The Paper Palace(82)

Our canoe hits sand on the far side of the pond. I hop out into the shallows, trying not to soak the cuffs of my jeans.

Anna winces as she climbs out. “I shouldn’t have ridden my bike into town this morning. That dirt road is one big pothole. I think I bruised my vagina bones.”

“Gross.” I laugh.

We drag the canoe up onto the shore, into the thick grasses beyond the rough scrape of wet sand against metal, stash it in a gap between the trees.

“I haven’t seen any of these people in so long,” Anna says as we walk down the red clay road toward the beach. “It’s going to be weird.”

“It’s like riding a bike, only more boring,” I say. “And less painful.”

Anna laughs. “I wish I didn’t feel so fat.” She pulls her hair up into a ponytail. “I’m not in the mood to be judged by these fuckers.”

Anna has been model-thin for years, but she still thinks she’s a fat kid. “Fat thighs are like a phantom limb,” Anna tells me. “Years after you lose them, you can still feel them rubbing together.”

“You look amazing, Anna. I, on the other hand, spent the winter holed up in the apartment with Peter eating Milanos. I need to starve myself between now and the wedding.”

We walk on the road single file, Anna in front, skirting thickets of poison ivy. The back ends of her flip-flops raise little puffs of red dust.

“You know which ones are underrated?” Anna says. “Brussels.”

“And Chessmen.”

“Dad’s favorite.”

“Have you talked to him recently?” I ask. I haven’t spoken to him since our grandmother’s funeral.

“He calls me every once in a while,” Anna says. “We have these awkward conversations where all I want to do is get off the phone. The whole thing is ridiculous. You two are the ones who’ve always been close, not me.”

“Not anymore.”

“The only reason he calls is because Mary forces him to. She likes to tell her friends what a doting husband and father he is. She’s trying to get them into some country club in Southampton. One of those no-Jews places.”

“I hate her.”

“Anyway, I’ve told him he needs to call you. He’s the father, for fuck’s sake.”

“That’s the last thing I want. Honestly? It’s a relief. I don’t have to wait for him to disappoint me all the time.”

We stop at the top of the high dune. Down below us, a hundred yards to the right, there’s a crowd of linen. Someone has planted Chinese fish flags on poles in the sand—a brightly colored circle of wind socks. The bonfire has been lit, its flames mostly invisible in the still-light summer evening, heat oiling the sky above it.

“P.S., I know you’re mad at me because you think I acted like a total pussy for forgiving him. I just don’t care enough about him to care. I’ll freeze him out if you want me to,” Anna says.

“I did want you to, but thinking about it, I’d rather you be the one getting Belgian loafers for Christmas, stuck in a needlepoint chair in the sitting room drinking eggnog with the evil cunt.”

“That’s fair.”

“Merry Christmas!” I laugh. “Here are some book galleys.”

“‘And a nickel bag from me!’” Anna squeaks in a high voice, imitating Mary.

We run down the steep dune toward the sea, shouting into the wind, ecstatic, faster than our legs can carry us. At the bottom, our momentum is slowed by the deep crunch of flat beach.

Anna falls forward onto her knees, raises her arms into the sky, victorious. “This, I miss.”

“This, I miss.” I fall onto my back next to her, making a snow angel in the sand. Anna’s cheeks are flushed pink, hair wind-tangled. “You’re looking absurdly gorgeous.”

“Don’t let me get drunk and fuck some hot guy in the dunes,” Anna says.

“I think you’re safe. Everyone here’s a thousand years old.”

“Still.”

I push up onto my elbows, look out at the sea—the pooling sun, the whitecap flecks, the crest and swell. Every single time I see the ocean, even if I’ve been there in the morning, it feels like a new miracle—its power, its blueness always just as overwhelming. Like falling in love.

The wind shifts, carrying the smell of burning driftwood and brine. Anna gets to her feet, brushes sand off her knees. “Right. Let’s go get our linen on.”

“I refuse to be seen in public with anyone who says, ‘get our linen on,’” I say.

“It’s repulsive, I agree,” Anna says, cracking herself up.

I worship my sister.

The first person to come into focus as we walk up the beach is Jonas’s mother. She’s standing slightly apart, her back to me, but I recognize her grizzled, aggressively undyed hair, the worn-suede Birkenstocks she’s holding in one hand, the line she’s drawing in the sand with one big toe. She must feel the vibration of our steps in the sand, because she turns, like a snake, and smiles. She’s talking to a girl I’ve never seen before: young—maybe twenty—pretty, petite, dark hair frosted blond at the ends, skin tanned a perfectly even brown, wearing shorts and a cropped T-shirt. Her belly button is pierced with a large diamond stud.