The Last Summer of the Camperdowns Read Free Page B

interrupted.
    “This is Cape Cod, not the Russian front,” my mother protested.
    “What should I teach her? How to iron?” My father reluctantly sat back down in his chair, unable to conceal his contempt for the so-called feminine arts. He was a true anomaly, an alpha male with suffragette sympathies. I sometimes suspected that his militant feminism had its roots in his desire to rid both sexes of all traces of effeminacy.
    My mother’s attempt to speak devolved into a low grumble deep in her throat. Greer was a master sigher. Then she brightened. She had decided on a different tactic.
    “So, it’s interesting timing for Michael Devlin’s return from Italy, what with the election, I mean.” She glanced downward at the antique Aubusson rug on the floor, as if something remarkable might spring up from beneath its faded tapestry.
    “Hmm.” Camp seemed as remote as my mother seemed engaged. His hands opened in front of him, he extended his fingers and then tightened them together into a fist, gathering up the loose ends of a waning Sunday morning and tying them into a knot. My mother intuitively responded to the sudden tension by loosening the ribbon that held back her hair, which fell onto her shoulders in a single sleek, swooping motion.
    “I hear they’ve done so much work at the house in Truro in anticipation of the great homecoming. Apparently, he’s bringing some of the horses up from Virginia. Can’t wait to see them. Brooklyn is expected to take the Derby. I’m not surprised. Even as a boy, Michael always was the first to cross the finish line.”
    I glanced at her sideways. Italics became her. “Who is Michael Devlin?” I asked.
    “Well, good luck to Michael Devlin, Esquire, and his fantastic horses,” Camp said. In Camperdown-speak, “esquire” was a pejorative.
    I repeated the question. “Who is Michael Devlin?”
    My parents continued to ignore me. Camp turned back to his newspaper, the reading of which was a form of ornate daily ceremony that would have impressed the Aztecs. My father took current events personally. Every day brought some new confrontation with a foreign leader with his head up his ass. I watched, flinching in anticipation as his demeanor abruptly changed, his eyebrows meeting at a bitter point of consternation. Uh-oh. I braced for point of impact. Looked as if another CEO son of a bitch had backhanded the proletariat.
    “Goddamn it,” he said.
    “What is it now?” my mother asked warily, glancing over at me, trying to recruit my silent commiseration.
    “Looks like we have our answer for why Michael is back.”
    “Would someone please tell me who Michael Devlin is?” I asked.
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Riddle,” my mother said. “You’ve heard me mention him in the past. You’ve read about him, I’m sure. Everyone’s heard of Michael.”
    “I probably blocked him from my mind after hearing you talk about him so much.” I spoke flippantly enough, though even as I said it, it occurred to me there was some truth to the allegation.
    Camp folded the newspaper in half and handed it to me, vigorously pointing to an article, the tips of his fingers sparring with the newsprint.
    “Here, Riddle, read this.”
    I grimaced—in those days, my range of expression was limited to eye-rolling and sneering—my deepening curiosity about Michael Devlin wrestling with my contrived ennui. Why should I read it? What did I care? I looked into my father’s eyes and saw simmering lakes of lava just looking for a reason to overflow. Choosing the prudent course for once, I kept my thoughts to myself and did as I was told. “International playboy and renowned horseman Michael Devlin, heir to . . .”
    My mother interrupted. “Well, don’t read the whole thing verbatim. This isn’t a home for senior citizens. I loathe listening to people read aloud, especially when it’s poorly executed. Such a bore! Next thing you’ll be telling me what you dreamt about last night.”
    “I dreamt