"They're twins, but they're so different," Wilhelmina Lawson mused. She sat at the table, kneading bread, looking out the window at her girls playing in the garden.
The girls, born in Canada in 1894, were both 7. They'd moved here to Buffalo two years ago during the World Fair. Frieda had a bowl of carrot seeds and was placing the seeds in a line along the plowed row. She'd push them in exactly half an inch with her pinky finger. Her curly black hair was tied back in a ponytail. Brown haired Cassie was swinging the hoe randomly, attacking rocks and weeds. "Take that!" she'd cry. "And that! And that! Die, weed!"
"Your gifted, Cassie," Frieda told her when they were 11. "You've got more natural talents than I do. But you fritter them away. You never apply yourself. Why not? You're might never concentrate long enough to accomplish anything!"
"You're too serious, Frieda," replied Cassie. "You never let yourself just have fun! I've got lots of friends, but you're always studying!"
"But ma, why CAN'T I go out?" whined Cassie. "Everyone's going to the play. It won't just be with Tommy, there's a whole gang of us!"
"You know why. You're grounded until Tuesday for the LAST time you snuck out with Tommy."
"But, you're letting Frieda go with Evey from next door!"
"Frieda's not grounded. And she painted the backdrops and got an award for them. She's nearly got a responsibility to go."
Frieda reddened, unsure what to do about the attention and compliments. "I could supervise Cassie," she suggested.
"No. Thank you Frieda that's very kind. But that's just it ... I know you're too kind to supervise her adequately. Cassie needs a firm hand. And, she IS grounded."
[Party in the siblings' crowded new house. Cassie in Daniel's lap, smoking and drinking wine, holding an oboe. Cassie's brother Robert (clothing salesman) and wife Silvia, George (piano teacher) and wife Rita (former student), Silvia's brother Joe. Everyone playing jazz. Frieda washing dishes and keeping everyone supplied.]
[Scholarship to art college. Madame Schoenfield. Pencil, watercolor, pastels, sculpture. Portraits of mother, Cassie, Evy. Florals.]
[Cassie, whispers, doctors, fix it so she doesn't have to be so careful.]
[Frieda, art studio. Frieda doing oil portraits of rich and powerful: mayor, mayor's daughter, famous singers passing through. Frieda teaching art classes to aspiring young women, Evey helping.]
[Cassie schmoozing with rich and powerful: mayor, superintendent, Wells Fargo vice president. Opulent parties.]
[Frieda and Evey move to New York City. Frieda studying under European Masters. Evey working in administration of school system.]
[Cassie meets Herbert Crowley, a happy-go-lucky guy (mechanic for the Iroquois Gas Company), they're a comedy routine, they get married.]
[The great depression hits. No more opulent parties. No more market for portraits.]
[Herbert and Cassie have moved out of town, the rent in town was too high. More smoke-filled family jazz nights in Herbert and Cassie's little house. Newer cousins: a hunch-backed gal who plays the piano and sings, a loud gal with a tuba, a guy on a clarinet.]
[Frieda doing bit work for the Queens museum, doing skilled pastel portraits of poorly crafted colonial dolls. The dolls are what is valued, not her portraits. Evey is supporting her with her job with the school system.]
"Isn't that your wife there, hanging on the arm of the senator?"
"Aye, that's her favorite game, buttering up the high society," said Herbert. "But I've got nothing to worry about. She always comes back to me, because I'm more fun."
[Evey showing Cassie the stacks of paintings by Frieda in New York City. Frieda died young, 1940, after a several month bout with intestinal problems. Evey and Frieda were broke. Herbert and Cassie aren't well off themselves. Evey can keep a little of Frieda's work, but she has to give away most of it. Detailed oil paintings capturing expression and uncannily accurate colors of doctors, Indians, politicians, little girl holding a stuffed rabbit, still lifes, a group of men playing cards. Cassie looks through it, takes what she thinks she can handle.]
Cassie sat in her little house, looking at a photograph of Frieda wrapped in a fur coat. She looked so serious, so much the flaming genius that she was.
"You're right, Frieda," she said. "I've never sat still long enough to accomplish anything. All I've done is have fun." She sniffed back a tear. "But I think I've had the better life. You poured all your life into making art for the world, and the world did not love you back."
Cassie looked at Frieda's photo, noting the strong line of her jaw, the hooded eyes, the long nose. She got out a piece of paper, and a pencil and a good eraser, and started to draw. Carefully, lightly. Erasing, adjusting the jawline and the separation of the eyes. Once she had the proportions right, she went over it again, shading it, filling in her detailed features.
When she was done, she looked at Frieda's portrait. She compared it to the photograph. It was pretty good, if she said so herself. At least as good as anything else she'd ever done. It didn't hold a candle to Frieda's brilliant oil paintings, of course, but she hadn't practiced in thirty years.
Cassie pasted the portrait of Frieda on the wall above her bed, next to a rough oil painting Frieda had done in high school of their mother, Wilhelmina, God rest her soul. Hm. Hm hm. No Frieda had been better than Cassie was now, even back in high school. But not by much. Cassie grabbed a fishing pole, and walked out to the creek to help Herbert watch the sunset. And maybe catch a fish.
This was in response to a prompt on reddit.com r/WritingPrompts, "Write a heart-wrenching story about two sisters."