The Summer We Fell Apart Read online

  Sitting like that in the dark with George reminded me of all the hours we’d spent as kids in one theater after another while our parents rehearsed plays. Rehearsing really was a euphemism because in reality my parents spent more time fighting over lines, or fighting over actors or actresses that one accused the other of being attracted to. Not that we always understood it at the time—we only went to the theater when someone forgot to call the sitter and all of the older kids had plans.

  By the time I was born my father’s career had peaked. Years before he had written a play (about a large dysfunctional family, go figure) that had made it to Broadway and ran for nearly three years, winning several Tonys, including one for my dad, only to follow it up with four more plays that closed after five months, three months, six weeks, and the worst—opening night. That last, particularly painful failure happened the day of my fifth birthday. A day my father hasn’t commemorated in twelve years unless you count him locking himself in his study to drink an entire bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  After that, the offers were few and far between and so he took to the road, where obscure small towns filled with would-be theater-goers afraid to venture to the big city were more receptive to his work, and he reveled in their attentions, reluctant to relinquish the spotlight.

  But an odd thing happened during that time. My mother’s career mysteriously revived after she took a role as a crazy innkeeper in one of those stupid teen slasher movies that (surprise, surprise) made millions of dollars and my mother a “cult” actress. She wasn’t quite in the John Waters league of quirky, but she was getting there. All of a sudden she was the one fielding offers and leaving for months at a time. And that was when my dad unexpectedly took a position as head of the theater department at Skidmore College in Saratoga Springs—about three hours north of where we lived. It meant he was gone, living in some rented room four, usually five, out of the seven days of the week. We were never invited to visit and we never asked. In terms of parental guidance, George and I may as well have been raised by wolves.

  On Sunday evening, after we’d sat through a double creature feature of Halloween and Nightmare on Elm Street, it was close to midnight and still 95 degrees according to the digital time-and-temperature clock on the bank across the street from the theater on Main Street. George suggested swimming. Too lazy to go into the house, we cut through the now well trodden path to the pond and stripped down to our underwear.

  Well I did, anyway. George and Miriam pranced like naked toddlers to the water while I, despite my rum buzz, felt like their maiden aunt standing in my bra and panties.

  When George yelled, “Take it off for Christ’s sakes, Amy, and get in,” I shivered but managed to undo my bra and toss it onto the ground along with my underpants as soon as they both disappeared underwater.

  The water over my bare skin was…indescribable. How could a barrier of Lycra make such a difference in how it felt to swim unencumbered? This was nearly as delicious as the technique I’d perfected in the bath (with the door double-locked) involving the faucets turned on full blast. Almost.

  I went under and opened my eyes. Through the cloudy haze of moonlight that spilled through the trees I could make out a flash of leg in front of me. I swam toward it only to have it disappear. When I popped up to the surface, it took me a moment to find George and Miriam. They were standing on the lower ledge, Miriam poised to dive first.

  I was sober enough to think “be careful” but not enough to yell out to her. I’d noticed the raw skin and accumulation of deep scratches along her arms and legs from the rock. I’d insisted she put salve on some of the worst and then I had to help her apply it because she couldn’t reach them. Her diving had not improved much in a week and so she hit the water with another grand belly flop. When she surfaced, she swam over to where I was treading water and we both turned to watch George dive.

  “Goddamn! I haven’t seen such a pathetic excuse for manhood in a long time!”

  I spun around. The voice came from the bank and belonged to our brother, Finn.

  George flipped him the bird and laughed as I called out, “Finn?”

  He didn’t answer. Just stripped off his clothes and climbed up to meet George. They fake-tussled for a moment—their strong limbs and smooth torsos entangled and made paler than they were by the moonlight—before they fell into the water still holding on to each other.

  I swam over to them and then was pulled underneath by a tug on my leg. I hadn’t had time to take a breath and I fought harder than usual, kicking someone in the groin; with my toes I felt the curl of pubic hair and tuberous flesh and I instantly recoiled. Growing up with brothers was like living inside a boys’ locker room and I was used to seeing (and smelling) a lot, but physical contact was another thing. It wasn’t until I came up gagging, my throat and nose burning from inhaled water, that I realized what I’d done.

  “Nice to see you too,” Finn said, although through his scowl I could tell he wasn’t that hurt.

  “What the hell are you doing home?” George asked as he filled his mouth with water and spit it at Finn, barely missing his left ear. “It’s not the end of August yet, is it?”

  Finn shook his head and said without explanation, “I felt like cutting it short.”

  “Did Dad come with you?” I asked.

  “Nope.” Finn looked past me to Miriam.

  I turned and motioned for her to join us. “Miriam, this is our brother Finn.”

  Miriam swam closer. “Finn,” she said demurely, “hello.”

  I turned to Finn, “Finn, Miriam.”

  He flicked water at George before he said, “I know who she is.”

  I looked at Finn and made a face like “don’t be a rude shit,” but he didn’t get it. He oozed charm without trying, even when he was being a jerk. In that instant it struck me that Finn reminded me a lot of our father. He continued to ignore my pointed stare. Instead he shouted to George, “Race you to the high ledge.” And they were off.

  “Weird,” I said out loud more to myself than Miriam. I had never known Finn to miss an opportunity to impress a girl. Or maybe this was all part of his game. Who knew?

  “Weed?” Miriam repeated incorrectly in an attempt to understand the word. She mispronounced it a few more times but I ignored her; I didn’t feel like playing translator right now. She gave up and dipped her head back so her face was level with the water. Her hair fanned out around her like seaweed.

  I was getting tired of treading water so I swam over to where I could stand on a rock. The water lapped over my breasts as they floated on top of the surface and I folded my arms in an attempt at modesty. Miriam didn’t follow me. She was watching my brothers clown around on the high ledge, probably still pondering the meaning of the word weird. Let’s see, what examples could I give her that she would understand? My life, her presence in our house, or my brothers up on that ledge? George hung back while Finn hot-dogged it, one set of toes curled around rock, his calf muscles taut, while he dangled the other leg over the side like he was going to fall. His arms made windmills while from his mouth came a whoop-whoop-whooping sound.

  When Finn did finally dive, it was expert but not as elegant as George. I couldn’t see the expression on Miriam’s face but she clapped. Finn stayed in the water near Miriam and shouted insults to George until he jumped in—a major cannonball that drenched us all. I waited until the water cleared and George and Finn climbed back up on the ledge and then I said good-night to Miriam.

  Her mouth turned down into a little pout but she didn’t try and stop me from leaving. On the bank I skipped over my bra and underwear entirely and pulled on my T-shirt and shorts as fast as I could. I took a quick look back and felt a little guilty. Finn and George were ignoring Miriam, although either she didn’t mind or didn’t notice. I hesitated a second and then fatigue settled on me like King Kong himself and I dragged myself back to the house, dropped into bed in my wet clothes, and fell into a hard dreamless sleep.

  When I woke, it w
as almost twelve. There was a dull ache behind my eyes from the heat and humidity. I felt like I did when I had a fever, except I wasn’t sick. Under my arms and in the folds of my shorts the fabric was still damp from the night before. I lay there for a little while and then got out of bed. As I got close to my mother’s room, I heard Finn’s voice and my mother’s but I couldn’t make out the words. The only thing I clearly heard was when Finn raised his voice and said, “I don’t feel bad about a damn thing.”

  One of my mother’s scarves was tied around the doorknob; the tail of another was caught in the door from the other side. I reached out and fingered the silk while I waited. I smelled cigarettes and I imagined the two of them sharing a smoke in silence. Finn was the only one of us, besides Mom, that smoked. I shifted my weight on my feet. I don’t know why I didn’t just go in and join them; it had to be the youngest-child thing in me that preferred to get my information the sneaky way.

  Eventually, tired of waiting and in need of caffeine, I went down into the kitchen. There was an empty pot of coffee and the remains of a jam-smeared English muffin on the counter. On the kitchen table was a pile of mail: mostly junk, a few bills, and on the top something from the University of New Hampshire for George. I wondered who was going to be taking George to school at the end of the summer. I made another pot and was waiting on the back porch steps outside the kitchen door for the coffee to brew when I heard a door slam from upstairs, and then Finn appeared in the kitchen. He was angrily shoving his feet into sneakers as he hopped into the kitchen. When he saw me on the steps he growled, “Move.”

  “Say please.” I couldn’t resist.

  “Say fuck you,” Finn retorted as he sidestepped around me and took off down the gravel drive in a slow jog. For some reason it reminded me of when he would train for crew in the preseason by jogging with a backpack filled with bricks. Today, he didn’t have the backpack but he did have on his old Nyack Lacrosse jersey and a pair of blue, bleach-stained athletic shorts I’d found when I cleared out the drawers in his room for Miriam. I’d dumped everything in the basement laundry. Interesting that Finn should need to find those things. It could only mean one thing: he’d come home without any of his belongings. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

  I had just poured myself a cup of coffee and returned to the back step when Miriam appeared in the middle of the backyard. “You are here,” she said, as if I had asked her to point out my location on a map.

  I nodded and lifted the mug to my lips. Miriam moved several steps closer and stretched her arms up toward the sun with a little moan. “Everything it hurts today.”

  “Too much diving,” I said, not bothering to correct her English.

  Miriam smiled, showing all her teeth. “But I’m getting better?”

  I nodded as I swallowed my coffee. “Did you guys stay up late?”

  Miriam frowned and gave a petite shrug. I wondered if Finn continued being a jerk. I was surprised when she said, “George went to bed—but I stayed swimming with Finn.”

  “Really?” I said. I shouldn’t be surprised. I had never known my brother to go for long without some girl draped all over him. High school had been a revolving door of females in all shapes and sizes. There wasn’t what I would call a definitive Finn type before Holly. Yet she of all of them had been really nondescript with long brown hair parted in the middle, flowing paisley tops, and jeans with holes in the knees. Unlike the others, who had a penchant for Love’s Baby Soft perfume and Bonne Bell lip gloss, Holly had been bare of any excessive girliness. I remember one time they had given me a ride home from school in Holly’s cramped little MG. I had to practically sit on the stick shift wedged between Holly’s and Finn’s shoulders. To this day I can recall how Holly had smelled like handfuls of dirt from the garden. Not unpleasant, just not flowery. Would he really go for Miriam? Or she for him?

  Miriam, who had previously been looking out toward the woods, turned to me and said sharply, “What is it?”

  “I’m surprised, that’s all. Finn was acting a little…” I waved a hand in front of my face. “Forget it.” I thought of his greeting to me this morning or using the word weird but instead I just added, “He was in no mood this morning—that’s for sure.”

  She looked bored at the mention of Finn’s mood. “He’s awake?”

  “Jogging,” I said and pointed in the direction of the driveway.

  Miriam pursed her lips and looked up at the sky. “Let’s go get the George. I need more practice.”

  The George? I liked that. It made him sound important. Out of earshot of Miriam I would refer to my brother as the George. I rose slowly and Miriam followed me back into the house. I looked at the clock on the wall. I had to be at work in three hours—what else was there to do until then but swim?

  In the beginning Finn’s arrival had no impact on our daily makeshift schedule of swimming, work (for me), and movies. We barely saw him and so I dubbed him the vampire—only coming out of his room when he knew we’d all gone to bed. The first night Finn was home he had bunked in with George. The next day he moved into Kate’s room despite the large hole squirrels had chewed in the baseboard molding (entry had been gained through the porch roof eaves below the window) that was never properly repaired. George and I had cleaned up the squirrel crap, shoved steel-wool pads in the hole (a trick I learned when mice infested the pantry—apparently they won’t chew steel wool), and then nailed a two-by-four over the mess and closed the door.

  The only reason we knew he’d moved in was because that night when we’d gotten back from the movies there were piles of trash that lined the hall, blocking access to my room. Obviously he had done some house-cleaning. George slouched against the wall and watched silently as I kicked the bags out of the way and slammed my bedroom door. I’d be damned if I was going to have Finn waltz back in here without telling me what was going on. Especially since, out of the blue, Miriam told us that Finn would not be going back to Boston where he lived and worked. As she put it, he told her the night before that he was taking an “absence.”

  Ever since Finn dropped out of Boston College his sophomore year he had worked construction, but he had a habit of losing jobs. He drank too much and then didn’t show up for work. So Finn’s “absence” could easily have been a decision made for him, not by him. Even knowing that about Finn didn’t make it any better when Miriam told us. George looked like he wished he could be any other place in the world, and even though there were some things I wanted to know, there were more things I didn’t want answers for—not yet anyway—and especially not through Miriam.

  After a few nights of lying awake and listening to the door across the hall open and close, I decided the time was right to confront Finn. I gave him a five-minute lead before I snuck out of my room. Unusually cool air swept through the upstairs hall, and I shivered in my tank top and shorts. The heat had finally broken at night although from past summers I knew the days would keep the water warm for swimming—at least for now.

  As I made my way downstairs I smelled cigarette smoke. Finn must have been meeting my mother every night when she got back from the city. I walked toward the only source of light in the house and stopped just shy of the doorway. Finn and Miriam sat across from each other at the kitchen table, smoking, the chipped blue willow teapot between them. Finn’s head was bowed, his chin tucked toward his chest, the hand with the cigarette dangled over the edge of the table. His expression could have gone either way—boyish shyness or flirting. My money was on the second option. I stepped back even farther, afraid they would see me. Although they weren’t doing anything wrong, the scene seemed too intimate, even more intimate than swimming nude in the pond that first night. Finn said something and Miriam laughed and then I heard a chair scrape across the floor and I went running back upstairs into George’s room.

  George slept spread-eagled on the same twin bed he’s had since grade school. His arms and legs hung off the sides. I curled on the floor next to him and tugged on his hand. “Ge
orge—wake up.”

  He moaned. I tugged again. “George, wake up!”

  “Go away.”

  “Not until you wake up.”

  “Pest—what the hell is it?”

  “Finn and Miriam are down in the kitchen.”

  “Alert the media.”

  “George!”

  “Fuck, Amy—were they naked?”

  “No!”

  “Well?”

  I sighed. “Why do you think Finn left Dad in the middle of the trip?”

  “He finally grew some balls?” He threw an arm across his eyes and mumbled, “Get me another blanket, would you?”

  “Only if you talk to me.”

  “Why can’t you be a moody teenager and go in your room and crank some Nirvana?” He lamely hummed a bar of “Teen Spirit.”

  “George, I’m warning you! Talk!”

  “About what?”

  Exasperated, I said louder than I intended, “Pick one: Finn, Finn, or Finn!”

  George covered his head with his pillow and I pulled it off and tossed it on the floor. George rolled over onto his side and reluctantly opened one eye. “All that Finn told me was that Dad had other interests and so he just decided to come home.”

  “You mean a girlfriend?”

  “I don’t know,” George said softly.

  George was a horrible liar. “Yes you do! Why are you protecting him all of a sudden?”

  He barked, “That’s a good one—who the hell do you think I’m trying to protect here?”