The Last Summer of the Camperdowns Read Free

campaign.
    Politics was an inherited affliction in our family, passed on like a weak chin from one generation to the next. My grandfather, a fervent Democrat, had been an early labor activist and union leader who scandalized his blue-collar disciples by marrying the boss’s daughter, a concert pianist.
    “I believe the term ‘limousine liberal’ was coined with your paternal grandfather in mind,” my mother used to scoff at every opportunity.
    Any time there was a major strike or a serious bout of labor unrest my father talked about running for office, a constituency of powerful union supporters and left-leaning pedigree pals urging him on, but it was Vietnam and the release of the Pentagon Papers, his growing disillusionment with the ethical failures of leadership, that pushed him to finally make good on his word.
    I T WAS JUNE 4, 1972 . The day started out peacefully enough, a creamy soft Sunday afternoon, a sweet do-nothing day. My mother called them tea-finger-sandwich days. A day with the crust removed. My parents and I were in the dining room eating lunch. The garden doors were open. The late spring sun poured in, conferring a brilliant sheen to the ocean air, the exuberant complementary colors of the fabric on the chairs, orange and blue, fading against the natural light.
    The election was five months away, and we were enjoying a rare quiet moment as a family. Camp had promised to take the day off and unplug the phone, but not before receiving the news that one of his biggest supporters had died unexpectedly the night before.
    “Terrible about Franklin.” My mother unfolded her napkin and positioned it in her lap.
    “There’s a goddamn bullet for everyone,” my father said, not for the first time, from his position at the head of the long table as we sat together in the cherry-paneled room. Four courses. Soup. Salad. Entree. Dessert.
    “I’d settle for a goddamn hot dog,” I said, grousing, unconvinced that a stranger’s death was worth my attention, pulling a paperback novel from my back pocket. Diary of a Nobody . Lifted from my mother’s nightstand. At that stage of my life, I was persuaded that curmudgeonly complaint lent me a certain gravitas that belied my age, which is not to say that whining didn’t come naturally to me.
    “Riddle, you sound like a hockey player,” my mother said as Louise, called Lou, our durable staff of one, emerged from the kitchen with a pot of coffee, steam pouring from the spout. “How many times must you be told not to read at the table?”
    “Better a hockey player than a debutante,” my father said, patting my hand, indicating his ongoing support for my minor acts of rebellion. Grateful and a little bit smug, I smiled back at him.
    “Shall I pour?” Lou asked no one in particular, the coffeepot poised in midair over my mother’s empty cup.
    “Yes, thank you,” my mother said.
    “No,” my father interrupted. “We are quite capable of pouring our own coffee. Just leave the pot. Thanks anyway, Lou.”
    Lou smiled nervously as my mother sighed in annoyance.
    Everything about Lou was short: her stubby legs, her thick waist, her spiky hair, a kind of electrified crew cut. The only thing long about Lou was the extent of her suffering—she had taken care of my mother as a child and continued to perform the same penance now that she was an adult. She cooked and cleaned and ran the household, subject to occasional cursory inspection by my mother, who made it clear to everyone that when it came to what she found interesting, housework and children ranked just above medieval fairs and slightly below collecting bottle caps. I generally felt the welcome mat yanked from beneath my feet after ten minutes of undiluted exposure. Her impatience with my father hovered at the five-minute mark, at which point her fingers would begin their deadly tabletop drumming.
    She was tapping up a storm that day in the dining room. “It’s when the drumming stops you start to worry,”