The Last Summer of the Camperdowns (19 page)

“Still at it, I see. How many of those bloody things do you consume in a day?” Michael asked her.

“I have no idea,” she half purred, half growled. “It doesn’t interest me to keep track. Maybe that could be your project,” she said. “So what do you think of our little monster?” she asked as he put himself between her and the wind.

“You mean me?” I asked, pointing to myself.

“Wasn’t it John Steinbeck who observed that the distinguishing characteristic of monsters is that they think everyone else is a monster, too?” Michael posed the question, as we made our way into the living room, whose massive walls of glass showcased the Atlantic Ocean and miles of private beachfront.

“Spectacular!” Gin proclaimed, and even my mother observed a moment of silence as we all paused to take in the view. Michael had had the original house both refurbished and revolutionized, so that it felt old and new, a contemporary palace with warm underpinnings. It possessed a location not unlike ours, the difference being that the Devlin view was open and friendly and instantly available. The view from our house was a trick of the eye. It wasn’t until you stood at the edge of the dune that you could feel its terrifying effects, the desolation of its beauty, as if you were being shown a fleeting glimpse of infinity.

My mother’s attention was instantly captured by a portrait of a woman with strikingly colored hair that hung over the fireplace.

“Polly,” she said.

“Yes,” Michael said.

“Polly always was a lovely girl,” Gin said gallantly.

“Hmm,” my mother said, seeming deep in thought. “If only a lazy eye could be so successfully dealt with in life as in art.”

Horrified, I was too stunned to speak. I waited for the inevitable, justifiable angry response from Michael. To my everlasting astonishment, he laughed. Laughed! A big, loud, appreciative guffaw. If that had been my father, I would have been reaching for bulletproof armor. Gin started to speak but quickly thought better of it, clearing his throat instead, swallowing whatever mild rebuke he had in mind.

“By God, I’ve missed you,” Michael proclaimed. “What’s it been? Ten years?”

“Eight. We ran into each other at Cannes. Obviously you’ve forgotten.”

“No, I haven’t forgotten anything.”

I wasn’t enjoying the suggestive subtext, though I knew not to take it too seriously. My mother could inflame the reading of a grocery list if that was her intention.

She swept across the room. “Marvelous portrait of Harry,” she said. “Such a handsome boy. Like his father.” Michael acknowledged the compliment with a half bow. She looked around. “But what of the other boy? Where are the paintings and pictures of Charlie?”

I could hardly believe what I had heard. Charlie Devlin and his disappearance was the elephant in every room in this house.

“Greer!” Gin began to noisily swallow and gag, as if he had a pencil lodged in his throat.

“Mother!” I was barely able to say the word. She didn’t care.

“Why are there no portraits or photos of Charlie?”

Once she embarked on a course of action, there was no stopping her.

Michael, mildly taken aback, took a moment to compose himself before answering. “I had them taken down,” he said finally. “I can’t stand to look at them.”

“Well, you should put them back up. You can’t pretend he doesn’t exist. You can’t just obliterate him. It’s not fair to him. Put that boy back where he belongs. For your sake, too. You’ll feel better to have him where you can see him.”

Michael just kept shaking his head as she spoke.

“Michael!” she said softly, interrupting herself, startling all of us. “I never took you for a coward.”

“Oh, my God, I need to sit down,” Gin said, clutching his heart and toppling into the nearest armchair.

“Perfect illustration of my point,” my mother said, nodding in Gin’s direction as I looked on appalled, convinced I could feel my hair turning prematurely white, strand by stricken strand.

“Greer, have pity. Charlie is gone. All indicators are he’s not coming back. He was fifteen years old. I’m not staging a performance. Let me mourn in my own way.”

“Maybe not. Maybe he’s not dead. Maybe he’s still alive,” I said, hands thrust forward, gesturing wildly, unable to contain myself. “You don’t know for sure. There’s always hope.”

Michael looked surprised at my outburst.

“Riddle,” my mother said, with surprising equanimity, “I have a vast closet. Trust me. I know when black is the appropriate color.”

“Nobody knows. You can’t say that. You don’t know,” I just kept repeating myself, my eyes glistening.

“Naïveté is a poor substitute for hope,” my mother said.

“Oh, when will this nightmare end?” Gin moaned. “This was supposed to be a pleasant call. I do so apologize, Michael . . .”

“Gin, for Christ’s sake, after everything, do you really think I can’t handle Greer?” Michael said. Gin looked as unconvinced as I felt.

Michael turned his attention to me. He took my hand in his.

“You’re absolutely right,” he said. “We must never give in to despair. There is always hope. Thank you, Riddle, for helping me to remember what it means to be young.”

“Good God, Michael, who’s writing your material these days?” my mother interrupted. “Hallmark?”

My face burned with shame. “I’m sorry,” I said, head bowed. He couldn’t imagine the true scope of my contrition.

Michael smiled at me, offering reassurance. “I had forgotten how amusing your mother can be. Don’t worry, Riddle, Greer always was good for what ails me. Her bark is worse than her bite.”

“Double, double, toil and trouble,” Gin muttered under his breath.

“What was he like? Charlie?” my mother asked. “Was he like Harry at all?”

For the first time, Michael seemed truly distressed, as if being asked to talk about his younger son was too much to bear. He turned his back on us and walked over to the window and looked out over the ocean. He stood that way for a long time, and even Greer respected the silence in the room. Closing his eyes, he seemed to go inside himself. When he emerged, he smiled and still he took his time before speaking.

“He was high-spirited like Harry, but where Harry is more direct and to the point, Charlie was sensitive. I remember one time,” Michael sat down, perched on the edge of an Eames chair, one of two in the living room, “he was just a little guy, maybe six or seven. I had an art book tucked away in the closet, photographs of nude women, never thought a thing of it.”

“An art book?” My mother raised an eyebrow suggestively. “So that’s what they’re calling it these days.”

“In the eye of the beholder, Greer,” Michael said. “Anyway, he had some little friends over that day and when they went home he came and asked if he could speak to me.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “Before I could reply he ran up to me and grabbed me around the waist with both arms and started to cry. It seems he had shown the boys the book and he was horrified by what he had done and wanted to come clean.” He laughed. “Charlie wouldn’t have made much of a criminal. He couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it.”

I often think about that story, and every time I think about it I feel as bad as I did the first time I heard it. No one spoke until finally my mother walked over to where Michael sat, unable any longer to conceal his pain, and she put her hand on his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Michael. Perhaps Riddle is right after all,” she said. “We don’t know what’s happened to Charlie. No one can predict the future. I want so badly for him to come home to you.” Embarrassed by her genuine expression of feeling, she blinked rapidly and said, “I generally get what I want, too.”

Michael looked up at her gratefully as Gin buried his face in his hand.

“Let’s show you some horses, shall we? I know you’re dying to see them,” Michael said, rising to his feet, his voice artificially brightening, clasping her hand between his two. “Riddle, why don’t you go find Harry? I’m sure he’d love to see you. I think he’s bored.”

S
TANDING AT THE BOTTOM
of the long winding staircase, my hand on the balustrade, I took a deep breath before making my ascent, taking each curve slowly, nervous about what I might find around the bend. Standing at the top of the second-story landing, I paused to gaze down the vast corridor with its hand-painted walls. Running my fingers along the beautiful deep green surface, I traced the outlines of bluebirds and seagulls, dahlias and hydrangea, recurring vines abloom with violet-colored wisteria. Long and meandering, the hall had several mysterious tributaries that flowed into separate private areas, with bedrooms making up distinct suites.

I tapped nervously on the first closed door to my right. There was no answer. Turning the knob, I walked into an empty bedroom, slipping inside, not wanting to be found out, and closed the door behind me. Hesitating at the threshold, feeling as if I had entered a church, I almost genuflected. It was so quiet in there and motionless, a still life—the timelessness of the decor contributing a sense of ceremony. Bronze-colored silk fabric covered the walls. There was a traditional set of antique bed and dresser, made of mahogany, along with a matching desk with leather inlay.

It was a classically masculine room. The bed was made. White cotton sheets. A summer bouquet made up of white and blue and pink flowers looked pretty in a pale yellow ceramic vase on a windowsill.

It wasn’t until I slid open the desk drawers that I discovered fragments of the boy concealed from public view by all that good taste. A deck of cards, a desiccated sea horse, a pair of sunglasses, leather riding gloves, baseball cards, a pack of gum, an orphan sock, a schoolbook, a volume of poetry. I opened it: “Charlie Devlin,” written in black ink, the handwriting big and sloppy and capacious.

Seeing his bed, touching the pillow where his head had once rested, surrounded by all his things, I was overwhelmed by a sense of his loss, the boy who never kept a thought to himself.

Standing up, looking around, I made no effort to control my curiosity; I felt the same way I did the day I went back to the burnt-out stable. In the front corner of the drawer I spotted a small stone, dark gray with orange and black flecks. It was smooth to the touch and shiny, as if it had been lovingly polished to a high sheen—the kind of stone that a kid might pick up and hang on to, knowing in his heart that it was worthless but making a secret treasure of it just because he liked the way it looked and how it glowed. Holding it in my hand, I closed my fingers around it and put it into my jeans pocket. I shut the drawer, took one last look around and left, the door clicking quietly into place behind me.

Continuing to walk, I heard the repetitive sound of a bouncing ball as it collided repeatedly with a wall. The noise led me to Harry’s room at the opposite end of the house.

“Hey, Hoffa, get in here,” Harry said, catching sight of me through the open crack of his door.

I stepped inside and looked around his room. Books stacked in a tall pile on the floor. Some pieces of abstract art on the walls. A football. A basketball. Riding boots. A cactus. A guitar. Simple, but expensively furnished, unadorned, not like Charlie’s room at all. Charlie obviously left the decorating up to his father. Harry was different. Harry could be felt in every corner of this room. Clothes on the floor. Stuff under the bed. It was 1972, nobody under the age of thirty cared about decorating then, not the way they do now, especially boys. A bedroom was a place you slept.

Harry was slumped against the brass headboard of his bed, pillows rolled up at his back, punched into submission. A little red dog came bounding forward to greet me. I was thrilled for the diversion. I knelt down on the floor, pretending to focus all my attention on his shih tzu.

“What’s his name?”

“Spartacus. Forget the dog, I’ve got a use for you,” he said pulling himself up into a sitting position, wincing a little from the pain. He pitched a tennis ball into the corner with so much force that it ricocheted off the walls, narrowly missed beaning me and landed in the bookcase, knocking over a porcelain bowl that shattered into pieces on the wooden floor.

Spartacus was thrilled by all the excitement. He skittered across the floor and bounded up onto the bed and into Harry’s arms, putting both front paws on his chest and licking his face. Harry laughed and licked him back.

“Don’t lick the dog’s face,” I exclaimed, aghast.

“Why not? I like him.”

The muffled sound of voices rose from outside. They were coming from the rear of the house, conversation and laughter drifting upward to Harry’s room on the second floor. “They must be taking the official tour,” he said, grinning. “Kill me now.”

He leaned forward. “Okay, here’s what you do. I want you to go to the cellar—the stairs are just off the kitchen—and bring me a bottle of Irish whisky. You can’t miss it. There’s a healthy inventory, believe me. Bring it back up to my room, please. Oh, and get me a glass while you’re at it.”

“I’m not your servant,” I said, staring at him in disbelief.

“Come on. Don’t waste time. You’re going to wind up doing it in the end; so let’s get the bullshit protesting out of the way.”

“What makes you so sure?”

He cut me off. “Please. You’re putty in my hands. Admit it.”

I stared at him. “No,” I said. “Get it yourself.”

“T
HANKS, HOFFA. WANT SOME?”
Harry asked, proffering a glass. I couldn’t decide whether he was serious or not. He was stretched out on top of the bedcovers wearing gray sweats and a matching long-sleeved top. Only his legs were covered—by an electric blanket, its frayed circuitry exposed.

“Your dad said you had polio.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, Jesus. I was a kid. My dad talks too much. Who cares?”

“I have to go,” I said, feeling queasier with each passing moment.

“Don’t go. Keep me company.”

“But . . .” I shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Harry was the best-looking boy I had ever seen and I was alone with him in his bedroom. My stomach did a weird flip-flop.

“Stick around, won’t you? I can’t sleep. I don’t want to read. I’m going nuts. I’d like someone to talk to. Seems like you’re all I’ve got.” He gestured toward the armchair next to his bed.