It’s Anna, not me, who insists we go to the end-of-summer bonfire. I can’t remember the last time I went, and I don’t particularly want to go. But Anna has come to the woods for a solo visit. She rarely comes back east anymore—it is practically impossible for her to get time off from work now that she’s on the partner track—and Jeremy, her Orange County boyfriend whom I cannot bear, thinks the Paper Palace is a decaying slum: the sagging cabin steps, Homasote ceilings stained brown with small circles of mouse piss or the slow drip drip of their afterbirth. No one has ever had the guts to investigate what lies above. And mosquitoes, which, Jeremy insisted, the one and only time they came to the camp together four years ago, do not exist in Manhattan Beach. He has not been back since.
“We live on the beach, babe,” he said to Anna at breakfast after their second night. “This place is great, but why be here when we can be at home in the condo? Frosty AC, chilling on the deck, a good chardonnay.”
“That’s the reason we love it here,” I said. “No Chardonnay.” I have tried to understand why my sister is with Jeremy. As far as I can tell, he represents everything we detest. But maybe that’s the point.
“It’s odd,” my mother said, coming onto the porch with her coffee and a novel, “Manhattan and beach are two of the greatest things on earth. But put them together and all you have is mediocrity.”
“Mom,” Anna said.
“It’s such a treat having you both here.” Mum sat down on the horsehair sofa and settled herself in, opened her book to the middle. “Anna,” she said without looking up, “I hope you explained to your young man that we don’t flush for pee.” She took a sip of coffee. “Don’t let me forget to call the plumber about replacing the septic tank. Clearly, tainted groundwater is leaching into the pond.” She pointed out toward the lily pads. “How else do you explain the algae bloom?”
This summer, by some miracle, Jeremy’s bosses have invited him to attend a marketing conference in Flagstaff the same week he and Anna had already booked to come to the Cape.
“I can’t believe you managed to resist the dramatic-but-healing landscape and the all-you-can-eat buffets to come to the ‘shithole,’” I say now as we canoe across to the far side of the pond. On bonfire night, it’s impossible to park at the beach—much quicker to canoe and walk. We’ve packed a bag of marshmallows, Cape Cod potato chips, red wine, and a moth-eaten army blanket to sit on when the sand goes cold.
Anna laughs. “Harsh.”
“He insulted my favorite place on earth.”
“You can’t condemn him because he doesn’t ‘get’ the pond. It was my fault. I forgot to tell him the name Paper Palace was ironic.”
“It’s not just the camp,” I say. “It’s his whole outlook on the world. Like everything should be made of Saltillo-fucking-tile and polished granite countertops.”
“That’s why I like him. He’s predictable. I know exactly what I’m getting.”
I roll my eyes.
“Elle, we all have different shit. Jeremy makes me feel safe. Anyway, not everyone can fall madly in love with a rich, dashing English journalist. Some of us have to settle for a kind-if-boring Californian guy with good pecs. So, don’t be such a judgmental cow.”
“That’s fair.” I will never like Jeremy. Not because, as Anna says, he’s predictable or, as Mum says, “bourgeois.” But because he makes her be less-than, and it pisses me off.
We are both quiet for a bit, our paddles cutting the glass-still surface of the pond, the canoe gliding silently into a reflection of pink sky. A heron stands statue-still in the reeds, letting us pass.
“What time is Peter driving up tomorrow?” Anna breaks the silence.
“Right after lunch. He wants to beat the rush hour.”
“If he’s taking the Merritt, ask him to pick up some bagels from H&H.”
Our canoe hits sand on the far side of the pond. I hop out into the shallows, trying not to soak the cuffs of my jeans.
Anna winces as she climbs out. “I shouldn’t have ridden my bike into town this morning. That dirt road is one big pothole. I think I bruised my vagina bones.”
“Gross.” I laugh.
We drag the canoe up onto the shore, into the thick grasses beyond the rough scrape of wet sand against metal, stash it in a gap between the trees.
“I haven’t seen any of these people in so long,” Anna says as we walk down the red clay road toward the beach. “It’s going to be weird.”
“It’s like riding a bike, only more boring,” I say. “And less painful.”
Anna laughs. “I wish I didn’t feel so fat.” She pulls her hair up into a ponytail. “I’m not in the mood to be judged by these fuckers.”
Anna has been model-thin for years, but she still thinks she’s a fat kid. “Fat thighs are like a phantom limb,” Anna tells me. “Years after you lose them, you can still feel them rubbing together.”
“You look amazing, Anna. I, on the other hand, spent the winter holed up in the apartment with Peter eating Milanos. I need to starve myself between now and the wedding.”
We walk on the road single file, Anna in front, skirting thickets of poison ivy. The back ends of her flip-flops raise little puffs of red dust.
“You know which ones are underrated?” Anna says. “Brussels.”
“And Chessmen.”
“Dad’s favorite.”
“Have you talked to him recently?” I ask. I haven’t spoken to him since our grandmother’s funeral.
“He calls me every once in a while,” Anna says. “We have these awkward conversations where all I want to do is get off the phone. The whole thing is ridiculous. You two are the ones who’ve always been close, not me.”
“Not anymore.”
“The only reason he calls is because Mary forces him to. She likes to tell her friends what a doting husband and father he is. She’s trying to get them into some country club in Southampton. One of those no-Jews places.”
“I hate her.”
“Anyway, I’ve told him he needs to call you. He’s the father, for fuck’s sake.”
“That’s the last thing I want. Honestly? It’s a relief. I don’t have to wait for him to disappoint me all the time.”
We stop at the top of the high dune. Down below us, a hundred yards to the right, there’s a crowd of linen. Someone has planted Chinese fish flags on poles in the sand—a brightly colored circle of wind socks. The bonfire has been lit, its flames mostly invisible in the still-light summer evening, heat oiling the sky above it.
“P.S., I know you’re mad at me because you think I acted like a total pussy for forgiving him. I just don’t care enough about him to care. I’ll freeze him out if you want me to,” Anna says.
“I did want you to, but thinking about it, I’d rather you be the one getting Belgian loafers for Christmas, stuck in a needlepoint chair in the sitting room drinking eggnog with the evil cunt.”
“That’s fair.”
“Merry Christmas!” I laugh. “Here are some book galleys.”
“‘And a nickel bag from me!’” Anna squeaks in a high voice, imitating Mary.
We run down the steep dune toward the sea, shouting into the wind, ecstatic, faster than our legs can carry us. At the bottom, our momentum is slowed by the deep crunch of flat beach.
Anna falls forward onto her knees, raises her arms into the sky, victorious. “This, I miss.”
“This, I miss.” I fall onto my back next to her, making a snow angel in the sand. Anna’s cheeks are flushed pink, hair wind-tangled. “You’re looking absurdly gorgeous.”
“Don’t let me get drunk and fuck some hot guy in the dunes,” Anna says.
“I think you’re safe. Everyone here’s a thousand years old.”
“Still.”
I push up onto my elbows, look out at the sea—the pooling sun, the whitecap flecks, the crest and swell. Every single time I see the ocean, even if I’ve been there in the morning, it feels like a new miracle—its power, its blueness always just as overwhelming. Like falling in love.
The wind shifts, carrying the smell of burning driftwood and brine. Anna gets to her feet, brushes sand off her knees. “Right. Let’s go get our linen on.”
“I refuse to be seen in public with anyone who says, ‘get our linen on,’” I say.
“It’s repulsive, I agree,” Anna says, cracking herself up.
I worship my sister.
The first person to come into focus as we walk up the beach is Jonas’s mother. She’s standing slightly apart, her back to me, but I recognize her grizzled, aggressively undyed hair, the worn-suede Birkenstocks she’s holding in one hand, the line she’s drawing in the sand with one big toe. She must feel the vibration of our steps in the sand, because she turns, like a snake, and smiles. She’s talking to a girl I’ve never seen before: young—maybe twenty—pretty, petite, dark hair frosted blond at the ends, skin tanned a perfectly even brown, wearing shorts and a cropped T-shirt. Her belly button is pierced with a large diamond stud.
“Cubic zirconia,” Anna says as we approach them. “Do we know her?”
“No.”
“Hello, Anna, Eleanor,” Jonas’s mum says, lips tightening. She’s always disliked me. “I had no idea you two were here.”
“I’ve been avoiding the beach,” I say. “It’s like Coney Island this summer.”
“I got here yesterday,” Anna says.
Jonas’s mother puts a proprietary arm around the girl she’s been talking to. “This is Gina.”
Anna puts her hand out to shake, but instead Gina steps forward and gives her a big hug. “I’m so happy to meet you finally,” she says, hugging me next. Behind her back, Anna gives me a look of mock horror that Jonas’s mother catches.
“I ran into your mother at the A&P,” Jonas’s mother says. “I gather you’re planning a winter wedding.” She says the words as if they are in quotes, making sure I don’t miss her tinge of disdain.
“Yes,” I say. “We’re thinking ice statues and a chocolate fountain.”
“And not a moment too soon.”
“I’m sorry?” I say.
“Well, let’s face it, none of us are getting any younger.”
“Elle still has a few weeks left before she becomes a withered crone of thirty,” Anna says, sweet as a punch. “But we take your point. Are any of your boys here?”
“They’re men now,” Jonas’s mother says, as if she’s explaining something to a dunce. “No climbing on the dunes,” she shouts at some children playing at the bottom of the steep dune.
“It could collapse on them,” she says to Gina. “I do worry.”
“How’s Jonas?” I ask her.
“He’s very well.”
“He’s awesome,” Gina jumps in. “He got a gallery in Chelsea. We are both totally psyched. And we found this amazing loft. It was a ribbon factory.”
“What kind of work is he doing these days?” Anna asks.
I vaguely hear Gina saying something about acrylics and found objects, but my mind refuses to focus. The thought of Jonas living with this Gina person fills me with a jealousy I have no right to feel. Physical, palpable. Jonas belongs to me. It’s all I can do not to kick her in the shins.
Jonas’s mother looks as if she’s just swallowed a large tasty bird. “We are all absolutely delighted.”
Every bit of dislike I’ve ever had for her—her lack of generosity, her sanctimony, the way she implied to everyone in the woods, back then, that Jonas would never, ever have been out sailing with me and Conrad that day if I hadn’t pressured him into it—comes roiling to the surface. “She had him wrapped around her little finger,” my mother once overheard her saying. I force myself to think about Peter, my lovely, gallant Englishman. His easy intelligence, his beat-perfect irony, the way he cooks a pork roast with salt-crunchy crackling, his worn leather brogues, the way he tugs on my hair when we make love. I manage a clear smile. “That’s great news. You must be so happy for Jonas.”
“Yes,” she says. “And for Gina, of course.”
I see him then, walking in our direction through the throng. He’s carrying a brown-paper grocery bag under one arm. A jumbo pack of hot dog buns teeters out of the top. I watch as he scans the crowd. He finds Gina, her back to him, smiles. Then he sees me. He stops where he stands. We stare at each other across the sand. He shakes his head, more in anger than in sorrow—some combination of pain and disgust, as if he cannot believe what I have done, cannot fathom that I broke the promise I made two years ago as we sat on that broken-down pier, drinking beers, looking out over the Hudson, accepting our fate.
Jonas’s mother sees him now, his eyes locked on me. She taps Gina on the shoulder. “Jonas is back.”
Gina’s face lights up as if she has never seen anything so wondrous.
He comes over to her, bypassing me, gives her a long, deep kiss. “I was looking for you,” he says.
“Anna.” He hugs her hello, hands his mother the buns. “They only had a jumbo pack.”
“They’ll all get eaten. No one ever brings enough buns to these things.” She heads over to the food table, hands them to a man cooking linguica and burgers. “Buns!” I hear her announce, as if she has just delivered the Holy Grail.
“Hi.” Jonas turns to acknowledge me last. His tone is friendly, no trace of what I saw on his face. He smiles at me, composed, benign.
“Hi,” I say, giving him a what-the-fuck look.
He puts his arm around Gina’s waist. “Gina, this is Eleanor. Elle and I knew each other when we were kids.”
“We’ve met,” I say.
“My mother said none of your gang were up this week.”
“I know your mother hates it when people disagree with her,” I say, my voice bitchier than I’d intended. “But we’re here. I’ve been here.”
“Gina and I drove up last weekend. I gather from my mother that you’re planning a winter wedding. She ran into Wallace at the A&P.” His voice is cold.
“I tried to reach you.”
Gina looks back and forth between us, as if sensing that she is suddenly on the outside looking in. “Jonas is taking me squid fishing later,” she says.
“Cool,” Anna says.
Gina looks dubious. “Fishing for squirming things off a pier at midnight?”
Anna laughs. “It’s very satisfying. You shine a flashlight into the water, and they swarm. You barely have to move the jig. Like shooting fish in a barrel.”
“Jonas and I used to go all the time.” I smile at him, trying to break through. “You were obsessed.”
He doesn’t give an inch, just stands there looking through me.
“If you love it, I’ll love it.” Gina pulls him into her and kisses him like she owns him.
“Just don’t get inked,” I say.
“And marinate them in milk overnight before you grill them,” Anna says.
“I don’t eat seafood,” Gina says.
Anna looks at me and Jonas. She hooks her arm through Gina’s. “I’m going to go grab a beer. Come. I’ll introduce you to the only two interesting people here.” She pulls her along before Gina can think of a reason to say no.
The summer after I graduated from high school, Anna and I decided to go for a midtide swim at Higgins. The sea was perfect that day. No mung. No churn. We floated in the ocean, cradled by the rise and fall of the swells, as Anna droned on and on about how totally in love she was with her Dyadic Communication professor.
“I have literally no idea what that means,” I said.
“It means I want to fuck my professor.”
“Dyadic.” I laughed, diving under the water. I came up where I could stand.
“So, what about you, Miss ‘I’m going to wait until marriage’?” Anna called over to me. “Still a virgin?”
“Of course,” I lied. “And I never said anything about marriage. I just said I wanted to wait until I fell in love.”
“Then why do you have birth control pills in your bureau drawer.”
“Why are you looking in my bureau drawer?”
“I needed to borrow a pair of underwear. All of mine are dirty.”
“Gross.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Whatever. I have them just in case.”
“Just in case you suddenly fall in love for the first time?”
“No,” I said. And this, at least, was the truth. I hesitated a breath before saying, “Anyway, I already have.”
“Have what?”
“Been in love.”
“Huh. That’s news. But then, why no sex?”
“It’s Jonas.”
Anna looked confused. “Wait. That kid who used to follow you around?”
I nodded.
“Okay, that’s a bit pervy. Excellent choice on the no-sex thing.”
“He grew up. But yeah.”
“So, what happened?”
Standing there in the familiar sea, looking at my beautiful sister, dark hair against the infinite blue, I thought about telling her everything. It would be such a relief. But instead I said, “His mother sent him to camp in Maine.”
“That woman is so unpleasant. Every time I see her I feel like shitting on her shoes,” Anna said.
I watch Anna and Gina walk away in search of beer, feeling sick to my stomach. I have never felt anything with Jonas but our unique symbiosis, but I don’t know this man. This Jonas has dead eyes.
“I had no idea you would be here,” I say.
He stands there, letting me dangle.
“Jonas. Don’t do this.”
He stares at me. Says nothing.
“I called to tell you, but your number was disconnected. I was planning to call your mom to get it. I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“My mother is a stupid bigmouthed cow. I told her not to say anything to anyone.”
“It’s not a big deal.” He pulls open a bag of potato chips and shoves a handful into his mouth. Offers me the bag.
“You have every right to be mad at me.”
“Please. Don’t worry about it. That’s ancient history.”
“I saw the look on your face when you saw me.”
“I didn’t expect to see you here. That’s all.”
“Don’t lie. I hate it when you lie.”
“I’m not lying, Elle. I was angry at you for disappearing on me again. It was rude. You called me. You’re the one who said we should be friends. It made me feel like an idiot. But I’m over it. It was a million years ago. I was a stupid kid with a stupid crush.”
“Wow,” I say, my voice teeth against teeth. “That’s a truly shitty thing to say.”
“I don’t mean it to be. I’m trying to tell you it’s fine. The past is the past. I’m with Gina now. I’m in love with Gina.”
“She’s twelve.”
“Don’t do that,” Jonas says. “It’s beneath you.”
“She doesn’t even eat fish.”
When the night sky is black, and everyone has gathered close around the warmth of the bonfire, I move away into the darkness. I need to pee. I sit on the uphill slant at the base of the staggering dunes, pull my jeans down to my knees, dig a little hole underneath me. The stream of pee vanishes into the sand. As Anna has always said, peeing on the beach sitting down is even better than peeing in the shower standing up. I pull my pants back on and move two feet to my right, sit down again on safer ground. I can barely see my hands, it’s so dark out here. Moonless dark. Jonas and Gina are huddled together at the far edge of the fire. Their faces glow in the golden-orange flicker. He looks around the gathered circle, scanning, and I know he’s looking for me. He starts to stand, then changes his mind. I watch him stare at the deepening embers, watch his eyebrows knit together because he’s had a thought that bothers him, and I know he is thinking about me. This man who saved me. Who I have hurt. Whose trust I’ve now lost. I promise myself that, somehow, I will find a way to make things right.
High above the tallest dune, a star appears in the sky, faint at first, then gaining strength until it becomes a brilliant jewel. And yet I know it is death I am seeing. The flickering out. The silent gasp. The sputtering beauty. A desperate flame—massive, transcendent—fighting for its last breath.