The Literallies - http://www.myspace.com/theliterallies
The Literallies are two girls, Sara and Minsun who live in South Korea and make beautiful songs that remind me of Belly Boat and Shelby Sifers and iron like nylon and CocoRosie all at once. They go from funny and poppy to ethereal and beautiful and back and you don’t even know what happened. Wonderful, wonderful songs. Listen to Snowdrift and youknow.

Plumwife - http://www.myspace.com/plumwife
Plumwife is Cat Ries (which is a pretty effin’ cool name to begin with), a young gal (19 I think?) who has a voice like nobody’s business and writes lyrics that go up and down and around and next thing you know you’re standing on your head. Also, both her and I believe in UFO abductions, and she’s hooked up with that awesome dude Eddie from Perpetual Dusk at Long Band Names (not like I have any room to talk.)

Natural Numbers is the noise pop project of 13 year old Trevor Fitzhugh. Forest Diving is his third full length release. Now, the cover itself is scattered and beautiful in an odd way. The same thing with this album. The opening track “Pacific” has no riff or beat to start it off. It’s just a smooth fade into lo-fi melodic chaos. Nearly off-kilter drum loops, fuzzy guitars and loud vocals. The entire album uses the term “noise pop” exactly the way a listener should think of the term. As used in the song “June” with its Yellow Swans-esque drone transforming into a My Bloody Valentine song. It’s just what Pitchfork is looking for. His new album entitled “Ocean Ghosts” is in the works and will be released sometime this February. You can stream and download this here. Natural Numbers - Pacific 

I bring this to your attention because 2007 was an incredible year for films, and as a result a lot of very good films like Gone Baby Gone went relatively unnoticed. 2008 has been a very weak year for films, and as a result you see a film like Doubt, which is not very good but held afloat by very good performances, get all sorts of attention. I wish we lived in a world where films didn’t live and die based on their release dates. But I also wish we lived in a world where talented actors Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Meryl Streep could star opposite each other in films that deserved them. You can wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up first.  

Doubt is a story of a priest (Phillip Seymour Hoffman) being accused of molesting an alter boy by a stern and old-fashioned nun (Meryl Streep). Director John Patrick Shanley adapted it from his Pulitzer Prize-winning drama, and as the film progresses it becomes more and more obvious that it should have stayed onstage. The direction isn’t bad, exactly, but Shanley lacks skill as a visual storyteller, and makes some rather unfortunate choices. Like dutch angles. There’s nothing more intrusive and distracting than tilting the camera, and in a performance driven piece like this the lack of subtlety is all the more jarring. 

The film’s biggest flaw, however, is that Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s guilt isn’t nearly as ambiguous as it needs to be. From Streep’s initial confrontation of Hoffman, his guilt is obvious, leaving little room for doubt at all. I can see this scene playing out much more ambiguously on a stage, where the audience is forced to be more active in their viewing, but the film’s editing tips it’s hand way too early, going into close-ups where you can see the guilt on his face. And the film does very little to offer any evidence of his innocence after that moment, making the rest of the film a foregone conclusion, robbing it of it’s tension. 

The film’s saving grace is it’s performances, which are uniformly fantastic. A lot of the film relies on the fact that the audience will want to root for the compassionate, warm priest and not the cold, unlikable nun, and both Hoffman and Streep do admirable jobs to that effect, and watching them play off each other’s energy is always exciting to watch. Streep in particular delivers a captivating performance, making the character’s dark humor and sarcasm come to life. Amy Adams is very good as the wide-eyed optimist Sister James who finds herself in the middle of the their conflict when she first brings her suspicions to Streep.

All the performances are very good but they’re sadly all there is to see here. Doubt needs more doubt than just it’s title to be anything other than a disappointing drama in a disappointing year. Oh well. We’ll always have 2007.

Mississippi John Hurt - Avalon Blues: The Complete 1928 OKEH Recordings (1996)
Right now, I would give anything to have an original pressing of this. Alas, I am forced to settle for the 1996 reissue of this mind boggling session. John’s words come out smooth over finger picked blues guitar that I cannot even begin to handle. I equate listening to him with pouring a shot of thick and expensive Bourbon Whiskey. The bottle is dusty and things have settled inside of it in such a way that your old self wouldn’t have really found so appealing. But that was before you had the blues. That was before you knew what it was like to wake up crazy. Get out. Get out. It’s nobody’s business but my own. It’s nobody’s Goddamn business. Did you get that letter? Going to grab my gun. Going to kill my baby. Nobody’s business but my own.
And it just goes on like that, garnished with religious imagery. Beautiful.

Coconut Records - Nighttiming (2007)
“..and the greatest thing about it is, I’m not hooked!”
Tragic figures. Too real. All too real. I shouldn’t listen to this LP as sung from the viewpoint of this character, but I can’t help but do so. If you’ve yet to do so, please, do yourself a favor: Watch the movie Spun, and then sit down and reflect on it to this album.
Note: this may only be a favor if you’re into that whole breaking-your-own-heart-for-whatever-reason scene.
Yes, this is the solo project from Jason Schwartzman. It’s almost too much at times. At other times it’s like a romanticized version of the whole early to mid 90s Weezer/Rentals sound, heard through radio soaked ears. The radio has been tuned to the oldies station, but not the really old one. The one that goes from the late 60s into the more embarrassing points of the 80s. And then at other other times it is like watching a lovely young couple through a café window. She grips the large cup with both hands, extending her fingers slightly as she lowers her head and brings the steam closer to her face. Her eyes peek playfully above the cup as her lips ease open to take in whatever chocolate/coffee/whipped cream/hot/hot/hot/hot drink it was he ordered her. He ordered her.
This record is easier to listen to outside of your car, Jolene.

The Minibosses - Brass (2005)
Blow in it. Wait a moment. Don’t push it in so hard. Take it out. Blow in it. Blow in it again. Where are the Q-tips®? Dammit Matthew, you know that they are called cotton swabs. Are you that much of a fucking fool? What next, do you want a Goddamn Kleenex®? Are you just going to dig your own grave when they ask you to? Anyways, get the cotton swabs. There we go. Now I can sit and play Megaman 2 for a while until I get to the Wily stages and can’t handle it anymore. Was it worth it?
We all know that the most timeless and enjoyable part leftover from the NES era is the music. We also all know that too many video game cover bands just don’t get it right. Why would I want to hear someone use a synth to cover a song that was played on a synth? It just sounds like it sounded only shittier! And no, I don’t want to hear your “heavy metal” dual guitar arrangements for the overworld theme from your favorite 8-bit RPG. What I want to hear are high powered full on rock band versions of what were essentially speed metal songs to begin with. And that’s what the Minibosses have delivered. Thanks kids!

Paul Baribeau & Ginger Alford - Darkness on the Edge of Your Town (2005)
I can’t even put this one into words. Bruce Springsteen is terrible. I don’t think there is enough space on the Internet for me to recite all of the imagery his voice and music bring to my mind. Or maybe I should say, you don’t have the patience or interest to hear it. But, oh my. My my my. What a disc. All covers, all the boss, all instant classics. I feel weird and dirty and ecstatic and sad hopeful and beautiful and defeated and I can’t believe that a man I have such perceptions of can write words that make me feel all those feelings that I try to make you feel……… I’m still not going to listen to those LPs in the attic.

And right around there my memory gets hazy. There were things I enjoyed. I was surprised to really dig the newer Steel Train disc. Or at least most of it. Best Friends Forever might be the best band. Klessa might be the best band. Prostitute Disfigurement put out a new album that is great. I listened to it all one day and thought I could be in a punk band again. Summer broke my heart and then my brain, and then Autumn came and covered it in leaves. I am here where you left me. Take my able body and do with me as you please.
My mind is open. I am not a blank slate. But I have plenty of room for you to draw. The Temptations are my favorite funk band. Psychedelic Shack, that really is where it’s at. I suppose you could call those my honorable mentions. If I could remember anything before June, I’d probably write about those records.

The male vocals dip in and out of my ears with a subtle lingering lisp. The female vocals trickle down like cold water. The synth sounds sound like they are battery operated.
“I thought you knew you were a miner’s bird.”
I think about some of the relationships I’ve recently forged and take my pill. I’ve yet to brush my teeth and the water tastes like my morning scum; there’s still a bit of blood inside my lips and against my teeth. I haven’t tasted that hungry copper air in a while, but I know I should eat soon. I will at very least finish this cup of water.
These songs were recorded in Gainesville. The picture accompanying the artists shows three figures sitting in collected chairs on what I daydream to be a backyard, sparsely covered with leaves. Leaves that I am not sure I am familiar with. They look like us, but they wear blue jeans and you know that I don’t do that. They also look like they have nice guitars. The guitars certainly sound nice on the recording. Everything does. And there are plenty of different sounds to sound nice for you. Gainesville. Sara will love you. I won’t wear blue jeans if I visit. When I visit. If I visit. When I visit. If I visit. Relations sour in my mind long before they turn in the real world.
The songs are calm and beautiful, but fun and upbeat when need be. Like a restful autumn day with a summer love. Is that one too silly? Because it feels accurate. These songs feel accurate. It’s been at least three years since these songs were recorded. I wanted to say “put to tape”, but who knows how anything is really done anymore? It was probably put onto a computer.
My stomach is pulsing. There are teeth marks where my daggers come up. It’s a funny combination of pains now. My eyes are doing that weird flicker thing again. I think I could hold out for a while, but I don’t want to do those things anymore. The last song is called “Up From the Wreck”. The lyrics are layered over acoustic guitars, brushed drums and more vaguely familiar synthesizer tones. The end culminates in horns and whistles and shakers and an overall triumphant feeling. I will boil water thusly.

http://cllct.com/release/cometomakefast

 Both videos were shot by James Eric and were performed live at the Kitsch Cave in Chicago on December 16th, 2008. 

            �??You ordered it rare,�?? says Tom.

            �??I know,�?? says Sarah.

            She�??s a doctor. She makes an incision in her steak to test it. She�??s ready til she sees how red it really is; it�??s from the traffic of bacteria within the meat, the still half-living flesh. A pool of juices forms; her fork drips droplets of the world beneath her microscope. Little rushing vesicles are driven by sick-giving specks. 

            The meat�??s cold on her plate. It�??s dead like the tongue of something drowned. She knows it teams with warmth, but only if you drain the flesh between your teeth. It�??s in the blood. She licks her mouth. To know is to want and to not want, all at once.

            �??So,�?? he says, �??what�??s the problem?�??

            �??I�??m not hungry.�?? Sarah hovers above her wine glass, guarding, but she doesn�??t drink.

            �??Why order it if you�??re not hungry?�??

            �??I thought I wanted it,�?? she says.  She thought she knew what wanting meant.

***

            She tries to tell Miriam Blaylock what she doesn�??t want when she declines her drink that afternoon. Sarah says, �??I don�??t like sherry.�??

            �??You�??ll like this one,�?? Mrs. Blaylock says without the slightest hint of teasing. She knows her taste is excellent, but anyone can see that. Her good taste comes from knowing who can take the things she cherished. She never guesses wrong.

            Sarah doesn�??t believe her, at first. She only takes the glass to be polite. Mrs. Blaylock�??s floors are marble and her walls are marble, so she makes a rule to keep a cold thing in her hands. Her rooms are open wide with little furniture. There�??s no light save for the haze behind the curtains.

            Mrs. Blaylock sits behind her piano and plays. Sarah doesn�??t know anything about pianos, but she�??s sure Mrs. Blaylock�??s is the best she�??s ever seen. Cost a fortune, certainly, probably something ancient. Something with a history. She looks at Mrs. Blaylock with her silvery upswept hair, red lips bright against her almost stone-gray skin. Mrs. Blaylock looks downward not into the sheets of music, but something unseen. She�??s looking down as an invitation to watch her, Sarah realizes. She doesn�??t need to look at me.

            Sarah asks some question she immediately forgets. Mrs. Blaylock pauses a moment before answering, but keeps on playing. �??You�??d think me mostly idle, I�??m afraid,�?? she says. �??My time is my own.�??

            �??That�??s great,�?? says Sarah. �??Lots of lunches, dinners, cocktail parties at the museum of modern art.�?? The last one makes her smile as though to block some sickness rising in her throat. Something about her marble walls makes the museum remark seem inappropriate. She tries to imagine Mrs. Blaylock milling through a crowded room. She tries to see her silvery self among the other bodies, bumping against glass-sipping strangers who apologize for staining her satin blouse. But of course she can�??t. She pictures a much larger room, a more exclusive party. The guests stake out their corners of the room; they find their pose and stay there. The room becomes a human still life framed in marble walls and drapes. Of course, she thinks, how foolish of me. I�??m praising the life that entombs her.

            Mrs. Blaylock glances up. She makes a smoky lustrous look that Sarah likes. She believes the look is telling her, If only it were so simple.

            Sarah says, �??How do you spend your time?�?? She wants to see the look again, so she asks, �??Are you lonely?�??

            Mrs. Blaylock says no, and sure enough the look returns.

            Sarah sees the look as yet another invitation. She knows it is a test that frightens most and she�??s determined to be different from the others. She sees an ebony chair behind the piano. A mirror shelves their faces behind the chair, framing them between an ivory statue and a vase of lilies. The chair is carved with dripping details, cold stone whittled into something fragile. Sarah settles into it. She drapes her legs across the arm as though she doesn�??t know its value.

            She glances at her watch when Mrs. Blaylock begins a new song. This one is sweeter than the first; it has a kind of sparkling sadness. Mrs. Blaylock notices she likes it and explains its history. The sparkling keys are voices of a noblewoman and her slave.

            �??Is it a love song?�?? Sarah asks.

            Mrs. Blaylock smiles graciously to let her know this is her final chance. �??I told you it was sung by two women.�??

            On her own cue, Sarah sips the sherry. �??It sounds like a love song.�??

            Mrs. Blaylock finally lets her smile fall. �??Then I suppose that�??s what it is.�??            

            Sarah shudders then. She can�??t tell if she expected something more or less than what was said, but she remains unanswered. She turns away and looks into the sherry glass. She sees herself reflected in its stillness, tries to translate her expression into red. She realizes yes, she did like this one. She bites the insides of her mouth before deciding to admit it. �??Are you making a pass at me, Mrs. Blaylock?�??

            �??Miriam,�?? she says simply, and that�??s that. Sarah spills a drop of sherry on her shirt. She�??s not a stranger anymore, so she does not apologize. Mrs. Blaylock moves into a different chair to show that she is not a still life. Sarah looks into the mirror and watches her reflection slide the shirt off.

***

            Sarah doesn�??t leave the house until seven thirty. She has to call Tom on the way to the restaurant to tell him she�??ll be there in twenty minutes.

            �??Who spends four hours talking to a stranger?�?? says Tom. I�??m not a stranger, Sarah thinks as she hangs up the phone.

            Time whispers by that afternoon, barely drifting through the curtains. Everything seems gauzy and unreal. She doesn�??t think to notice �??til the sky is black. Her heart beats faster when the darkness falls. The rest of Sarah�??s body is reluctant to rise, still naked, bathed in bed-scent. Miriam is warm beside her with her hair let down, her stone-skin turns a vibrant blush. Everyone looks different after sex, thinks Sarah, but Miriam is really startling. Sarah is afraid to leave her alone, knowing she�??s so changed.

            Miriam pours another glass of sherry. Sarah drinks it with a smile; her teeth are stained. She runs her hand through Miriam�??s hair, mussing it into her eyes. She doesn�??t think it odd when Miriam takes her hand and traces a finger down her wrist vein. She doesn�??t even flinch when Miriam bites her. Four hours with Mrs. Blaylock and this all seems natural to Sarah.

            She is a bit alarmed when Miriam offers her own vein for drinking. Sarah is a doctor. She pictures bubbling life within the blood, a brewing life. She can�??t trust it. She knows this blood could seize the life within her own. But Miriam has led her safely through so much strangeness. She decides, just this once. Just once, then it�??s no longer strange.

            At first she dabs her tongue along the ridge of the already open gash. Bits of flesh stick to her mouth like tissue paper. The blood tastes old and metallic, like a needle or a bullet sealed inside her and decayed. If someone had described Mrs. Blaylock�??s blood to her, Sarah would�??ve assumed it tasted rusty, but it doesn�??t. It�??s old and dead and wrong, but every few moments she tastes something sweet. Sarah wraps her lips around the wound. It isn�??t the sweetness but the waiting for it that addicts her.

            She calls Tom once more to tell him traffic is bad. Through the phone, she hears the tinkling of the restaurant. Then something stirs in Sarah; she can�??t name it, but it isn�??t hunger.

***

            Tom looks at her without his eyes, which look past her, for all their firmness. �??Aren�??t you going to tell me something?�??

            �??About what?�?? says Sarah.

            �??About what the hell is wrong with you,�?? says Tom.

            �??You know how people are,�?? says Sarah. �??They like to talk to doctors.�?? She smiles a bit too privately. �??We had some sherry in these fancy little glasses.�??

            Tom will not be dissuaded. �??You hate sherry,�?? he says.

            Sarah says, �??I know.�??

            �??It gives you a headache.�??

            She grits her teeth. �??I know.�?? 

            Noelle has said it time and time again. She likes to order, but she doesn�??t eat.  Restaurants afford her all the pleasure of choosing without the guilt of choosing wrong. As long as it�??s pretty and hers and she doesn�??t eat it, shes done well. She�??s like the men who look at her half naked in the glossies where she�??s feather-headed, trimmed with lace. She knows the pictures aren�??t the real Noelle, and that�??s what makes it ok.

            Her breasts puff up, pregnant pockets on her flat lean frame. Her lips pout too. She�??s always made to pout more when they touch her up in photos. Today, she wears a pale cotton dress, flat shoes, and cuffed white socks. Each day, she faces the impossible and knows she must seem worriless. She smiles the same in a leather skirt as she smiles in a satin gown.  Each day, she captures her reflection in the fabric of each dress. She replicates it, reaching for her smile on a conveyer belt of faces. The shutter flashes, pauses, flashes. She tries to see her smile on an endless screen. It�??s harder than they think it is; there are so many things to choose from! But they can have her pictures, if they want them.

             Noelle knows she couldn�??t do this if she had to worry. She orders impossible foods so she doesn�??t have to think about it: plates of chocolate cheesecake wigged with strawberry-shimmered whipped cream, cute cannolis served with liquored coffee, desserts piled high with so much stuff she doesn�??t know what�??s underneath.  They don�??t disgust her; shes forgotten how they taste. As she always says, she likes to order, but she doesn�??t eat.

            Brian is a photographer. He likes to watch her body move, but more so when he tells her to. It�??s not that he doesn�??t like Noelle; after all, he doesn�??t really know her either way. He knows what he does best, and she knows what she does best. He knows they both know those things fit together.  It isn�??t quite enough though; something�??s missing. She isn�??t eating, he thinks. She�??s uncomfortable. He decides to make her happy.

            �??Are you hungry?�?? he asks. She laughs in a silvery film voice that means nothing. He should ask another question, but he knows the laugh is game that he doesn�??t take seriously. �??Wait there,�?? he says. She swallows. She tries to stop him with her eyes, but he�??s already leaving.

            I know she wouldn�??t eat here ordinarily, thinks Brian. I want to see her try new things. I want a private portrait of Noelle.

            Noelle sits in silence. What he really wants is a still life. He of all people ought to know this body isn�??t natural, nor is it hers to claim except when she chooses her smile, her coffee, her cake. It�??s harder than he thinks it is!  White socks, black shoes, for goodness�?? sake. She slouches the fabric in her shoe, stirs it around with her ankle. What is she, four years-old? She might as well be. It looked good in the mirror at home, she thinks, but what does she know, after all?

            He returns with a plate of unbelievable junk food; the cake has a skin and the cheese is crusty on the side. Noelle wonders if Brian even notices.

            Brian notices, but he thinks he can make a connection: People wouldn�??t think I kept stale cheese just like they wouldn�??t think you�??d eat it. I�??ll keep your secret if you keep mine.  He raises the plate up to her face with a bite of cake already cut. He knows he�??ll have to feed her to prevent a certain kind of guilt.  Like the groom when he feeds the bride at her reception; everyone watches, some people even take pictures. They put these pictures in albums filled with other shots of scenes. Looking through these albums, people never wonder if the cake was good. There are too many other thoughts to choose from.

            He jabs the fork like a joke, but she gasps. Her voice says,  �??I don�??t eat that stuff,�?? firmly and unjokingly.

            Maybe he doesn�??t get it when he says �??Of course you can.�?? He seems on to something when he says �??You take one bite at a time and it all goes down.�??

            He has a point, she thinks, but she still says �??No.�?? She has to make a face when the camera shoots her. She has to choose a dish when she goes to a restaurant. She likes to see her choices building up a world around her, asking does this look right? What goes well with that? She doesn�??t like to imagine it all going down.

            �??Oh really?�?? Brian teases. She squints at him. He really doesn�??t get it. But before she can say no again, the fork fills her mouth and her throat chokes up against it. Her gums feel raw and red like sobbing eye skin.  She balls the cake up in her mouth and even almost spits at him. Yes, really! Can�??t you see? You asshole!

            But her mouth retains its water where it�??s sweet and dark. The spit soaks up the cake bits. All its staleness becomes sweetness as it moistens into nectar. Her hand clasps the edge of the plate. Her fingers press into it as she bites down, but she can�??t suppress a cooing sound of pleasure.

            Brian�??s waiting for it. �??Is that nice?�??

            She turns away to chew in private but returns to take the next bite and the next, one at a time.  Brian gathers her look in stolen glances, hoping he�??ll remember them. His hand makes it safe; he was right about that. She lets her mind begin to wander, as he�??s given her permission. She slowly sucks the nectar from each fragment. She drains them and refills her mouth the moment the flavor dies. The moment expands, however, and the death fragrance diminishes. Her bites get bigger without her noticing. They grow from penny size to nickel size to quarter size to silver dollar size, but she doesn�??t see them all stacked up. She doesn�??t feel it til shes finished. They all become the same black nectar, once inside her.

            Brian is a bit surprised.

            Before she knows it, the feeding stops. She presses her fingers to her lips. She has an absent look, as though she�??s never lived without his hand in front of her.  Her own hand traces nothing. �??No more?�?? She asks. Then she sees the empty plate. No more. Every hole in her body gapes with horror and awe.

            Brian thinks these holes have opened up for him. He leans in for a kiss and she accepts it. But once they break away, she feels it all going down in the pit of her stomach. Time to close her mouth and say good-bye to impossible dreams.

            Noelle searches for her smile and finds it. Her smile is the kind that�??s always waiting for moments like this. �??I can�??t do it,�?? she says.

            But Brian has a smile of his own. He tells her, �??try.�??

            It�??s Leah�??s first day working as a servant to Madame and Isabelle. She�??s nervous; the knife quivers as she chops the chives. She bites her mouth; the edges turn out torn and careless, like her mind was wandering. But it wasn�??t. The onions absorb the sweat from her hands, and the veal skin sinks into the cream just as she�??d like to. She frames the cream with toasted chestnuts and the still warm smell makes her stomach growl. Her thoughts wall up around her, one chestnut at a time. They couldn�??t wander if they wanted to.

            When her sister, Christine, found this job, she knew she should be grateful. �??You�??re so clever,�?? she said. �??How did you convince Maman?�??

            Christine kissed her forehead, smelling sweet but coarse. �??I told her I�??d protect you, and I shall.�??

             Shes never cooked or sewn for anyone but Maman.  Maman�??s eyes were too dull to check for errors. Maman would never scold her anyhow; she�??s still a child, after all. She�??s not like Christine, whos served for half her lifetime, who cannot look at Leah without tucking her hair or smoothing her apron.  She sees what Leah never notices, which frightens her. Christine�??s apron is as neatly starched as her expression; firm grey eyes and firm-pressed lips. Her skin is showing lines from all those years of pressing inward. Leah wears the lace-trimmed apron Christine made for her and holds her hair back with a satin ribbon. She shifts the platter on the tray; it�??s harder to hold, but less likely to stain her dress this way. Gradually, her face turns ghostly, but Christine can see the tears are building up behind her eyes.

            The silver bell summons them. Christine straightens Leah�??s apron one last time. She looks at her as if to say I�??ve thought what you are thinking now. But she doesn�??t say it; Leah must learn to gather all she can from silent gestures.

            The bell rings once again. Christine brushes swiftly through the door, envisioning Madame�??s expression: pinched and poised, unfaltering. She knows Madame is testing Leah, but she has taught her well. There�??s no reason to panic. Madame won�??t pry; she knows her place.

            Leah doesn�??t know what to expect, so she tries to imagine Maman. She closes her eyes and sees her sitting by the window in her rattan chair, clicking all her needles, white hair shining in the midday sun. The smell of fresh-baked bread dough mingling with the baking flesh smell. Outside sounds becoming inside sounds as everything falls silent. Threads of sound get trapped within the sunbeams, like beads of light inside a spider�??s web. Sometimes Maman would sit too long there. So would Leah. She�??d lose track of her sensations. 

            Leah edges through the doorway, trying not to wince when all the dishes rattle. Madame is bathed in window light just like Maman, though her hair is pulled severely into place. She silhouettes herself against the sun glare, sitting straight in her dark dress. But when Leah sets the tray in front of her, she smiles.

            Isabelle does not smile. Every movement seems superfluous when she�??s wearing all these silly ruffles. She slouches, looking heavier than she is. Her chin is sagging but she doesn�??t care. Just look at Mother, sitting in the sun like that. Her face will wrinkle so much faster, stupid cow. They should have gone to Paris, or the Riviera. God. They could have. She turns away when Leah serves the soup. Leah shouldn�??t know she�??s prettier.

            Isabelle shrivels her nose against the yellowish steam. Mother�??s nose is almost stuck inside her soup, smelling for a speck of spice that shouldn�??t be there. She thinks, It�??s so embarrassing. How does she expect to marry me off when all we do is sit alone and eat?

            Madame goes at it with her knives the minute the servants shut the door. The scraping of the silverware will hide her stomach�??s growling. �??This veal looks delicious,�?? she says.

            �??Of course,�?? Isabelle begins to cut it, dutifully. �??You love veal.�??

            �??Don�??t you?�?? Madame says sharply. She knows how the servants have labored over lunch, and they are so lucky.  Isabelle has no idea. They all are lucky; everything has fallen into place, once more. Madame appreciates a job well-done.

            �??You know I don�??t like it. It�??s too heavy in the middle of the day,�?? her daughter sighs. She thinks for a moment, decides she deserves it. �??Besides, veal ruins the complexion.�??

            �??Where did you hear that?�?? her mother eyes her with suspicion.

            She confirms it. �??Oh, I read it somewhere.�??

            Of course, Madame imagines, this comes from some trashy gossip paper written for divorcees and promiscuous Americans. Young aspiring ladies hoping to fob themselves off in gaudy dresses, all those plunging necklines, big bulging jewels.  The kind of girls who sit on boats all day, or sit at tables sipping drinks outside.  The kind of girls who chat through meals, who never sit and savor.

            No, no, she thinks, I�??m not looking for the quick fix! Doesn�??t my daughter know she�??s better than that? Sip your soup, child. Chew your veal. Heavens. I must teach her to be patient, to be gracious. Bit by bit, she�??ll earn herself a gracious man.

            She reminds her. �??Isabelle, if you continue in this vein, you are going to ruin my meal.�??

            Madame takes a bite to show her how. She closes her eyes and knits her brows together. Her lips curl up into a knot, twisting twisting til they burst. �??Oh!�?? she cries out, �??Ohhhh!�??

            Isabelle thinks, she shouldn�??t do that in front of me.

            �??Wait til the Blanchards come to dinner!�?? Madame moans in such a private way it�??s clear they never will.

            In the kitchen, Leah overhears her. �??Christine!�?? she grins. �??She liked it!�??

            Christine accepts her praise with a shrug, then smiles a separate smile for Leah. Madame is not the one she wishes to impress.

            Leah�??s heartbeat quickens. For a moment, she forgets they�??ve always known each other. Then a shadow passes over Christine�??s face, and it seems just like Maman�??s, just like her own.

            She clasps her sister�??s clever hands between her own, longing to be like her. �??Madame loves everything you do.�??