For someone like Denise, a tween who didn’t possess a green thumb and who lived most of the time in an imaginary world of her own design, the Lin house was a ball and chain around her ankle, especially on weekends. Not only were there lawns to mow, there were English ivy and azalea and hydrangea bushes to trim; flowerbeds to plant, weed and water; and the autumnal sheddings of oak, dogwood, and sumac to rake up, put into sacks and, when sufficiently dry, set ablaze in the fire pit in a corner of the Back Yard Little Hill.
Only today, it wasn’t unwanted vegetation that needed to be consumed by fire but a human sacrifice — Prudence Lin, via her possessions — to appease the gods of wrath and reciprocity. Overseeing the propitiatory ritual was its self-appointed high priest, father of the reprobate/offering/victim. It was a macabre sight. Leo’s face contorted with rage, grief, and an eerie kind of fascination, even ecstasy, as he stood looking into the flames. The sinking sun making long shadows of Denise and Lorraine as they carried burlap sacks of their absconded sister’s belongings on their backs from house to fire pit for their father to throw into the bonfire.
And Margaret, mater dolorosa, thumbless vestal virgin, motionless silent witness.
Lorraine set down the sack she was carrying.
“I’m tired, and hungry. When can we eat?”
“Soon,” her mother assured her. “Very soon. We’re almost finished.”
One by one, Leo threw the contents of the sack Lorraine had handed him onto the fire, which roared higher with each offering. Denise watched them smolder, catch fire, and burn.
“Well, at least I won’t have to wear Prudie’s hand-me-downs anymore.”
Margaret looked on with no palpable change of expression. She had made those clothes. Prudie’s high school graduation dress of Italian silk with Belgian lace at the collar and cuffs. Up in flames. The Chanel-like suit of bouclé wool with thick woven braid trim. Up in flames. The pleated skirt….
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