I'll Never Tell

by Catherine McKenzie

  And then her parents had died, and they’d gotten their first surprise. Her father wanted them to keep camp going for one last summer. Swift wouldn’t tell them anything more, other than the fact that they’d get more information on Labor Day weekend, but it made Mary wonder. Had his complaining simply been the way he expressed his love? Or had he come to love what he used to refer to as “his prison,” a type of Stockholm syndrome brought on by forty years of laughing children and the quiet beauty of the lake?

  She’d find out soon enough.

  When she was finally ready to go, she decided to ride there. She hated the confinement of cars, and there was a public path through the woods from the farm she’d bought four miles away. It was already past ten when she saddled up Cinnamon and led her out of the barn. The path was as pretty as she remembered, all dappled light and views of the lake through the trees. She loved the silence of it, how the only sounds were the ones she and Cinnamon made, their matched breathing, and the occasional buzz of a motorboat from the lake.

  She knew some of her siblings would want to sell the property, take the money and run. But that was a crime. One she’d survive, perhaps, but still. Was there anything she could say that would convince them to leave well enough alone? She’d thought and thought, but she never seemed to know the right buttons to push with them.

  The path gave out near the Craft Shop. Mary tied her horse to the porch banister, patting Cinnamon down and bringing her one of the large tins of water that sat outside every building on the property—a simple fire extinguisher even a kid could use—for Cinnamon to drink from. She wanted to stay with Cinnamon or get back on her and ride away, but she knew this would only postpone the inevitable. So she cut through the woods and took the back stairs up to the deck of her parents’ house.

  She looked through the sliding glass doors into the living room. There they all were, her family, and Sean and Mr. Swift, sitting on the couches her parents had inherited from her grandparents, watching the door like they were in a play waiting for someone to enter. Waiting for Godot.

  But no.

  Me, she thought. They’re waiting for me.

  This gave her a thrill. No one ever used to wait for her; she felt like she’d spent her childhood running after one sister or another. The only time she felt present, waited for, expected, was at the stables.

  She watched them. They looked like they’d been arranged in a tableau, sitting for a painting. It would be a shame to disturb it. But disturb it she must.

  She rapped on the glass.

  • • •

  “Now that we’re all here,” Swift said five minutes later, when the general dismay at Mary’s tardiness had subsided, and she had her own glass of iced tea clutched in her hand as she sat on the sofa between the twins, “we can get to the matter at hand.”

  Swift stood up and pulled a document from one of the pockets of his fishing vest. It was folded into thirds and had an official-looking seal on it.

  “A bit of background, though I suspect you know most of this already. Before your grandparents died, they transferred the land that the camp sits on into a trust. Your father was given the custody of the property, and I was the trustee. The trust was to stay in place until he died, and the land couldn’t be sold for any reason before that time. Because none of you were born when the trust was set up, your grandfather gave your father the right to decide who the property would go to when he died.”

  “Which he did,” Ryan said.

  “Which he did,” Swift agreed. “Which brings us to today. This is your father’s will. It contains some provisions that are . . . unusual.” He cleared his throat. “And I want to let you know that I . . . Well, I tried to discourage him from this idea, but he was adamant.”

  “Tell us already.” That was Liddie; that was always Liddie, but in this instance, Mary couldn’t help but agree. Why was there so much drama? It was her father’s worst characteristic, his flair for the dramatic. Even the simplest of things had to be acted out. No, worse. Staged.

  Swift coughed, his throat rattling.

  “Your father left the property in co-ownership to his children with one, um, unusual exception, which I think it’s best if I leave to your father to explain.”

  He took another piece of paper out of his jacket. “He set it all out in a letter.” He started to open it but then dropped it. He picked it up, his face flushed, the sweat back on his brow. “Sorry, sorry.”

  He unfolded it. “Ahem. Here we go.

  “ ‘Children, this may come as a surprise to some—or all—of you, but this property that you’re sitting on means the world to me. That might not always have been so; I’ve been a reluctant lover, so to speak, but it’s true now. As I write these words, your mother’s outside photographing the lilies in her garden. It’s dusk, and the light on the lake is like nothing I’ve ever known. It’s odd to think that I’m both here as I write this and, when you hear these words, gone. But alas, that is man’s fate. To be fleeting. To be impermanent.

  “ ‘My father wanted this place to be permanent. He tied it up so I didn’t have any choice but to stay. And while that ended up being the best thing for me, I doubt you can all say the same. So as much as I might want to keep you tied to camp, I’ll make a different choice from my father and let you choose your own destiny.

  “ ‘Choices are important. Some more than others. Leaving you with no guidance would be wrong. But there is, as you all know, more to the story than that.

  “ ‘Camp Macaw suffered a terrible tragedy twenty years ago. The police consider it unsolved. Over the years, however, I’ve come to believe that it was perpetrated by one of you. This hasn’t been an easy thing to accept—that one of our children could be responsible for what was done to that innocent girl—but accept it I must. You’ll again have trouble believing this, perhaps, but I’ve struggled for a long time, trying to decide what to do with this knowledge. I had to be sure, you see, and even now I am not. That’s a tough position to be in, and there’s no perfect solution, alas, so this is what I’ve decided.

  “ ‘Ryan, I believe that you’re responsible. I’m not certain, but certain enough. The police may have cleared you, but they didn’t have all the facts. I don’t understand why you did it, but if you’re hearing this, then I’ve lost the chance to ask you.

  “ ‘Girls, because I can’t be entirely sure that I’m right, I’m leaving this in your hands. If you think I’m wrong—that your brother is ­innocent—then you can agree to let him share equally in the property. So this doesn’t persist too long, you’ll have to vote forty-eight hours after Swift reads you this letter. First, whether Ryan gets his share, and then, whether to keep the place or sell it. The decision about Ryan will have to be unanimous, and it will be irrevocable.

  “ ‘Whatever you decide, my hope is that you’ll keep camp going. It’s an amazing place. We were a true family here, the best version of ourselves. It would give me enormous peace to think of it being handed down from generation to generation, unceasing. But I’ve left that decision in your hands as well. I can only hope that you’ll keep my wishes in mind, and that they become your wishes too.

  “ ‘And finally, Ryan, this might be hard to hear, but I’m doing this out of love for you, and also out of respect and love for Amanda. I cannot know what you’re feeling right now, but please believe that you have my compassion. Perhaps I should’ve confronted you while I was still living, but my lack of certainty held me back. And for that, I’m truly sorry. If I’m wrong about you, I ask your forgiveness and trust that your sisters will do the right thing.

  “ ‘Good luck to you all.

  “ ‘With love, Dad.’ ”

  There was a full minute of silence when Swift stopped reading, the only sound that of him folding the letter back into squares and tucking it into his pocket.

  “What. The. Hell?” Kate finally said. “That’s so messed up.”


  “That’s it?” Ryan asked. “What does that even mean?”

  “I’m sorry to say this, Ryan, but unless your sisters agree, you don’t inherit.”

  “How does that work?” Mary asked.

  “Your father has left the property to you four girls and to me in co-ownership. If you decide that Ryan should inherit, I’ll transfer my share to him.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Ryan said. “Is this even binding?”

  “I assure you that it is.”

  Liddie, Ryan, and Kate all started speaking at once. In the jumble of voices, it was hard to make out what anyone was saying, but it wasn’t hard to imagine. Mary heard the word outrage more than once. She met Margaux’s eyes across the room. She was crying. This surprised her. Margaux didn’t usually show her emotions openly, but she’d been close to Amanda. Perhaps this absurd situation was bringing that all up again. You’d think that twenty years was enough time to get over something, or at least through it. But other people were never on her timeline.

  She tried to speak, but no one could hear her. After a moment of frustration, she put her hand up in the air, the method they always used at camp to get silence in the room. They followed suit one by one, a reflex adult life hadn’t erased. Sean was the first; Ryan was the last. Only Swift kept his hands at his sides, looking puzzled.

  “What happens if we don’t agree to give it to Ryan?” Mary asked Swift when the room was silent. “Or if it’s not unanimous? Does that mean we’re stuck owning the property with you?”

  Swift’s eyes darted to the left, and Mary knew the answer before he said it.

  “No, I’m simply an interim step. If you can’t agree on Ryan, then I’ll transfer my share to Sean.”

  CHAPTER 10

  LEFTOVERS

  Margaux

  The summer Ryan left his family, Margaux had gone to visit Kerry and her nieces to check in. It was Maisy’s sixth birthday. Kerry had invited her whole class and set up a bouncy castle in their backyard. The party was loud and lush, overcompensation for the fact that Ryan wasn’t there. Except he was. He arrived as if he were one of the guests, a few minutes after Margaux, with a large pink package under his arm. Maisy and Claire and Sasha were ecstatic to see him, jumping on his back and into his arms, dragging him into the yard. As she watched them, a pileup of a happy family, Margaux wondered if she should leave. She’d come as a stand-in for Ryan, but now that Ryan was there in the flesh, she felt superfluous.

  But leaving would mean explaining to Mark why she’d come and gone so quickly, and this after making a big deal about his not coming along. The truth was, she and Mark always ended up fighting after they were around other people’s children. He wanted a baby; she didn’t, but she hadn’t made that clear to him, not yet. She didn’t know how to navigate this role reversal, and she wasn’t sure it was a firm decision, not back then at thirty-five, and not even now at thirty-seven, though she understood nature might soon make that decision for her if it hadn’t already.

  So she stayed. Her parents were there, though she hadn’t expected them either. The Mackerels (a nickname the campers had given her family years ago that stuck to them like glue) weren’t hands-on grandparents. And even though they ran a camp for children, they seemed out of place at the party. Some of that was how they looked. Her father kept his hair long and in a ponytail and was wearing a T-shirt with Che Guevara on it. Her mom had let her nearly white blonde hair turn actual white, and she wore it in one thick long braid that she wrapped around her head like her Swedish milkmaid relatives must’ve done generations ago. Her clothes were made of natural fibers, which only enhanced her earth-mother vibe.

  Watching them across the lawn, it crossed Margaux’s mind that if she saw them on the news as the leaders of some doomsday cult, she wouldn’t bat an eye. They certainly stood out in the taupe-wearing crowd. Neither of them approved of Kerry, who “came from money,” her dad always said, and enjoyed spending it. But now there was money trouble, and Margaux wondered how they were even affording the party. Perhaps Kerry’s parents were kicking in. They were standing next to the punch bowl wearing matching Calvin Klein.

  Margaux girded herself and joined her parents as they watched the children bounce in the plastic house. She hadn’t seen them in a while. Mark didn’t feel comfortable around them, and something about his unease made her see their flaws in ways she hadn’t since she was still spending summers at camp. She was resolving to try to do better when Sasha, the youngest, came up and slipped her little paw into Margaux’s.

  “Painting?”

  She dropped down. “What’s that, honey?”

  “Grandma bringed paints. You help me.”

  “Which grandma?”

  Sasha pointed to Ingrid.

  “Should we ask her to paint too?”

  “Okay.”

  Sasha tugged her over to Margaux’s mother.

  “Come,” she said, grabbing Ingrid’s hand and pulling them along with her to a small craft table. There was a new set of watercolor paints, creamy paper, and a pristine set of brushes.

  “What shall we paint?” Ingrid asked. She dropped elegantly down to the grass and readied a bowl of water.

  “Party?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Ingrid went to work as Margaux and Sasha watched. The party quickly took shape under her skilled hand, and Margaux had a flash of memory, of her and her mother creating something with similar paints, preserving a memory. Somehow, she’d forgotten.

  “Shall we do the people?” Ingrid asked after she’d drawn in the lawn, picnic tables, and the bouncy house.

  “Fambly,” Sasha said.

  “You got it. You want to help, Margaux?”

  Margaux smiled at her mother as she reached for a brush. She was glad she’d come. Maybe she should save this and get it framed . . .

  Ryan burst into the backyard with a girl under each of his arms.

  “Bouncy house time!” he bellowed, dropping the girls and launching them toward the entrance.

  Sasha was up like a flash, the painting forgotten.

  “Me too, Daddy! Me too!”

  Ryan basket-tossed each of his daughters into the castle with a yelp of sugar-fueled glee, their matching pastel dresses little hot-air balloons around their waists. They’d always been rambunctious, wild even, but this was something else. They were performing for Ryan, Margaux realized, trying to show him what he was missing by being away. Her heart broke at the thought.

  “Someone’s going to get injured,” Ingrid said, as shrieks emerged from the bouncy house. It was hard to see what happened, but after they’d been in there for less than a minute, the other children started pouring out as if they were escaping a war zone. Only Ryan’s girls remained inside, jumping higher and higher with determination on their innocent faces. A few minutes later, when the castle had been collapsed and Kerry asked them for an explanation, there was a chorus of denials. But Margaux knew the look in the eyes of the fleeing children.

  It was fear.

  • • •

  “Did Mom know?” Margaux asked Swift.

  “What?”

  “The letter was only from Dad. So I want to know, did my mom know about this? Is this what she thought also?”

  Swift rubbed at his chin. Sweat was gathering at his collar. “No, I don’t believe she did. Your father left two sets of instructions; if he died first, then she’d get a life interest in the camp before it passed to you. If she died first or they died together, well . . .”

  “We know what fucking happened then,” Ryan said through clenched teeth.

  “Yes.”

  “This is such bullshit.”

  Ryan raised his arm and threw his glass of iced tea toward the plate glass window. It smashed above Swift’s head with a report that sounded like a shot. Everyone but Sean froze. He zipped across the
room and had Ryan pinned against the wall before anyone had time to react.

  “Get the fuck off me!” Ryan said.

  “Not until you calm yourself.”

  “How am I supposed to do that with you manhandling me?”

  He held Ryan more tightly as Ryan struggled against the wall.

  “Stop it, Ryan,” Liddie said. “You know he’s way stronger than you. Always has been.”

  Mary walked up to them. She put one hand on Sean’s shoulder and another on Ryan’s. She spoke in low tones, saying, “Steady, now,” soothing them like she did with her horses. It worked. Ryan stopped struggling, and Sean’s arms relaxed. Mary spoke again, and he released Ryan, taking a step back. He sank into his chair and looked at the ice scattered at his feet. Kate left the room and returned with a towel and a broom, quickly cleaning up the mess. Liddie went to help her; only Margaux and Swift stood still, frozen.

  “All right now?” Mary said to Ryan and Sean, her hands outstretched from her body, her palms facing them.

  They nodded.

  “Why don’t we sit back down and talk about this?” Mary said. “Okay, Mr. Swift?”

  Swift snapped out of his reverie. “Yes.”

  “Margaux?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You know you’ve been standing in the same place for five minutes?”

  Margaux shook herself. Everyone was seated and yet, yes, there she was, still standing. She wasn’t quite sure what was going on. Was it simply the shock? This had happened sometimes when she was young. She’d get stuck in her head and wouldn’t notice that the world was moving around her. But she’d been snapped out of that when she was seventeen, and it hadn’t happened since. Until now.

  She sat down. “I was waiting for everyone to calm down.”

  Mary gave her a look but didn’t say anything. No one else seemed to be paying any attention to them. All eyes were on Swift.

  “Okay, Swifty,” Liddie said. “You have our attention. Do you mind explaining all of this?”