This excerpt from a short story follows a spread out and emotionally distant family as they come together on family land to work through (or maybe ignore) their many dramas.
by Liz Richards (writer)
In the mid-1960s, Gil and Diana purchased thirteen acres of land in a neighboring township, Attica, New York, adjacent the state penitentiary that in a few years time would be made infamous by the Attica Prison Riot of 1971. The land was relatively cheap, though Gil did come from money, and it became a sort of second home for them to raise their growing family. When Gil and Diana divorced, they retained joint ownership of the land they called Meadowbrook, with the belief that if they put down two names on paper, neither could sell the land and it would remain a family refuge indefinitely. Hidden at the bottom of a sharp, steep drop in the road known by their kids as “Gonna Crash Hill” beneath a deep bed of trees, a rusted makeshift gate was the only indication of where the property began.
Behind that rickety, crooked gate lay a clearing in the trees used to park cars and greet family as they collected for camping trips and reunions for the next two generations. Beyond the clearing, another drop in elevation yielded a thin creek with a fast current. The kids splashed around catching crayfish in old camping pots and sometimes getting caught themselves by crayfish pincers, and then letting the poor things go, watching them scuttle off as if interrupted on their way to an important meeting. On the opposite side of the water, the creek bed was raised several feet, so Gil and his sons maintained steps built out of smooth rocks found nearby. Every time it rained the clay on the face of the creek bed softened and washed away, taking some of the rocks with it, Nature reassuring them that this land would always be her domain. Above the stone steps rested the family campground. One area was designated for the fire pit and family gatherings. Around it was a large clearing, large enough for several tents to fit comfortably, and one summer for Jackie (youngest of Gil and Diana’s four children and the only daughter) to set up a hammock and neglect to take it down. The hammock was visible but forgotten for several years before the trees finally reclaimed it.
The campsite lay at the base of a tall, forested hill. At the top of the steep, green shaded hill was another, much smaller campsite barely cleared at all. Meadowbrook ended maybe twenty yards behind this site, but it didn’t make much difference to the family. They had free reign over much of the neighboring properties, most of which were devoid of people entirely when the Richards kids weren’t about. A wide green pasture where cows grazed and woodchucks dug holes bordered Meadowbrook and provided a shortcut to the large reservoir on the other side of the prison that provided a swimming hole or fishing pond that the small creek simply couldn’t sustain. Gil and Diana’s kids grew up here, then spread across the country and had their own kids, who had their own special relationships to the land.
***
The sun beat down hot on the pavement as they ascended Gonna Crash Hill. Aunt Jackie was showing them an alternative route to the reservoir. No one had wanted to go except Alyx and Liz, the two oldest grandkids, who in their preteen obsessions about what being a woman really meant, were enamored of Jackie. She had flown in from California – a successful Orange County interior designer, stunning former Seagram’s model, and a newly ordained shaman who loved to talk spirit and self-realized potential – and transfixed everyone, but especially the two girls. Jackie’s three older brothers refused the hike, accusing her of taking the “girlie” route instead of the more direct but treacherous route – lined with woodchuck holes and thick forests and sometimes snakes – and stayed behind laughing at her to play with the fire and drink beer.
The girls didn’t talk much in the heat of the afternoon. They were focused on guessing how close they were and keeping up with Jackie. A long while seemed to pass before they reentered the trees, and even in the shade late July’s humidity was thick as they pushed through it. But the quiet of the trees was sweet, reflective. When they emerged in the small clearing at the top of the reservoir, the still blazing sun felt softer. All panting from the heat, Aunt Jackie suggested a swim. The girls looked blankly at one another. They hadn’t thought to bring bathing suits. Jackie quickly undressed, and moved like art into the water. Slowly, timid and uncertain, the girls followed suit. Alyx was the next to shed her clothes and walk out into the water.
Liz hung back, suddenly shy. At eleven, she was the first girl she knew to get her period, including thirteen-year-old Alyx, but she was clumsy in the early stages of puberty. Although she was pretty sure that her big cousin had already kissed a boy, she saw now that Alyx didn’t have any of the dark hairs that had sprung up beneath her tummy, on her legs, and under her arms. She also saw the Aunt Jackie’s hair was much neater, cleaner, and her curves more evenly distributed, not the lumps she sometimes poked like balls of dough in the mirror, but mostly ignored and kept covered up. Liz noticed that she was straggling behind on the water’s edge, so she hurriedly slipped off the rest of her garments and stepped into the reservoir.
The water was instantly chilling, and sent a refreshing shiver up her spine. The three laughed and swam about in separate directions, but the girls eventually circled back in toward Jackie. Fish tickled, nibbling their toes as they cooled off in the late afternoon. Aunt Jackie told stories about California and the sand on the beaches, of her boyfriends and her discoveries about how to be happy all of the time. The girls listened intently, giggling and feeling amused. “Haven’t you ever been skinny dipping before?” They hadn’t.
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