He forgets to throw away his tissues.
The Harris Sinclair I know is always alert, always decisive. His tennis serve is brutal, his opinions likewise. But his nightstand seems vulnerable. It speaks of discomfort and fatigue.
Looking around to be sure I am alone, I open the bottle of Halcion. I shake a small handful into the pocket of my dress, leaving a good amount in the bottle. I recap it.
Then I go to Tipper’s vanity. I place the black pearls inside the jewelry drawer, tucking my note underneath them like a surprise.
She will like that.
I am about to shut the drawer when I feel the pull of the photo. Though I told myself otherwise, part of me has intended to look at it all along. And I did not want my sisters with me.
I lift the black velvet liner and slide the picture out from underneath. It has been crumpled, then flattened out again. Folds crisscross the image.
It looks like it was taken in the late sixties or early seventies. On one side is my mother. She looks as she did in college and when she was first married: her hair in a headband, with a tease behind it. She’s sitting on a bench, outdoors. Her dress has a Peter Pan collar. Behind her, I’m guessing it’s Harvard Radcliffe. Old brick and large trees, a snatch of lawn. She’s laughing, and her eyes are directed at a man—who isn’t there.
His face has been scratched out, as if with a box cutter.
I can tell that he’s white, and average weight. It could be my uncle Chris, whom I’ve never met. Or it could be someone else. The man wears a plain white T-shirt and blue jeans that sit high on his waist, the way jeans used to. His feet aren’t in the picture, and he’s pointing at the camera, as if to give instructions to the photographer, who snapped the picture at just the wrong moment.
Did my mother scratch this photo, then crumple it—then change her mind?
I tuck the picture back beneath the black velvet of the jewelry drawer, making sure it’s exactly as it was.
19.
THE LEMON HUNT is an evening tradition. Sometimes it is done at the start of a summer, sometimes near the end, and some years skipped. Tipper has a dress for it, a lemon-yellow cotton sundress with pintucks. She wears it with a white cotton cardigan. I can remember her in that dress when I was three. Penny and I wore pinafores printed with lemons, bought specially for that night.
When I get downstairs, fairy lights outline the porch, and torches glow along the edges of the lawn. Bess is spinning our younger cousin Tomkin on the tire swing that hangs from the big tree in the front yard. Tomkin wears a white button-down and white Bermuda shorts, already fairly dirty. Bess is barefoot, wearing a bright yellow dress with puffed sleeves and a sweetheart neckline.
Uncle Dean mans the grill, as promised, dressed in white Bermudas and a terrible checked yellow shirt that I think he wears to play golf. He is in his element, managing a huge number of chicken breasts marinated with lemon.
The epic picnic table is covered in my mother’s lemon-printed tablecloths. On a separate table, the beginnings of the buffet are laid out. There are stacks of green napkins, bouquets of white and yellow flowers, trays and bowls of “nibbles”—meaning things to eat during cocktail hour. Bowls of salty olives mixed with lemon rind, salmon mousse and sesame crackers, cashew nuts and yellow cherry tomatoes.
My cousin Yardley’s sporty figure is wrapped tight in a yellow floral dress with her bright blue bra straps showing. Her hair is pulled off her face with a headband. She helps Luda (all in white with a white apron) lay out the final details of the drinks table. There are three different kinds of lemonade—regular, strawberry, and lemon-lime—with club soda, tonic, and alcoholic options for mixing. Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony plays on the stereo. It is one of my mother’s favorites.
Penny and Erin walk up from the Big Beach, carrying their shoes. Erin is wearing Penny’s clothes—a yellow T-shirt and a pair of white carpenter overalls. Penny wears her white sundress. Erin is short and sturdily built, with wavy red-brown hair that she’s pulled back in a high ponytail. Her face is like an angel’s—heart-shaped with pretty red lips and dark eyebrows—and at school she favors black turtlenecks and long, narrow skirts with Doc Martens. Next to languid Penny, Erin always seems bristling with energy.
I walk down to them as Penny flops on the grass, heedless of her dress, to brush the sand off her feet. “I hardly saw you on the dock,” I say to Erin.
“My head was spinning from all the manhood in the boat,” she says. “I didn’t know Yardley was bringing an entourage.”
“Neither did I.”
“That Pfeff is pretty fine,” says Penny from her seat.
“Major will look better when he’s not ralphing,” says Erin. “I told you, he’s the cool one.”
“I don’t know how you can think about a guy who chundered his guts out right in front of you,” says Penny. “Mother’s good with them all being here?” she asks me. Feet clean, she puts on her espadrilles.
“She’s pissed. But they charmed her. And I put some pressure on her to let them stay.”
“Where will they all sleep?” asks Erin.
“There’s room in Goose,” says Penny. “They’re in Goose, right?”
“Um-hm.”
“Oh my god, this place,” says Erin. “I was saying to Penny: I had no idea what to expect.”
I don’t want her to feel strange here. “It’s just a—”
“It’s just a whole island,” interrupts Erin. “With an extra house for when you have guests. Who has an extra house? You weirdos.”
“You can get stuff out of the kitchen whenever you’re hungry,” I tell her. “I mean, like, if you see a whole pie or something, don’t eat that, but apples or potato chips or cookies or whatever. Drinks and coffee. Definitely help yourself. And supper’s usually at seven unless it’s a special night, like tonight. And um, let’s see, what else? Use all the shampoo and conditioner and that stuff. Sunblock. And did you meet Luda?” I point her out. “You can ask her if you need anything.”
Erin grins. “Thank you. Penny didn’t tell me any of that.”
“Oh please,” says Penny. “I would have gotten around to it.”
“She didn’t tell you to bring white clothes, either. Did she?” I ask.
“No.” Erin looks at the group on the lawn. “I’m underdressed.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “The entourage will be underdressed as well.”
* * *
—
THE BOYS ARRIVE late, making an entrance as they run together down the walkway and up the sloping lawn to pay tribute to my mother. George is all in white. The color is unflattering to his beige face and hair, but he looks extremely put-together: polo shirt with a jacket and trousers, like a tennis player from the 1920s. The other two are in white T-shirts and pale tan chinos, Major with black Converse (a bit of New York edge) and Pfeff wearing flip-flops (devil-may-care).
Tipper is smiling and laughing, making sure everyone has drinks. She is glad to have guests, I realize, whatever she said to Uncle Dean. The family has always hunted lemons, so many summers past. We take for granted Tipper’s lemon pound cake, her foamy lemon mousse in jelly jars. These boys and Erin are a fresh audience.
We eat on the lawn instead of at the picnic table. White and yellow cotton blankets, old and mismatched, some of them patchwork quilts, are laid out for people to sit on as supper is served.
George cozies up to Yardley on the porch hammock. Penny, Erin, and I sit with Pfeff and Major, while Bess and Tomkin get out croquet mallets and hoops. Those two have little interest in chicken and salad and sourdough bread. They are saving themselves for dessert.