All Happy Families

by Jeanne McCulloch

  Dedication

  For Charlotte and Sam

  and in memory of Pierre

  Epigraph

  Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,

  Time held me green and dying

  Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

  —Dylan Thomas, “Fern Hill”

  All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

  —Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Author’s Note

  Part One I

  II: The Wedding Dress

  III

  IV: The Spy Who Loved Me

  V: The Perilous Dune

  VI: The Protocol of the Toast

  VII: The LIE

  VIII: Ceremony

  IX: The Day After

  X: The Franklin Stories

  XI: Going Back

  Part Two XII: The Visit of Holiday Whales

  Part Three XIII: In the Attic

  XIV: The House

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Author’s Note

  I have tried to re-create events, locales, and conversations from my memories of them. In some instances, I have changed the names of individuals to protect the privacy of the people involved.

  Part One

  I

  August 1983

  A woman walks into the sea. It’s a mid-August day. Early morning. The sky is clear. A mid-August day on the beach near the end of Long Island and it’s the summer of 1983. Seagulls idle on the wet sand, and far out the fishing boats from Montauk patrol, small as dark toys against the horizon. It’s a perfect late-summer day.

  The woman on the shore is my mother. She wears the iconic headdress of her era, a floral bathing cap with brightly colored petals. She walks cautiously, hands out for balance, because even in a calm surf you can’t be too careful walking into the sea. She always taught us that. Respect for the sea. The latex petals of the cap flutter about her head, almost festive as she moves. It’s early morning and my mother walks into the sea.

  Behind her is our house, a long, gray, sea-weathered clapboard house, stretching along a sand dune like a giant sleeping cat. My father bought this house years before the area became known as the Hamptons—back when it was still considered a long way from New York City, known mainly for artists and potato fields and the fishermen who made their living trawling off Montauk Point. The house had a shabby grandeur to it that time forgot. No air-conditioning (“The sea is our air conditioner!” my mother would proclaim) and no pool (“The sea is our pool”).

  Every August when I was young, it was a giant slumber party in the house by the sea. My sisters and I would fall asleep against a tumble of cousins in quilts, listening to the steady refrain of waves gliding along the shore—the moonlight outside our bedroom spackling a silver route to the horizon.

  August 13, 1983, was the day of my wedding.

  I was twenty-five, a messy splatter of freckles across my nose the final badge of childhood. Just before sunset that afternoon, I would put on a vintage lace dress that swooped gently off the shoulder in a style I saw as reminiscent of Sophia Loren in her glory days and my mother saw as suggestive of the sale rack at a yard sale.

  In the house that morning, they were talking in various rooms. In the pantry, the boy delivering flowers, sprays of lilies of the valley and a basket of rose petals for the wedding cake, was being bossed around by Johanna, the Irish cook. Johanna never got to boss anybody in the household; everyone, the housekeeper, the gardener, everyone disregarded her. She was a small woman in a hairnet, whose wisps of dry black hair nevertheless escaped and were often found floating in the vichyssoise. She stamped her foot, a white orthopedic shoe. “Get out of my kitchen,” she was telling the delivery boy from the florist’s shop. “I’m too busy,” she scolded him. “Go.”

  In the sunroom, my half brothers, three men in their early forties, sons from my father’s first marriage, huddled in conversation. They all had beards and ready laughs; they—in addition to my half sister—had come for the wedding with their spouses and their children from the far-flung places where they lived lives of their own. Half siblings, and the term was apt; I half knew them, and I half didn’t. Scott raised llamas in New Mexico; in Florida, Keith painted lush floral landscapes, some with naked women; in Colorado, Rod was engaged in investment strategies for a business no one understood. Mary Elizabeth, called MB, was an Arabic scholar in Paris. In my father’s sunroom, the morning light angled across the sisal rug, dust motes played in the air, and my three half brothers were talking together, shoulders hunched, coffee mugs in hand.

  The gardener, Vincent, in yellow protective earmuffs and a fishing cap, drove his seated mower in even rows up and down the sloping lawn, as he did every morning of summer, this day steering around the large white party tent erected earlier in the week for the reception.

  My wedding was scheduled to take place at five in the afternoon. It had been timed and debated for months, the proper moment for a wedding. The ceremony was to be situated by the garden up by the house, with a view giving out to the sea. “Situated”—that was the term used by Ruth Ann Middleton, the professional wedding planner my mother had hired to marshal the wedding to perfection. A white wire gazebo had been placed there, and the florist would wreath the lattice in garlands of pink roses.

  Five in the afternoon was the time the light would be the rich gold particular to late summer.

  A bagpiper in a kilt had been hired by my mother, so at the ceremony’s conclusion, he’d guide the guests from the garden down to the tent—braying the union of husband and wife as the setting sun burnished rose through the trees.

  “You know, men in kilts don’t wear any underwear,” my half brother Keith had told us the day before the wedding, as we drove to visit our father. “Seriously, not a stitch. Just a pink ribbon tied around the big fella.”

  My siblings and I were in the family station wagon when he told us that, on our way to Southampton Hospital. Our father lay in a coma in the ICU, having had a massive stroke two days before the wedding, leaving our home for what we suspected might be the last time strapped to an ambulance stretcher—the strap a thin, final harness to our life. He had had the stroke following an abrupt withdrawal from alcohol after a lifetime of drinking, having gone cold turkey at my mother’s insistence so—in her words—he’d “sober up” for the wedding.

  On the way to the hospital, Scott had insisted we stop at the fried-chicken place off Route 27, in case we got hungry, and as we stood watching our father breathe, the bucket of chicken sat unopened at the nurses’ station of the ICU, filling the air with its irrelevant fragrance.

  We had bowed to my mother’s insistence that the wedding should go forward, despite our father’s condition. Because, she claimed, it’s what Daddy would want. “Besides,” she added, “all my friends are already en route.”

  And so a man with no underwear, in a plaid skirt, was going to bray on our front lawn at sunset as my father lay in a coma over in the next town.

  The morning of my wedding, an easy breeze blew down the beach. My teenage nephews sat on their surfboards just beyond the break. All was calm and serene from the lilting vantage point of the sea. Occasionally a swell would captivate them and they angled their boards toward the shore, riding in on elegant curls of foam.

  Later that afternoon, my mother would pin the family veil on my head. She’d mutter about how I should have let her get a proper hairdresser to tame my wild beach hair. Then she’d call the hospital and instruct them that
no matter what happened that evening to her husband, they were not to call our house. Because, she’d go on to say, we were having a party.

  The morning of August 13, 1983, the day settled into a steady rhythm near the tip of Long Island. Taking her swim before breakfast, which, she believed, was de rigueur in summertime, my mother walked into the sea.

  II

  The Wedding Dress

  June 1983

  In early June, two months before the wedding, a diminutive woman named Beatrice came at my mother’s request to the house by the sea to “do something” about the dress I was wearing for my wedding. “Primp it up somehow,” was how my mother put it. “We need to do something,” she’d tell Ruth Ann Middleton, the wedding planner, over the phone, and then lower her voice to a small growl: “Dearie, it’s a disaster.”

  I had chosen what my mother called “frankly not much of a dress” to be married in. The dress was soft and old and fragile. It would cinch at the waist in a wide band of lace Beatrice would make. I had chosen pink grosgrain shoes to match, though I wanted red boots and this was our compromise, my mother’s and mine. In her opinion, I had chosen something unsuitable to the occasion. Too sexy, too boho, too, to use her expression, tartish. The dress was not one she would have chosen, one of the confections displayed in clear garment bags in the temperature-controlled bridal salons at Bergdorf’s, Bonwit’s, and Saks. My hippie dress, as she called it, was not her idea of the statement she wanted to make at her eldest daughter’s wedding. To her mind, it went with the choice of groom. Not the statement she wanted to make. But even she had to admit, as I tried on dress after dress while she sat on pastel-colored settees outside fitting rooms, waiting, that the entire exercise was all wrong.

  “Look at your little face,” she said about one. “You are drowning in that dress.”

  “I feel like a dessert,” I admitted. I’d try on another, the bridal advisers buttoning, hooking, smoothing, and smiling.

  “Okay,” she finally conceded with a sweep of her hand. “I give up. You get your way.”

  My mother and I did not always get along. There was a time, back when I was about sixteen and her marriage to my father was still fine, that we did. Late at night, we’d sit in the living room of our apartment in New York City in our nightgowns, feet up on the coffee table, drinking diet ginger ale and smoking cigarettes. I had just taken up smoking then, so on those evenings she’d open a long ebony cigarette box she kept on the coffee table, take out a cigarette, and pass the box to me. Then she’d take one of her cherished ceramic lighter holders, each fashioned to look like a small head of romaine lettuce, a disposable Bic lighter nestled inside, and light us up. I was working for a certain look, a sort of controlled nonchalance that I saw my mother as having perfected. The way she’d inhale deeply, raise her chin, and let the smoke drift out in a long dramatic waft. The way she cocked the cigarette between two fingers, her head leaning on a hand, elbow casually resting on the arm of the couch. She looked both wise and elegant to me, even in her nightgown and slippers. Cigarette smoke had such power, I thought. So I puffed when she puffed, exhaled when she did, and listened to her tell me dark stories from the lives of her friends.

  Her topic was inevitably men.

  “He left her flat,” she’d say about one or the other, or “With that weight gain, come on, she had it coming.” Above her head the cigarette smoke curled languorously, but her free hand cut the air as she spoke, her brown eyes flashed.

  High above the honks and shrieks of the New York City streets, my father and my younger sisters far away in sleep, this is what she taught me: that after the braces, the music lessons, and the first pair of high heels, the next essential item was a man. “Maaahhhn” was how she said it, drawing the syllable out as if it wasn’t a word at all but an incantation.

  “The army of women” is how she referred to her friends who were divorced or widowed, who were suddenly alone. “Don’t be one of the army of women,” she’d say, and though I didn’t know what she meant, I pictured them all: gray, elegant, with shiny black pocketbooks and Chanel suits, shuffling together past boutique windows on Madison Avenue. I believed her that it was something bad, something to avoid in this world.

  But all that was long ago. Long before I met a boy named Dean and let the wild tide of romance funnel into one steady stream. It shattered her very heart, my mother confided to absolutely everyone, that I had never taken an interest in a boy named Eliot whose mother was a friend of hers.

  “His family is in the Social Register,” she would point out, and sigh. It was a fragile sigh, a sigh of maternal resignation, that I could so easily let Eliot and his ilk slip through the family net.

  “I suppose I am to blame,” she said. “The mother is always to blame. It’s our lot.”

  The Social Register, a black book with orange lettering, came in annual hardcover installments and served as a GPS for my mother through the world of New York society. The yearly editions lined the bookshelves behind the couch in our library, within her easy reach. Often she pulled the most recent volume down and studied it, leafing through as one might through a magazine or a catalogue. It was filled with information she found fascinating and valuable, who had gone to what school, what clubs they belonged to, the names of their children, and the names of their houses.

  Many families in the pages of the Social Register had houses with names. A house with a name spoke of legacy, of a gabled heritage, the faint hint of noble skeletons in every closet. A family seat. Though we had no such heritage, she intended to build one, and she named our house in East Hampton the very first summer we owned it, named it after the street sign she had the gardener erect in the driveway, Children at Play. That name reflected the mandate she bestowed upon herself in marrying my father, an older man whose first wife had divorced him when his children were very young. The Children at Play house was to be the warm cloak under which she gathered his four elder children, now adults, and restored them to him along with their wives and children, to join us every August by the sea.

  In the mid-’60s, East Hampton was a quiet town. The old post office had been converted to a movie theater where the feature changed weekly, and children old enough to ride bicycles could follow a narrow bike path single file under a canopy of giant elm trees all the way into town to spend their allowance at the five-and-ten, or at Marley’s stationery store. The houses with names had a steady soundtrack of sprinklers, and the summer air smelled of fresh-cut grass. The drive from New York City took four hours, the final stretch from Southampton along Route 27 past corn and potato fields that in those days gave a view clear to the horizon. At Children at Play my mother saw lawns, with children to run on them, and she saw herself presiding over the extended “clan,” as she called it, a nod to the Scottish roots of our last name. She set about posing us in front of the house each summer in clean pressed clothes, smiling for a hired photographer, our mouths open in a semblance of spontaneous laughter. One year someone drove the family car, a Chrysler Imperial convertible with tail fins and push-button gears, onto the front lawn, and we posed in and around it, my parents in the front seat, my mother holding a parasol and my father gripping the wheel, as though we’d all just merrily driven out from the city and somehow missed the driveway and landed square in the middle of the grass. Behind us stood the gray shingled house. Children at Play. She ordered stationery, thick ivory cards with “Children at Play” embossed across the top in bright green print. The name, in Portuguese, was painted on a mosaic of enamel tile that hung over the entryway to the house, “Quinta de Crianças Brincar.” My mother’s friend Judy had gone to Portugal and brought it back, and to my mother it christened the house with familial vision.

  The Social Register registered faded love with no apparent hint of irony. Beside the name of any divorced woman, even those remarried, the name of her first husband sat in parentheses, a coded palimpsest for all to see of her romantic past. Beside my mother’s name it said “(Van Devere),” referencing a s
hadowy first husband in Florida never spoken of.

  “Eliot Andrews is in law school, and if the truth be known, he has very good genes,” she said. “He looks like a young Greek god.” She went on, “Please, for me, just think about it. Look at him in profile, dearie, that profile could be on a Greek coin. Strong chin. Nothing out of place.”

  Where she saw Adonis, I saw Bacchus, a fraternity boy whose chiseled features would swell to paunch and puffiness over time.

  “His genes are really like anyone else’s, Ma. Levi’s.”

  “Very funny. You have a lot to learn about the world, little thing. A lot to learn about men. Your mother,” she’d go on to add, because when she had something important to say, she always referred to herself in the third person, “your mother knows a few things.”

  “He was a very nice boy for a college romance,” was how my mother explained Dean. “You know, the kind of romance a girl should age out of, not marry.”

  My mother was telling this to Ruth Ann Middleton, her wedding planner. She spoke to Ruth Ann in a British accent. Though she was from Miami, my mother had various accents, and it was the British accent she deployed to speak to Ruth Ann as well as to the ladies from the bridal salons at Saks and Bonwit’s and Bergdorf’s. In Ruth Ann’s case, she added a certain entre nous air that sounded less imperious and more clubby, as if, being two women who had memorized entire swaths of the Social Register, they could speak to each other from within a sort of gilded cage in confidential tones. Ruth Ann was a large woman with black stubble on her chin. A pocketbook dangled from her forearm at all times, from which she pulled lists and lists of crucial wedding information—caterers, club membership directories, and her contacts at the society desks of key newspapers around the world. Ruth Ann had a credo that weddings start on time. If she was “doing” a wedding, it started when it was supposed to or her name wasn’t Ruth Ann Middleton. On her hands, she wore short kid gloves.