Work of Art

Turkey or Tweed

Artemis Burkhart stood bored and disengaged with a shoulder planted in the corner of Miss Lillian's office. Aurora and Anastasia sat obediently in wooden chairs that were situated to the left side of the room, their auburn hair (now darker than the fiery red they once sported when they were toddlers) pulled back from their faces with small matching dark green hair clips.

It had been ten years since the unfortunate series of events that led them to the front porch of the Bailers Home and under the watchful, wishful eye of Miss Lillian Bailers. They had received identical gray tweed dresses and dusty blue Mary Janes that served as their uniforms, and acquired new sets every year as they grew. They'd attended classes and studied for tests together in their room (which was eventually moved to the second floor since the ones on the first floor were reserved for newcomers). They'd flown through coloring books and puzzles with the imaginative and soothing Miss Angie, who hardly left from her seat in the rocking chair in the Common Room except to eat, use the bathroom, and retire to her room for the night. They'd weathered the withering glare of a strict, icy, but fair Miss Jennifer who'd made Art turn her card from green to red countless times due to sarcastic or inappropriate comments made out of turn, or just in general. They'd socialized and built relationships with the other girls in the Home, as well as the boys at St. Mith's Academy for Young Men (a boarding school just down Lithgow Street) who would volunteer their time to Miss Lillian to help clean, repair a clogged sink or burst pipe, and sometimes play cards or board games with the girls. And although Artemis seldom spent time with her sisters (who seemed to embrace a selective type of superiority complex (predominately Anastasia)) they regularly attended one adoption appointment after the other since Art could remember, and this one was no different.

A plump Mrs. Greene sat merrily in an armchair opposite Miss Lillian's meticulously organized desk in the center of the office, periodically grinning over at the three girls while Miss Lillian went over some basic information. Rory and Stasy smiled back, bouncing slightly, unable to contain their excitement although they had been to at least four of these each year since they'd arrived.

Though the fact that they were triplets who came as a package deal was not always a challenge potential adopters initially jumped at, Miss Lillian's somberly narrated anecdote of their tragic beginning melted the heart of every mushy, middle-aged woman desperate for motherhood that walked through the door. Mr. Greene sat withdrawn, lost in a comfortable gaze near the potted plant to the right of the desk. He had entered in front of his wife, pulled the furthest chair out for himself, and said no more than five words since he'd arrived on the premises. When the water pitcher arrived on the desk, Mrs. Greene was quick to help herself but her hand was met with a swat and an abhorrent grunt from Mr. Greene and she retracted immediately. He helped himself to a glassful and set the pitcher back where he'd found it, neglecting his wife's glass before settling into a comfortable position in his chair, chin on elbow, eyes on plant. This was met with a disdainful look from Miss Lillian, but she said nothing about it, and dove into her version of Les Miserables-level drama featuring the Burkhart triplets, a bad dream that was actually the manifestation of a higher power, and an abandoning father.

Artemis grimaced. Mrs. Greene's expression changed from glee to disbelief to pity as she readjusted sympathetically in her armchair. Mr. Greene, unsurprisingly, remained aloof.

Miss Lillian, Artemis supposed, was obligated to some extent to disclose this information to potential adopters, but it was the pity she could not handle. Rory and Stasy thrived off of that very sentiment, their eyes widening like a begging puppy as Mrs. Greene listened intently.

"You poor things!" said Mrs. Greene, clicking her tongue as Miss Lillian's theatrical production came to a close. Artemis had come to realize that although Miss Lillian told the story of the three abandoned triplets out in the cold with such animation, she treated them no differently than the rest of the girls, but rather regarded the story as an advantageous move used to overshadow the time, energy, and cost it would require to take three children home when someone called looking for only one.