Sisterhood by Michael Palmer Page B

two-car garage was so full of the “treasures” Ida was constantly promising to throw out that there had never been room inside for more than their bicycles. As she walked around to the front, Christine noticed for the first time that lights were blaring from every room. A party. The last thingin the world she wanted to deal with. “Lisa strikes again,” she muttered, shaking her head.
    The unmistakable odor of marijuana hit her as soon as she opened the door. From the living room the music of an old Eagles album mixed with the clinking of glasses and a half-dozen simultaneous conversations. She was searching her thoughts for somewhere else to sneak off to for the night when Lisa Heller popped out from the living room.
    Three years younger than Christine, and six inches taller, Lisa was dressed in what had become the unofficial uniform of the house—well-worn jeans and a baggy man’s shirt pirated from some past lover. Her face had a perpetually intellectual, almost pious look to it that seemed invariably to attract men who were “into” Mahler and organic food, both of which Lisa abhorred.
    “Aha! The prodigal daughter returneth to the fold.” She giggled.
    There was something disarming about Lisa that had always made even Christine’s blackest moments seem more manageable. “Lisa,” she said, smiling around clenched teeth, “how many people are in there?”
    “Oh, eight or ten or twelve or so. It’s hard to count because some of them aren’t really people, you know.”
    “Do me a favor, please,” Christine pleaded, “Go get some rope and your raccoon coat and see if you can sneak me past the door as your pet Irish wolfhound or something. I just want to go to bed.”
    “Ah, bed,” Lisa said wistfully, steadying herself against the wall. “Soon all that Gallo Chablis and fine Colombian dope in there will have us all in bed. The only question remaining is who will be bedded down with whom. Speaking of which …”
    “Lisa, is
he
in there?”
    “Big as life. It’s his dope, doncha know.”
    Christine grimaced. Jerry Crosswaite was hanging on like a bad cold. She shook her head. “It’s my fault,” sheadded with theatrical woe. “My cardinal rule, and I broke it.”
    “What rule is that?” Lisa punctuated the question with a hiccup.
    “Never date a man more than once who has vanity plates on his car with
his
name on them.” The two friends laughed and embraced.
    Although seeing Jerry still had its pleasant moments, they were becoming fewer and farther between. Ever since his unilateral decision that they were “made for each other,” Jerry had mounted an all-out campaign to make Christine “The Wife of the Youngest Senior Loan Officer in Boston Bank and Trust History.” For weeks he had barraged her with roses, gifts, and phone calls. To Christine’s mounting chagrin, Lisa and Carole had become so swept up in the romantic adventure that they had undermined her efforts to discourage his ardor.
    “Chrissy, will you stop complaining.” Lisa said now. “I mean you’re past thirty, and he’s a nice man with an Alfa. What more could a girl want?”
    Christine wasn’t totally certain she was being teased. “Lisa, he has fewer sides than a sheet of paper …”
    “Well, babe, I wouldn’t kick ’im out of bed,” Lisa said.
    “Stick around, Heller, you may get the chance to find out if you mean that.” Christine brushed past her and into the living room.
    Jerry Crosswaite set down his wine and began a piecemeal effort to rise from the couch and greet her. Christine forced a grin and waved for him to stay where he was. There were twelve others in the room, many of them looking even more gelatinous than Jerry.
    “Brutal,” Christine muttered, at the same time smiling irrepressibly at Carole D’Elia, who was engrossed in a game of her own creation called ‘Scrabble For Dopers.’ In this version, to be played only with the aid of marijuana, any word, real or invented, would becounted