and has always been this part of me that knows Im capable of far worse.

This is serious, Henrie. Crackle cackle cracklethe phones voice is as real as my sisters, and I have a sudden memory of the quarry, the feel of it on the pads of my feet. Rock and pine needles pressing into the palms of my hands.