envelopes, after all. But responding to my mother in kind always felt like lying. She was so good at playing her part; I was terrible at the role I was meant to uphold. And the alternative, to write what I was really thinking, was impossible, if wickedly fun to imagine:
Mom,
I’m glad to be almost as far away from you as this country allows. The Winslows are beautiful and rich, probably more than your imagination can muster. I know you’re picturing gold candlesticks and infinity pools, but this place they made isn’t decadent, no, it’s rustic in the way only a rich person’s place can be, with money flowing under it invisibly, so that they get to pretend they’re just like the rest of us. They are characters, all of them, and I’m sure they must quibble with each other behind closed doors, but no one here walks around with the imprint of a ring scabbed onto their cheekbone. Funny, that. To a person, they are attractive, devoid of body odor, and not the least bit interested in me. Their dozens of children (nearly all biologically impeccable, with one adopted Chinese toddler for good measure) are precocious. Their dogs ignore me in the nonchalant way only overindulged canines can. They all – even the dogs – eat organic.
Ev has three brothers. The fat one, Banning, has a house made out of straw; the meticulous one, Athol, has a house made out of steel; and I’m fairly certain the third brother, Galway, is the big bad wolf. Ev’s parents, Birch and Tilde (these people all have names only the rich can get away with), are, at once, enigmatic and gracious.
Birch has five living siblings, and they and their broods make up the bulk of the clan in residence at camp. (You’re supposed to call it camp, even though no one is actually camping.) Most of the Winslows, with the exception of Birch’s eccentric sister Indo (who I’m beginning to suspect may be of sapphic persuasion), have children and grandchildren.
Birch’s oldest sister, Greta, has a husband and asexual daughters and a vague son, and three Teutonic grandchildren: Arthur Jr, Victoria, and Samson. Skippy is their Jack Russell, Absalom their golden.
Birch’s younger sister Stockard (Ev calls her Drunkard), has a fat husband called Pinky, a divorced son, PJ, and soccer-loving teenage grandsons. Word is that PJ and his wife were driven apart by the death of their little girl, Fiona, years ago; apparently this loss has rendered them too sad for pets.
Birch’s youngest, pseudo-bohemian sister, Mhairie, has an unremarkable family but for her Jewish son-in-law, David. Everyone has made a point of remarking on the fact that he’s ‘Jew-ish,’ as they pronounce it, not that there’s anything wrong with that. His children, as a result, are Jew-ish too: sharp Ramona, worried Leo, and silly Eli. They are too allergic for pets.
Then there’s Birch’s sister CeCe. She’s the one whose son, Jackson, killed himself. She hasn’t shown her face yet.
Each relative I’ve met wants to discuss Cousin Jackson’s suicide, but discreetly (they adopt the same hushed tone as when they mention David’s Jew-ishness), leaning, with great concern, against their porch rails, asking Ev – even asking me, forgetting I’m no one – ‘Have you heard how CeCe’s doing?’ ‘Can’t medication help with that kind of thing?’ ‘Do you think there was a way to stop it?’ I wonder if Jackson knew they would talk this vividly about him, and if that’s part of why he did it.
Is it lost on me that a boy who blew his own brains out is the primary reason I find myself Genevra Winslow’s personal guest in the sun-dappled Eden where she’s spent every summer of her life? Not a bit. I have come to believe Jackson’s death was a necessary sacrifice to the gods of friendship (‘he died so that I may live’), and I tell myself it isn’t selfish to believe so. After all, he was born into this bounty. It’s his problem it wasn’t good enough.
Give my love to Dad if you dare.
Okay, I wrote it. But I didn’t send it.
Just one weekend spent amid the Winslow clan and I’d already learned a useful trick – if you didn’t speak, they forgot you were listening. That’s how I gathered that only a handful of Winslows had attended Jackson’s memorial service back in February, where CeCe, Jackson’s mother, had been inconsolable. Over the first lantern-lit dinners of the season, there volleyed a tingling, electric replay of the returning soldier’s every act the previous summer, the last time anyone had noticed him.
He had been too skinny.
Too quiet.
Always buried in a book.
Angry about the Kittering boys borrowing the canoe.
Or no, when Flip was hit by the dock repair truck, he’d been empty of emotion, remember, hadn’t so much as batted an eye, just carried the mangled dog into the grass and laid her down.
Wasn’t there a broken engagement to some girl from Boston?
Hadn’t he once yelled at Gammy Pippa in the Dining Hall?
As all of Winloch replayed the stammering timbre of Jackson’s voice, the slight shake in his hands – which hadn’t been there before Fallujah – our collective chatter crescendoed, filling Winslow Bay with the single, relieving point the Winslows could finally agree upon:
It was because of the war. A relief, someone uttered, to have a reason.
Beyond that, one couldn’t blame anyone in particular, but it didn’t escape me, as I listened invisibly, that those few Winslows who lived in Burlington and had four-wheel drive were doing their best to forget the unhinged pitch of CeCe’s keening, not to mention the attention-sucking way she’d fallen, dramatically, to her knees beside her son’s coffin (her histrionics, frankly, a bit much), as the snow fell outside the funeral home, blanketing the city in fresh, pure white.
It was times like these that one was thankful for tradition. At least that’s how Birch Winslow began his toast that first Monday evening of summer, raising a glass of local ale before the whole of Winloch. It was the twenty-first of June, the Midsummer Night’s Feast, held every year on the solstice upon the Dining Hall lawn, before the tennis courts, such a fundamental Winslow tradition that Ev seemed shocked when I needed it explained. A good hundred of us were spread before Birch on blankets and folding chairs in the soft, falling light, our collective contributions to the groaning board (the elite’s name for a potluck, I’d come to learn) already picked apart on the tables made haphazardly of sawhorses and plywood. Stockard’s russet potato salad, Annie’s fried chicken, and my homemade blueberry pie were all long gone.
‘We are missing one of our own,’ Birch went on, and a sad hush descended upon us – even wild little Ricky stopped squirming – ‘and the loss is a great hole in us that will remain unhealed.’ Missing was any mention of Jackson’s name; his family was absent as well. Rumor had it that Mr Booth had left CeCe for good back in April, and that she and her offspring would not be coming back. But Birch did not elaborate. We raised our glasses of artisanal beer as the Winslow coat of arms rippled above us.
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.
