Light Sleepers

fragments of a fictional short story

When the world is grey and the hues of the earth are still muted, that is when the sisters wake. They see the island before the sun blankets it. They hear the preeminent cries of the roosters. So few know the neighborhood at this hour, when the nocturnal animals return to their dens to escape the encroaching morning. The sisters are both light sleepers, as was their mother before them, and her mother, too.

Their house rests at the mouth of their neighborhood street. It is a traditional house in a fishing village, with few windows that are precisely placed as to receive a sufficient amount of light with as less heat as possible. Its rooms still warm though, especially during the extended summer months. But no matter the weather, one of the sisters is always cold - friorenta, the other always warm - calorenta. Yet, they manage to find a balance.

Despite the few windows, the sisters see all. Like soothsayers, they anticipate the patterns of their neighbors, of the stray cats that roam the street, of all the happenings that come and go by their home. Passing their house, you might see their eyes from their shadowed perch, noting your movements, with imperceivable expressions, or you might not. You might be daydreaming, so you don’t notice their eyes, but they see you nonetheless.

And the sisters prefer patterns. They prefer knowing what is going to happen and when it is going to happen. They have a penchant for anticipation. They appreciate consistency.

Which is why the dark truck parked across the street disturbs them.

The Two Sisters (Chassériau)

Who does it belong to, do you think, one sister asks

Was it there last night, asks the other.

It was not. It was not there when I drank my tea.

The sisters never stop moving during this inquisition between themselves. There is much to do and the day is ephemeral. There is dough to be kneaded and plants to soak and laundry to fold. But their eyes glance, when they have a moment, through the window and to the recondite truck.

Maybe it belongs to a mason or a carpenter. Maybe there is a roof that needs repairing.

Or maybe one of our neighbors has a new boyfriend.

Their tasks, sometimes monotonous and mechanical, drift away from their mind’s eye. The truck sits prominently in their thoughts. Could it be an omen? They are superstitious but they would not use that word to describe themselves. Then one sister comes to, looks at the kneaded bread before her, and worries she’s worked it too much. The other sister comes to and realizes she’s mismatched the socks.

In sync, they move to the window and peer out at the truck. The sun reflects off its hood. There is dried mud on its sides, sprayed up from its tires. One sister glides toward the front door and opens it. Her sister comes up behind her. They inspect the truck from the threshold. They peer around the neighborhood.

It must have arrived in the night.

Like a stray cat.

Or a storm.

Or a plague.

The sisters shudder and shut the wooden door. They must continue with their day. They dress in exterior attire. They pack the provisions they’ve made. They leave the house with their baked loaves, and fruit from their garden, and knitted scarves, and other trinkets they had been meaning to give away.

They bring bread to their respective children. They kiss their grandchildren. Scarves and hats are gifted to prepare for the dreary winter season. They tell their sons they need to eat more. They ask their daughters if they’ve been eating enough. They see friends. Barter fruit for eggs with a neighbor. They give away silverware from their wedding days.

Well, it’s not like I’m not going to use it now.

Artur Pastor

They let the sun hit their faces on their terms. They stop at the beach and allow the Atlantic to lap up to their ankles. They feed a stray cat some of their goods and it follows them a’ways until it disappears under a parked car.

They wonder about the island and how its edges have frayed and what parts of it might fall into the sea. They remember the alcoves they found as children in the volcanic rocks on the shore that felt like other worlds. But now the days are too short to dream. There is barely any time for the rosary.

When they return to their neighborhood, to the house they grew up in, the truck is still parked across the street. They glare at the void of its abyssal body as they shuffle toward their home. As one unlocks the front door, the other keeps her eyes on the metal. The sun refracts off it into her leer. She holds her glare, still.

Inside, they drift around. They float from room to room. The world feels more uncertain. The ground seems to shift. Is there something seismic underneath their feet? One rests her hand on the edge of a dining table for balance. Another sits in a chair, feeling dizzy.

There are no words but they speak to one another. This isn’t unique to them. Sisters have that way about them. You might even understand it. It is a silent synergy, maybe a telepathy, but even that word fails to capture the unseen understanding and surreptitious synchronicity. A signal. A frequency. A language without language.

One sister moves to the door and the other follows as if tethered, threaded. Then they are in the backyard, in their garden. One picks up a spade. The other has a cultivator. They’ve had these tools since they were children. They use them frequently. There is a familiarity in their palms. The tools belonged to their father. They were carved by him.

Without words nor instruction, they are crossing the street, gardening tools clasped.

And then they are smashing the truck with the gardening tools.

The hide of the vehicle dents. Its paint chips off. A headlight smashes. A side mirror is torn out. Metal clangs and scrapes in the quiet street as the sisters surround the monstrosity. Bang. Bang. Bang.

It is not long before they tire themselves out. They observe the destruction they’ve left in their wake. They are satisfied with the damage. They feel accomplished.

In the evening they make tea. They hear the rumble of the truck’s motor and when they peer out the window, it has evanesced. They run their fingers over the rosary beads as their eyelids begin to weigh down. They sleep soundly throughout the night, for the first time in a while.