The Empress Chronicles by Suzy Vitello Read Free Book Online Page A

photography books in storage, at Mom’s suggestion ( we wouldn’t want these to mildew ), but kept my little pocket Dickinson, my entire and pristine collection of Beatrix Potter, the rainbow assortment of multicultural poets my freshman English teacher demanded we become familiar with. The Angelou, the Hughes, the Neruda. My four different versions of fairy tales from the Brothers Grimm. Fairy tales the way they should be, with death and dismemberment as punishment for bad behavior. Then, the Russians: Nabokov, Tolstoy. With the still-clean sleeve of my snotty, dusty shirt, I polish my very favorite piece of reading material: the latest catalog from Mico Designs Bath Fixtures.
    There are goose bumps on my arm now and on my stomach. I shiver in my sports bra and grab a hoodie from the outside pouch of my suitcase. The Lincoln High School Cardinals one, in an obscene shade of red that I never wear in public, but the fuzzy inside of it feels good next to my skin.
    The books though: they aren’t lined up right. I alphabetize then group them by color, then by size. Then there’s the evenness of the spines to consider. I slip my ingestion-slash-behavior-mod-journal next to the biology book I forgot to return to school at the end of the year. Living Matter , it announces on its vivid spine. I ponder that. Living. Matter. Does living matter? And then, a surprise. I reach back into the box and pull out a book I had no idea I had. Another book I neglected to return when my life was interrupted by an express ride to the psych ward. Death by Fame: A life of Elisabeth, Empress of Austria . Mom must have slipped this into the box.
    It’s a dark gold paperback, and on the front cover is a picture of a fancy woman in a sidesaddle on top of a horse. I leaf through to the series of photographs all good history books have embedded somewhere in the middle. In every picture the beautiful Empress Elisabeth stands stock-straight—perfect posture. Her thick hair is woven into various arrangements, her waist no bigger than mine. So this was Sisi, the child bride. Death by fame?
    I wedge the Sisi book back on the shelf, its spine equal to the Grimms, and fling myself onto the futon. Mom is zooming over Montana, on the way to JFK, where she’ll take a connecting flight to Miami. I want to fill her phone up with text messages, but my cell doesn’t work out here.
    I slide my iPod out of my pocket for a dose of Ride of the Valkyries , the piccolos screaming, the trombones blasting, the cymbals crashing. Of course, it’s out of juice. There’s only one outlet in the room, between the futon and the bookcase, and it’s plugged up with an octopus of cords. A cloud of dust bunnies and cat hair cocoons the space around it and I don’t want to electrocute myself. I yell out the propped-up window at Dad. “Hey, I need to plug in my iPod!” But he doesn’t hear me because at that very moment, the rattletrap, rusty engine, gasoline-sputtering noise of an ancient tractor pierces the air before settling to background idling. Dad and The Girlfriend launch their voices above the engine.
    Dad: I think the plugs need to be replaced.
    The Girlfriend: I saw a box of them in the lean-to.
    Dad: Let’s go, baby.
    The Girlfriend: Nothing wrong with your plugs.
    Dad: You keep my engine going.
    Then: overly loud laughter from the chorus of them .
    I fold my cardinal-red arms tight and move the fuzzy inside of the hoodie up and down to feel it against the skin of my stomach.
    A rooster cock-a-doodles. A line of Harleys zoom by the road out front. I unfold my arms and push at the piece of wood that holds the window open, and down it crashes, shaking the cracked and wavy glass inside. A couple of chips of dirty white paint flutter off the sill. Still, more noises: the anus-licking cat that scratches sand in a litter box under the toppled loom competes with the ticking of a vintage clock like in Dr. Greta’s office. The tractor engine noise outside rattles my back