“Good gracious, dear,” she replied, “you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
I shook my head stiffly.
“I couldn’t stand all those hypocrites talking about Linden as though she was some kind of saint,” she remarked, blinking up at the masterpiece. I watched her eyes dance over the lines of the painting, before they searched the world beyond me, out on the porch. “The light comes off the water just as it did when I was a girl.”
She was only an old woman. Strange, nosy, but aged enough that I could speak to her of sentimental things, admire the room, flatter her family, and she wouldn’t know I had come to see the truth, once and for all.
She examined me carefully, looking me up and down. After a moment she asked, “Who are you?”
Even better. “I’m Mabel,” I said, extending my hand. Her small palm gripped mine. Her knuckles were knobby. “We met the night of the wedding. Mabel Dagmar. Genevra’s roommate.”
“I know your name, Mabel,” she said, irritation creeping into her voice. “But who are you?” She was hot to the touch, her pulse throbbing through her veins, as though her whole hand was a living creature with its own tiny heart.
“Who are you?” she asked again, this time, her words ringing with playful demand. She pulled at my hand with surprising strength. “Who are you?”
I felt the same strange sensation as when she had touched my face in the tent—of transparency, light-headedness. Of her looking deep inside me and seeing what I wanted to keep hidden.
“My grandnephew Jackson,” she began, her words spilling forth buoyantly, “came to see me the day before he died. He’d asked everyone to tell him the truth and no one would. ‘Who am I?’ he cried over my kitchen table. ‘Who am I?’ So I asked him, just once, what he thought the truth would do for him—why he wanted it so badly. He told me he believed it would set him free.”
The old woman’s eyes sparkled triumphantly. “So I told him,” she said, her jaw tightening. “I told him exactly who his parents were. I told him the truth—the truth everyone else was too afraid to tell him. ‘There,’ I said, once it was out in the open”—she chuckled to herself, as though this were an anecdote that brought her great joy—“ ‘now you know, your father is your uncle, does that set you free?’ ”
My mouth had gone dry.
“Depending on what you believe about the afterlife,” she prattled on, “I suppose you could say that the truth did set him free, out into the great expanse—”
“How can you say that?” I said, tearing my hand from her clutches. “It was because of what you told him that he killed himself.”
“Wouldn’t you have done the same?” she asked slyly, looking straight into my eyes. And I realized: she knows. Somehow, she knows what I told John. She knows I am partly responsible for his death.
“Don’t feel ashamed, girl,” she said, answering my thoughts. “The truth is a noble grail to seek. But if you’re after it, you must imagine, first, what it will mean to get it. The truth is neither good nor bad. It is above evil. Above morality. It doesn’t offer anything besides itself.” She nodded resolutely. “I’m proud I told Jackson the truth. I’m glad he died knowing who he was.”
“The product of brother-sister rape?” I balked.
The old woman shut her eyes, as though exasperated at my histrionics. “My dear, it would be best for you to decide now whether you are strong enough to know the truth, especially if you’re going to be a part of this family …”
My heart pounded. I wanted Galway, didn’t I? Didn’t being with him make me a Winslow? “I don’t know,” I said vaguely, unable to tear myself away from her even as she horrified me. “I don’t know what I want.”
“Well, you better make up your mind,” she said impatiently, looking back out toward the porch. “They’re going to wonder where you ran off to.”
I swallowed. “I want to know about the painting.”
“The truth?”
I nodded.
“Go on,” she said, her gnarled hand pointing up at the Van Gogh. I looked back to the masterpiece—trees, sky, and meadow. It was beautiful. But it held no answers beyond itself. “Go on,” she said, pointing in agitation, irritation creeping back in her thin voice, “take it down.”
It was a priceless work of art. I laughed. One sharp, incredulous laugh. “I can’t.”
She struggled to her feet then, hoisting herself up with the help of the armchair. I looked back to the painting. It was three feet long and at least two feet high. The frame was gilded and heavy—I imagined I would just barely be able to lift the work off the wall, and wasn’t sure I’d be able to get it back into place. But I feared it would crush her. “This is silly,” I said.
“You want to know the truth, I’ll show you.” She was still struggling to stand. She’d barely make it to the painting, let alone lift it.
“Sit,” I insisted, stepping before her. She narrowed her eyes and obeyed.
The story the Van Gogh told changed up close. Instead of long, fluid lines that made a picture, it was globs of paint. Midnight blue, magenta, and gold rippled with skill and effort.
I lifted my hands to perch along the edges of the frame and lifted. It was heavy, but not as heavy as I’d thought. I tottered backwards, unsure of how it was attached to the wall. It unhooked easily. Pippa pointed to its back.
I balanced it down onto the floor. Turned it so I could see its reverse. Even then, I was doubtful I would find anything worthwhile.
But I was wrong. For there, on the back of the Van Gogh, was an official-looking stamp, the words in German, surrounding a swastika.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
The Curse
Back in summer’s first days, in mid-June, I had found myself strolling, alone, past the Dining Hall. I was in search of Ev. We had passed the inspection, Winloch was filling with residents, and I didn’t yet know that she was sleeping with her brother. All I knew was that she’d promised me a swim and, while I was getting ready, had wandered off, this on the day that my catalog bathing suit had finally arrived. I was incredulous. Irritated. Greedy for her attention.
In sight of the Dining Hall steps, I spotted Indo just as she spotted me. The older woman was perched on the wooden boards like an awkward bird, angled toward the sun, dressed in a purple sweater and wide orange pants. She lifted a hand and shielded her eyes and called to me in stentorian tones.
“ ‘Of Man’s First Disobedience, and the Fruit / Of that Forbidden Tree …’ ”
I had no idea what she was talking about. Then followed her gaze to my crisp new copy of Paradise Lost; I’d reluctantly resolved to head back down to the Bittersweet cove for a bookish afternoon if Ev was nowhere to be found.
“Such a wee scholar you are, Mabel Dagmar,” the older woman intoned in a Scottish accent as I detoured toward her across the emerald lawn. I didn’t know whether she was teasing or flattering me. “You do realize, my girl, that most nincompoops have no idea what the Fruit of that Forbidden Tree actually was. Most people believe the apple merely represented Knowledge. But we know better. It was the Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Nothing less than the curse of consciousness. Of moral responsibility. Of always, ever after, having to choose between what is right and what is wrong.”
This was long before I truly knew the Winslows; before I discovered the worm at their center. I had only just begun the search for Indo’s proof, but I knew nothing of Kitty and her journal, or a swastika on the back of a Van Gogh.
Indo guffawed as an early summer breeze skittered over us. “Knowledge! Knowledge.” She shook her head. “As far as I’m concerned, there is such a thing as knowing too much for your own good. Don’t you agree, Mabel?”
I can’t know for sure how I would have responded, but I sometimes wonder if it could have been the truth. That early in the summer, it might have been a relief to unburden myself, to confide that, yes, I already knew too much, entirely too soon. To confess I had come to Winloch to forget. That I believe
d her family, beautiful and rich, would deliver me from the bitter knowledge of my own making.
But instead I heard Ev calling my name.
I turned to see my friend emerging from behind the tennis courts, Abby nipping at her heels. “I’ve got to run,” I said, watching Ev’s hair halo in the sun.
Indo’s eyes followed mine. “Beware Lucifer’s rhetoric. He’ll seduce you with charisma.” She smiled. Tapped my book.
I glanced down at it. “I haven’t really started reading yet.”
“Well then,” she said crisply, “perhaps you’ll know what I mean by the end of the summer. How darkness infects those among us who can’t resist a juicy tale.” Her eyes lit up impishly: “Beware. You look like such a girl.”
This was the scene I recalled as I climbed those same steps one last time, the Dining Hall looming above me, the Winslows gathered inside to eulogize poor Indo in their way. Had my wild-goose chase of a summer been orchestrated by Indo? Had her introduction of the Winslow papers into my life, and the promise of a manila folder she knew wasn’t there, and the whetting of my appetite for the Van Gogh, and her handing over of Kitty’s journal, all been part of an elaborate test of my fortitude and stubbornness, leading to my inevitable search for proof of what the Winslows had stolen? Did she really believe that I, alone, could bring them down? That I’d want to?
She’d been right on the money; a juicy tale was my weakness. Perhaps she’d been correct to call that hunger greed. Despite my best-laid plans, I was now drowning in the cursed Knowledge of which she’d warned me. For better or worse, I was about to walk through those double doors and share it with as many Winslows as cared to hear it.
But then what?
I opened the doors to the sound of chitchat. The service had broken up, and the family was milling about, murmuring in low, respectful tones, snacking from the spread Masha had laid out at the far end of the room.
Even the children were subdued that morning, sulkily sucking their thumbs. One small girl noticed me, and then the next Winslow saw me, and the next, until it seemed as though the eyes of every one of them, young and old, had clapped upon me and wouldn’t let me go.
Birch conversed with a cousin on the makeshift stage. When news of my arrival reached him, he, too, lifted his head and took me in, his face revealing nothing. Beyond, Ev and Athol and Banning were gathered, and when they, too, noticed me, they showed me nothing beyond recognition. Ev and I were no longer what we’d been. At least I had Galway.
“Are you all right?” he whispered. His words upon my neck set off warning bells, just as my stomach lurched with the questions the stamp on the Van Gogh insisted upon: How had the Winslows acquired that painting? How many people had died because of its acquisition? And, most pressing to my selfish mind: did Galway know about the swastika?
The Winslows bid one another solemn good-byes. No one spoke to me. But their reproachful glances as they headed out into the day were enough, as though they were the dead and I had invaded the underworld. In a few years’ time, when chronology and memory proved slippery, it might be easy to blame it all on me, on the outsider who’d infiltrated Winloch: Jackson’s suicide, the murders, Lu’s disappearance. But for now, I was just inconvenient.
The doors clapped shut. We were the only people left: Birch, Tilde, Athol, Galway, Banning, Ev. And me.
Galway cleared his throat.
Tilde lifted her head at the drinks table. She looked straight at me, sharp eyes piercing. The words she had uttered in the rowboat came back: “Do not mistake silence for blindness.”
“Wait,” I warned Galway. I didn’t want to stop him, not exactly, but I had a feeling this wasn’t going to go as planned. My time with Gammy Pippa had unsettled me.
But they were already upon us, five sets of eyes spanning the large room—father, mother, brothers, sister. And Galway was unstoppable—I could see it from the set of his shoulders. No amount of cautiousness from me would seal his mouth, not after years of biting his tongue, not anymore. The best I could do was stand by his side.
“We know what you did, Father,” he said, voice trembling.
Birch laughed dismissively, spurring Galway to advance in hate across the wide room. “We know that you murdered John and his mother because John found out he was your son, that you raped Pauline, Father, and you bought her silence by—”
“Stop it,” Athol snapped, stepping between Galway and their father, clenching his iron jaw. Shock had settled over Ev. I wished I’d had a chance to tell her, in private, how John had met his end.
“We have a witness,” Galway continued, slow and steady. “Someone who saw you put your hands around Pauline LaChance’s neck, Father, and wring it until she died, who saw you chase John LaChance onto the point and push him to his death—”
“Stop it!” It was Ev’s voice now, high-pitched and frantic. Tilde held her back. It was the first time I’d seen those women touch more than glancingly.
“It’s true, Ev,” I said, my mouth going dry. “Birch murdered John.”
“Don’t,” Ev spat, her face turning ugly. She was angry, I could see that. But I was just the messenger. In time, she would understand. I stepped toward her, to try to explain, but she cursed at me, spewing rage. She’d never looked at me with hate before.
“And the women, Father,” Galway continued, undeterred by our interaction. “Your sister, our maids, rape, incest—”
Athol struck Galway across the face.
“Children, children.” Birch chuckled evenly, as though breaking up an argument over a toy. He stepped between Athol and Galway, clapping his eldest son on the shoulder.
Galway dodged his father’s touch, taking my hand triumphantly, even though I could sense he’d lost momentum. “We’re going to the police. We’re telling them everything. That you’re a murdering, raping pig.”
“Birch,” Tilde said sharply, eyes darting between her husband and sons.
Ev pulled away from her mother. “She’s written terrible things about us, Daddy,” she blurted, winning her father’s attention. She was pointing at me like a village girl in the Salem witch trials. “She wrote letters to her mother, Daddy, I read all of them, about her plans to steal our money.” I opened my mouth to protest, to explain, but her eyes narrowed. “I can’t believe I let you sleep in my house. She’s some kind of lesbian, she always wants to borrow my clothes, she’s probably been spying on me when I shower, who knows, maybe she wanted to skin me and eat me and make me into some kind of coat.”
Tilde murmured a doubtful response, and Ev pulled free, wagging her finger at me as the words cascaded forth. “And she made these collages—these sick, weird cutouts that she spent hours on. She made me do them too. Of everyone here, everyone in this room, making fun of all of you. There’s something wrong with her. She’s obsessed with us.”
Strong as I believed I was, prepared as I had been for Birch’s wretched words, Ev’s betrayal took me by surprise. I didn’t think I could bear her hatred. “Ev,” I began, stepping toward her with my arms up in a gesture of surrender.
“Don’t let her near me!” Ev shrieked like a banshee.
Galway tugged my hand. “Let’s go.”
But I couldn’t leave, not yet. I turned to Tilde. “I’m concerned about Ev,” I pronounced.
“Oh?” Tilde asked.
“I should tell you in private.”
“Anything you have to say to Tilde you can say to all of us,” Birch said shrewdly.
Ev’s growl was hardly human.
Let her loathe me. I was protecting her from herself. Not to mention defending that baby. “She’s pregnant,” I announced. Even as I said it, I doubted if it was true.
A yelp sharpened out of her. She doubled over. I felt wretched, if justified. But as we all looked to her, it dawned on each of us that she was laughing. Laughing so hard she could barely breathe. Ev gestured to her belly, trying to get words out as she giggled riotously. Finally she managed, “Do I look pregnant?”
“Ev,” I said firmly, remembering her flat belly on Bead Beach, “if you had a miscarriage, you should go to the doctor.”
“I’m not fucking pregnant, you psycho!” She was full of rage.
The world was beginning to buzz. “John was so excited.” I was starting to wonder if she’d even been pregnant. If she’d made the pregnancy up to keep him loyal, to get him to agree to run away with her. If she’d just been lying to him, using him, all that time. “She and John eloped,” I tattled.
She lunged for me. Galway shielded me. Her brothers caught her.
“Darling,” Birch said calmly to Tilde, until mother pulled daughter away, “why don’t you take Ev outside?”
But Ev and Tilde both shook their heads. Ev flung herself down along one of the couches and hated me from there.
Galway tried to regain the room. “We’re going to the police.”
“Son,” Birch replied, “think long and hard. Is that what you really want?”
Galway nodded decisively. “I want justice.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
The Chaperone
“Justice.” Birch savored the word like a fine scotch. “Justice.” He smiled with grave benevolence, like a long-suffering priest, heartbroken by the sins of man. This stance exerted a strange power over us all. Athol and Banning stepped back and settled into chairs to watch from the sidelines. Ev pulled a pillow into her arms. Tilde leaned against the snack table, but not before she poured herself some wine. Was it my imagination, or was her hand shaking as she lifted the glass to her lips?
For the first time that afternoon, Birch honed in on me. “Mabel Dagmar.” His voice filled with false wonder. “Your parents assured us you were a sweet girl. Humble. That you’d perform well in the position we offered. They understood that your placement here was delicate. That, for all sorts of reasons, Ev wasn’t ever to know she was being chaperoned—”
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