Dorothy is bitterly disappointed by her only child’s “lifestyle,” as my sister continues to refer to being gay. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell her that who any of us falls in love and partners with isn’t a lifestyle like belonging to the country club or living in the suburbs. My sister doesn’t get it. In my opinion she doesn’t want to get it because it’s easier for her to define Lucy as a bohemian or a tomboy, which is Dorothy’s euphemism for being gay. It’s easier if Lucy and I both suffer from penis envy, and that’s my sister’s euphemism for not being male-dependent the way she is.

Penis envy really is a thing, she loves to declare, preferably in front of our mother. Or more recently, in front of Marino when we were in Miami this past June and he was giving Dorothy motorcycle rides and who knows what else.

“There’s quite a lot Benton and I don’t discuss with Dorothy,” I reassure Lucy. “She wouldn’t have any idea who Carrie Grethen is unless you’ve shared that part of your life. Or someone else has.” Marino enters my thoughts, and I hope Benton is mistaken.

It gives me a sick feeling to think of Marino being sweet on Dorothy, of him talking to her about us or anything else that’s none of her business and is possibly dangerous. The idea is too galling, and I dismiss it.

“You’re saying that Tailend Charlie mentioned Sister Twister.” I get back to that because I want to make sure I’m clear on where it came from. “As you know, Lucy, I’ve not listened to the audio clip yet. So I’m assuming it’s not been transcribed or translated unless you got someone else to do it.”

“I haven’t and won’t,” she answers. “It’s important you do it since you’re the intended target. The recording was made for your benefit.”

“It hasn’t been translated and yet you know what it says?”

“Bits and pieces. Easy ones.” Lucy takes another swig of Gatorade. “My Italian may be clunky but I know sorella means sister, and I recognized Sorella Twisted or Sister Twister when I played the clip. I’ve heard the nickname from Mom when she’s regaled me with stories of how terrible you were to her.”

I feel another rush of resentment that’s as fresh as it’s old.

“I recognized your name, your initials, and the word chaos,” Lucy continues to describe what she could make out in the most recent audible harassment. “Apparently chaos in Italian is pretty much the same thing in English.”

“In Italian there’s no h. It’s spelled c-a-o-s.” I pronounce it for her.

“Yes.” Lucy nods. “That’s exactly what I heard. Chaos is coming, or something like that.”