Page 134 of The Book of Summer

Even as Bess says this, she wonders. An alcoholic is never just an alcoholic. He’s someone with a genetic predisposition and a trigger, a reason to self-medicate. He’s depressed. Injured. Suppressing some unwanted emotion. Then there were her grandfather’s discharge papers. Psychoneurosis. A flimsy diagnosis, like what a 1940s doctor might say if he was too nice to call you a pervert.

“I’m probably wrong,” Evan says. “I apologize for letting my imagination get away from me. Funny how long-standing family rumors eventually morph into a presumptive truth. Anyhow, you forgot Miss Rutter’s seminal conclusion.”

“What’s that?”

Bess blinks at him, confused, unsure what to think.

“Here’s how she wraps up the article,” Evan says, picking it back up. “‘So if your son isn’t a sporty type, and he’d rather help you shop or pick out china, don’t get too comfortable having him on friendly soil. The USA must accept the truth. Homosexuals are fit to serve.’”

Something picks at the back of Bess’s mind.

“And there you have it,” Evan says. “What was, I’m sure, a very pro-gay and revolutionary viewpoint, courtesy of Miss Harriet Rutter.”

“Evan!” Bess yelps. She clutches his arm. “China!”

“Uh, what?”

“Grandma Ruby’s…” She shakes her head and looks outside. “I left a box of her china outside.”

“Bess?”

She turns away from him and breaks down the hallway in a full sprint.

55

Sunday Morning

Bess slams through the double kitchen doors and books it out to the patio, where she finds Cissy sprawled on a lounger, clutching a highball like it’s three o’clock on the French Riviera and not midmorning on Nantucket. Meanwhile, there’s enough rain and bluster around them to garner a special storm name. That there’s never been a Hurricane Cissy seems like a gross injustice.

“Hi Bessie-boo,” Cissy says, and picks up her drink.

The wind whirls so mightily that even Cissy’s iced tea is sloshing around in its glass, or what Bessassumesis iced tea. Cissy normally drinks vodka but you never know. Along with the drink of debatable content, Cissy has a copy ofGone with the Windsplayed across her legs. Gone with the freaking wind. How maddeningly on the nose.

Bess has no time for this now. She sprints to the edge of the patio, then stops short. Her heart scrambles up into her throat. The patio is smaller, yes? Closer yet. She stands shivering as the rain and sand drive sideways, prickling her face.

“The box,” Bess says. “Where is it?”

“What box?” Cissy asks, and sips her drink.

Sneakers clomp out onto the patio.

“Hello there, Evan Mayhew,” Bess hears her mother say. “I’d recognize those cocksure footsteps anywhere. You know, I don’t say it nearly enough. Or ever. But you’ve turned into quite a nice young human, sabbaticals in Costa Rica notwithstanding.”

“Uh, thanks?” he says.

“It’s a miracle since you have no mom and the world’s most obnoxious and pigheaded dad.”

“Cissy!” Bess whips around. “Jesus, you’d think you were the only person in this family to ever get dumped by a Mayhew.”

“Hey!”

“Mother. Where the hell is my box?”

“Hmmm.” Cissy shrugs. “I’m not sure what box you’re referring to.”

“A cardboard box.” Bess demonstrates its size, very roughly, with her hands. “I left it here last night. It was filled with Grandma Ruby’s china. There were mice or something in it, so I brought it outside.”

Bess retraces her steps.