Bittersweet (20 page)

“Where are we going?” Ev asked John once we were into the forest. She placed her hand on his leg.

John’s truck forged through the woods, farther than I had walked, far faster than my legs could carry me, and I felt a burst of gratitude for all that Ev had brought me. I could hardly imagine that, two days before, I’d been subject to the mercurial passions of a fourteen-year-old, desperate to read some dead woman’s journal. A family of seven pheasants darted across the road before us—six babies faithfully following their mother, bobbing back under cover before we drove on.

We started up again, but more carefully this time. Not yet out of the Winloch woods, John slowed.

“Wait, what?” Ev asked. Her body had gone rigid.

John turned the truck left, down a rocky path that cut sharply
from the main gravel road that would have led us out of Winloch. “We’re going to have to do it sometime.”

“I want to talk about it first,” she replied.

“We did talk about it. We have to tell her.”

“Well I’m not ready.”

“Tell me what?” I asked. They both turned to me in surprise, as though they’d forgotten I was there.

“Not you.” Ev frowned. “His mother.”

We drove in silence down the pockmarked path, the chassis groaning as the axles bucked in and out of potholes the size of our tires. Rain and ice had carried the gravel off the road and into the ditch beside it, leaving a hardened clay behind. Ev crossed her arms as John drove on, and I nearly asked “Where’s his mother?” when the road rose sharply to the right, revealing a brown cottage in disrepair. A beat-up two-door sedan sat in the driveway, beside some vicious-looking rusted farm equipment. Whereas Indo’s cottage sat in a perpetual state of eccentricity, John’s mother’s house was of the kind inhabited only by the poor and rural.

John turned off the ignition and opened his door in one fell swoop. In silence, we watched him and the waggling dog enter the diminutive cottage, until Abby’s tail nipped inside.

“She hates me,” Ev said. The whole building seemed to rock under the sheer force of John’s and Abby’s footsteps, as if two more beings inside were too many.

I patted her shoulder. “How could anyone hate you?”

It took ten minutes to convince Ev that if she wanted to make a good impression on Mrs. LaChance, hiding in the car was not her move. She squeezed my hand as we approached the moss-covered door. It was the first time I saw her terrified.

She knocked. Abby’s hot breath came snuffling through the screen. John’s broad smile at the sight of Ev reminded me of Galway.
I pushed away the memory of that man’s kiss and followed them inside.

Mrs. LaChance’s house—called Echinacea—was architecturally similar to the rest of the Winloch cottages—a few rooms and a view. Built on the forested side of camp, the structure was the embodiment of what I had feared Bittersweet to be the night I first arrived. Every bit of Echinacea’s structure that was exposed to weather—windowsills, roof, railings—was covered in thick, spongy moss. Dust gathered in the corners of the living room, peeking out from behind mildewed furniture that resembled the boulders scattered about the surrounding forest. It was clear there had been human attempts to stave off the encroaching wilderness—the scent of Lysol, the residue of Windex upon a mirror—but they were no match for the rot running under everything. The creeping scent of sickness reminded me of home.

I forced myself to smile as we followed John through an olive-green linoleum kitchen, circa 1963, harshly lit with a humming fluorescent tube, before we ventured onto the precarious porch that jutted out into thin air, overlooking the water. There we found a slender woman, impeccable in a crisp white uniform. The nurse stood with an exclamation, “Genevra!” and exuberantly took Ev in her arms. She was tall. Her accent came from another world. Ev clung to her until the woman stood back, taking Ev’s face in her hands. “All grown up,” she sighed, disappointed and proud.

I watched John squat beside the old wheelchair, which Abby lay beside, and realized it was filled with a brittle body. The person—hardly recognizable as such—was facing the view: through thinned maples, a craggy sandstone cliff gave way to a shaded vision of the lake. It was a melancholy vista, barren of the easy escapism the Winslows enjoyed.

The only indication there was something human in that chair
was the constancy of its breathing. Even at John’s touch, the figure didn’t turn its head.

Ev remembered me. “This is May,” she said. “And this is my old nanny, Aggie.”

“Who’re you calling old?” Aggie teased, before introducing herself by pulling me into a tight hug. She smelled delightfully of pepper. I was on the verge of sneezing when she released me. “Let me get you all a snack.” She looked fondly at Ev from the doorway and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Mama,” John said softly, as we all turned our attention to the figure in the wheelchair. “Look who came to visit.” He wheeled his mother around to face us. I had expected an old face, but hers was smooth, girlish in its lack of wrinkles. Her skin was almost trans-lucent—I could make out the veins in her forehead. She had John’s eyes.

“Hello, Mrs. LaChance.” Ev did not reach out her hand or lean down to the woman’s level, and I knew her tall, beautiful nervousness was easily mistaken for snobbery.

“Thanks for having us.” I squatted down and touched Mrs. LaChance’s hand. Her fingers squirreled under mine.

“Who is that?” Mrs. LaChance asked in a vital voice, looking past me.

“That’s May, Mama,” John answered.

“Her,” the woman said, her eyes on Ev all the while.

“I’m Genevra,” Ev said, eyeing John, “I just stopped by to say hello.”

“No!” Mrs. LaChance yelped, her voice now fierce. “Aggie? Aggie?”

Aggie appeared in the doorway.

“Get her out of here,” Mrs. LaChance growled. All the blood had drained from John’s face.

“Pauline,” Aggie pleaded, approaching. “Let’s be kind.” As Mrs. LaChance protested again, Aggie whispered to John, “You’ve caught us before nap time,” and to me she commanded, “Take Ev for a walk.”

Mrs. LaChance’s voice had grown more frantic; she was practically yelling, “Don’t bring her in my home!” Abby began to bark, only agitating the situation.

Aggie nodded me toward the porch door. I took Ev’s arm and pulled her away in retreat as I heard the nurse chide, “Now I know you don’t mean that, Ev’s a lovely girl.”

But we all knew Mrs. LaChance had said precisely what she meant.

Ev was crying by the time our footfalls thudded onto the skinny trail running atop the cliff. “See?” The view of the lake was less kind over on this side of camp. The craggy sandstone gave way to ragged boulders below.

I took Ev’s hand in mine and tried to think of the right thing to say. “She’s not well,” I hedged.

“She always hated us,” Ev complained, pulling away, “even when we were children.”

“Well, she worked for you, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I thought of my mother taking the abuse of a customer whose Burberry coat had been damaged by a steamer, my father losing a thousand precious dollars on a legal consult when one of his customers threatened to sue. “It’s not easy to serve other people.”

“Who do you think put a roof over her head when her husband died? Who pays for Aggie? Who keeps John employed and lets her live rent-free?”

“Maybe that’s exactly why she doesn’t like you.”

Ev rolled her eyes as my point sank in.

I walked to the end of the little path, a few yards farther. The way was precarious. The end of the peninsula—no wider than my two feet—was a good sixty feet above the water.

“He told me we were going to do something fun,” Ev complained.

I laughed. “Not what you had in mind?”

She’d plopped herself down on a boulder and I joined her there. We watched a skiff sail by. “She’s never going to approve of us,” she said more calmly. “I don’t know why he even tries.”

“What’s wrong with her anyway?”

“She had a total breakdown when her husband died. It was like twenty years ago. I mean, don’t you think she’d be over it by now?” She narrowed her eyes at me. “You didn’t seem scared.”

I couldn’t tell her my secret. Not yet. “I used to volunteer with people like her.”

She picked up a stick and threw it over the edge of the cliff. We listened to it crack to smithereens. “Will you get John? I have to get out of here.”

I considered saying, “If you really love him, you’ll have to face her someday.” But I kept my mouth shut and did her bidding. On the small footpath that led me back the way we’d come, I thought of the cold touch of Mrs. LaChance’s fingers under mine.

I heard John before I saw his outline on the porch, crouched beside his mother’s chair. “Mama, you have to give her a chance.” The wind was coming in my direction, carrying the low tones of his voice. Had he turned, he would have seen me, so I told myself I wasn’t eavesdropping, even as I backed behind a tree and listened hard for his mother’s response.

“Anyone who isn’t one of them,” she croaked. “Anyone else, and I’ll say yes.”

“I deserve to have what you and Dad did,” he pleaded. “Life is short. When you find love, you fight for it.”

“She is a Winslow,” Mrs. LaChance enunciated, ending the conversation.

Through the trees, I could make out the peacock tones of Ev’s sundress as she picked her way toward me. I darted back onto the path, heading for the house, and John emerged from the porch door, whistling Abby to him, letting the door slam shut behind him. “Where’s Ev?” He ran his hand over the dog’s back as she snorfled after a chipmunk under the porch stairs.

As we sped out of the camp, I expected tension between John and Ev. But as soon as we passed out of the Winloch woods and into the meadow, the sound of our motor turning the world yellow as it scattered a dozen goldfinches into the air, he slung his arm over her shoulder.

“A sparkle of goldfinches,” she murmured.

“A siege of herons,” he replied.

“A murder of crows.”

“A murmuration of starlings.”

She nuzzled up in the crook of his neck. “A host of sparrows.”

“An exaltation of larks.”

I was struck that they had known each other longer than anyone outside of my family had ever known me. “A skein of geese,” she laughed.

“It’s a gaggle.”

“A gaggle is when they’re on the water. They’re called a skein when they’re in flight.”

“Fine then. But I call foul on your pronunciation.”

“Fowl?”

John cracked up. “Puns are strictly outlawed in this truck.”

“It doesn’t matter how I pronounce it,” Ev said vehemently, “there’s no points deducted for mispronunciation.”

His eyes crinkled at her solemnity. “Okay, smarty pants, so what do you call a lot of quail?”

“A bevy.”

He shook his head in protest. “A drift.”

On they played, leaving his mother, and Winloch, behind.

T
he next morning, Ev and I were sipping coffee in our bathrobes when John arrived dressed in white from head to toe. His tanned skin looked even browner against the pristine cotton fabric—slacks, button-down, cap. I tried not to let my eyes linger too hungrily as Ev wolf-whistled.

He rolled his eyes. “It is fucking ridiculous your mother makes the help dress like this too.”

She laughed breezily.

“Where are your whites?” He frowned at us.

I looked between them, bewildered, but Ev seemed to know exactly what he meant. They laughed at my bafflement until Ev chirped, “It’s Winloch Day—cheeseburgers, football, fireworks! Put on those white clothes!”

My heart stuck in my throat. The best I had was a T-shirt and a pair of granny panties. “Look at her face!” Ev giggled, pointing at me. “Don’t worry! I got you something in Montreal!” She leapt from the table, squeezing past John with a chaste, if lingering, peck on his lips, and returned moments later with an ivory cotton dress on a hanger. I knew just by looking at it that it would fit me perfectly.

As I uttered my thanks, John wrapped his arms around Ev and kissed her neck. “Evie, you are the sweetest girl I know.”

“You have no idea.”

“Someday,” he said, holding her tight, “someday I’m going to give you everything you want. A big house. Six bedrooms. One for every baby.”

Ev snorted.

“And plenty of bathrooms. A state-of-the-art kitchen.”

“I don’t know who you think will be cooking in that kitchen.” Ev tried to twist from his grasp. He didn’t let her go.

“I promise,” he said. “Anything you want, Evie. Anything.”

“A carousel!” She was not going to let this get serious.

“Okay, a carousel then,” he said indulgently. “What else?”

“A cotton candy machine.”

“I’m going to take care of us.” His voice was so low I could barely hear it.

She finally broke free. “I have to shower.”

“Be my guest.”

She nodded toward my dress. “I’m glad you like it.” Then slipped past him and into the bathroom.

“So you’re the help today?” I asked.

“Lackey, Sherpa, at your service.” He took a sip of Ev’s lukewarm coffee.

I asked what I’d been wondering for a while. “How is working for the Winslows?”

He took me in so carefully that I felt the need to explain myself. “My parents own a dry cleaners.”

The suspicion melted from his face as he considered my question. “Seems like I’ve been working for them my whole life.” He wasn’t self-pitying, just honest. I wondered if that was why he loved Ev—because it felt so natural to be looking after a Winslow—but the instant the thought flitted through my mind, I chastised myself. Who was I to judge why one person was bound to another?

“What about the other guys?” I asked, thinking of the men with
farmers’ tans I’d seen doing work around camp. When I first came to Winloch, I’d noticed them everywhere—the way they parked the small, white groundskeeping trucks off the beaten path, the sound of their hammers on the shingles atop the Dining Hall. I realized that, as June had turned to July, I’d become less attuned to their whereabouts, which meant that either they were doing less work nowadays or I’d become so accustomed to all my needs being met I wasn’t noticing who was meeting them anymore. I had a sneaking suspicion it was the second. “Where are they from?”