Tradition held that the feast was dinner theater; the Rickys and Maddys of the family, too young to memorize lines, were dressed as sprites and fairies, outfitted in diaphanous wings, wielding Peter Pan swords and Tinker Bell wands, their faces swirled in glittery turquoise. It fell to the older boys (and the men who fancied themselves young) to perform the memorized parts of the rude mechanicals from Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream. Star-crossed lovers Pyramus and Thisbe had courted each other through the reticent wall for nearly a century, and the Winslows still found it hilarious.
“O Grim-Look’d Night! O night with hue so black! / O night, which ever art when day is not! O night, O night! alack, alack, alack.” Pyramus was played by Banning in a pair of his wife’s culottes. The audience cheered at the sight. His timing was good, actually, as though his premature businessman middle age was just a diversion from his true, thespian calling. He was all bluster and arrogance, a donkey in the clothing of a man.
As the prologue finished introducing our Pyramus, messy Annie accosted me on my blanket, digging her ample hands into my forearm, begging for help in a frantic whisper. Ev glared at us until I snuck off the blanket and followed Annie to Maddy, sitting on the bottom step of the Dining Hall, stuffing her tiny pink mouth with the remnants of a pan of brownies. “She’s swallowed walnuts! Walnuts!” Annie hiccuped like the Little Red Hen, and I spent a good ten minutes with the wiggling, sugar-high girl in the bathroom, helping her mother swab off the chocolate and watching her closely for anaphylaxis.
Crisis averted, I returned to our blanket. I had planned to spend the evening getting sloppy drunk with Ev, but where she’d been sitting, Abby now dozed. The Winslows were absorbed in the play. I put my hand on the dog’s hot head, laughed at Banning Winslow, and couldn’t believe my fortune that these people loved Shakespeare.
Then Thisbe entered.
Yes, it was a challenge to recognize “her”—the red wig, the vintage dress. But the smattering of freckles over the cheeks, the pink, supple lips—every detail was sharpened by my shame.
His flounces were met with riotous laughter as he delivered his lines in falsetto. He was silly, yes, playing his own brother’s female lover. But he was also electrifying. Not an eye strayed.
To have stood would have been to draw attention. Or so I told myself, rapt at his every move, until he stabbed himself, landing atop his brother’s corpse, causing Banning to cry out, and the audience to give them a standing ovation.
After dinner, I escaped into the bustling herd of fairy children. They were free at last, from school, from the inhibitions necessarily placed upon city kids, finally able to run facefirst into that loose, early summer burst of wind and sun and sweat. It was better with children. They were either loyal or beastly, and it wasn’t hard to tell the difference. We threw sticks for the dogs, and gathered tennis balls from the hedges, as dusk fell and the mosquitoes partook of their own feast, until, one by one, the angels were gathered up and carried home.
The crowd dispersed, it seemed safe to stroll back to the Dining Hall. Abby dreamed loyally on Ev’s blanket, the only one left on the great lawn. I couldn’t bring myself to wake the sleeping creature, even though the sawhorses were gone, the plywood stacked against the hall.
I found myself alone before the barnlike building. The soft sound of guitar filtered out the screened double doors and down the broad steps. I wondered after Ev—should I go back to Bittersweet and check on her? Instead, I climbed the stairs toward the tempting glow and peeked in through the screen, taking in the large space.
Round tables were scattered across a well-polished hardwood floor, with boards so wide they must have been original. Opposite me, another set of double doors led back down to the main Winloch road. To the right lay the industrial kitchen, separated from the main hall by a cutout wall on which food could be set. To the left, a stairway led up to a second floor, buttressed by a set of long, drab couches on which a small group of people were gathered. I worried I might be interrupting some sacred Winslow tradition, but it was only Indo and a few of the teenagers—Arlo and Jeffrey and Owen, all several years younger than I—who’d spent the better part of the evening on the other side of the tennis courts trying to build a bottle rocket.
Beside the teenage boys, his back to the door, a man played the guitar. The music was exquisite—all trills and fretting, a delicious melody laid forth. It was a song lifted from a warmer place, a place of dancing and the ocean, and I felt pulled toward it, the rhythm settling in my hips and pulsing in my collarbone. I allowed myself to step inside. The screen door yawned open, making a much louder sound than I’d intended.
Indo turned at the whine of the hinges. “Mabel!” she cried.
The teenagers glanced up.
The music ended mid-strum.
Indo strode across the room and enveloped me in her patchouli-scented hug.
The man turned. Over Indo’s shoulder, I recognized those freckles, the dirty blond hair. He was Galway.
“I’m looking for Ev,” I stammered, trying to extract myself. But Indo held me tight, drawing me toward the one man on the Eastern Seaboard I dreaded seeing.
“Have you met my nephew?”
Galway smiled. Stood. His eyes danced over me playfully. “Yes.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Collage
I turned what I can only imagine was a shade of crimson, feeling the intensity of Galway’s gaze. “I really should go.”
“Nonsense.” Indo gripped my arm. “Now’s a perfect time to show you the archives we talked about. Test your mettle. Oh, don’t look so terrified, I’m kidding. Mostly. But really, can you resist? They’re just up there, waiting for someone to do something with them, to reveal their secrets. Galway helped me box them up a few years ago, and since we are such good friends now, and my poor back won’t allow me regular stairs anymore—don’t grow old, you beautiful creatures …” And on she went, urging me up the rickety steps.
Much to my chagrin, Galway followed.
Indo flipped on the weak overhead lights and excitedly pointed out the mouse-nibbled cardboard boxes piled in the center of the immense, airless attic. “Oh, I’m so pleased,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Galway is such a help in these matters, and I know you two will have good fun tackling this together.”
I could barely think, so embarrassed was I to be near that man. I kept my head down and tried to focus on the sound of Indo’s voice.
There were dozens of boxes, filled with clippings and personal papers and business documents. The immensity of the task I had blithely agreed to that chilly afternoon the week before struck me—Indo wanted me to find something in this mess for her? And if I found it, she’d, what, give me her house? Fat chance.
“What exactly do you want me to find?” I asked, when I could get a word in.
“First order of business,” she pronounced, “put your hands on that manila folder about my painting. Yes, Galway, I told her your parents took my painting—you know me, I can’t keep my mouth shut. The folder’s nondescript, I’m afraid, so you’ll have to root around a bit, but that’s half the fun now, isn’t it? And keep your eyes peeled for good stories—you never know where you might find some material. She’s a budding writer, did you know that, Galway? The quick mind of a detective. Especially, dear, especially keep your eyes open for anything about … Well, yes, all right, I’ll let you find your own way.”
She then launched into a disquisition on her storied ancestors—“They were visionaries! The leaders of their fields!”—until Galway asked me pointedly, “Weren’t you looking for Ev?” I considered him the enemy but saw the possibility for retreat so agreed apologetically that, yes, he was right, Ev had fallen ill at the picnic and I really should check on her.
“Oh dear,” Indo exclaimed, releasing me. “You should have said something.” I hurried down the attic stairs as she called after me, “If it’s woman’s troubles, tell her to find me; I’ve got fabulous herbs from my guy in B
oston.”
I was back out into the moonless night in seconds, cursing myself for ever stepping foot inside that building, cursing Galway for playing that guitar, and it wasn’t until I was far from the Dining Hall that I realized I had no flashlight and only a vague notion of the direction I should be heading. “Abby!” I called, but even the dog had abandoned me. I told myself not to think about vampires. The crunch of my feet on gravel was a good, if small, sign I was going in the right direction.
The Dining Hall was out of sight by the time the light glanced toward me. The beam flashed over me a few times, and I stopped, like a deer in headlights, grateful for the flashlight if wary of whoever might be bearing it. It was just as I feared—Galway, alone. He was winded.
He handed me the flashlight silently, and I was forced to thank him. There were two of us, and only one light. One of us would have to walk the other home. Since we were halfway to Bittersweet, we continued in my direction.
He cleared his throat. I thanked god for the darkness. We walked on together into the night. Finally, he said, “I’m not going to tell anyone.”
I said nothing.
“It’s kind of funny, actually, when you think about it,” he went on. It sounded like he was smiling.
I kept my eyes on the beam and prayed he was done.
“I was looking for Ev that morning,” he said, “and I thought she might be sleeping and—”
“Okay,” I said, wheeling toward him, shining the light at his face, “good.”
He put his hand up to shield his eyes. “I just wanted to say—”
“I get it.” I kept the light pointed directly at his face, unable to restrain my anger at the oblivious, blithe way these people went about their lives. “I get it, it’s hysterical, and now you can hold it over me and humiliate me all you want, you saw me … doing that … but it isn’t lost on me that you were the one spying on people, that you’re”—I searched for the right word—“a Peeping Tom, a pervert”—and with that, I left him. Didn’t care that I had the only flashlight, or that he was the one who’d brought it to me.
Abby met me a few steps from a pitch-black Bittersweet, the night filling with her clacking tags and panting tongue. She licked my hand faithfully. I went straight for the crawl space below the porch, easily finding the one bag of recyclables I’d set aside, grabbing the three magazines on top. I listened for Galway’s footsteps, but I could hear only the night.
We crept into the sleeping house. The bedroom door was closed, a relief, since Ev, who’d abandoned me for the evening, was the last person I wanted to see. I clicked on the lamp in the living room, pulled the pair of nail scissors from the medicine cabinet, grabbed a notepad and roll of tape from the supply basket, and settled before the cold hearth, letting myself open the September 1, 1961, issue of Life, an L.L.Bean catalog from 1987, a Town and Country from 1947. I knew exactly what pages I wanted, and ripped them expertly, already feeling calmer, letting my mind wander to the other periodicals waiting below the porch; this was just the beginning. I extracted what I loved: the Town and Country cover painting of a woman in a long dress leaning over a balustrade toward a sailboat, a picture of a fresh-faced Jacqueline Kennedy from Life, and the laughing blond family from L.L.Bean that I’d been waiting for since I noticed them. I’d use the scissors to do the detail work.
My anger ebbed. I kept going, cutting and taping, until I had a complete picture laid out before me. Only then did I sit back against the red chair. Abby laid her head upon my lap. I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, I heard an unfamiliar motor roaring off into the night, and the screen door nipping at Ev’s heels. I sat forward, taking in the messy room, disoriented, irritated I’d been wrong about her whereabouts. She was standing over me before I had a chance to begin cleaning up.
“Was that John?” I asked.
Her pupils were dilated, her hair messy, lipstick smeared. “Why on earth would I be getting a ride from John at this hour?” She prodded Abby with her foot. “He should be taking her home at night.” That was when she noticed my collage. I wanted her to divulge her secrets, but instead, she plucked the paper from the mess and pored over it.
Blond family. The lake. Polo shirts. Sunglasses. Insignias. Rowboats. Beautiful people. Money.
“Is this us?” she asked, delighted. Before I could answer, she pulled two pushpins from the wall. Centered the collage above the mantelpiece and pressed the pins into its corners. Then stood back, and frowned. “Or were you making it for your mom?”
“Why would I make it for my mom?” I balked.
She blinked at me. “Because she sent you that package?”
I snorted. “Please. I don’t make anything for my mom.”
She edged back toward me. “Why not? I mean, I know she made you cry before we came up. But she seems … nice.”
“Mothers always seem nice when they aren’t yours.”
“Mine doesn’t!” She guffawed, plopping down on the floor beside me. I laughed with her.
“She’s only nice to show me I’m not,” I offered, once our humor had faded. Instantly, I felt guilty—my mother was the one who’d urged me to “be sweet.” Maybe she really was as nice as Ev thought and it was only my own cruel mind that turned it to meanness.
Ev began to braid my hair. Silence settled over us. “You think …,” she began, once she’d restarted the braid for the third time, “you think it would have been better if I’d gone out with John?”
“Aren’t you guys … together?”
“A girl can still have a little fun.” Her voice sounded sad, as though even she was disappointed in herself.
“But I thought …” Her fingers deftly wove the plaits she’d made. I realized no one had touched me for a good while. The words sounded so simple, so stupid, as they tumbled out, but I couldn’t help myself: “I thought you loved John.”
She paused as she considered my question. “I do.”
“But he doesn’t love you?”
She smiled proudly. “John LaChance has wanted to marry me since I was six years old.”
“So what’s the problem then?” I found myself growing irritated at the tug on my hair.
“It’s complicated.” She pulled hard at my scalp. “He … he can’t give me what I need. Not all of it. Not now.”
“But that’s not love,” I pressed, thinking her selfish. “Love is sacrifice. Putting someone else first.”
“Exactly,” she said, “that’s exactly what I told him. I’m not asking for much, just that he keeps his word, you know?” She sat back, gripping the braid in her hand, and squinted her eyes in appraisal. “You’re so kindhearted, Mabel.” She let the braid go. “I’m sorry to burst your bubble.”
I opened my mouth to tell her it wasn’t fairy tales I believed in, just the tender way I’d seen John grasp her hand.
But she was already off to the next subject, nodding toward the collage. “Tomorrow you can do your family.”
I watched her push the bolt into place on the front door. Together, we brushed our teeth, turned out the lights, and drew the bedroom door closed behind us. She locked the bolt there too.
I listened to her sink into sleep. It was best to let her believe the project had been spur of the moment. That it wasn’t something I’d done hundreds of times before. I was proud of myself for biting my tongue. For not replying, “No, Ev, I never do my family.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Girl
I had no idea where Ev was sneaking out to—or who her mystery “other man” was—but as June edged on, she spent less and less time in Bittersweet. John, too, steered noticeably clear of us. I missed his shy charm, how Ev danced around the kitchen humming when she knew he would be coming by, the lap of Abby’s tongue across my fingertips. But every time I asked about him, Ev’s response was to pluck an Empire apple from the full bowl atop the kitchen table and disappear down the road. She returned in the evenings, and sometimes after midnight, tight-lipped as to her whereabouts. I k
ept my ears open for the growling, unknown motor I’d heard in the night, but she wandered in soundlessly from then on.
Dear Mom,
I’m beginning to realize I’m a person whom loneliness follows. It’s lazy to call my isolation a condition—I know all too well how it has been my nature, for years, to think of myself as an island. But I swear: this time I thought it was different! I would be perfectly content living as Ev’s right-hand gal, even though it seems she’s already bored by me—what does that say about my need? Am I unquenchable? Unable to take a hint? I wouldn’t blame that on you, Mom, but Dad’s a different story.
Wait—I forgot—nothing real can pass between us. So how’s this?
The swimming’s lovely. I bought a suit with Ev’s L.L.Bean card—don’t worry, I’ll pay her back—and I’m able to tread water for a good two minutes before I need a handhold. Sorry I’m not sending you this letter, but it’s best for both of us. I think you’d probably agree.
When writing unsendable letters to my mother, cutting pictures from magazines, half drowning and calling it swimming, or pretending to read Milton could capture my attention no longer, I rolled up my sleeves in the Dining Hall attic. Indo’s treasure hunt gave me distraction, the chance to chew up a few hours here and there during which I could forget my solitude. But it also offered something more. Foolish as it may sound, Indo had whetted my appetite. I couldn’t resist the chance for access to the Winslows’ inner workings; after all, I was the girl who’d researched them on interlibrary loan in the spring.
Did I forget how vehemently Tilde seemed to dislike Indo, especially on the subject of the Van Gogh? Did I think Tilde would really approve of my riffling through the family archives? Well, no. But she’d been mean to Indo and to Ev. And anyway, the “archives” were only some abandoned papers I was casually sifting through without direction.
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