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“You know what I mean, Katherine,” Charlie said.

“You mean he doesn’t do it,” Katherine said.

“I believe he doesn’t,” Charlie said.

“But when he thinks about doing it, he thinks about doing it with men?” Katherine asked.

“I believe he doesn’t think about it, at all,” Charlie answered.

“Then in what way is he ‘homosexual,’ Charlie?” Katherine asked.

Charlie sighed; in summer houses, one can even hear the sighs.

“He’s not unattractive,” Charlie said. “He doesn’t have a girlfriend. Has he ever had a girlfriend?”

“I fail to see how this makes him gay,” Katherine said. “He doesn’t seem gay, not to me.”

“I didn’t say he was gay,” Charlie said. “A nonpracticing homosexual doesn’t always know what he is.”

So that’s what it means to be a “nonpracticing homosexual,” I thought: it means I don’t know what I am!

Every day there is a discussion of what we will eat—and who will take the boat, or one of the boats, to the station to fetch the food and the vitals. The shopping list is profoundly basic.

gasoline

batteries

Band-Aids

corn (if any)

insect repellent

hamburg and buns (lots)

eggs

milk

flour

butter

beer (lots)

fruit (if any)

bacon

tomatoes

clothespins (for Prue)

lemons

live bait

I let the younger children show me how they have learned to drive the boat. I let Charlie Keeling take me fishing; I really enjoy fishing for smallmouth bass—one day a year. I lend a hand to whatever the most pressing project on the island is: the Ormsbys need to rebuild their deck; the Gibsons are replacing shingles on the boathouse roof.