Despite the fact that Owen and Hester were living together as man and wife, Noah and Simon and I could never be sure if they were actually “doing it.” Simon was sure that Hester could not live without doing it, Noah somehow felt that Owen and Hester had done it—but that, for some special reason, they had stopped. I had the strangest feeling that anything between them was possible: that they did it and had always done it with abandon; that they had never done it, but that they might be doing something even worse—or better—and that the real bond between them (whether they “did it” or not) was even more passionate and far sadder than sex. I felt cut off from Owen—I was working with wood and smelling a cool, northern air that was scented with trees; he was working with granite and feeling the sun beat down on the unshaded quarry, inhaling the rock dust and smelling the dynamite.
Chain saws were relatively new then; the Eastman Company used them for their logging operations, but very selectively—they were heavy and cumbersome, not nearly so light and powerful as they are today. In those days, we brought the logs out of the woods by horse and crawler tractor, and the timber was often cut by crosscut saws and axes. We loaded the logs onto the trucks by hand, using peaveys or cant dogs; nowadays, Noah and Simon have shown me, they use self-loading trucks, grapple skidders, and chippers. Even the sawmill has changed; there’s no more sawdust! But in ’62, we debarked the logs at the mill and sawed them into various grades and sizes of lumber, and all that bark and sawdust was wasted; nowadays, Noah and Simon refer to that stuff as “wood-fired waste” or even “energy”—they use it to make their own electricity!
“How’s that for progress?” Simon is always saying.
Now we’re the grown-ups we were in such a hurry to become; now we can drink all the beer we want, with no one asking us for proof of our age. Noah and Simon have their own houses—their own wives and children—and they do an admirable job of looking after old Uncle Alfred and my Aunt Martha, who is still a lovely woman, although she’s quite gray; she looks much the way Grandmother looked to me in the summer of ’62.
Uncle Alfred’s had two bypass operations, but he’s doing fine. The Eastman Company has provided him and my Aunt Martha with a good and long life. My aunt manifests only the most occasional vestige of her old interest in who my actual father is or was; last Christmas, in Sawyer Depot, she managed to get me alone for a second and she said, “Do you still not know? You can tell me. I’ll bet you know! How could you not have found out something—in all this time?”
I put my finger to my lips, as if I were going to tell her something that I didn’t want Uncle Alfred or Dan or Noah or Simon to hear. Aunt Martha grew very attentive—her eyes sparkling, her smile widening with mischief and conspiracy.
“Dan Needham is the best father a boy could have,” I whispered to her.
“I know—Dan is wonderful,” Aunt Martha said impatiently; this was not what she wanted to hear.
And what do Noah and Simon and I still talk about—after all these years? We talk about what Owen “knew” or thought he knew; and we talk about Hester. We’ll talk about Hester in our graves!
“Hester the Molester!” Simon says.
“Who would have thought any of it possible?” Noah asks.
And every Christmas, Uncle Alfred or Aunt Martha will say: “I believe that Hester will be home for Christmas next year—that’s what she says.”
And Noah and Simon will say: “That’s what she always says.”
I suppose that Hester is my aunt and uncle’s only unhappiness. Even in the summer of ’62, I felt this was true. They treated her differently from the way they treated Noah and Simon, and she made them pay for it; how angry they made her! She took her anger away from Sawyer Depot and everywhere she went she found other things and people to fuel
her colossal anger.
I don’t think Owen was angry, not exactly. But they shared a sense of some unfairness; there was an atmosphere of injustice that enveloped them both. Owen felt that God had assigned him a role that he was powerless to change; Owen’s sense of his own destiny—his belief that he was on a mission—robbed him of his capacity for fun. In the summer of ’62, he was only twenty; but from the moment he was told that Jack Kennedy was “diddling” Marilyn Monroe, he stopped doing anything for pleasure. Hester was just plain pissed off; she just didn’t give a shit. They were such a depressing couple!
But in the summer of ’62, I thought my Aunt Martha and Uncle Alfred were a perfect couple; and yet they depressed me because of how happy they were. In their happiness they reminded me of the brief time my mother and Dan Needham had been together—and how happy they’d been, too.
Meanwhile, that summer, I couldn’t manage to have a successful date. Noah and Simon did everything they could for me. They introduced me to every girl on Loveless Lake. It was a summer of wet bathing suits drying from the radio aerial of Noah’s car—and the closest I came to sex was the view I had of the crotches of various girls’ bathing suits, snapping in the wind that whipped past Noah’s car. It was a convertible, a black-and-white ’57 Chevy, the kind of car that had fins. Noah would let me take it to the drive-in, if and when I managed to get a date.
“How was the movie?” Noah would always ask me—when I brought the car home, always much too early.
“He looks like he saw every minute of it,” Simon would say—and I had. I saw every minute of every movie I took every girl to. And more’s the shame: Noah and Simon created countless opportunities for me to be alone with various dates at the Eastman boathouse. At night, that boathouse had the reputation of a cheap motel; but all I ever managed was a long game of darts, or sometimes my date and I would sit on the dock, withholding any comment on the spectacle of the hard and distant stars until (finally) Noah or Simon would arrive to rescue us from our awkward torment.
I started feeling afraid—for no reason I could understand.
Georgian Bay: July 25, 1987—it’s a shame you can buy The Globe and Mail and The Toronto Star in Pointe au Baril Station; but, thank God, they don’t carry The New York Times! The island in Georgian Bay that has been in Katherine Keeling’s family since 1933—when Katherine’s grandfather reputedly won it in a poker game—is about a fifteen-minute boat ride from Pointe au Baril Station; the island is in the vicinity of Burnt Island and Hearts Content Island and Peesay Point. I think it’s called Gibson Island or Ormsby Island—there are both Gibsons and Ormsbys in Katherine’s family; I believe that Gibson was Katherine’s maiden name, but I forget.
Anyway, there are a bunch of notched cedarwood cottages on the island, which is not served by electric power but is comfortably and efficiently supplied with propane gas—the refrigerators, the hot-water heater, the stoves, and the lamps are all run on propane; the tanks of gas are delivered to the island by boat. The island has its own septic system, which is a subject often discussed by the hordes of Keelings and Gibsons and Ormsbys who empty themselves into it—and who are fearful of the system’s eventual rebellion.
I would not have wanted to visit the Keelings—or the Gibsons, or the Ormsbys—on their island before the septic system was installed; but that period of unlighted encounters with spiders in outhouses, and various late-night frights in the privy-world, is another favorite topic of discussion among the families who share the island each summer. I have heard, many times, the story of Uncle Bulwer Ormsby who was attacked by an owl in the privy—which had no door, “the better to air it out!” the Keelings and the Gibsons and the Ormsbys all claimed. Uncle Bulwer was pecked on top of his head during a fortunate hiatus in what should have been a most private action, and he was so fearful of the attacking owl that he fled the privy with his pants down at his ankles, and did even greater injury to himself—greater than the owl’s injury—by running headfirst into a pine tree.
And every year that I’ve visited the island, there are the familiar disputes regarding what kind of owl it was—or even if it was an owl. Katherine’s husband, Charlie Keeling, says it was probably a horsefly or a moth. Others say it was surely a screech owl—for they are known to be fierce in the defense of their nests, even to the extent of attacking humans. Others say that a screech owl’s range does not extend to Georgian Bay, and that it was surely a merlin—a pigeon hawk; they are very aggressive and are often mistaken for the smaller owls at night.
The company of Katherine’s large and friendly family is comforting to me. The conversations tend toward legendary occurrences on the island—many of which include acts of bravery or cowardice from the old outhouse or privy period of their lives. Disputed encounters with nature are also popular; my days here are most enjoyably spent in identifying species of bird and mammal and fish and reptile and, unfortunately, insect—almost none of which is well known to me.
Was that an otter or a mink or a muskrat? Was that a loon or a duck or a scoter? Does it sting or bite, or is it poisonous? These distinctions are punctuated by more direct questions to the children. Did you flush, turn off the gas, close the screen door, leave the water running (the pump is run by a gasoline engine)—and did you hang up your bathing suit and towel where they will dry? It is remindful to me of my Loveless Lake days—without the agony of dating; and Loveless Lake is a dinky pond compared to Georgian Bay. Even in the summer of ’62, Loveless Lake was overrun by motorboats—and in those days, many summer cottages flushed their toilets directly into the lake. The so-called great outdoors is so much greater and so much nicer in Canada than it ever was—in my time—in New Hampshire. But pine pitch on your fingers is the same everywhere; and the kids with their hair damp all day, and their wet bathing suits, and someone always with a skinned knee, or a splinter, and the sound of bare feet on a dock … and the quarreling, all the quarreling. I love it; for a short time, it is very soothing. I can almost imagine that I have had a life very different from the life I have had.
One can learn much through the thin walls of summer houses. For example, I once heard Charlie Keeling tell Katherine that I was a “nonpracticing homosexual.”
“What does that mean?” Katherine asked him.
I held my breath, I strained to hear Charlie’s answer—for years I’ve wanted to know what it means to be a “nonpracticing homosexual.”