Can I help you? if she catches you looking at her. Once I asked for a tuna sandwich. She told me to fuck off. I almost caught the bow on a short hop and asked if I could give it a try. She said no, said I had no business playing the cello. She was probably right. Other than poker, I have no talent for anything. She said that’s why she made tea, so I could have something to do. She said it was important for people to have something to do, especially men. She said men have to be occupied at all times, tricked into thinking they’re useful in some way. I told her I didn’t like tea, that I had no use for it. She told me to drink it, otherwise, I could go fuck off. I looked around the room, tried to find something to compliment. My sister likes to hear how great everything looks. She likes to hear about the antique furniture and such, something she calls a settee and other names I forget. We were sitting in what she refers to as the parlor, but it’s a living room to everyone else in the world. There was patterned wallpaper and an Oriental rug and ornate drapery hanging over the bay windows. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I looked at her instead and tried smiling. I’m not sure what this looked like. I’m not one to smile in front of people. It comes from the poker, one of the reasons I’m good at it. She asked if she could help me and I told her to be reasonable. She got up and left the room. This is why you never know with people and why poker is easier. Across a table, someone either has a hand or doesn’t. They could have the nuts, they could be bluffing. You fold or raise. It’s one or the other. The world is easier when you can boil it down to either/or. Of course, poker doesn’t actually work this way, there are other variables, but the general point is the same. So when your sister runs off, you can chase after her, consider what she might want, if anything, you can consider doing something to the cello even, maybe cutting all the strings with a pocketknife or even casing the fucker up and carrying it home to hock at the nearest pawnshop. Maybe leave a note saying Thanks for the tea and cello. Keep up the marching. The cello was probably worth at least a grand, and I could’ve used the money, especially back then with the frozen river of cards I was continuously dealt. I think I went three months without looking down at a playable hand. I used to do things like this, steal cellos, and sometimes I revert to form in my head. But I didn’t take my sister’s cello and I sat there and waited for her to come back, which she did after about five minutes. She didn’t say anything, instead she took the bow from my hands and started playing something called “Don’t Talk to Me on Fridays Because by Then I’m Too Tired.” This one sounded like a car that had something wrong with the engine, brakes grinding against each other, metal on metal. After one or two more numbers, we took a walk around the neighborhood, which I remember as Piscataway. But now I’m not sure it was Piscataway. For some reason, I associate my sister with Piscataway, though I could be mistaken. My sister is a fast walker and I had to struggle to keep up. She had a path she always took and so this is where we walked. I remember it led to a park and there were trees and a brook and a playground. It was when we passed the playground that I mentioned something about our father, how he used to take us to the playground when we were kids and the time my sister fell off the monkey bars and we all had to go to the hospital. My sister said she didn’t know what I was talking about. I tried to remind her of the little boy who tripped her while she was climbing up the bars and how she had to get five stitches on her chin. She said I was mistaken, that I must be thinking of something else. To this, I said, The hell I am. This is when she stopped and stood in front me. It felt like she wanted to fight. I was getting ready to defend myself, when she stuck her chin out. She said, Show me the scar. I looked hard for it but couldn’t find one. I didn’t think so, she said. I decided to drop it, but I did consider asking if she’d had plastic surgery. I wouldn’t put it past my sister to have plastic surgery. She’s always been vain, my sister, which is strange for a pious virgin. I remember being told that she was in her room, brushing her hair, whenever I’d ask after her. I think our mother was the one who said this about her whenever I asked where my sister was because it never seemed like she was around. I can’t remember ever seeing my sister and mother and father all in the same place at the same time, not even at dinner. I’m not sure if my sister remembers all of this the same way. You can’t tell with her and also she might be crazy. She looks like someone who has spent time in a sanitarium. I think our father spent a lot of time at the park and on his way home he’d stop at the ROTC. I’d find flyers under my bedroom door almost every day. Our mother was either in the kitchen or the living room, sitting on a chair or sofa, reading or knitting. I can’t remember ever seeing her somewhere else. What I said instead was, Who the hell was it that fell off the monkey bars? My sister said she had no idea, said it was my problem. She accused me of being pathological, but I’m not sure what she meant by this and I didn’t ask. Instead, I asked a question about our family, about what she remembered, but she said she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I asked if we’d ever talked about it and she pointed to some blue jays. She said, Look at the blue jays, how beautiful. Then she made up a story about the blue jays, how they were endangered due to pesticides and poachers. She could tell that these two had a hard life and that it’d taken a toll. She said she could tell by their energies. She said there was discord for a long time but that they were reconciled now. She said even still everything was tenuous between them. There’s no way you can have an actual conversation with someone who talks like this. All you can do is nod and pretend to care and find a place where you can say I should be getting back. I did look at the two blue jays flitting from branch to branch. They seemed fine to me, maybe a little high-strung, but fine. After the blue jays, we walked back to her house and then she drove me to the train station, which I believe was here in Piscataway. This is why we drove here in the first place, starting out early today, before breakfast. When I say we are driving around, I mean my new wife is doing the driving and I am in the passenger seat, doing the looking. My new wife has never been to Piscataway, has never met my sister, so this is her first time. Nothing looks familiar to her, I’m sure. This is something I’m smart enough not to ask, though I did have to catch myself once. A lot of people think I’m quiet or shy, but it’s just that I’m smart enough not to lend voice to thought if I can help it. It was the same way with my sister and the blue jays. I wanted to ask her if she was taking any medication or seeing a therapist or getting enough sleep. I wanted to say she should get herself laid one time, maybe get blind drunk some night, but I kept it all to myself. People have a hard time recognizing this kind of genius, but I’m happy to say that my new wife can. She said as much the night we met. She said, I can tell how smart you are by how you sit and say nothing. I married her three days later. This was back in Atlantic City, which seems another lifetime ago, maybe two lifetimes, even though it’s only been three days. This is how the world works sometimes. Time and math don’t always apply.