whom loneliness follows. It’s lazy to call my isolation a condition—I know all too well how it has been my nature, for years, to think of myself as an island. But I swear: this time I thought it was different! I would be perfectly content living as Ev’s right-hand gal, even though it seems she’s already bored by me—what does that say about my need? Am I unquenchable? Unable totake a hint? I wouldn’t blame that on you, Mom, but Dad’s a different story.
Wait—I forgot—nothing real can pass between us. So how’s this?
The swimming’s lovely. I bought a suit with Ev’s L.L.Bean card—don’t worry, I’ll pay her back—and I’m able to tread water for a good two minutes before I need a handhold. Sorry I’m not sending you this letter, but it’s best for both of us. I think you’d probably agree.
When writing unsendable letters to my mother, cutting pictures from magazines, half drowning and calling it swimming, or pretending to read Milton could capture my attention no longer, I rolled up my sleeves in the Dining Hall attic. Indo’s treasure hunt gave me distraction, the chance to chew up a few hours here and there during which I could forget my solitude. But it also offered something more. Foolish as it may sound, Indo had whetted my appetite. I couldn’t resist the chance for access to the Winslows’ inner workings; after all, I was the girl who’d researched them on interlibrary loan in the spring.
Did I forget how vehemently Tilde seemed to dislike Indo, especially on the subject of the Van Gogh? Did I think Tilde would really approve of my riffling through the family archives? Well, no. But she’d been mean to Indo and to Ev. And anyway, the “archives” were only some abandoned papers I was casually sifting through without direction.
There was something else—something I shouldn’t have dared to dream about but did all the same—Indo’s offhand suggestion that her house was up for grabs. Still, now, mentioning that remembered hope brings a blush to my skin, because, really, who would be foolish enough to believe an eccentric old woman’s ramblings? And I didn’t even know what she was looking for, not really. Anyway, hadn’t Evalready offered up the vision of us as old biddies sitting on the porch together? She had, certainly. But perhaps I had already started to doubt her constancy, to try to map out other ways I could keep Winloch mine. In any case, I know myself well enough to admit that once someone has introduced a suggestion to an imagination like mine … well, let’s just say by the first day I sat down with the family archive, I had already pondered how much it would cost to have Clover’s toilet replaced.
The moth-nibbled, mouse-nested Winslow papers made me sneeze. Their crumpled, knife-thin edges flaked off like autumnal leaves in late fall. They had acquired an ancient, musty smell from the many seasons they’d been waiting in the attic. Some of the papers were thick and heavy and marked with fading fountain-pen ink. Those old documents held crossed, European sevens and bore the imprint of typewriters, so that, as I ran my fingers over the backs of the pages, I could feel the ripple of backwards words set down a hundred years before. The newer pages were thin as onionskin and already yellowing. Some bore sickly sweet–smelling purple mimeograph ink; others were scrawled with handwriting that pointed to more recent failings in the teaching and execution of proper penmanship.
But regardless of whether the Winslow papers were young or old, the collection, as a whole, was in ruins. Coherent order was nowhere to be found. It took me a few half days to simply put the piles of paper in some kind of chronology. I roped Arlo, Jeffrey, and Owen, eager for action, into dragging a few unused dining tables up the creaky attic stairs, and we stacked the papers onto each one, decade by decade, before the boys scrambled off in search of greater adventure.
There were very few
Wait—I forgot—nothing real can pass between us. So how’s this?
The swimming’s lovely. I bought a suit with Ev’s L.L.Bean card—don’t worry, I’ll pay her back—and I’m able to tread water for a good two minutes before I need a handhold. Sorry I’m not sending you this letter, but it’s best for both of us. I think you’d probably agree.
When writing unsendable letters to my mother, cutting pictures from magazines, half drowning and calling it swimming, or pretending to read Milton could capture my attention no longer, I rolled up my sleeves in the Dining Hall attic. Indo’s treasure hunt gave me distraction, the chance to chew up a few hours here and there during which I could forget my solitude. But it also offered something more. Foolish as it may sound, Indo had whetted my appetite. I couldn’t resist the chance for access to the Winslows’ inner workings; after all, I was the girl who’d researched them on interlibrary loan in the spring.
Did I forget how vehemently Tilde seemed to dislike Indo, especially on the subject of the Van Gogh? Did I think Tilde would really approve of my riffling through the family archives? Well, no. But she’d been mean to Indo and to Ev. And anyway, the “archives” were only some abandoned papers I was casually sifting through without direction.
There was something else—something I shouldn’t have dared to dream about but did all the same—Indo’s offhand suggestion that her house was up for grabs. Still, now, mentioning that remembered hope brings a blush to my skin, because, really, who would be foolish enough to believe an eccentric old woman’s ramblings? And I didn’t even know what she was looking for, not really. Anyway, hadn’t Evalready offered up the vision of us as old biddies sitting on the porch together? She had, certainly. But perhaps I had already started to doubt her constancy, to try to map out other ways I could keep Winloch mine. In any case, I know myself well enough to admit that once someone has introduced a suggestion to an imagination like mine … well, let’s just say by the first day I sat down with the family archive, I had already pondered how much it would cost to have Clover’s toilet replaced.
The moth-nibbled, mouse-nested Winslow papers made me sneeze. Their crumpled, knife-thin edges flaked off like autumnal leaves in late fall. They had acquired an ancient, musty smell from the many seasons they’d been waiting in the attic. Some of the papers were thick and heavy and marked with fading fountain-pen ink. Those old documents held crossed, European sevens and bore the imprint of typewriters, so that, as I ran my fingers over the backs of the pages, I could feel the ripple of backwards words set down a hundred years before. The newer pages were thin as onionskin and already yellowing. Some bore sickly sweet–smelling purple mimeograph ink; others were scrawled with handwriting that pointed to more recent failings in the teaching and execution of proper penmanship.
But regardless of whether the Winslow papers were young or old, the collection, as a whole, was in ruins. Coherent order was nowhere to be found. It took me a few half days to simply put the piles of paper in some kind of chronology. I roped Arlo, Jeffrey, and Owen, eager for action, into dragging a few unused dining tables up the creaky attic stairs, and we stacked the papers onto each one, decade by decade, before the boys scrambled off in search of greater adventure.
There were very few
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