Free The Six Granddaughters of Cecil Slaughter by Susan Hahn Page A

Celeste up and shook her. Screamed at her to wake up. “Wake up, wake up.” Celine sat frozen in the corner, watching this. She cannot forget the image of her father shaking that baby—her small sister—and that shout. She hears it when she feels too alone in the dark.
    The doctor had to come there and give him a shot. Then he drove both him and Celine home. For a while after, Manny Slaughter went to temple every morning. Gave up the women. For a while. Even after he went back to his old ways, Sonya stayed. Hell fire.
    When Sonya and he moved to Key Biscayne, they dug up Celeste and took her with them. Buried her under the hot, rotting sun. Celine stayed here in the Midwest, where the seasons change often enough so that she would never be locked in one forever. Celine has an issue about being closed in—stuck. Stuck in one dress, one place, one thought. She needs diversity and change. She needs light—the sheen on satin, jokes, and cocktail talk.
    On her birthdays she would get double the presents from her father. Two bracelets, two rings—whatever. As if he believed he still had two daughters. Her mother sent hers separately. Something for a little girl. Something a little girl would wear. It sort of made Celine sick. But she stayed sweet. “Surface perfect,” is what she called it, toward both of them until each of their ends.
    At her father’s funeral she wore a sophisticated black St. John’s knit suit with a Versace silk blouse, the pattern a splash of shocking pink flowers. You could not see it at the service. The jacket covered it, except for the edges of the cuffs. During the service, to distract herself, she stared at them a lot.
    At her mother’s funeral she wore a white cotton piqué Dior dress with a cinched waist and full skirt. It was midsummer, but not too hot—at dusk, when they finally lowered the casket into the ground, there was even a chill in the air so Aaron wrapped a light pink Donna Karan cashmere sweater over her shoulders. Then he hugged her and called her “my sweet girl.” From beneath the ground I saw Celie, Cecilia, and Cecily smirking a bit when he did this, while trying hard to stay posed-solemn. They stood across from Celine, all dressed in black Carolina Herrera, which Celine had rejected at the shop. Morris and Lew stood at opposite ends of the roped-in portion of the grave, staring at each other. Several other well-dressed men were there whom nobody seemed to recognize. As she looked around Celine was so pleased when she realized all her men had worn Armani.

THE INTERIOR OF THE SUN
    It is the dream of reentering
    Eden—innocent and running
    up three flights of stairs
    through the back door
    into the kitchen.
    They are there: mother, father.
    No death here—not yet—no
    lymph glands have swelled, buckled
    the skin, lungs easily inhale
    the fragrance from the thick brisket
    steaming in the pot.
    No one yet coughs. The blood
    clot in father’s heart is
    only a metaphor for
    a child’s loss. Later, she’ll beg
    her most violent lover to hit her
    down there
. Up
    here dinner’s almost ready. The flowered
    oilcloth sweats on the Formica
    while she can’t wait to watch the fire-
    flies attach and electrify against
    the scorched window screen.
    How she loves to singe
    her fingertips with its prison pattern.
    Her mother will insist
    that now she must again go wash.
    Will she ever get clean of the burnt-
    out center of others’ lives?
Hit me
,
    she whispered last night
    to her lover—Herr M.
There
,
    pointing to the wiry pit. How it fascinates—
    the way the two of them mix
    up love with hate. When he bites
    her nipples to blood,
    she can almost hear him cry
    to his dead mama.
    Hers just sits quiet and bald,
    a million miles away. Chemotherapy
    is doing its trick.
    The trick is hope
    that when she opens
    the next door, they’ll be standing there—
    waiting for her. She’s come