at the back of the house, the servants had set up a buffet for dinner. Mother, Father, and the Schulhorns had been playing tennis and bridge all day, and now they lounged on heavy teak Adirondack chairs with cigarettes and the first of their evening drinks in hand. Mr. Schulhorn’s children by his first two marriages were away at riding camp.
Artemas had spent the day watching over his brothers and sisters. He’d taken them on a picnic at the Japanese teahouse in the woods beyond the rolling, manicuredlawn, supervised them while they played in the Schulhorns’ giant pool, bullied them all into taking an afternoon nap, broken up fights, and cleaned Michael’s face when the squabbles made him vomit.
Father and Mother had dismissed the governess months ago. Whenever servants were let go, one of Father’s gambling debts must be due, or another of his careless investments had failed, or he’d simply spent too much money on someone or something that had temporarily caught his fancy.
Artemas was tired of playing parent to his siblings. James, twelve, was old enough to help, but James’s temper made him unpredictable. Besides, James always hung back and waited for Artemas to tell him what to do. James had wet the bed until he was eight, and all those years of Father’s scorn and Mother’s embarrassment had taken a toll on his confidence.
The long, full day had worn the younger ones out, finally, and they were eating quietly at a special table set aside from the adults. Artemas cut Julia’s roast beef, coaxed Elizabeth to put down the doll that seemed constantly welded under one arm, wiped mashed potatoes off of Michael’s T-shirt, and kept a watchful eye on Cassandra’s mean-spirited game of stealing food from James’s plate. James chewed his fruit salad in contented ignorance.
Artemas didn’t want to upset the temporary peace by reprimanding Cass, who suffered enough scolding from Mother. Cass was probably the fattest ten-year-old in America, and she wore her fat like an armor. Her bright, wary hazel eyes were beacons of misery above chipmunk cheeks. The more Mother, who was reed-thin and obsessive about image, humiliated her, the more she ate.
Elizabeth, on the other hand, was slender and lanky, like Michael, her fraternal twin. Now, she edged closer to the side of her chair nearest Artemas, and when he looked down at her, she leaned against him and sighed like a weary old woman, not a pampered eight-year-old. She lived in a secretive little world, peopled by invisible friends who would never threaten her timid nature.
“You okay, bug?” he asked.
She blushed and turned her head against his arm. He patted her head awkwardly. Artemas didn’t understand her shyness. She was Father’s favorite, with hair the color of sunshine and deep-set, thickly lashed eyes, a ringer for Mother’s Hughs relatives. Artemas and Cassandra had black hair, like their Spanish grandmother; James’s was dark brown, like Father’s; Michael’s was sandy. Julia’s hair was yellow-white and stringy. Like cheap butter, Mother said.
Father openly doted on Elizabeth, always cuddling her and stroking her hair. He never subjected her to careless taunts or, almost as bad, his nonchalant apathy.
But in the past year she’d begun sneaking into Artemas’s bed at night, crying, shivering, clinging to him wordlessly. At first he’d been alarmed—he was too old to have his kid sister climb into his bed when she had nightmares.
No matter what calming things he said or how often he carried her back to her own room, she continued to come. Desperate, he’d told the governess, who’d questioned Elizabeth rigorously about her nightmares. But she’d only say that monsters were after her, and that Artemas kept the monsters away. The governess had locked her in her room at night. But now, with the governess gone, she was showing up in Artemas’s bed regularly. Defeated, he simply turned his back and let her huddle against it.
Michael
Artemas had spent the day watching over his brothers and sisters. He’d taken them on a picnic at the Japanese teahouse in the woods beyond the rolling, manicuredlawn, supervised them while they played in the Schulhorns’ giant pool, bullied them all into taking an afternoon nap, broken up fights, and cleaned Michael’s face when the squabbles made him vomit.
Father and Mother had dismissed the governess months ago. Whenever servants were let go, one of Father’s gambling debts must be due, or another of his careless investments had failed, or he’d simply spent too much money on someone or something that had temporarily caught his fancy.
Artemas was tired of playing parent to his siblings. James, twelve, was old enough to help, but James’s temper made him unpredictable. Besides, James always hung back and waited for Artemas to tell him what to do. James had wet the bed until he was eight, and all those years of Father’s scorn and Mother’s embarrassment had taken a toll on his confidence.
The long, full day had worn the younger ones out, finally, and they were eating quietly at a special table set aside from the adults. Artemas cut Julia’s roast beef, coaxed Elizabeth to put down the doll that seemed constantly welded under one arm, wiped mashed potatoes off of Michael’s T-shirt, and kept a watchful eye on Cassandra’s mean-spirited game of stealing food from James’s plate. James chewed his fruit salad in contented ignorance.
Artemas didn’t want to upset the temporary peace by reprimanding Cass, who suffered enough scolding from Mother. Cass was probably the fattest ten-year-old in America, and she wore her fat like an armor. Her bright, wary hazel eyes were beacons of misery above chipmunk cheeks. The more Mother, who was reed-thin and obsessive about image, humiliated her, the more she ate.
Elizabeth, on the other hand, was slender and lanky, like Michael, her fraternal twin. Now, she edged closer to the side of her chair nearest Artemas, and when he looked down at her, she leaned against him and sighed like a weary old woman, not a pampered eight-year-old. She lived in a secretive little world, peopled by invisible friends who would never threaten her timid nature.
“You okay, bug?” he asked.
She blushed and turned her head against his arm. He patted her head awkwardly. Artemas didn’t understand her shyness. She was Father’s favorite, with hair the color of sunshine and deep-set, thickly lashed eyes, a ringer for Mother’s Hughs relatives. Artemas and Cassandra had black hair, like their Spanish grandmother; James’s was dark brown, like Father’s; Michael’s was sandy. Julia’s hair was yellow-white and stringy. Like cheap butter, Mother said.
Father openly doted on Elizabeth, always cuddling her and stroking her hair. He never subjected her to careless taunts or, almost as bad, his nonchalant apathy.
But in the past year she’d begun sneaking into Artemas’s bed at night, crying, shivering, clinging to him wordlessly. At first he’d been alarmed—he was too old to have his kid sister climb into his bed when she had nightmares.
No matter what calming things he said or how often he carried her back to her own room, she continued to come. Desperate, he’d told the governess, who’d questioned Elizabeth rigorously about her nightmares. But she’d only say that monsters were after her, and that Artemas kept the monsters away. The governess had locked her in her room at night. But now, with the governess gone, she was showing up in Artemas’s bed regularly. Defeated, he simply turned his back and let her huddle against it.
Michael
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