“Personally speaking, I don’t much care if someone helped him, or who it was. But Sergeant Mallory does.”
A look of reticence entered Jack’s eyes, perhaps the superstitious fear of speaking ill of the dead, or worry about the police. “Whatever Ben did, he’s gone now.”
Adam felt a resurgence of the anger he could never escape, stirred by the revelations of the last hours. “Gone? In a year, maybe I’ll believe it. But he’s as much trouble dead as he was alive, and not just because of how he died. He shafted my mother-even now Benjamin Blaine is pulling our strings. We didn’t bury him at all.”
Jack stared at his feet. “I wish we could,” he said. “Death should put an end to hatred.”
Adam shook his head. “Not for me. Not with what he’s done.”
After a moment, Jack met his eyes. “I know,” he said in a tone of resignation. “How do you suppose I feel, Adam? Long before you were born, Ben was my brother.”
For Adam, Jack’s statement had its own complex resonance. His uncle’s nature was inherently kind; despising Ben must carry its own pain. Through the prism of hindsight, Adam could see that Jack treated those who suffered as he had-Ben’s wife and sons-with deep compassion, understanding all too well how they must feel. Where Ben was indifferent to Teddy’s talent, Jack-who knew what it was to make things with his hands, using his eye for form and shape-encouraged him. And when Teddy wrestled with being gay, it was only Jack who listened.
This led Adam to the question of why Jack had never married. Perhaps, like Teddy, Jack was gay-for an islander of Jack’s years, secrecy might have felt safer. Or perhaps sexual intimacy was not important to him. But whatever Jack’s nature, Adam, too, had benefited from his uncle’s care.
When Ben was away-as was frequent-Jack took him fishing or sailing or hiking, teaching him to observe the small wonders of nature. With Jack, Adam never felt that clutch in the stomach, the need to please his harshly judgmental father. In Ben’s absence, Jack came to Adam’s games, cheering as he played quarterback, or point guard, or center field. It was from Jack, not Ben, that Adam learned the value of positive encouragement-to cherish his achievements, to learn from his mistakes. It was Jack who taught Adam compassion for himself, and then for others. Without Jack, Adam might have become his father.
Perhaps that had been his uncle’s plan. For as long as Adam could remember, the two brothers had a quietly corrosive relationship. Ben spoke of Jack with dismissive scorn; Jack did not mention him at all. It was as if Ben’s family was their only bridge. When, as a teenager, Adam had wondered aloud why they seemed estranged, Jack had answered wryly, “We have temperamental differences.” But gradually, through his mother and a populace that, in winter, shrunk to fourteen thousand souls, Adam had come to understand far more.
Their family of origin had been impoverished in every way. Nathaniel Blaine had been frustrated by the harshness of his way of life, all that he knew, and a deep sense of his own limitations. He was a man of volcanic anger, subjecting his wife, Amy, to a stunted and fearful existence. Both drank to excess; neither had much love to give Jack, and less after Ben was born. But Jack was gentle from birth, while Ben burned with the desire to transcend his family. The first test for Ben was Jack-quite explicitly, Ben set out not just to outstrip Jack as a student, athlete, and sailor, but to sear Jack’s soul with the knowledge of his own inferiority. It was Ben who left for Yale; Ben who became the Vineyard’s most famous son. Jack was known as his older, lesser brother.
Parsing these reflections, Adam glanced sideways at his uncle, Jack’s gentle mien illuminated by the sun in its descent. Jack should not have been on this island-then or now. In his twenties Jack, like Teddy, had struggled for survival in New York City. Then the widowed Nathaniel Blaine, stumbling while drunk, had struck his head on the kitchen counter and bled to death on the floor. No one had found him for days; no one cared much. But he had left the home he died in, a small house near Menemsha Harbor. In a seemingly benign gesture, Ben had waived his rights of inheritance, giving Jack a home he could not replace anywhere else by selling it. And so Jack had returned to live in Ben’s shadow-which, Adam thought now, was likely Ben’s intention. Ben had held out a poisoned chalice, and his older brother had taken it. Even in that last fateful summer, when Adam had tipped the balance of their rivalry, he knew that the fault line in his life had cracked open before his birth. And now he had come back.
Adam became aware of his long silence. “You’re right,” he told his uncle. “I’ve been away a long time now. I remember him as he was.”
Jack gave him a probing look. “Why did you leave?” he asked. “You changed the entire course of your life, cut off your father, and wouldn’t say why. It was like you were too proud to tell us.”
The tacit accusation stung. But Adam had no desire to explain his reasons, and Jack no right to know them. “Maybe I just got sick of him.”
Jack raised his eyebrows. “Enough to shun him for a decade?”
“Yes. That much.”
The laconic rebuff, hard for Adam to deliver, had the unexpected result of softening Jack’s expression. “He got no better, Adam. Sometimes I found myself wishing that, like you, I’d stayed away.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Jack’s shoulders slumped, as if the weight of his reasons was too great to express. “This was home,” he said simply.
Adam felt a rush of affection, accompanied by the fervent wish that he could respect his uncle fully. Perhaps Ben had stamped Adam with his own harsh judgment, but he could not quell his verdict on Jack’s life: You should have left. Instead, Adam said, “Then there’s my mother. Why on earth did he marry her, and why did he stay?”
It was telling, Adam realized, that he did not ask why his mother had married Benjamin Blaine. As it was, the question made Jack frown. “The first part is easy enough to answer. At Ben’s core was this raging anger that he was born into this stunted family, with no money or accomplishment. He was deeply ashamed of that, and of our parents. The shame deepened when the summer people came, enjoying their affluence and success. To scrape together some money Ben and I started working as waiters at their parties, serving them cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, then cleaning up the careless mess they made.”
“That’s how they met, right?”
Jack nodded. “For years, he watched your mother, the beautiful daughter of a family who took their lives for granted. No one knew that later on her father’s investment firm, his inheritance, would collapse under claims of mismanagement.” Jack’s smile was brief and mirthless. “‘Inbreeding,’ Ben told me once. ‘The Barkleys’ blood got thin, until everything her father had he owed to ancestors with more brains and balls.’”
The echo of his father’s scorn re-ignited Adam’s anger. “It didn’t keep the sonofabitch from marrying the old man’s daughter.”
“Clarice was a prize to be won,” Jack replied, “a symbol of all he wanted and never had. For a passing moment, I thought he was after your mother’s best friend, Whitney Dane. But once Ben left Yale, it was his time to go after her. She never had a chance-the triumph of capturing her was too great for Ben to fail.” Jack’s tone grew hard. “So he pursued her, married her, and cheated on her. The ultimate proof of his superiority was that he made her parents’ home his own. And now he’s taken that piece of her life and given it to this actress.”
Feeling the chill of this story and its coda, Adam shut his eyes. Another moment with his father came to him, again from their final summer. Jenny was off-island, and Adam had asked Ben to go fly-fishing off Dogfish Bar. With a rueful smile, Ben shook his head. “Believe me, son, I’d vastly prefer your company to the living death I’ll experience tonight. But your mother insists on going to some idiot’s Fourth of July party. For reasons that are obscure to me, she actually cares about what these people think.” Ben sat back in his chair, his tone confiding. “I call it high school for the rich. They go from party to party, dying for acceptance, never wondering whether it’s worthwhile being accepted by whatever moron they encounter. The only amusement they hold for me is wondering who’ll flatter me in the most unctuous and transparent way. Knowing full well that none of them would give a damn except for who I am.
“Time is too fleeting for that. I could spend tonight fishing with my son, or making love, or talking with a man or woman who actually has something to say, or rereading War and Peace, the greatest novel ever written. By midnight, both of us will be six hours closer to being dead, and only you will have anything to show for it. Just thinking about it curdles me with envy.”
Adam laughed. “Have I told you Jenny’s theory on summer social life?”
“These minnows justify an entire theory?”
“A small one. Jen caters parties, like you used to do, honing her skills of observation. She says that the summer social circuit is actually a game called Celebrity Pac-Man, with a scoring system based on how many famous people you can hang out with between the Fourth of July and Labor Day-”
“Celebrity Pac-Man?” Ben repeated with a grin. “As in I got ‘Tom and Rita’ or ‘Ted and Mary’ or ‘Alan and
