Cambridge by Susanna Kaysen

Author:Susanna Kaysen [Kaysen, Susanna]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-385-35026-6
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2014-03-18T04:00:00+00:00

To Fall in Love with Old Cape Cod

Third grade was finished. Now June and July stretched out ahead. I could loll in the creamy thick grass again and barrel around town on my bike. In August we were going to Cape Cod, to a cottage the Bigelows had found us down the road from the one they rented on the bay in Wellfleet. Frederika wasn’t coming. She and Vishwa were going to drive across the country in a black Nash Rambler Vishwa had bought for a hundred dollars from Ed Barkey.

What my father referred to as the Enlightenment Crisis had produced mixed results. Delilah changed her ticket and went back early to England to avoid the Sunday-night party, seeming to forfeit the game. Then Jagdeesh stayed away from our house for many weeks. More than a month of unmitigated Lucy, though, had done him in, and he was back, complaining that he missed Delilah.

“We spoke on the telephone every week, you know,” he said. “Like family.”

“I didn’t know,” my mother said.

“And we wrote letters.” Jagdeesh closed his eyes. “She’s been part of my life for nearly fifteen years. It appears that she is necessary to my existence.”

“Oh,” said my mother.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? This is why you muddied the waters, to prove that I am a cad.”

My mother looked taken aback. “I think the waters were muddy already,” she said. “And I don’t think you’re a cad—exactly.”

“So exactly what do you think?” Jagdeesh asked.

“I think the situation wasn’t tenable,” said my mother.

“This is what’s untenable!” Jagdeesh said. “Everything was fine.” He considered that for a moment. “Well, it took some dexterity, but I managed.”

“I don’t think you can have them both,” said my mother.

“I had them both,” Jagdeesh pointed out. His tone was cool.

“That’s true,” my mother said, “but now you don’t.”

“Why did you do it?” Jagdeesh asked—not for the first time.

His question was rhetorical, like asking God why he’d inflicted the flu on you. He didn’t expect an answer.

It was a different story with my father. “What were you hoping to achieve? Were you hoping for any particular outcome or were you just fiddling around to amuse yourself?”

“Oh,” said my mother, turning away, busying herself with something, anything.

“Because now it’s a complete mess,” my father went on.

My mother put her head into a cabinet. “Oh, gee, out of rice, I see,” she said.

“It’s irresponsible,” said my father. “And I have to deal with it, not you.” He stormed out of the kitchen.

Within thirty seconds he was back.

“You and your manipulations!” he said.

That was the day after the dinner. And he kept at it.

“Is it because you don’t like Jagdeesh?”

“It’s because I do like him,” my mother said.

“Hah,” said my father.

“You have an unconquerable need to meddle in other people’s lives,” he told her the day after that. “And I wish you wouldn’t. Frederika, Vishwa”—he gestured toward the third floor, where all that Frederika and Vishwa business went on—“enjoy yourself. But this is different.”

“Oh, I see,” said my mother.

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