Please stand, she says, and altogether they stand and wobble, on heels they’re still getting used to: they’ve only been on the job for a week. As she paces, the woman looks them up, down, as if assenting, in an invasive nod, not indicating approval, more like its opposite or hope, with slight sighs, low whistles given out through the perfectly attractive crack between her fawned front teeth, she pokes, she prods and pushes…Mary, not you, not you, not — you! pull the hair up and around, yes, now let it down…no, let it fall, that’s it, keep your fingers out of your mouth…take off that necklace; get rid of that ring…Mary, no, no, no, no, yes — keep your head straight, you! I want your shoulders back and chin down…suck in that gut (palpates) — what are you laughing at (pinches), it’s not like you couldn’t stand to lose a few yourself…remember, she whispers, these are little little girls, at least most of them, the latter halfdozen — like for you, better a padded, a pushup; accentuates what you have, rounds out what you don’t…wandering her way back to the front, she goes down on her knees to search for an outlet, to light the projector with its cord engaged in a sensual snaking around her waist, her thighs, as if she’s to plug the device into her very crotch, the always warm and wet socket of her own power; then, she removes her shoes, loses the labcoat, the nothing underneath to nude, unashamed.
Strip, she says, there’s no blushing here or cry, it’s not allowed, we’re women…billows of cloth, indoor cloud — mounds of clothing like whispery cirrus, like melting, melted icecream, spilt milk…excess buttery fat to heap about the feet, then stirred a step out of and around, to whip: the Marys strip slowly and selfconsciously, item by item soon teasingly, too, bit by bit to baring all, as if they don’t know whether they’re flirting with themselves, with each other, or with nakedness itself. My God, she says, that marbling, those striations; I want you all to exercise — and grow that out, your hair; I want curly bushes, huge…turns from them to the door to the hall, opens it, wheels in chiming clink of hangers, a rack of wardrobe left by the porters departed, in her draggy, stumbling schlep knocking books over and open to pages loosed from bindings to wind around the hall in gusts from the slamming door; paper leaves like chaffing, burning labels, ironsafe, white cleansed from dark colors separately,
Get dressed — you, Rubina, and you’re Simone, the tennis shirt, the white white one, don’t worry, it’ll stretch…you, you’re a Liv; those stockings to hide the thighs on you with those nice neat little irises at the knees…you, you’re more the Judith type; she was into bouncy blouses…she’s handing out assignments, dispensing identities, coupling them sibling to her cause. My job, she says as they fumble with their futures, is to turn you into relations…the monogrammed backpack, with a pencil behind the ear — yes, you have to wear the headband…the Marys dress, become others, turn to others as themselves, all relative to one another, a halflife, still becoming: skimping on flowery underwear, bras for those who need them (which sisters and not which Marys), buttoning, clasping and snapping zip up hips as the woman, too, steps into a hanger’s clothes: a dark scrunched skirt, pink cardigan over white camisole, her necked adorned with big jewels on bulkier gold. As a mother, then, she stalks the room, screeching out inquiries parental above the dressing’s din: who’s His favorite sister? does He even have one yet? what’re His favorite foods? quick! rip out the heart through the stomach, anyone have an answer for me? how many squares of what kind of toiletpaper does He on average use? does He use on days He has too much dairy? anyone, anyone?
Let’s begin with something simple…
Which Mary she is, even she doesn’t know, hasn’t yet remembered, she raises her hand, waves it desperately, then whines as if she has to pee.
Her mother sighs, what is it?
Who?
