you think?,” she learned first to check which expression Sylvia was wearing—the “Ick” or the “I love it”—and then to respond accordingly.
Not that Lee was a submissive child. Far from it. But having figured out that her mother cared primarily about appearances, all Lee needed to do to be deemed a dutiful daughter was to use her nailbrush, say “Thank you” frequently, smile a lot, and cede to Sylvia all decisions about clothes and interior design. Silence on the subject of the day’s barrettes seemed not too great a price to pay for freedom. Then she was on her own. No clandestine nocturnal cookie retrievals for this kid. No oxygen deprivation under the covers to hide book and flashlight. Lee could gorge on Mallomars. No one would stop her from reading and rereading
The Bobbsey Twins’ Merry Days Indoors and Out
till the wee hours in the bright circle of light from a one-hundred-watt bulb beneath a pumpkin-color glass shade shaped like a coolie hat that hung over her bed.
By age seven, Lee realized (as she sat on Sylvia’s pièce de résistance, a lounge chair shaped like an amoeba, covered with an apricot-and-shocking-pink awning-stripe fabric) that deference to her mother’s fashion whims was the best way, actually the only way, to have fun with her mother. A trip to the city to buy a newspring coat and Mary Janes could be a laugh-filled lark: a “just us girls” lunch in a restaurant with aqua tablecloths and hot popovers; making fun of Ick dresses, like the one with cherries pinned on the bosom at Best & Company; dropping in on Daddy’s fur store, where Mommy tried on all the new styles and Dolly gave her a piece of chinchilla to stroke. She understood that saying “Gosh!” when her mother modeled a three-quarter-length silver fox was politically wise. It showed that Lee knew what was important in life—fur and style—and it made her whiny, I-want-to-go-home little sister look even worse.
At age four, Robin Renée White had traded in the infantile digestive irritability that had kept her awake and screaming twenty hours a day for a permanent colic of the personality. Nothing made her truly happy. She never giggled. The company of other children made her edgy. Playground noise gave her headaches. She could become agitated by a game of Candyland. Of course, there were times—listening to “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo” on her
Cinderella
record, cutting out dresses for paper dolls—that Robin’s lovely heart-shaped face took on a touchingly soft expression. Sylvia and Leonard would glance at each other and exhale a sign of relief: Maybe the worst is over. Maybe now we can have the photographer come back and she’ll smile and not wail in terror—“Oooo! Wooo!”—when the flashbulb goes off. (In fairness to Robin, it should be noted that on these rare occasions when her taut nerves relaxed and she began to smile, Lee was not beyond sneaking up from behind the moment Sylvia and Leonard’s backs were turned and poking Robin hard and fast in the ribs, causing the little girl to lose the little equanimity she possessed and break into demented screams.)
Still, Robin was competition. No doubt about it. She was far prettier than Lee, if one’s definition of pretty is huge eyes in a waiflike face, and a rosebud of a mouth. Her daintiness was memorable. Lee was the sturdy sort: Her body was saved fromthe inevitable consequences of Mallomars only because she had picked up a stray gene for athleticism. (That particular gene had last turned up in the girls’ great-great-grandfather on their father’s side, who was the fastest runner in exurban Pinsk—a not unwelcome talent, considering the proclivities of the neighboring peasants.) Otherwise, Lee was generic Girl. Her brown braided hair was neither straight enough to gleam in the sunlight nor curly enough to render her adorable. Her features were certainly pleasant but not singular enough to be remarked upon.
Robin was also smarter than Lee, if
Not that Lee was a submissive child. Far from it. But having figured out that her mother cared primarily about appearances, all Lee needed to do to be deemed a dutiful daughter was to use her nailbrush, say “Thank you” frequently, smile a lot, and cede to Sylvia all decisions about clothes and interior design. Silence on the subject of the day’s barrettes seemed not too great a price to pay for freedom. Then she was on her own. No clandestine nocturnal cookie retrievals for this kid. No oxygen deprivation under the covers to hide book and flashlight. Lee could gorge on Mallomars. No one would stop her from reading and rereading
The Bobbsey Twins’ Merry Days Indoors and Out
till the wee hours in the bright circle of light from a one-hundred-watt bulb beneath a pumpkin-color glass shade shaped like a coolie hat that hung over her bed.
By age seven, Lee realized (as she sat on Sylvia’s pièce de résistance, a lounge chair shaped like an amoeba, covered with an apricot-and-shocking-pink awning-stripe fabric) that deference to her mother’s fashion whims was the best way, actually the only way, to have fun with her mother. A trip to the city to buy a newspring coat and Mary Janes could be a laugh-filled lark: a “just us girls” lunch in a restaurant with aqua tablecloths and hot popovers; making fun of Ick dresses, like the one with cherries pinned on the bosom at Best & Company; dropping in on Daddy’s fur store, where Mommy tried on all the new styles and Dolly gave her a piece of chinchilla to stroke. She understood that saying “Gosh!” when her mother modeled a three-quarter-length silver fox was politically wise. It showed that Lee knew what was important in life—fur and style—and it made her whiny, I-want-to-go-home little sister look even worse.
At age four, Robin Renée White had traded in the infantile digestive irritability that had kept her awake and screaming twenty hours a day for a permanent colic of the personality. Nothing made her truly happy. She never giggled. The company of other children made her edgy. Playground noise gave her headaches. She could become agitated by a game of Candyland. Of course, there were times—listening to “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo” on her
Cinderella
record, cutting out dresses for paper dolls—that Robin’s lovely heart-shaped face took on a touchingly soft expression. Sylvia and Leonard would glance at each other and exhale a sign of relief: Maybe the worst is over. Maybe now we can have the photographer come back and she’ll smile and not wail in terror—“Oooo! Wooo!”—when the flashbulb goes off. (In fairness to Robin, it should be noted that on these rare occasions when her taut nerves relaxed and she began to smile, Lee was not beyond sneaking up from behind the moment Sylvia and Leonard’s backs were turned and poking Robin hard and fast in the ribs, causing the little girl to lose the little equanimity she possessed and break into demented screams.)
Still, Robin was competition. No doubt about it. She was far prettier than Lee, if one’s definition of pretty is huge eyes in a waiflike face, and a rosebud of a mouth. Her daintiness was memorable. Lee was the sturdy sort: Her body was saved fromthe inevitable consequences of Mallomars only because she had picked up a stray gene for athleticism. (That particular gene had last turned up in the girls’ great-great-grandfather on their father’s side, who was the fastest runner in exurban Pinsk—a not unwelcome talent, considering the proclivities of the neighboring peasants.) Otherwise, Lee was generic Girl. Her brown braided hair was neither straight enough to gleam in the sunlight nor curly enough to render her adorable. Her features were certainly pleasant but not singular enough to be remarked upon.
Robin was also smarter than Lee, if
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