Good evening, girls, the matron says.
A giggle risen to pop on the bulbs bared to empty heads above…all attention’s turned to her, whoever, their matron, and her breasts like two suckling babies swaddled with a labcoat to which a nametag’s been pinned, saying: Sex Therapist — Staff. They can’t look away, can’t blush, their eyes are hers, their lips; the Marys in unison flip wisps of hair from foreheads free of blemish, from brows kempt, untangle locks from lashes slick in upkeep. Atop a chair of her own she nudges with a heel to the front, the matron dumps her purse, trivially overstuffed, messy: lipsticks glossy, matte, tampons knotted together like sausages, diaphragms like condoms and a cervical cap, gel and spray, loose change, below everything her pointer, with which to smack her own tush as she paces the room, the heads following her to dizzy.
Please stand, she says, and altogether they stand and wobble, on heels they’re still getting used to: they’ve only been on the job for a week. As she paces, the woman looks them up, down, as if assenting, in an invasive nod, not indicating approval, more like its opposite or hope, with slight sighs, low whistles given out through the perfectly attractive crack between her fawned front teeth, she pokes, she prods and pushes…Mary, not you, not you, not — you! pull the hair up and around, yes, now let it down…no, let it fall, that’s it, keep your fingers out of your mouth…take off that necklace; get rid of that ring…Mary, no, no, no, no, yes — keep your head straight, you! I want your shoulders back and chin down…suck in that gut (palpates) — what are you laughing at (pinches), it’s not like you couldn’t stand to lose a few yourself…remember, she whispers, these are little little girls, at least most of them, the latter halfdozen — like for you, better a padded, a pushup; accentuates what you have, rounds out what you don’t…wandering her way back to the front, she goes down on her knees to search for an outlet, to light the projector with its cord engaged in a sensual snaking around her waist, her thighs, as if she’s to plug the device into her very crotch, the always warm and wet socket of her own power; then, she removes her shoes, loses the labcoat, the nothing underneath to nude, unashamed.
Strip, she says, there’s no blushing here or cry, it’s not allowed, we’re women…billows of cloth, indoor cloud — mounds of clothing like whispery cirrus, like melting, melted icecream, spilt milk…excess buttery fat to heap about the feet, then stirred a step out of and around, to whip: the Marys strip slowly and selfconsciously, item by item soon teasingly, too, bit by bit to baring all, as if they don’t know whether they’re flirting with themselves, with each other, or with nakedness itself. My God, she says, that marbling, those striations; I want you all to exercise — and grow that out, your hair; I want curly bushes, huge…turns from them to the door to the hall, opens it, wheels in chiming clink of hangers, a rack of wardrobe left by the porters departed, in her draggy, stumbling schlep knocking books over and open to pages loosed from bindings to wind around the hall in gusts from the slamming door; paper leaves like chaffing, burning labels, ironsafe, white cleansed from dark colors separately, Made In An Image: the newest clothes, they seem too small, though intended modest, longsleeved and skirted, these uniform black and blue and whites, sweaters standardissue, shoes and accessories folded on the shelf atop, separated there by tags not of size, style, or brand but by identity, which sister.
Get dressed — you, Rubina, and you’re Simone, the tennis shirt, the white white one, don’t worry, it’ll stretch…you, you’re a Liv; those stockings to hide the thighs on you with those nice neat little irises at the knees…you, you’re more the Judith type; she was into bouncy blouses…she’s handing out assignments, dispensing identities, coupling them sibling to her cause. My job, she says as they fumble with their futures, is to turn you into relations…the monogrammed backpack, with a pencil behind the ear — yes, you have to wear the headband…the Marys dress, become others, turn to others as themselves, all relative to one another, a halflife, still becoming: skimping on flowery underwear, bras for those who need them (which sisters and not which Marys), buttoning, clasping and snapping zip up hips as the woman, too, steps into a hanger’s clothes: a dark scrunched skirt, pink cardigan over white camisole, her necked adorned with big jewels on bulkier gold. As a mother, then, she stalks the room, screeching out inquiries parental above the dressing’s din: who’s His favorite sister? does He even have one yet? what’re His favorite foods? quick! rip out the heart through the stomach, anyone have an answer for me? how many squares of what kind of toiletpaper does He on average use? does He use on days He has too much dairy? anyone, anyone?
Let’s begin with something simple…
Which Mary she is, even she doesn’t know, hasn’t yet remembered, she raises her hand, waves it desperately, then whines as if she has to pee.
Her mother sighs, what is it?
Who?
A reel’s readied, the lights overhead strangled with trembling, infanticidal hands; the screen’s the wall in front of them, whitewashed pocked plaster that backs the stage edged with tattered curtains; the woman flicks the switch. A world opens on a longshot, another hall, its weather…snow, the static sky. 10–9–8 kept by circles, blinking as if eyes wandering noctivagously over stage and floor — a flicker, and then His mother, His Ima, her form projected onto the woman now dragging the podium to the side, the body shot across hers, boned, one face ghosted upon another…she shuffles outside the shot to adjust the height of the projector. A woman, rising, raised, levitated, floating…halfdancing to silence, or she’s having a seizure, she’s palsied, perhaps a virus, at least she’s able to laugh at herself, she’s laughing, but at a friend, or with her — but no, she’s not deformed, mutated or miraculous, it’s more like the film itself, which is silent and slipping unfocused, again, and so the matron returns to the projector to steady the image atop its stack of books, wanders halfway across the shot toward the podium removed, returns and readjusts, then interrupts the image yet again and stops to stand far to the side and say the name, Hanna, voicingover the mute…her maiden name, Senior, married Israelien — can everyone hear me, I hope you can; I hate microphones — they’re only good if you don’t know what to do with your hands. She quiets, wets her lips. Here maybe ten, fifteen years before she died, forty if she ever told the truth about her age, give or take a few surgical procedures. 36–30–36, fivefoottwo inches tall, or short she thinks, a bit of a complex there, averaging 130 pounds when not pregnant, which wasn’t often: acceptably zaftig if not a Beshemoth, as she’d always joke — she had a sense of humor. Her husband Israel, whom we’re just getting now, the mensch in the green suit, this was a decade ago, forgive him — he found her attractive, she had beautiful breasts: above average, as you’ll notice, heartily unproportional…with nipples asymmetrically positioned (here she points her pointer, a collapsible erected, extracted from her bag) right pointing up, left down, stray hairs around the — surprisingly small — areolae; a cancer scare at age thirtysix, a cyst was removed, a scar; she has stretchmarks around the waist and thighs and at the armpits, too, a polio inoculation shot to upper left arm near shoulder, radial wrinkling about the face…but don’t take my word for it, you’ll have an opportunity to observe at a later date — we’re keeping her on ice, in Storage.