The point of Carteret family meetings was to keep everybody in the loop all the time. No secrets. “We’re a democracy,” Jasper liked to say. “Rumor and misinformation can wreak havoc on families. The democratic way is to hold meetings and require full attendance so everybody can hear the same thing at the same time in the same words.”
In theory, it made sense. Sure. But real truths ricocheted around the family via a well-oiled partisan network, a whole crosshatch of allegiances. William entered the family house on Steele Road through the kitchen pantry at the back. No one had turned on any lights, and the kitchen, with its fading linoleum and old soapstone sink, was dark. He heard voices coming from the dining room.
They were already seated at the table, his father at the head. Jasper Carteret III was tall and broad, with fair, freckled skin, once red hair now shot through with white, and heavy eyebrows that nearly obscured pale hazel eyes. Pony’s empty chair was to his right, and then Mira. Mira was an enigma to William—the cerebral sister, the one he knew least. She gave him a wan smile, her eyes huge under heavy black makeup. She’d dyed the ends of her hair a bright blue.
Tinker, hands folded on the table, nodded at William. Even in grief, she was letting him know he was late. The buffet was covered with pictures of Pony, some propped up, others in piles. Andrew stood in his portable crib beside the buffet, slapping the rim and smiling.
After William sat, Jasper began. “This may well be the most difficult thing we’ve ever faced as a family. More difficult even than when your mother died, because your sister’s death, your youngest sister, is outside the natural order of things.” He paused to let that sink in. “But we are a family, and we shall get through this together. We are strong.”
“You’re right, Daddy. We will.” Tinker blew her nose and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.
“What we all must have, before we go further, is a firm understanding—to the best of our ability—of exactly what happened.” Jasper opened one of those red journals he kept. William noticed a tremor in his father’s hand. The old man was fighting back tears. “Here’s what we know. The autopsy has been ruled negative.” He glanced at his three children from beneath those big eyebrows. “In other words, nothing was found to indicate foul play. She was alive when her hair caught on the chain.” He looked at Tinker. “The lacerations we saw along the side of her face were the result of her effort to pull free. The cause of death was drowning.”
Mira groaned. “Do we have to do this now?”
“The toxicology screen ruled out poison and drugs,” Jasper continued. “Pony’s blood alcohol level was point-oh-four. That’s considered a trace amount. Pony was not drunk. Do not allow yourselves to think that she was. Do not allow anyone to suggest otherwise. We must be together on this point. She must have had a beer in the afternoon. Well before she elected to swim. I’m told it takes an hour to metabolize a drink.”
William remembered the amber liquid in Pony’s glass. Almost two drinks. Plus the half before he’d thrown the rest out. An hour for each drink. Two and a half hours? He’d left at five-thirty. Her last drink had been at about five. So, what? Six-thirty? Unless she’d had more to drink after he left and then went in much later. But with Andrew still on the grass? It was such a disconnect. The whole thing.
“Pony drowned,” Jasper said again. “It was an accident. A terrible accident. But Andrew was safely in his playpen. Pony must have gone in only for a quick swim. Nothing irresponsible in that at all. Not at all. Your mother used to do it, settle you children on the lawn and go for a swim, watching, always watching, of course.” William glanced at Tinker and then at Mira to see if they had any reaction. Tinker ignored the look, but he could count on Mira, the way he used to count on Pony, to acknowledge his surprise; their mother got wet, but she certainly didn’t swim.
“We believe Pony meant to check the anchor. Perhaps to make sure she’d attached it correctly on Memorial Day.”
Mira sat up, reached into her purse, took out a small prescription bottle, and popped one into her mouth.
“God, Mira,” Tinker whispered.
“Relax,” Mira said.
“The police believe her hair caught on the chain where the extension—those extra links—had been added. It happened quickly. Suffering was minimal. William, I understand you were there the day she died.”
William nodded. The spotlight was on. Here it came.
“Without a word to anyone,” Jasper said.
William felt the judgment against him. He was six, eight, thirteen years old again, a kid cowering tongue-tied before the great man. In trouble again for breaking some rule he didn’t even know about. The story of his life. Just then Andrew reached up to the buffet and pulled one of the pictures, and a whole slew of them cascaded into his crib. Tinker swatted his little hand. “Must not touch.”
“He wants his mother,” William said. “Cut him a break.”
“You were the last person to see your sister alive, William,” Jasper said. “We need to know about that.”
William’s heart picked up speed, thrumming in his chest. He felt so guilty, so responsible, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong. The three of them were watching, waiting. Maybe this was the big show, the whole reason for the meeting. Get William. Pin it on William. He stared at his hands. “She called me. Said she had the place to herself and did I want to come up. I said sure. I can work anywhere now.” Jasper tapped a pencil; it was a sore subject between them. William raised his eyes to Mira. She looked like a panda. “I couldn’t work with the baby there. I realized that. And Pony was hyper.”
“Hyper?” Jasper said.
“She kept jumping up to get things. Sitting down, taking care of the baby.”
“Babies require a lot of care,” Tinker said.
“Was she expecting anyone?” Jasper asked.
“She got a phone call while I was there, but she didn’t say who it was. She didn’t say anybody else was coming. I don’t think so.”
“And you didn’t think to ask?”
“Well, no, Dad. I didn’t think to ask. I realize now I should have. I should have said, ‘Hey, Pone, who was that?’ and not given up until she told me, and I should have asked what the person wanted and where he lived and how he knew her and what the hell was his phone number. But then hey, I didn’t know she was going to die, Dad. Now, if I’d only known that, why, then—”
“Don’t be spurious with us, William.”
William tipped his chair back, something his father hated to see him do.
“That call was made from a pay phone in Burlington,” Jasper said. “The police checked the line.”
“People still use pay phones?” Mira looked around, wide-eyed. Apparently, it was a serious question. When no one answered, she sighed dramatically, tucked her bare feet under her, and laid her head on the table.
“So you know more than I do, Dad,” William said.
“An hour later, she was dead,” His father’s tone caused William to look up sharply.
“An hour? They set a time?”
“Was she down?” Mira asked, alert again. “Was she depressed or anything?”
“Were the two of you drinking?” Jasper barked out.
“I had a beer, Dad,” William said.
“And what about your little sister?”
“She had a drink. You already know that. But she wasn’t drunk. You said so yourself.”
“Was Pony clothed when you and she swam? Was she wearing her swimsuit?” Jasper was spitting out the questions fast. Under those merciless eyebrows, his eyes bored into William’s.
William had a flash of Pony’s bare white ass breaking the water, the whitecaps in the distance. He ran a hand over his face. “Why does it matter?” he said.
“Everything matters.”
“For whatever it’s worth, no,” William said.
“And were you?”
“Was I what?” William rocked back in his chair, hitting the wall.
“Wearing trunks.”
“God Almighty.” William slammed the chair forward. “Where are you going with this, anyway? Say it.”
“You guys were always skinny-dipping,” Tinker said. “It’s a fair question.”
“Oh, big deal,” Mira said. “The Gleves go in as a whole family. Emily told me. We’re lightweights compared to them.”
“Did anything happen between you that might have contributed to her death?” Jasper asked.
The question knocked the wind out of William. “I can’t believe you’d ask me that.”
“I would ask the same of anyone who was with her so shortly before her death.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You’d ask me. You think I did something.”
“William.” His father dropped his head, rubbed his temples with his palms. “Nothing of the sort, William.”
They glared at each other. William felt so guilty. It had to show. A nagging voice shouted, He’s right, and you know it. If you hadn’t left, Pony would be alive. All you had to do was sit her down and say, “Come on, what’s this about?”
Tinker took Andrew in her lap and sat back down at the table next to William. “What about Denny Bell?” she asked.
“What about him?”
“You didn’t know?” Mira said. “He asked Daddy and Tinker if they’d caught the guy who did it or something, right, Tinker? It was the morning after, and it freaked everybody out.”
“Mira, enough. Pony’s death was accidental. I don’t want to encourage rumors.” Jasper cleared his throat. “Young Dennis spoke out of turn.”
“Maybe he did something,” Mira said.
“There’s no evidence to suggest that anyone did anything,” Jasper said. “There’s a great deal more to cover, so if I can have your attention.” He said he’d called Becker’s Mortuary on Farmington Avenue and spoken to Ralph Becker personally. The wake was scheduled for Monday evening at the home. The funeral would be on Tuesday at the Congregational church on Main Street.
“Becker’s?” William said.
“We used Becker’s for your mother’s service. They did a good job.”
“Pony hated Becker’s,” William said.
“Nonsense,” Jasper said. But William remembered the day of their mother’s funeral, sitting in the car with Pony. How she’d dreaded going in there. She’d said it was contaminated with all those other people passing through there on their way to the great beyond, and it creeped her out. “She would hate this, Dad,” William said. “She’d really hate having Becker’s do the deed.” He let his hands drop onto the table.
“Do you have a better idea?” His father’s tone of voice said what William had heard all his life: It’s always easier to second-guess than to take action oneself.
“If there was a way,” William said. “A pine box. Burial overlooking the lake somewhere.”
“I’d like you to be practical, William,” Jasper said.
“Tinker? Mira?” William said. “Somebody want to help me out here?”
Mira’s Xanax or whatever must have kicked in. She had a half-mast expression. “Pony would definitely want a green burial,” she said. “You know what that is, Daddy? Or an air burial, like in Tibet, where the birds—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she said.
Tinker frowned at her. “I think we should let Daddy take the lead on this.” Her mouth was full.
Jasper continued. Everything would be as it had been for their mother’s service.
The viewing would be in the morning; the funeral would follow. The notice had already gone into the paper. Jasper had written it himself and sent it to all of them as an e-mail attachment for comment the day before, and since no one had responded with any changes, he’d gone ahead and sent it in. William hadn’t checked his e-mail.
Everything was moving ahead rocket-fast. Jasper removed a yellow legal pad from the manila folder, closed the folder, and squared it on the table with the tips of his fingers. He passed the pad to Tinker, who passed it to Mira and then to William. It was a single sentence in Pony’s handwriting:
If anything ever happens and I can’t take care of Andrew, I would like my brother, William Carteret, to act as guardian. Pony Carteret.
“Did you know about this?” Jasper asked William.
“No,” William said. Oh, man. He stared at Pony’s familiar uneven handwriting, a nervous-looking mix of print and cursive. He had to get up, away from his father and sisters. He needed to move around. “Excuse me,” he said. He went through the kitchen and out the side door, taking deep breaths. The air pressed down on him as though it had weight. Could Pony have been making arrangements for Andrew because she knew she would die? She’d been watching William from the window that day, which had been odd, but then she’d been joyous, running into his arms. He’d heard that when people decided to kill themselves, they felt great. It was one of the warning signs—a depressed person who’s abruptly happy. But Pony hadn’t been depressed. When they’d all been at the lake to open camp on Memorial Day, she’d been fine, her usual funny, offbeat self. Could she have asked him up to Fond du Lac to say goodbye and he’d left before she had the chance? Was she planning to tell him after Andrew was asleep, like in that play ’Night, Mother, where the daughter explains why she’s going to kill herself to her own mother and there’s nothing the mother can do to stop her? Had that been it? William sat on the back step. Don’t be an asshole, he told himself. Pony couldn’t have wrapped her own hair around the chain. “Huh,” he said out loud, feeling relief. And she would have never left Andrew on the beach. Never. Okay? He wiped his mouth on the hem of his shirt and took some deep breaths. He went back to the dining room.
“Is Andrew something you feel you can manage?” Jasper asked without breaking stride.
William opened his hands. “It’s what she wanted, Dad,” he said.
“It’s not binding, not notarized. It won’t hold up.”
“Like in court?” William pulled out his chair and let it drop loudly. “Why would it need to? We all know she wrote this.”
“I’m saying you don’t have to take it on. It’s not required by law.”
“It’s what she wanted,” William repeated, and sat down.
“There’s the matter of the baby’s father,” Jasper said. “It might not be as simple as that.”
“Do you know Seth’s last name?” Tinker asked William. “It has to be Seth.”
“We are not going to contact Seth,” Jasper said. “If Seth is indeed the father, he’ll have to take it upon himself to take action. I have no intention of making it easy for him.”
“It isn’t Seth,” William said.
“Who is it?” Mira asked.
“This isn’t a game any longer,” Jasper said.
“It never was a game, Dad,” William said. “Pony slept with a guy she met. She didn’t even know his name.”
“No way,” Tinker said.
“Get a life,” Mira said.
“And your source on this, William?” Jasper asked.
“Pony,” William said.
“Did she tell either of you differently?” Jasper asked Mira and Tinker.
“Jesus, Dad,” William said.
“She told me it didn’t matter who the father was,” Mira said.
“It matters.” Jasper tapped the table with a pencil. “It matters a great deal.”
“She didn’t want to have to share Andrew with anybody else. You have to admit that it simplifies things,” William said.
They all turned to look at Andrew in his crib. With the sudden attention on him, Andrew smiled happily.
“How is Andrew faring, Tinker?”
“Oh, he has his moments, Daddy. Isabel adores him.”
“Perhaps it would be best if Andrew continued to stay with Tinker and Mark. It’s certainly a stable environment.”
“Oh,” Tinker said. “Well—”
William tapped the legal pad. “All due respect, Dad, but—”
“You’ll agree, William, you’re not set up for a child,” Jasper said. He’d already prepared this; he’d had all day to figure out what he’d say. He forged ahead. “Your hours. Your capriciousness. Having a child would change all that. You need to be fully prepared to take on a baby. It’s an enormous change in a person’s life. Tinker will vouch for that.” The son of a bitch smiled at Tinker. “Tinker and Mark’s is an established home, and I think Andrew needs continuity.” He glanced at the girls. “I’d like us to come to an agreement about what’s best for the baby, as a family. I have to say I’m more than relieved to learn there’s no father out there who will make a claim on him.”
“We can keep him,” Tinker said. “It’s no trouble. And consult with William about decisions and stuff. I mean, if that’s what William wants, too.”
“Who does Andrew like best?” Mira asked.
“He’s calmer when he’s held by women,” Tinker said. “Mark noticed it, too. When Mark holds him, he cries.”
“I imagine,” Jasper said, “a court might rule it was in Andrew’s best interest to live with Tinker and Mark. All else being equal.”
The train had left the station. William was back in that lousy old familiar territory where, either way, he’d lose. Could he raise a baby? No. He didn’t know the first thing about kids. Kids got sick. Kids had accidents. He didn’t like kids much. But did he want to agree that he couldn’t? Hell, no. Not that, either.
Jasper and Tinker were passing the legal pad back and forth, looking it over again as if they could make it say more than it did. Mira crossed her legs, sat up straight, raised her arms over her head, and stretched. “Guardian,” she said. “Isn’t that like William has to approve of stuff?” She opened her eyes and poked Tinker. “Like, you can’t send him to a military academy without running it by William first?”
“He’s not going to any military academy,” Tinker said.
“I’m kidding, Tinker.” Mira rolled her eyes at William.
“There’s nothing funny about this,” Tinker said.
“We’ll all be involved.” Jasper looked at William, Mira, and Tinker in turn. “So we’re in agreement?”
William looked across to Pony’s chair and ached for her like a missing limb. She was his phantom pain. He said something affirmative. He was beat. Jasper ran the show. He always had and he always would.
When William was a child, the sun had risen and set on his father. William would get up early for school just for the chance to join his father at breakfast. His father wore wonderful black suits, crisp white shirts, and darkly striped neckties. He smelled powerfully of aftershave. He carried a leather briefcase, cracked with age. His shoes were always highly polished. At exactly eight A.M. his father walked to a large black Buick, William right behind him, copying his father’s head-down, long-stride gait, one hand pretending to hold a briefcase, the other behind his back, palm out.
William was mystified by what his father did all day—where he went and what he did. He must have asked his mother this question, because on his tenth birthday, he was given permission to skip a day of school and accompany his father to the office. He’d seen Carteret Ball Bearings a few times, but only from the outside. It was a large collection of ancient brick buildings surrounded by an expanse of patchy lawn, several asphalt parking lots, the whole thing enclosed by a tall chain-link fence.
They rode in silence that morning. William assumed his father had serious matters on his mind. They slowed at the gate and were waved through by a guard. They parked directly in front of the main building, which was grand compared to the others and in much better repair. William held his father’s hand as they walked down the glistening corridors. He felt lifted, adored. He was the crown prince, pretender to the throne. Everywhere, people said good morning to his father. They made a fuss over William, the beloved son of the beloved man.
They rode the elevator to the penthouse. Two secretaries sat at large desks facing each other: frowning Miss Falconer and plump, smiling Mrs. Casey. They crossed to his father’s office, a huge room with plush silver-colored carpeting, floor-to-ceiling emerald-green draperies, and a modern-looking desk. William’s father told him to sit on the couch. He gave him some paper and pencils, then he took one phone call after the other, swiveling in his chair, hoisting his feet onto his desk. After a while, William leaned back against the sofa and raised his feet to the coffee table, letting them down with a thunk. His father swung around to see what had made the noise, scowled at William, and made a dusting motion with one hand that said, Remove your feet.
His father left the room for a time, saying only that he’d be back in a bit. While he was gone, William sat in his father’s chair. He opened the long desk drawers and tried out the pens and scissors and stapler. He hit pay dirt with a package of playing cards that featured pictures of women naked from the waist up, wearing Santa hats, their nipples adorned with tiny wreaths. William separated out his favorites, slipped them into his pocket, then returned the rest of the pack to the drawer. He studied the three photographs that sat on the desk, all in silver frames. They were the Christmas photos taken in the years when his three sisters had been born. In each photo his parents sat in the center, his mother holding the newest baby. In all of them William stood to the left, apart, a hand on his mother’s shoulder, like a little soldier.
He made the rounds of the walls and the portraits of his dour ancestors. The first Jasper W. Carteret, with his off-center beard and hard stare. Jasper Junior, Jasper II, and finally, William’s father, Jasper III, clean-shaven and in color. There were other photos, too. Some had been taken at picnics in the great yard behind the house on Steele Road, a hundred years ago, William thought. And parties at Fond du Lac. Both houses had been in the Carteret family for generations. There were so many people in the pictures, the women in long white dresses, the men in suits standing at long tables covered in flowers and serving dishes. Life seemed happier then. The parties were enormous, everything decorated in streamers and bunting, even the trees.
His father returned and took him to lunch in the executive dining room. With a slight tip of his head, he indicated men at other tables. Joe Donaldson, a patent attorney; Irving Sykes, marketing. William had no idea what any of it meant.
After lunch his father’s office filled with men. Even at his age, William understood that these men both admired and feared his father. William was filled with an eye-watering pride in his father. The men all shook William’s hand and clapped him on the back, anxious to be liked by a little boy. William knew he was being indulged because he was his father’s son. He understood that it had nothing to do with him, he hadn’t earned it. He basked in it anyway.
They adjourned to a conference room off his father’s office where the chairs were upholstered in leather and had heavy wooden arms. The meeting began with banter, punctuated with laughter. Mrs. Casey served coffee in small cups and saucers to the men, a glass of milk to William. At some unheard signal, the meeting changed. His father cleared his throat and began to direct a series of questions at a young man who sat opposite William. Again, William didn’t understand the content. What he understood was the crescendo of accusation and the ratcheting up of questions afterward until the young man, red-faced and sweating, faltered over his answers.
Then William’s father fired him.
It was as though all the air had been sucked from the room. The men were silent, looking down at their hands. The young man sat stunned for a moment and then pushed his chair back. He stood and left the room. There was a pause, a shifting of chairs, a clearing of throats, and the meeting continued as before. When it was adjourned, the heavyset man beside William, whom people called Sully, said, “You okay, son?” William nodded. “Your old man sure put on a show for you,” he said. “But don’t tell him I said so.” And William didn’t. For years he kept that remark a secret until one night at the lake, heavy with alcohol, he told his father what Sully had said all those years earlier, expecting his father to laugh about it. Instead, his father had become angry. “He had no right” was all he said.