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.’
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
