Destination

At Miriam’s insistence, Estelle scheduled her flight so they could meet at the concourse and cab into the city together. She supposes that, given their mission, there’s a likelihood one of them might back out, and really, neither should be alone as they approach the business at hand, the crime.

Estelle is the first passenger up the ramp, calf-sueded and cashmered with colorful dashes that complement the dyed trim of her coat. Up close Miriam sees the fur is real, and sighs. It’s not as if they haven’t had this conversation. Estelle is practically a spectacle next to Miriam in her wool car coat, tan slacks and tan cardigan—an ensemble that could be tossed into a dustbin, should there be any need to dispose of evidence. Similarly non-descript replacements are in her overnight bag.

The sisters bump cheeks and quickly comment that the other is looking well. They turn down the vast concourse.

For a dozen yards, Estelle watches her sister in the periphery. Miriam has faded some, Estelle thinks, is less like herself, more like a widow.

Miriam can feel the deceptively soft gaze Estelle employs. She turns and they make real eye contact. “You hardly look the part, Estelle.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you hardly look like a killer.” It comes out much louder than intended.

Estelle’s eyes swivel to the family of travelers just abreast—a couple with two beefy teens in varsity jackets with athletic patches on their sleeves that look like Oreos. She squeaks, “Well, neither do you, Miriam.”

As the family moves ahead, Estelle sees the patches are embroidered hockey pucks, and though they pass quickly out of earshot, she attempts small talk, pointing out the many shops and kiosks along the concourse. “Airports were never like this back when Roger and I were traveling. They’re like malls now, aren’t they?”

To Miriam, the airport seems identical to the one in Boston—the same Starbucks and Cinnabons situated on the same corners, so that she must concentrate to place herself in Minneapolis. As they walk, she fidgets with the bangles that had set off the metal detector at Logan and wrecked her nerves for the morning. She hesitantly tells Estelle about her run-in with security, “Do you think getting rid of these might be more prudent than risking more trouble on my return flight?”

Estelle picks up her sister’s wrist then drops it. “I’d toss them.”

Miriam sniffs. “You would.”

“You asked.”

The silver bangles are souvenirs from a trip to Mexico with Dennis, but Estelle wouldn’t know that. Rearranging them, Miriam notices a new liver spot on her wrist and frowns—they are definitely multiplying in spite of the expensive cream she’d ordered from an infomercial. The guaranteed two-week trial period has already passed twice. Suddenly ashamed for her brief flight of vanity, she shoves her hands in her pockets, deciding to keep the bangles and throw away the cream.

Estelle trawls for conversation, “Is that coat new?”

“No.” Miriam stops. “There’s nothing about me that’s new.”

“Well, you look fine, Miriam. Very nice.” The hairstyle could easily be fixed. “By the way, did you get my birthday present?”

“I did. Thank you very much.”

“Did you get the joke? The amount, I mean … a hundred for every year?”

“Of course I got it, it’s a lot of money, Estelle.”

Estelle crooks her arm through Miriam’s, “Well, my kid sister only turns seventy once!”

“I’m seventy-two. Since you started fudging your own age, you can’t keep anyone else’s straight.”

“Sheesh. Remind me to send you another two hundred, then.”

Miriam closes her eyes and shakes her head as Estelle starts humming her self-conscious hum. Kid sister. Miriam looks up at Estelle, whose skin is taut with procedures and peels, any worry lines buffed away. If Estelle worries at all it would be over the sorts of things other people only dream of worrying about. With her young face and lolli- pop voice, Estelle makes an unlikely elder to her and Penny, their in-between sister, the one they’ve come to Minnesota to see.

They will visit Penny. If it’s as bad as all that, if she’s doing that poorly, they will say their goodbyes. If things seemed stalled, and Penny really needs their help, Estelle and Miriam will fulfill the pillow pact and kill their sister.

Miriam whispers, “Maybe.”

“Pardon, Mir?”

“Nothing.” Penny could live for weeks yet. Months. Her sons seem to think so, anyway.

They move on, scanning open storefronts, making full stops to look at cleverly displayed bags of wild rice, plush loons, and novelty snacks. Estelle examines such items as if they are essentials, choosing packages of Gummy Mosquitoes and Viking bobbleheads for her grandsons, a flickering blue night-light shaped like a bug-zapper, and a pair of trout-shaped oven mitts for Francesca.
A shop in the far periphery catches Miriam’s eye. “What time is it?”

Coming from opposite coasts, each is hours removed from the other’s time zone. Estelle pulls back a fur cuff to reveal her Omega. “Only 10:15!”

Miriam is out of the novelty store and charging toward another shop—one that sells sleep- number beds. She’s never seen such a store in an airport—in the window a mattress is sliced in half to show its innards slowly expanding and contracting, as if breathing. She watches for a few huffs and heads inside to another display, a fully made bed roped off against children or anyone else naturally inclined to lie down when tired. Miriam steps around the velvet swag to sit on the duvet. A lamp glows pinkly on a nightstand—she might be in someone’s bedroom.

Estelle appears with her packages and her shoulders slump, “Oh no. Miriam, really.”

“What? I need a bed.” She lifts the price tag and makes a tiny noise. “And I have all that birthday loot burning a hole in my pocket.” As she lowers down onto the pillows, a groan escapes her. Not bad. Squeezing her lids to feign sleep, she can hear Estelle breathing. Soon enough, pacing commences next to the bed. Miriam is just beginning to drift along to the rhythm when the footfalls stop. She opens one eye to Estelle staring down at her, very near. With a twinge Miriam realizes she is in the same position poor Penny will be in an hour or so: prone, trapped, and at the mercy of sisters, those who love but are under no obligation to like.

“I’m so tired, Estelle. I had a two-hour drive to Boston and two flights.” She pauses before adding, “Both in coach.”

When Estelle sits on the edge, Miriam shifts over, believing her sister might kiss her forehead. But she only clucks, “You should have said something, Goose, I would’ve upgraded you.”

Miriam rises to her elbows, suddenly fighting tears. “I really did not sleep a wink.”

“Of course you didn’t. I only got six hours myself.”

“I might not have the energy for this, you know.”

“Miriam, but you said …”

She knew what she said. That she possessed the required detachment to do the Kevorkian thing, if it came to that.