The Interestings (51 page)

“How does it work?” Jonah asked, and he crouched down and let Mo Figman give him a demonstration of the uses of his invention. Right away he saw that Mo possessed a visceral understanding of mechanics that went deep and wide. Jonah questioned him about the functionality of the garbage claw, and asked him a series of problem-solving questions relating to use, form, durability, aesthetics. Mo shocked him with his cool skill, yet he was grim about it all, too. Lego was what he loved, but he behaved like a worker, like one of the child laborers who had inspired what had now become Ethan’s cause.

At the breakfast table a little later, Jonah was tended to like the Figmans’ third child, instead of like a man who’d been broken up with by another man only eight hours earlier. Jonah sat with the children in the sunny kitchen, looking out onto a garden that featured a wall threaded so heavily with vines it appeared like the underside of a tapestry. He ached to have lived here, to have had parents like Ash and Ethan and not like his mother, who’d been well-intentioned but unable to save him from being ripped off and diminished. Up on the farm in Dovecote, Vermont, Susannah Bay still lived with her husband, Rick, and taught guitar and prayed, and was revered in that enclosed world, famous and beloved within the membrane of the Unification Church. She assured Jonah that she liked her life there very much, and that she had no regrets about slipping from this larger world into that smaller one. In her daily life she was admired for her talent, which was so much more than he could say for himself.

“Are you okay?” Larkin suddenly asked him. Jonah was surprised, and he wasn’t sure how to reply.

“Why wouldn’t he be okay?” Mo asked. “He doesn’t have anything
wrong
with him.”

“Again, you’re being really literal,” Larkin said. “Remember, Mo, we talked about that?”

“I’m okay,” Jonah said. “But if you’re picking up something, it’s just that I feel kind of sad right now.”

“Sad? Why is that?” said Mo, almost barking out the words with impatience.

“Well, you’ve met Robert, right?”

“The Japan man,” said Mo. “That’s what I always call him.”

“Oh, you do? Oh. Well, he doesn’t want to be my partner anymore. So that was hard for me. He told me last night, which is how I wound up here.” The conversation was starting to take a peculiar turn; why was he discussing his love life and his breakup with two
children
? Also, the words felt imperfect; he hadn’t exactly ever been anyone’s partner.

Larkin looked at her brother, fixing her gaze on him in a specific way that she had clearly done before. “Mo,” she said. “Did you hear what Jonah said about being sad?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s the appropriate response right now?”

Mo looked around desperately, like someone searching the classroom walls for an answer on a test. “I don’t know,” he said, his head dropping slightly.

“Oh, it’s really okay,” said Jonah, putting a hand on Mo’s shoulder, which was all wood, like the back of a chair.

“You do know,” said Larkin softly. Her brother looked at her, waiting it out, waiting to remember, and suddenly he found the answer.

“I’m
sorry
,”
Mo said.

“Say it to Jonah.”

“I’m sorry.” Ethan’s son said it in a voice that strained for expression, though Jonah didn’t have to strain to find any feeling to meet it.

M
anny Wunderlich at eighty-four was vigorous but mostly blind. His wife, Edie, was not so vigorous, though her eyesight was decent. Together, though, they were no longer in a position to have even a partial day-to-day directors’ role in their summer camp, and they both knew it. Probably they should have stopped completely years earlier. The 2010 season had just finished; Paul Wheelwright, the young man who’d been running the place for them over the past few years, had been uninspired, they felt, and attendance was way down. Yesterday they’d fired him, telling him there were no hard feelings, but they were looking to go another way with Spirit-in-the-Woods next year.

“Manny. Edie,” Paul had said to them. “I actually do have hard feelings, because I tried to make this place work for you. In some ways you’re both living in the past, and it’s very frustrating for me. This just isn’t the kind of camp that twenty-first-century kids want. Kids are all tech-savvy now. I know it’s difficult for you to face that, but unless you find someone who can really bring the place into the present day, I’m worried that it’s only going to get worse, and you’re going to lose too much money to make it feasible to run at all. I could have done so much more with it if you’d let me.”

“Computer game design,” Manny said with derision. “That was your idea of so much more?”

“Well, yes, we would’ve had a computer lab,” said Paul. “It wouldn’t just have been a place to design games or check e-mail, though the kids could have done those things too. Their parents would have loved to stay in touch with them electronically. As for computers, don’t forget that everywhere but here, things are completely computerized now. But all summer, for instance, some of these kids were off in the animation shed drawing on
paper.
That’s got nothing to do with the real world.”

“The real world?” said Edie, offended. “Tell me, Paul, how well did someone like
Ethan Figman
manage in the real world? He drew on paper too, didn’t he? And yet he managed to adapt when things changed. We gave him a foundation here; that’s what matters. A foundation of creativity. Does everything have to be explicitly pre-professional? In my estimation, he ended up doing just fine. Or perhaps slightly better than fine, some people might say.”

“Edie, I am obviously well aware that Ethan Figman attended Spirit-in-the-Woods a very long time ago. He’s mentioned it in many, many interviews, and I’m certain that you’re extremely proud that he’s an alum, as anyone would be. It’s amazing and wonderful that he got his start here.” He paused. “Why don’t you hit him up? I’m sure he’d drop a bundle on this place if he knew you were struggling like this. He and his wife would probably buy the joint. She went here too, right? Didn’t they meet here?”

“We would never ask him for anything,” said Edie. “That’s crass. Our motives are pure, Paul.”

“Well, you can have all the purity you want, but if the place goes under, you know what you’ll be left with? A lot of scrapbooks from old productions of
Mourning Becomes Electra
starring a bunch of fifteen-year-olds with zits.”

“Now you’re being rude,” said Manny.

“I just think you’re keeping these kids from having access to all the available tools,” said Paul. “It’s amazing what’s out there now. The Internet has cracked open the possibilities for everyone. If a kid has always fantasized about . . . Abbey Road, now he can suddenly
be
there. On the street, or even in the recording studio. Suddenly even a certain kind of virtual time travel is possible. It’s amazing what this does for the imagination.”

Manny shook his head and said, “Oh, come on. You’re telling me that because of the Internet, and the availability of every experience, every whim, every
tool,
suddenly everyone’s an artist? But here’s the thing: If everyone’s an artist, then
no one
is.”

“It’s good to have principles, Manny, but I still think you have to adapt to the times,” said Paul.

“We have adapted,” Edie said. “In the 1980s, with multiculturalism, we made an executive decision to offer traditional West African drumming, and as you know, our drumming teacher Momolu has been with us ever since. We were instrumental, so to speak, in helping him get a visa.”

“Yes, that’s terrific, and Momolu is great,” said Paul. “But multiculturalism is easy. Of course you folded it into the life of the camp, and I know it’s a much more diverse place now than it used to be. But I think technology is a lot harder for you both to accept. Racists and xenophobes think multiculturalism is the enemy of America, but you guys think
technology
is the enemy of
art,
which is also not true. When Ethan Figman was a camper in, what, the mid-1970s, I guess?—the technology didn’t even exist. Now it does and you can’t pretend it doesn’t. Artists in all fields have tremendous digital tools available. Composers do. Even painters. Ninety percent of all writers use computers. I understand if you want to move on from me. But even without me, I think you need to make some changes across the board—not just getting computerized but also maybe branching out a bit in other directions.”

“What directions?” said Manny in a defeated voice. His eyes would not let him really see the face of his tormenter; all he heard was this dispiriting barrage of doomsday reports, emanating from a hazy male figure who shook his head a lot.

“Well, like llamas. I’ve already told you that you could offer a workshop in llama care; a lot of camps have that these days, and it’s very popular. Girls in particular seem to like taking care of them. They’re smarter animals than you’d think, and quite manageable.”

“Thank you for your input,” said Manny.

“And, well, you could offer sports. Not just Ping-Pong or the occasional Frisbee toss. One arts camp I heard of even has a Quidditch team,” he said with a light laugh. “Today’s arty teenagers are more well-rounded than in the past. They want to bulk up their résumés. Speaking of which, you could also offer a community-service credit.”

“For what?” cried Edie, the tougher of the two Wunderlichs. “‘They cleaned their teepees?’ ‘They sewed costumes for
Medea
?’ ‘They helped each other roll a joint?’”

“No,” said Paul patiently. “For real things. And there’s something else too. You need to be on social media. I recognize that phrase hurts your eardrums, but bear with me. You should not only have a page on Facebook but you should be on Twitter.”

“Twitter,” said Manny, waving his hand. “You know what that is? Termites with microphones.”

“This is really quite enough, Paul,” said Edie. “You’ve made your point. We appreciate all the work you’ve done. Your last paycheck should be in the front office. You ought to run along.”

“Now who’s being rude,” he murmured, and he shook his head as he walked away.

•   •   •

O
n a city bus Jules Jacobson-Boyd drowsed and drifted. The night before, she and Dennis had returned from taking Rory up to the state university in Oneonta for the start of her senior year; Rory was looking forward to taking a class in a subject her parents didn’t understand, Environmental Spaces. Though not stellar like Larkin Figman, Rory had emerged from childhood intact, a middling student and an antsy, enthusiastic person who knew she wanted to be in motion, to be outside in the world. Out in environmental spaces. She had moved out of the apartment smoothly and unhistrionically when she left for college, and though people said that because of the terrible economy kids didn’t fully leave home until age twenty-six anymore, she showed no sign of needing or wanting to come back. Rory occasionally descended over a school vacation with a couple of friends in tow, all of them outdoorsy, jocular young women, not entirely knowable by their parents. At age fifty-one, Jules and Dennis were entering what for most people was a quieter period—a slight roll down a soft incline. Dennis remained in decent spirits from the Stabilivox, though it made him gain weight that he couldn’t take off. He liked being back at the clinic, and he now subscribed to three different sonography journals and had become so knowledgeable that the staff at the clinic all came to him with questions.

Jules and Dennis had rented a car for the drive up to Oneonta; their no-nonsense daughter with the frizzy dark hair and big open face had hugged each parent hard in turn, then one of her housemates in the pink off-campus run-down Victorian had leaned way too far out an open second-floor window and called, “Rory, get your ass up here!” And now, riding the packed bus down Broadway to her office, Jules sat with her head against the window, her eyes flickering closed and then open, when she became aware of a woman sitting across from her. Soon the whole bus became aware of her too. Every few seconds the woman gave herself a severe smack in the face. Jules watched with excited shock. Then the woman accompanying this poor woman gently took her hand, whispering something to her. They actually seemed to be having a conversation, and the disturbed woman smiled and nodded. There was a moment of silence, and then the disturbed woman freed her hand and, once again,
bang
, she hit herself even harder. Again, the other woman spoke to her gently. They looked somewhat alike, and were probably sisters. Maybe they were even
twins,
but the disturbed one’s face had been rearranged over time by the agonies of her condition, so the two women really didn’t resemble each other all that closely.

Jules, who knew she ought to look away now, that it was indecent not to, found herself unable to do that, and she turned her rubbernecking attention to the sister who was softly speaking. Jules stared at her, and as she did, the woman’s face seemed to reveal its younger self, and Jules thought,
I know you.
This was another so-called sighting. She stood up and confidently said, “Jane!”

The woman looked across the aisle at her, at once smiling and amused. “Jules!” Jane Zell, Jules’s former teepeemate from Spirit-in-the-Woods, stood too, and they hugged each other. Jules suddenly remembered a late-night teepee conversation during which Jane had discussed her twin sister, who she’d said had a neurological disorder that caused her to hit herself for no apparent reason. “This is my sister Nina,” Jane said, and Jules said hello.

As Jules and Jane spoke, Nina continued her self-savaging. But Jane was used to it, and seemed composed and undistracted as she recounted for Jules what had happened in her life over the past thirty-plus years. “I work for a foundation in Boston that gives grants to orchestras,” Jane said. “My husband’s an oboist. I gave up music myself—I was good but not
that
good—but I knew I still needed to be around the arts. I’m in New York this weekend for a conference, and to visit Nina.” Jane Zell at fifty-one had a brightness to her face that she’d always had; it was a relief to see that it hadn’t disappeared.

“Are you in touch with anyone?” Jules asked.

“Nancy Mangiari, once in a while. Are you and Ash still friends?” said Jane.

“Oh yes.” She felt a flood of pride as she said it.

“It’s amazing about Ethan,” Jane said. Nina suddenly smacked herself with even more ferocity, pow, pow, pow, and Jane leaned down and said a few words, then returned to the conversation. “You know who I ran into in Boston last week?” said Jane. “Manny and Edie.”

“Really? We’ve totally been out of touch,” said Jules. “Once, after I got married, my husband and I were in New England in the summer and we stopped by, but that was the last time I saw them. I always had a fantasy that when my daughter was a teenager she’d go to Spirit-in-the-Woods. But when she was fifteen she wanted to go to wilderness camp. And Ash’s daughter always traveled with her parents in the summer—going to other continents, helping with the school that Ethan started.”

“Edie looks the same, mostly,” said Jane. “Pretty solid, like always. Manny is basically blind, which is sad. The camp still runs, but they said it’s been limping along, and that they’re looking for someone new to run it next summer.”

Jane Zell and her sister Nina were planning to get off at the next stop, but before they did there was a sentimental embrace between the old friends, and Nina slapped herself a couple more times, and then Jules and the whole bus watched as the sisters stepped out onto Broadway. Jules closed her eyes for the final couple of stops during the slow ride in morning traffic, but the conversation with Jane had made her start to buzz and fizz. She was in her teepee; she was in the theater; she was in the dining hall, where the meal was green lasagna and a salad topped with tangled sprouts. She was sitting on the hill listening to Susannah Bay sing; she was in the animation shed, receiving the surprising pressure of Ethan Figman’s mouth; she was in Boys’ Teepee 3, smoking a damp joint and looking at Goodman Wolf’s hairy golden legs as they hung down from an upper bunk. She was putting on a refugee’s accent in Improv class; she was sitting on her narrow bed at night talking to Ash; and oh she was happy.

•   •   •

L
isten, there’s something we need to discuss today,” Jules said to her client Janice Kling late one Thursday afternoon. Nearly a month had passed since she’d run into Jane Zell on the bus, and in that time Jules had behaved like someone in a trance, following orders from an obscure source. From the moment she’d found a chance to get back to Spirit-in-the-Woods—that place where her life had opened and spilled and thrust her to the ground, delirious and changed—she’d moved fast. After the idea of applying for the job had occurred to her, she’d gone to Dennis and he’d laughed indulgently, thinking she wasn’t serious. They discussed it for three days before she even called Manny and Edie. By the end of those three days, Dennis had been talked into considering it.

A few other applicants were also sentimental Spirit-in-the-Woods alumni. At the interview, held in a midtown hotel room, the Wunderlichs looked extremely old to Jules, but then again they always had, even in 1974. Edie was still thickly built and bossy, and Manny was grandfatherly, with white eyebrows that sprang out like branches you had to swerve away from. Jules felt breathless in the Wunderlichs’ presence, just hearing their familiar voices talk about this person and that one from the past.