The Book of Speculation: A Novel

“Maybe, maybe not. Alice thinks so.” It would be hard to rationalize such a string of deaths any other way, but something about the list doesn’t feel rational. “Some might have been accidents.”


“I can tell when you’re lying, you know. Your left hand twitches.” Enola puts a foot up on the desk. Her clothing is rumpled, slept-in, and her skirt hangs on her like a sheet. She starts to chew on her thumb, then slaps her hand, as if in punishment. “This started with the book, didn’t it?”

“It’s a puzzle. I like puzzles.” Does my hand twitch? Seeing Enola acting like Mom—there are nine days. To what? Now Enola is very much alive, vital. I’m missing something. Could it be tied to age? Mom was only thirty-two when she died. Her mother was younger, I think. Celine Duvel—hell. I’ll have to check again.

“Okay then, keep lying.” Enola stretches, popping every bone in her spine. “I want to go swimming. Get your bathing suit—unless you’re scared I’m gonna sink, or maybe you think you are.” She smirks, as if she can tell my stomach just clenched.

We take the steps down. Horseshoe crabs dot the edge of the water, shining stones with devils’ tails.

“Oh, it’s blue! No jellyfish,” she says, putting her foot in the water. “Nice. I just hate the damned horseshoe crabs.” She’s looking for a clear path to deeper water, but there are a lot of crabs.

“They’re harmless. Won’t even pinch you.”

“They just look like they’re up to something.” Then she’s out in the water, running forward, splashing and diving. I dash in after her. We gasp, grinning at the cold and then she dips her head under, a tuft of hair bobbing above the waves. Though the salt burns, I keep my eyes open. Enola’s are closed and her face is bunched like a drawstring. I start counting, out of habit, maybe curiosity. How long can she hold? How long can I? One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Enola paddles small circles, diving deeper. I follow. Eight Mississippi.

Simon.

Part of her is here, a whisper of our mother in the water—half wish, half fear. Of course she’d be here now that Enola’s home. I grab my sister’s hand and it’s cold, slick like a fish. I pull her toward me. Her eyes open. I’m heavy enough to hold us both down at the bottom; otherwise Enola might float away like driftwood. She sees me counting five-second increments on my fingers and shakes her head. I squeeze her arm. Forty Mississippi.

Simon.

Enola squirms, legs jerking hard, pulling me sideways. Forceful, quick, we shoot to the surface.

“Jesus, Simon!” she splutters. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve done that? Fuck drowning, you’re gonna kill me.”

Murder. There’s always the question of murder, though that wasn’t a possibility with Mom. No chance.

“You’re not even winded.” I thump the water from my ears. “You could always hold longer than me.”

“Well, it’s been a while.” She looks a little gray.

We throw our clothes on over wet bathing suits. Enola says it’s good to have salt drying on her skin. “Feels like summer,” she says. We walk toward West Beach, near the jetties. I watch the bumps of her spine, too thin; she’s always been skinny, but never painfully so. When we run out of beach we climb the bulkheads.

“I thought I heard something when we were under. Did you hear anything?” I ask.

“How the hell can you hear anything with water in your ears?”

“Never mind.”

Sand spills through the wood where a section of bulkhead has given way, and broken pilings lean into the Sound. Without discussion we start climbing the cliff, our feet burrowing into sand and dirt.

She’s breathing hard halfway up. “Dad would kill us for this,” she pants.

“Probably.”

He caught us once. We’d been running the cliff and were making our way up for another pass when he appeared at the edge. He grabbed us with hands so strong that days later his fingerprints ghosted my arm, reminding me I had a father. He dragged us back to the house, me by my collar and Enola by her pants. Her feet never touched the ground. I hated him a little.

At the top of the bluff we look out. A shell of a house tilts over the cliff’s edge, the back wall torn off. The remnants drifted away in the last hurricane.

Enola says, “That’s the Murphys’, right?” It is the Murphys’ and she could tell if she really looked and saw their refrigerator resting against the buckled siding and Mrs. Murphy’s dining table overturned, its legs long gone.

“The last of the porch went over two years ago.” Somewhere across the Sound, Connecticut kids make bonfires out of the porch where we sat with Jimmy Murphy, drinking lemonade.

“Then you’ve got, what, two years? Three?”

“Depends.” It’s not unheard of for a shore property to lose ten feet a year, depending on storms and the upkeep of the bluff. It’s been worse since the hurricane, and the Murphys’ place going over didn’t do mine any favors. Once their bulkhead went, water cut behind mine, eating away at both sides of the last barrier between me and the Sound. Between winter storms, nor’easters, a hurricane, who knows?