“Exactly.” I laugh. “I need at least ten.” Then I dive away from him, swim for the beach, for my clothes, for what feels like my soul.
1979. July, Vermont.
Row upon row. A sea of quivering green. I have never seen so much corn. William Whitman’s cornfields are endless, formidable. They move up and over the hills toward his farm like an enemy battalion. Whitman is Leo’s oldest friend. They’ve been best friends since elementary school. Sunday is Whitman’s birthday, and we’ve been invited to spend the weekend on his three-hundred-acre farm in northern Vermont.
“Whit moved up here from Philadelphia a few years back, after his wife died,” Leo says now as we drive the long dirt road that will, Leo promises my mother, eventually arrive at the farmhouse. She is certain we have made a wrong turn. “Left everything behind him in the rearview mirror—fancy law firm, beautiful home in Chestnut Hill.”
“I think we were meant to take that last left fork,” Mum says.
“What did she die of?” I ask. Conrad and I are squashed up against opposing windows in the back seat to make room for a large, dinged-up guitar case in the middle seat.
“Well now, that’s a terrible story,” Leo says. “Whit and his son Tyson were away on a father-and-son bonding weekend. Ty must’ve been around ten at the time.”
“Bonding weekend?” Mum says, trying to read a road map in the fading light. “That sounds unpleasant. Possibly a bit profane.”
Leo laughs. “Hardly. Indian Guides. Big Owl, Little Owl . . . Mighty Wolf, Mighty Cub. Sit around the campfire. Bead. Whittle arrowheads.”
My mother looks at him blankly, as if she can’t even absorb the concept.
“Like Cub Scouts,” Leo explains. “At any rate. They got home from their camping trip on Sunday night. Louisa was lying in the foyer, stabbed so many times her dress had turned red. Whit said young Tyson stood there, silent. Not a sound. Not a tear. Then he lay down on the marble floor, curled up close against his mother’s body, nose to nose, searching her dead, open eyes. Like he was trying to find her soul, Whit said.”
“That’s so sad,” I say.
“Boy never recovered. Barely speaks.”
“He’s a retard,” Conrad says without looking up from his Mad magazine.
“Conrad.” Leo keeps his voice controlled, but the warning is unmistakable.
“He’s totally retarded,” Conrad says to me in a stage whisper. “I met him.”
Leo’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. Since Conrad moved in with us last year, Leo has been making an effort to avoid any conflict. It’s important to him that Conrad isn’t unhappy living with us. But no matter how nice Leo is, it’s pretty obvious Conrad wishes he were back home in Memphis and that, like Anna, he wishes his mother had chosen him. Most of the time, he stays in his room—Anna’s old room—with the door shut, listening to ABBA and Meat Loaf, lifting weights or watching M*A*S*H on his rabbit-eared TV. His room stinks of feet: nauseating, moist, and sour.
* * *
—
We reach the farmhouse at dusk. Whitman and Tyson are waiting for us in the driveway, three dogs jumping at their heels.
“We heard that old clunker of yours coming down the road from a mile away. Could have walked out to meet it.” Whitman gives Leo a bear hug. “And you, Wallace. Still looking good enough to eat.”
“Been too long, man,” Leo says, slapping him on the back.
Tyson is surprisingly handsome. Tall, in worn overalls, with a gentle face.
“I’m Elle,” I say, putting out my hand.
But he looks away, bone-shy. Kicks at the ground.
“Tyson must be about your age, Conrad.” Whitman picks up our bags, and we follow him inside. “Grab those other bags, Ty. Put them up in the loft.”
Whitman is the polar opposite of his son. Small, jaunty, talking nonstop—so fast I don’t know how he manages to take a breath. He reminds me of a cartoon rooster, his bantam-crackly laugh, southern accent, the swift, jilty way he moves. I like him.
Inside the old farmhouse he has laid out dinner. “Fresh rabbit stew and succotash. I’ve become quite the homesteader since we left Philly,” he says proudly. “Baked the bread myself this morning. All the food on this table comes from our garden. Even the rabbits.”
“You grow rabbits?” Conrad says, poking at his stew.
Whitman laughs. “We catch rabbits. They’re a menace. Pests. We have to put traps out if we want a single vegetable to survive. But around here, we eat what we kill. Though we don’t get to eat rabbit as often as I’d like. Ty goes around tripping the traps when I’m not looking. He can’t stand the screaming.”