Track 23 Pulling Mussels （From the ）
Track 23
Pulling Mussels (from the Shell)
Beatrix
There was no denying that preparing paella with her sister tugged at Bea’s heartstrings. First, she missed her mother terribly, and her sister was the spitting image of her. Second, the act of chopping and peeling and scrubbing clam and mussel shells with Veronica was steeped in memories—even if Veronica did always bail by the time they got to the langoustines. It would not be a problem this time. Bea had ordered them cleaned and beheaded.
Preparing paella, especially for a big crowd, was a true act of kindness that always brought Bea joy. She loved to cook for people, loved inviting her and Paul’s colleagues in Gambier over for fondue night or taco night or a big barbecue. Paella, though, was next level. Paella was reserved for Fire Island.
Bea climbed on a chair to retrieve her mother’s cookbook from the top shelf of the pantry next to forgotten appliances. It was an old black-and-white composition notebook, the marbled design scribbled in with yellow and orange highlighters, a Silver sister original, no doubt: they were both big doodlers. The notebook was stuffed with recipes. Some were ripped from magazines and the New York Times Cooking Section, while others were written out in their mother’s signature long hand, with names of Fire Island legends, such as Gicky Irwin’s Scones, Florence Hammer’s Fried Chicken, and Joy Perkal’s Five-Alarm Chili.
The yellowing pages of both clippings and recipes handwritten in her mother’s telltale loopy script caused tears to sting Bea’s eyes. This was the thing about making up with her sister. There was no one else on earth who would flip through those pages with as much emotion as she did. Her mother was gone. Shep, though he would certainly try, couldn’t live forever. Veronica was the only one left who really knew the greatness that they came from.
V and Bea’s parents were characters, in the most complimentary sense of the word. Gorgeous redheaded Caroline with her British humor and tremendous style, handsome Shep with his Yiddish humor and lack thereof. And though each of the sisters had fine qualities of her own—Veronica’s mostly ornamental, Bea’s mostly cerebral—neither rose to the grandeur and spectacle that were Shephard and Caroline Silver in their heyday.
When Beatrix and Veronica were growing up, their parents were Bay Harbor royalty. Shep and Caroline’s parties, whether intimate dinners or poolside nights filled with drinking and dancing, were the most sought-after invitation in town. And not just this town; their parties at their brownstone in Greenwich Village were equally epic.
Beatrix hated that her estrangement from her sister had reduced their parents’ massive charisma to a footnote in the Silver story. A mark of good parenting is knowing that your children care for each other and will do so after you are gone. Bea, being older by four years, could close her eyes even now and picture teaching Veronica how to put on her winter coat by placing it upside down on the floor and flipping it over her head. She’d shown her how to tie her shoes with bunny ears, and even how to ride a two-wheeler after Shep threw in the towel (and threw out his back). For all the family values they’d instilled in them when the girls were growing up, Shep and Caroline knew that the lifeguard debacle was the beginning of the end.
Beatrix observed that the page containing the paella recipe had a distinct yellow hue from the saffron. She began by listing the ingredients for Veronica to check off, just as their mother would have done.
“A quarter cup olive oil,
one onion, diced,
four cloves garlic, minced,
one cup mushrooms, roughly chopped,
one cup zucchini, diced.”
“What’s the difference between minced, diced, and chopped?” V asked her wordsmith sister.
“I think minced is the smallest, then diced, then chopped.”
V nodded and continued setting aside the items in the recipe.
“Half a cup carrots, diced,
half a cup bell peppers, diced,
one bay leaf,
one teaspoon paprika,
one pinch saffron,
a quarter cup white wine.”
“To Mom,” Bea said, before taking a swig.
They both chuckled.
“Two cups short grain rice,
five cups lobster stock,
one pound cockles.”
“Oh my God, remember how hard we used to laugh when Mom said, ‘Hand me the cockles!’ Did you even buy cockles?” Veronica inquired.
“Nah. I just got littlenecks.”
“One pound mussels,
one pound squid,
one pound shrimp or langoustines, peeled and deveined.”
“I’ll leave the seafood in the fridge till we’re done chopping, but I got all of it,” Bea assured.
“A half cup peas,
a quarter cup fresh parsley, roughly chopped,
salt and pepper, to taste,
lemons, for serving.”
“And that’s it!”
“You know we have to quadruple all of this,” Bea informed V.
“I did not.”
“Let’s get chopping.”
“Can I put on the stereo?”
“It’s not my house.”
“It’s not mine either.”
They both laughed again. The small house across the street where they’d grown up sharing a bedroom would always be their house—even though it was now occupied by another family.
Veronica set all the ingredients in need of chopping on the kitchen table with two cutting boards and a big silver bowl in the middle. The two women began chopping and mincing and dicing—and with each motion of the knife, more conversation slipped in.
Bea told V all about Paul and their life in Ohio. Veronica seemed mesmerized by her tales of the academic life, the energy on campus, and the boast-worthy success of her former students—one had been shortlisted for the Booker Prize, another was editing the Kenyon Review , and a third had published a debut novel that made the list. Even Veronica knew that meant the New York Times Best Seller list.
V told Bea all about her life in LA, the pressure to keep up her looks, the loneliness of her ten-thousand-square-foot home with a pool and a tennis court, and how the highlight of her day, after completing Wordle, was picking flowers from her garden and arranging them in vases all over the house.
Beatrix expected to be annoyed by her sister complaining with two loaves of bread in her hands, but she felt for her. Her days sounded empty compared to her own, a fact she never would have imagined. And with Veronica’s kids grown and flown, she seemed to have little of interest on the horizon. She knew it was awful, but Veronica’s unhappiness made it harder to hate her. She certainly never wished bad things for her sister, but it did cut at the anger a bit.
Veronica asked Bea a million questions about the kids they grew up with, where they lived now, what they did, their marital status. When Bea visited Fire Island, she made sure to catch up with everyone she could, while Veronica did the opposite.
“Too fair for the beach, and too sober for the bars,” as she described herself, Veronica mostly hung by the pool and read under an umbrella.
“When did sober happen?” Beatrix inquired.
“I got my seven-year chip last week. After an unfortunate incident at a pool party, Larry said it was him or the gin. I sometimes wonder if I made the right choice.”
Bea laughed. “You did. I’m proud of you. You never could hold your liquor.”
“Back then was far worse—back then I couldn’t hold my quaaludes and my liquor.”
Bea had an uneasy feeling that the conversation was taking a dangerous turn, and right before it was time to cut the onions no less. She changed the subject.
“Remember that Labor Day party when that neighbor in the white dress jumped into the pool?”
“Yup, and she did a handstand.”
“Yes, and she wasn’t wearing any underwear!”
“Oh my God, how old were we?”
“You were like six and I was ten.”
“Do you remember she had a giant vagina?” Veronica asked, making the biggest V shape she could with her hands.
Their laughter filled the room. Veronica continued, “I’m sorry to say, I think it’s my earliest memory. I can still picture it. It was covered in so much black hair; it looked like Uncle Lenny’s Jew-fro! I swear that scarred me for life.”
“Me too. Remember that other party, when Dad threw that guy in the pool, and he got so mad?”
“?‘Dogs get mad, people get angry,’?” Veronica intoned in her best British accent. They both laughed at the perfect imitation of their mother.
Bea pulled out a large skillet and sautéed the onion and garlic in olive oil on medium heat. They added the mushrooms, zucchini, carrots, bell pepper, bay leaf, paprika, and saffron and cooked them for five minutes before adding the wine and cooking them for five minutes more.
Veronica read the rest of the instructions slowly, while Bea performed them.
“Add rice to the skillet and cook for two minutes. Pour over broth and shake pan to make sure the rice is in an even layer.”
Next came the most important directive, according to their mom. Veronica broke out the accent again to do it justice.
“At this point, you will no longer stir the paella!”
When the rice was cooked, they added the seafood, topped the dish with peas, and cooked it for another five minutes or so.
And that was it! The house smelled delicious, like a savory memory.
When it was finally time to go upstairs to get ready, Bea admitted, “This was really nice, Veronica. Brace yourself: I’m going to say something sweet.” She took V’s hands in hers and declared, “I think it’s time we put the past behind us, and not just for Daddy’s sake. I’m glad you came this weekend. I’m even going to ask Renee to officially invite you to the wedding.”
As per usual, just when she let her in, Bea was quick to regret it. The floodgates opened and Veronica wept.
“I’m sorry,” she managed, snot now mixing with the tears running down her face. Bea couldn’t bring herself to comfort her. She knew one hug would do wonders for her sobbing sister, but Veronica playing the victim card was number one on the list of traits that Bea detested in her sister. She couldn’t give in to it.
“I’ve waited so long for you to forgive me,” Veronica continued. “You have no idea how I have dreamed of this moment.”
Beatrix let loose an eye roll—not one of her bigger ones, but it did not escape her sister’s notice.
“Go ahead, Bea, roll your eyes, but no one loves you and looks up to you like I do. No one.”
Her words gave Bea pause. Veronica didn’t give her a chance to respond, however, and continued in her steamroller style.
“Do you know what it was like for you not to come to my wedding?” she sobbed.
“What are you talking about? You eloped.”
“I eloped because Mom and Dad were shattered by the thought of you not being there. And I knew I would spend my whole wedding day heartbroken.”
“I was still feeling very raw.”
“It was years after it happened.”
“Well, I’m sorry.”
Bea could have admitted she’d been jealous, but hoped her apology was enough to put an end to the pity fest. It wasn’t. Apparently Veronica had a list.
“Every year, on my birthday, I spend half the day checking my emails to see if you sent me one. The constant chatter in my brain: Is she purposefully trying to hurt me? Does she even remember that it’s my birthday?”
“Of course I remember your birthday.”
“Then why don’t you ever reach out to me? It’s been thirty years since you’ve wished me a happy birthday.”
“You know what you don’t seem to get? It’s not just because you screwed the one guy out here who was ever into me, which had cataclysmic repercussions that fueled a lifetime of rumination and regret. It’s because you chose the attention—your insurmountable need for attention—over me, your sister, your loyal devoted sister.”
“And I’ve paid the price a hundred times since. You’ve punished me over and over with your caustic words and total abandonment.”
“Stop acting like the victim, Veronica! I am the victim!”
Paul, who’d returned from the beach an hour earlier to find the two sisters cooking to the soundtrack from Pippin , came running down the stairs, intent on defusing the situation. Shep entered from the back deck, and instead of remembering that he was the reason for their ceasefire, Veronica doubled down, guns blazing.
“You know what, Daddy?” she said in a biting tone.
He didn’t respond; he just backed up against the wall, clearly bracing himself for what was next.
“You always favored Bea. Maybe that’s why I looked everywhere else for male approval! There, I finally said it!”
“Of course, nothing is ever your fault,” Bea chided her.
Veronica shot her a death stare and stormed out.
“Just let her go. She’ll come back when she cools off. She always does,” Shep advised.
Bea kissed her father on the cheek on her way upstairs.
“You were a good dad, to both of us. I’m going to take a quick shower and get dressed. I smell like cockles,” she said, hoping for a laugh. She didn’t get one.