The Bookish Life of Nina Hill(17)

Peter stared at her, then frowned. “When’s your birthday?”

“June 30.”

He let out a low whistle. “Oh crap. That’s not going to make things any easier.” He leaned down and started rooting around in his briefcase, a large brown leather messenger bag that looked like it had seen some heavy use. He finally found what he was looking for and unrolled it onto the table: a long, laminated piece of paper covered in some kind of diagram. It was highly complicated.

“You laminated it?” asked Nina. Not that she didn’t love a laminator—she really did; she could frequently be found randomly laminating pretty pieces of fabric or paper to use as bookmarks. “Your margins are really even.”

“Thanks,” he said. “No one’s ever noticed my margins before.”

“You have beautiful margins.” Nina smiled. “But I’m still not sure why it’s laminated.” She paused. “I’m not completely certain what it is.”

Peter looked surprised. “It’s us. I mean it’s our family. It’s laminated because I use it in class to explain how to construct a kinship diagram.”

“A kinship diagram?”

“A family tree is what we call it in the West, but in many cultures, degrees of kinship extend way beyond immediate or even secondary family.”

“Ah,” said Nina, having no response to that.

“However,” said Peter, pointing to parts of the chart, “our chart is actually relatively shallow but very wide, which makes it interesting.” He noted her bemused expression. “Perhaps only to me. Our family is extremely matrimonially extended, so it’s a good demonstration of how interpersonal relationships are affected by changes in legal status.” He shrugged. “Or not, as the case may be.”

He was clearly serious about this, but then he looked at her and grinned. “And now I get to redo the whole thing and add you, and as you are illegitimate—no offense—it’s even better. I get to use dotted lines!”

“No offense taken. Can you give me a broad overview? I still don’t understand the whole family bit.” Nina was starting to wish she’d brought notepaper. “I’m having a hard time believing it.”

Peter nodded, finished his coffee, and said, “I can imagine it’s a bit of a shock.” Then he pulled a dry-erase marker from his bag.

“I have that brand,” said Nina. “I find they streak so much less.”

“They really do, and I can’t believe we’re discussing it. Just think, we would be friends even if we weren’t related, drawn together by our love of quality office supplies.”

He leaned forward and poked his pen at the top of the chart. “OK, so here’s William at the top, and here, ranged from left to right, are his three wives. The main reason the family is so wide is that he married for the first time at twenty and the last time at sixty. He had kids each time, and those big gaps of time allow for three generations to be born, obviously.”

Nina had no idea what he was talking about, but nodded. “Obviously.”

Peter looked at her keenly, clearly used to students pretending to understand him. He sighed and reached into his bag again. “Here, let’s try this instead. It sometimes helps.”

He slid a piece of paper across to her and handed her a pen. It was a FriXion, she was pleased to see, and then she was mildly embarrassed that she even noticed.

“Put William at the top, and then draw a horizontal line all the way across.”

She did so.

“Now, from left to right, leaving space, write Alice, then Rosie, then your mom’s name—what is it, by the way?”

“Candice.”

“OK.” He made a note on his laminated chart, the tip of his tongue poking out happily, like a little kid. “And then finally Eliza. Done that?” He looked over and nodded. “OK, now draw another horizontal line under their names, and put a big ONE on the far left.”

Nina did so, feeling on familiar ground now that she was dealing with paper.

“I like your lettering,” said Peter. “Now, under Alice write Becky and Katherine. Under Rosie write Archie. Under Candice write Nina, and under Eliza write Millie. Then put another horizontal line.”

He sat back and puffed out his breath. “That is your generation. Those are your siblings, and they range from the oldest, my mother, Becky, who is fifty-nine, to the youngest, Millie, who is ten.”

Nina gazed at him. “No way.”

“Way.”

“But . . . how is that possible?”

He shrugged philosophically. “It’s possible because men can father children until they’re really old, and for some reason—and this is less easy to explain—your father was so charming he persuaded three women to marry him and at least one other that we know of to sleep with him. Mind you,” he added judiciously, “I only knew him as an old man; he was pretty handsome in his youth.”

Nina said dryly, “I imagine my mother wasn’t the only one.”

Peter shook his head. “I imagine you’re right, but so far you’re the only child out of wedlock we know about.” He looked serious for a moment. “But here’s the problem: Archie is thirty, and his birthday is in January.”

Nina looked at him, confused. “So?”