Read Caretakers (Tyler Cunningham) for Free Online Page B

but again, I just smiled and nodded politely ), and the big one in front of us—what’s it called?” She ran down, hoping perhaps for me to supply the name for her, which after a somewhat long pause, I did.
    “Green,” I said, pointing out at the island, so that she wouldn’t think that I was just telling her my favorite color ( which is, in point of fact, green ).
    “Yes. At any rate , I was starting to get hungry—and thirsty,” she said this last with a wink, the meaning of which was lost on me, “when I heard the cars and commotion that heralded the arrival of the churchgoing Crockers, old and small.” She spun me around to gesture at the room full of Crockers who were busying themselves with post church/pre-lunch activities.
    “Peg is so glad to have Daniel and Kristen up, with little Dee. They haven’t seen them hardly at all since Dee was born. It was so sweet of Kitty to arrange for Tessa,” she said gesturing towards the au pair who had just re-entered the room with Deirdre in tow, freshly changed out of her church fancies and ready for an afternoon of camp play. “Although,” Elyse went on without missing a beat, “I think perhaps ‘Tessa from Odessa’ is almost too attractive to be spending all that time within reach of Daniel, or possibly even Mike, don’t you think?” she asked. I couldn’t have commented, even if I wanted to; I’m generally not aware of beauty or the lack thereof in humans, beyond symmetricality and obvious disfigurements ( Tessa had, and did not have any, in turns, if you were wondering ). I was getting tired, absorbing all of this information, and wondered if there would be a quiz later; Kitty could have talked for a week without letting slip this much personal data.
    “You’re the secret, the surprise, the mystery that everyone knows about, but they’re all much too polite to talk about, right?” She said/asked/g uessed. I smiled vaguely, my #2—friendly/gentle/clueless-ish, and re-directed.
    “How do you know Peggy?” I asked.
    “We met at Bennington, both of us in the process of trying to escape that glorious green state. After school, the two of us opened a gallery in Girlington, grinding painfully along for a few years until she met Mike, and I fled the winters for Santa Fe ( I credited myself with a win ).
    “That was a nice try, Tyler, but I’m going to spill my Bloody Mary on you if you don’t tell me your secret,” she said, smiling in a way that would let most people know if she was kidding or not; I took a half-step back and saw her eyes widen with what might have been pleasure.
    “Mike will know after lunch, and I assume you can get it from Peg shortly thereafter. I’ve had worse on these clothes, and still worn them for a couple of days. Can you say the same?” I said.
    She looked for me to be kidding, saw that I wasn’t ( can’t ), tried to decide whether to land on angry or shocked, and eventually settled on a loud and comfortable laugh. Everyone else in the room turned to look at us, in much the same way that Frank and Meg look at my dog Hope when she farts loudly during a visit. I took advantage of the interruption to orbit away from Elyse, and study a trio of Blagden watercolors on the wall … they looked to have been done at this end of Upper Saranac: Dry and Goose islands from a point just to the northwest of Green Island, Spider Creek coming from Follensby Clear Pond, and Buck Island from the mouth of Saginaw Bay, unless I was wrong ( which I mostly add for politeness’ sake, because I’m not, except in very rare cases ).
    As I slid around the rim of the Great Room, taking in the details of artwork and taxidermy, I was enjoying the sights and smells and sounds of an old great camp, while all of my sensory recording equipment kept running; I didn’t mind being isolated from the majority of the conversation. Mike’s wife and children ( Peg and Daniel and Kristen, as I now knew ) made a few attempts to either steer the conversation