“Her caption was: ‘But hey, at least gas prices are down!’ ” I walked up to the podium to accept my prize, my cheeks burning, and took my gift basket back to the kitchen, wishing I could go straight home. It had been a silly caption, and not at all clever, but there was something pleasurable about public recognition for something I had done well, rather than for my inadequacies.
My employers seemed amused, though it occurred to me that they maybe would have preferred if I’d asked permission. Everyone in the kitchen cooed over my bounty—coffee, biscuits, gift certificates. It really was a very nice gift basket.
“I’m just going to pop back to the bar and start packing it up,” I said, to avoid any further conversation about my coup. I knew that my coworkers found me surly and standoffish. I didn’t mind.
Someone had made off with at least two bottles of open wine (this always happened if the bar was left unsupervised), so I began tidying up the station, clearing away the used cups and corks and eyeballing the stragglers, who would remain within reach of the bar until all the visible alcohol had been definitively taken away.
“Nice work with the preening bourgeoisie,” someone said to me, plunking an empty cup down on the bar. I looked up to see a redhead with wild corkscrew curls watching me, her cheeks flushed and her eyes squinting with entertainment. “Really pulled the rug out from under the Cornell intelligentsia.”
“Well, that wasn’t my intention,” I said, sounding very prim.
“Good to take them down a peg. The savior complex in here gets to be a bit overbearing otherwise. Save the goslings, save the world.”
“I can think of worse things.”
“Oh, indeed. Everyone here’s just a bit divorced from the lives of the other half,” she said, helping herself to the last of a bottle of red wine.
“I would have thought everyone attending this party would be…sort of upper-crust,” I said, meeting her eyes. She had a spray of freckles across the bow of her nose. She laughed, tossing her head back.
“Touché. Though I am merely second-generation gentility. I’m here to supervise my father, who is a longtime supporter of the Trust. We were supposed to have a dinner date, but instead…” She waved around at the emptying room. “In any case, folk our age are unlikely to have the income to toss at ducklings and spiffy parties. Alas.” Her tone was both flippant and self-aware, and I found it hard to get a read on her.
“Why do you think I’m here,” I said flatly.
“To rub shoulders with the town’s elite?” she asked.
I snorted. “For my student loans. Four hundred parties and I’ll be free and clear.”
“With or without interest?”
“Without.” She nodded. I didn’t know why I was revealing my debt situation to a stranger, but I found her compelling. And very odd.
“You’re Mackenzie, right? Mackenzie Johnston?” she asked. I took a quick breath in alarm. Had she recognized me? Had she seen the show? But then I remembered that my name had been announced with my win.
“Mack. And you…?”
“Louisa. Stein-Jackson. Oh Lord, there goes my doddering paterfamilias. I’d better collect him before he starts begging for scraps in the kitchen.” Her eyes followed a round and redheaded man who was, indeed, headed towards the kitchen.
“Just three hundred and ninety-nine more to go, kiddo. Chin up!” Louisa launched herself away from the table and made for the door. Midway, she paused and turned. “Listen, I’m having some people over to my house in a few hours. Garden party. Wanna come?”
* * *
—
I met everyone later that night at Louisa’s garden party, which, in winter, was not actually held in the garden. The jamboree was a way to combat the cabin fever that infects upstate New York in the tail months of winter, a claustrophobia that becomes almost desperate by April, when we are still likely to be subjected to late-season squalls. I felt like the plain cousin at some fabulous family gathering. They all looked like they were in costume: vintage tea dresses, white linen, a straw fedora. Having come straight from catering, I was clad in dreary black with a modest hem and neckline, sporting sensible clogs and hair that smelled vaguely of dishwasher. I did not look remotely festive. My feet hurt. I had brought a cheap bottle of local plonk—something called a Silenus Riesling—that even I knew was embarrassingly low-quality, but I currently had around seventy-five dollars in my bank account and owed my parents one hundred. Louisa graciously accepted it without too much of a raised eyebrow, and Chloe suggested adding it immediately to the rapidly diminishing punch bowl of Pimm’s that sat on the table, a clever solution that would mask its raw bite. It was just the four of them, munching on Louisa’s canapés and arguing.
“But don’t you worry that conversations about sexual politics and assault have so diluted everything that we’re in danger of completely denying women consent?” (Chloe.)
“Hands off that amuse-bouche, Jack! Such hunger, such boundless cupidity!” (Louisa.)
“Emerson could really be a tedious old windbag.” (Beau.)
“I’ve been trying to make my own sourdough starter for weeks, and it is just, like, total and utter gloop. What do you think I’m doing wrong?” (Jack.)
“I’m really not sure that I’m interested in the essentializing nature of identity politics—” (Louisa.)
“Louisa! That’s because you’re white.” (Chloe.)
“And rich.” (Beau.)
“The original bourgeois socialist.” (Jack.)
I reclined in the crook of Louisa’s parlor, letting Chloe refill my cup and hand me delightful ginger-watercress morsels. She had a way of hooking my wrist with her fingers whenever she brought me something, a startling intimacy that made me drop my eyes each time. Louisa’s hand rested on Chloe’s hip in an almost proprietorial way, and Chloe always seemed to angle herself towards Louisa, resting her head on the redhead’s shoulder. Beau, watchful as a wolf, followed them with his eyes.
I didn’t understand yet what this triangle would come to mean to me, and how its geometry would drive me mad.
“Okay, but the way we live is grotesque,” Jack was saying, arms swishing through the air. “Look at this. Almost none of the food we’re eating came from within a hundred miles of here, and most of it’s probably genetically engineered so that it can sit in a diesel-fueled truck for two weeks while it’s being shipped from California. Where, I should add, it was picked by an exploited and underpaid workforce.”
“I grew those tomatoes,” Louisa said, pointing to the tomato chutney. “Though I’m not totally convinced they’re safe to eat. Turns out there’s industrial runoff everywhere here in Fall Creek. I added shit tons of vinegar and cooked it for about five hours, though.”
“Tomatoes aside, you have to recognize there’s something really, really wrong. I hate to throw around the word ‘unsustainable’—”
“No, you don’t,” Beau said.
“No, I don’t. This is fucking unsustainable.”
“So when do we start the revolution?” Chloe asked.
“Yeah, yeah. Poke fun at me. I know you all agree.” They all giggled and popped more treats into their mouths.
I was charmed. I’d spent my time since coming home making awkward conversation with my disillusioned folks and avoiding anyone I might know from high school, ashamed of my misdeeds and my extended career in food service. I was hungry for conversation, for people who played parts and overimbibed and told stories and knew one another too well.
“It just seems relatively apparent that the world’s ending, is all,” Jack reasserted.
“Haven’t we always believed that, though? I mean, every generation? Humans are always convinced they will be the last generation,” Louisa countered. “The Four Perpetual Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”
“Sure, but other generations didn’t literally have scientis
ts telling them we probably won’t live out the century,” Jack said.
“No, they just had a Bible that said so, or a Mayan prophecy,” Chloe pointed out.
“Or imminent atomic warfare,” Beau added.
“But come on! We are definitely cruising towards the end times, guys,” Jack said.
“Might be so,” Beau agreed.
I drank quite a bit of Pimm’s Cup, so I can’t be perfectly certain, but I don’t think the Homestead was explicitly mentioned. Louisa and Beau were still mulling it over, tinkering with the idea and preparing to unveil their plan. Louisa, with her flair for theatricality, wanted to do it right, with the appropriate level of panache. She understood that we needed to fall in love with the idea, to be seduced by its romance.
Chapter 2
A week after the garden party, we went out to the Homestead for the first time. The outing was shrouded in mystery, and we were all desperately curious to see whatever Louisa had percolating for us. She had been circumspect, and promised we would all discuss it together, once we saw it. I was the only one with my own vehicle, a rusty pickup that could fit three people but would soon regularly be deployed to transport all five of us, two riding on laps or quite illegally in the bed. It had belonged to my father and was yet another charity begrudgingly offered to me, along with my childhood bedroom and tense dinners of meatloaf and tuna casserole. I left my parents’ house in the midst of a mild disagreement; I had failed to tell them that I was supping elsewhere that evening, and my mother had prepared baked ziti, apparently just for me. Though she said nothing, I could see her tight-lipped hurt, and my taciturn father had upbraided me as harshly as he knew how.
“This isn’t a bed-and-breakfast, young lady. You’re not on vacation, and it isn’t your mother’s job to make you special meals.” I knew the subtext here was that this domestic situation was untenable. I was aware. Oh, was I aware. As I was mumbling my excuses, my phone rang, and assuming it was Louisa, wondering at my whereabouts or requesting that I fetch something for her, I answered.
“Hi there, bitch. I see you answered, you fucking coward—” I hung up as quickly as I could. The act of answering my phone in the middle of a family discussion didn’t seem to endear me to my father.
“And that’s another thing. You’re on one of those devices every minute of every day. That’s not how you’re going to fix this situation you’ve created for yourself.”
“Darling, I don’t think we need to talk about this,” my mother interjected. “I think Mackenzie has been through quite the ordeal.”
“My mother lived through the Depression. I think Mackenzie should be able to handle this mess.”
“Why don’t we talk about it later? Mackenzie, honey, are you going to eat with some friends? I could make you a Tupper of ziti….” At my father’s expression, she abandoned the rest of her offer.
“No, no, we’re eating at my friend’s house. I’m sorry, Mommy, I didn’t think you had anything planned. Next time I’ll let you know in advance, it’s just that Louisa—”
She put up a hand to stop me. “I’m glad you have some friends to support you. I think it’s good that you’re getting out of the house for a bit.”
I bit back tears at her patience, at her bloody niceness.
“Thanks, Mommy.” I gave her a quick peck on the cheek before darting for the door. In my coat pocket, I could feel my phone vibrating with another phone call. I ignored it.
* * *
For our grand arrival at the Homestead, Louisa had said she would borrow her dad’s Volvo and she and Beau would meet us out there. We were given directions sketched out on a napkin, told to bring wine and fresh bread and arrive at five so that we could walk around while there was still some dimly glowing late-winter sun.
My little truck was not the best vehicle for snowy roads, but I’d learned to drive on the slushy surfaces of central New York, and we took it slow up the big hill out of the city. We drove ten miles out of town, onto dirt roads bordered by heaps of gray sludge that looked like they were desperately hoping to melt away. Even the snow seemed sick of winter. We finally turned down the last dirt road, the one that would bring us to our destination, and carefully veered into the driveway.
The Homestead was one hundred acres of mossy woodlands and neglected fields, five small cabins and one large one, a few sheds and semi-roofed structures in varying stages of dilapidation. It was twelve miles from the nearest commercial outpost, on a dirt road that, I would learn, threw up thick clouds of dust by the end of August and became deep gullies of frozen mud in late March and April. I discovered that in summer, a tall thicket of blackcaps hid the property from the road. Behind them, a grove of pine trees gave a false impression of grandeur as one came along the rugged drive, like a Yankee rejoinder to the magnolia-lined approaches of southern plantations. But soon the dark shade of the pines spit you out into the field, and you saw just ramshackle cabins and a plot of ground enclosed with chicken wire, flanked by more trees and a border of cleared land that had been reclaimed by goldenrod, wild raspberries, and tall grass. It didn’t look impressive, and maybe it wasn’t, but we were so very proud of it. It was our solution to the problem presented to us by the doomed world.
That day, we drove through the quiet pines, heavy with snow, the truck kicking up plumes of frozen gravel. The trees shrouded us from the world, and driving towards the Homestead felt like penetrating some wintry, dark fairy forest, thoroughly removed from reality. Which it was, of course. We made it that way. On that half-lit March day, it was easy to imagine it already a separate utopia, hidden away.
Jack and Chloe fell silent as we drove, peering excitedly out the windows. When I parked the truck, we tumbled out, gaping around us at the snow-covered clearing and the rustic compound of cabins. Smoke issued from the chimney of the largest, and Beau stepped out onto the deck, waving at us with a huge smile on his normally reserved face. We scampered through the snow, my hand-me-down L.L.Bean boots scuffing at the powder. Chloe flung herself up the steps and into Beau’s arms.
“Is this it?”
“Naturally, you silly. Come inside.” Beau gestured towards the door. We all lurched indoors, the cozy heat of the cabin stinging our cheeks and making my nose leak. Louisa was at the stove, and turned around at our entrance.
“Oh, you’re here. Hoorah. What have you brought me?”
I mutely offered my tithe of a loaf of bread, and Chloe handed over the wine she had selected.
“How old is this timber?” Jack asked, arching his long, thin back to get a look at the joinery of the cabin walls.
“This cabin is the oldest, so at least a hundred years,” Louisa answered, fondly rubbing one of the knotty beams as if it were a treasured pet. “Lovely, right?”
“You can’t get wood like this anymore,” Jack said appreciatively. “It’s amazing.”
“I think we should commence our little tour, no?” Beau prompted. “While there is still some light?”
“Right. Let me just pour out the hot toddies,” Louisa said, fussing over something on the stove. “Don’t bother unpacking yourselves,” she ordered in Jack’s direction. “We’re going back outside.” She thrust a thermos in his direction and readied her own arctic wear. We all stumbled back out into the cold. The temperature had dropped as the sun sank lower, now just glinting above the pine trees. We followed Beau’s easy lope as he led us to the cabins.
“So, there are five individual cabins, and the big one.”
“The big cabin has all the cooking supplies, and the biggest stove,” Louisa said. Beau nudged open the door of a cabin. “They’re all pretty much identical,” she explained. Inside, the little dwellings were nestlike, a tidy, tight space. Each had a small Scandinavian woodstove, a small wooden table, and a chair. Though the roof wasn’t high, a mezzanine level housed a mattress. Beneath the mezzanine were bookshelves. The cabins were about twelve by
twelve.
And that was it. Unadorned, they were plain and shockingly simple. There was no clutter, nothing extra. And yet, while I can’t fully explain it, I felt at home the minute we all crowded into that tiny space. Crossing the threshold felt correct. Louisa tugged the door shut behind her, and the five of us stood silently, booted feet rustling against the bare boards.
“It’s a little home,” Chloe said dreamily, echoing my thoughts. Jack chuckled.
“I was just thinking that.” Louisa passed me the thermos, and I quaffed a deep slug of warmed and honeyed whiskey, letting the heat burn happily in my belly while I contemplated the simple window with slightly rippled panes of old glass. After the thermos had made its circuit, Beau stretched his arms out, as though to encompass all of us and the whole of the Homestead. His fingers brushed my shoulder.
“Shall we view the rest?”
We peeked into the other four cabins, walked the perimeter of what used to be (and soon would be again) the vegetable garden. There was a shed filled with rusted shovels and hoes, and two other rather ragged structures that looked more or less ready to topple over.
“I’m thinking a smokehouse and an herbarium, respectively,” Louisa explained, if a bit optimistically. Beau bounced up and down on a springy door, beneath which was concealed a musty root cellar, frozen shut at present. We walked to the edge of the pond, a delicate skein of ice covering its surface.
“And the crowning glory,” Beau said, leading us to the other side of the pond, near the border of the deepening woods. There, situated about fifty feet from the water, was what appeared to be a huge wine barrel. There seemed to be smoke pumping from a chimney at its rear.
“Is that what I think it is?” Jack wondered aloud.
“No way,” Chloe gushed.
We Went to the Woods Page 2