Tom Lake(24)

“He did not.”

“He wouldn’t know how lucky it is to be the one to tell it to a newcomer. Actors are all about luck. Executive Directors are all about spreadsheets. People are going to be rushing you from every direction wanting to tell you but I’m the one who got here first, or first after Eric.”

“You’re an actor?”

He looked down at himself: scrub pants, espadrilles. “It isn’t obvious?”

“No, I mean, of course, but actors don’t usually deliver schedules.” No one seemed to be confined to their regular jobs in this place.

“They do when the errand is presented as a personal favor to the very busy assistant stage manager.”

“Checking out the new blood?”

“I call it being thoughtful. Plus I wanted to be the one to tell you the story.”

“Did you tell the last Emily?”

“Unfortunately, no. Someone beat me to it, which makes this a sort of redemption.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be fair really.”

“What wouldn’t be fair?”

“If you got to tell all the Emilys.”

He nodded. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. So you’ve seen the lake?”

“I have.”

“And you know what it’s called?”

“Tom Lake,” I said. “But that’s a guess.”

He smiled again, showing off the wonkiness of his size XL teeth. I’d been told that wonky teeth, like unpierced ears, were valuable human relics from another time. “Excellent guess!” He gave a single clap. “The lake does have an official name, the name they put on maps and watertable records, but that’s no concern of ours.”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“What you need to know is that all this land was once owned by a very wealthy family, Vanderbilts of some sort, though I’m not sure what sort. Railroad money, oil money, money money—-you know the type.”

I gave a slight nod, though I didn’t know the type from Adam.

“They spent their summers here, or a very small part of their summers, the part when they weren’t on a ship or in Scotland. They had a castle in Scotland, which isn’t quite as impressive as it sounds because you frankly can’t swing a cat without hitting a castle in Scotland. The many children were overseen by many Scottish nannies. I should tell you that these were the friendly ones. Scottish nannies get a terrible rap.”

“They do.” I sat down on the windowsill, thinking this might be a long one.

He stopped. “Would you not do that, please?”

“What?”

“The windowsill. Not when the window’s open.”

“Really?”

“We’ve already lost one Emily.”

“She didn’t fall out the window.” I looked down at the ground, as if to check.

He shook his head and pointed to the corner of the room.

“Isn’t that a nice chair?”

I was sorry to give up the view but went and pulled over the chair nevertheless.

“Thank you,” he said.

“What about you?” The room lacked a second chair, and the windowsill was out, and I didn’t feel like offering him the bed.

“I’m a stander by nature. I do better standing.”

“Okay.”

“Where was I?”

“Scottish nannies.” Such a big, goofy smile, I thought. A movie star’s smile.

He stopped again. “You’re a wonderful listener.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Occupational hazard.”

“Hah! Well, that tells me how long you’ve been acting if you think actors are good listeners.”

“Scottish nannies,” I prompted.

He nodded. “So the family had a passel of girls and then Tom and then another boy after him, but our story is about Tom. Tom Something, Tom Scion--of--the--Aristocracy. Tom and his favorite Scottish nanny were taking a walk around the grounds. It’s a beautiful day, not unlike this one, and Tom points up the hill and asks the nanny who owns the house. And the nanny says, “Och, Tom, yur father oones the hoose.”

I told him I thought his Scottish nanny accent was remarkably good. Not that I’d ever met an actual Scottish nanny.

“Thank you,” he said. “So young master Tom goes on, who owns the trees in the orchard, he wants to know, and who owns the horses, and who owns the hill itself, and who owns those flowers? The nanny very patiently gives him the same answer every time. ‘Yur father, yur father.’ It’s a patriarchy, I’m sorry to say. The mother had no ownership of anything, not even herself.”

“Understood.”

“By now young master Tom is running low on inventory, but he likes the game, so he keeps looking around until finally it occurs to him to ask about the lake. ‘Who owns the lake?’ And the nanny, we’ll call her Heather—-not that history wrote down her name but it feels polite to give her one anyway—-Heather, for whatever reason says, ‘Tom oones the loch.’

“?‘Me?’ the boy asks.” The stranger propped against the wall of my bedroom let a split second of wonderment wash across his face, making himself into young master Tom, then just as quickly sent it on its way. “The moment is very touching, and maybe Heather thinks she’s made a mistake but let’s be honest, the whole fucking place belongs to the father and there’s no reason the boy shouldn’t get the lake. So he asks her what the lake is called.”