“Where’s your mother?”

“She’s upstairs getting dressed for the party you’re incredibly late for. Her mood reflects that.”

“Why don’t you take Callie up to her room? Show her around.”

“Check,” said Jerome.

We went up the back stairs off the kitchen. “The guest room’s being painted,” Jerome told me. “So you’re staying in my sister’s room.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s out on the back porch with Rex.”

My blood stopped. “Rex Reese?”

“His ‘rents have a place up here, too.”

Jerome then showed me the essentials, guest towels, bathroom location, how to work the lights. But his manners were lost on me. I was wondering why the Object hadn’t mentioned anything about Rex on the phone. She had been up here three weeks and said nothing.

We came back into her bedroom. Her rumpled clothes lay on the unmade bed. There was a dirty ashtray on one pillow.

“My little sister is a creature of slovenly habits,” Jerome said, looking around. “Are you neat?”

I nodded.

“Me too. Only way to be. Hey.” He came around to face me now. “What happened to your trip to Turkey?”

“It got canceled.”

“Excellent. Now you can be in my film. I’m shooting it up here. Are you up for that?”

“I thought it took place in a boarding school.”

“I decided to make it a boarding school in the boonies.” Jerome was standing somewhat close to me. His hands flopped around in his pockets as he squinted at me and rocked on his heels.

“Should we go downstairs?” I finally asked.

“What? Oh, right. Yeah. Let’s go.” Jerome turned and bolted. I followed him back down and through the kitchen. As we were crossing the living room I heard voices out on the porch.

“So Selfridge, that lightweight, pukes,” Rex Reese was saying. “Doesn’t even make it to the bathroom. Pukes right on the bar.”

“I can’t believe it! Selfridge!” It was the Object now, crying out with amusement.

“He blew chunks. Right into his stinger. I couldn’t believe it. It was like the Niagara Falls of puke. Selfridge woofs on the bar and everybody jumps off their stools, right? Selfridge is facedown in his own puke. For a minute there’s total silence. Then this one girl starts gagging . . . and it’s like a chain reaction. The whole place starts gagging, puke’s dripping everywhere, and the bartender is— pissed. He’s huge, too. He’s fucking huge. He comes over and looks down at Selfridge. I’m going like I don’t know this guy. Never saw him before. And then guess what?”

“What?”

“The bartender reaches out and grabs hold of Selfridge. He’s got him by the collar and the belt, right? And he lifts Selfridge like a foot up in the air—and Zambonis the bar with him!”

“No way!”

“I’m not kidding. Zambonied the Fridge right in his own barf!”

At that point we stepped out onto the porch. The Object and Rex Reese were sitting together on a white wicker couch. It was dark out, coolish, but the Object was still in her swimsuit, a shamrock bikini. She had a beach towel wrapped around her legs.

“Hi,” I called out.

The Object turned. She looked at me blankly. “Hey,” she said.

“She’s here,” said Jerome. “Safe and sound. Dad didn’t run off the road.”

“Daddy’s not that bad a driver,” said the Object.

“When he’s not drinking he’s not. But tonight I’d wager he had the old martini thermos on the front seat.”

“Your old man likes to party!” Rex called out hoarsely.

“Did my dad have occasion to quench his thirst on the drive up?” Jerome asked.

“More than one occasion,” I said.

Now Jerome laughed, going loose in the body and slapping his hands together.

Meanwhile Rex was saying to the Object, “Okay. She’s here. So let’s party.”

“Where should we go?” the Object said.

“Hey, Jeroman, didn’t you say there was some old hunting lodge out in the woods?”

“Yeah. It’s about half a mile in.”

“Think you could find it in the dark?”

“With a flashlight maybe.”

“Let’s go.” Rex stood up. “Let’s take some beers and hike on in there.”

The Object got up, too. “Let me put on some pants.” She crossed the porch in her swimsuit. Rex watched. “Come on, Callie,” she said. “You’re staying in my room.”

I followed the Object inside. She went quickly, almost running, and didn’t look back at me. As she climbed the stairs ahead of me, I whacked her from behind.

“I hate you,” I said.

“What?”

“You’re so tan!”

She flashed a smile over her shoulder.

As the Object dressed, I snooped around the bedroom. The furniture was white wicker up here, too. There were amateur sailing prints on the walls and on the shelves Petoskey stones, pinecones, musty paperbacks.

“What are we going to do in the woods?” I said, with a note of complaint.

The Object didn’t answer.

“What are we going to do in the woods?” I repeated.

“We’re going for a walk,” she said.

“You just want Rex to molest you.”

“You have such a dirty mind, Callie.”

“Don’t deny it.”

She turned around and smiled. “I know who wants to molest you,” she said.

For a second, an irrepressible happiness flooded me.

“Jerome,” she finished.

“I don’t want to go out in the woods,” I said. “There’s bugs and stuff.”

“Don’t be a such a wuss,” she said. I had never heard her say “wuss” before. It was a word boys used; boys like Rex. Finished dressing, the Object stood before the mirror, picking at some dry skin on her cheek. She ran a brush through her hair and put on lip gloss. Then she came over to me. She came up very close. She opened her mouth and blew her breath into my face.

“It’s fine,” I said, and moved away.

“Don’t you want me to check yours?”

“No biggie,” I said.

I decided that if the Object was going to ignore me and flirt with Rex, I would ignore her and flirt with Jerome. After she left, I combed my hair. From the collection of atomizers on the dresser, I chose one and squeezed the bulb, but no perfume came out. I went into the bathroom and undid the straps of my overalls. Lifting my shirt, I stuffed a few tissues in my brassiere. Then I shook my hair back, hitched up my overalls, and hurried outside for our walk in the woods.

They were waiting for me under a yellow bug light on the porch. Jerome held a silver flashlight. Slung over Rex’s shoulder was an army surplus backpack, filled with Stroh’s. We came down the steps onto the lawn. The ground was uneven, treacherous with roots, but the pine needles were soft underfoot. For a moment, despite my foul mood, I felt it: the crisp northern Michigan delight. A slight chill to the air, even in August, something almost Russian. The indigo sky above the black bay. The smell of cedar and pine.

At the edge of the woods the Object stopped. “Is it going to be wet?” she said. “I only have my Tretorns on.”

“Come on,” said Rex Reese, pulling her by the hand. “Get wet.”

She screamed, theatrically. Leaning back like someone on a rope tow, she was pulled unsteadily into the trees. I paused, too, peering in, waiting for Jerome to do the same. He didn’t, though. Instead he stepped straight into the swamp and then slowly melted below the knees. “Quicksand!” he cried. “Help me! I’m sinking! Please somebody help . . . glub glub glub glub glub.” Up ahead, already invisible, Rex and the Object were laughing.

The cedar swamp was an ancient place. No logging had ever been done here. The ground wasn’t suitable for houses. The trees had been alive for hundreds of years and when they fell over they fell over for good. Here in the cedar swamp verticality wasn’t an essential property of trees. Many cedars were standing straight up but many were leaning over. Still others had fallen against nearby trees, or crashed to the ground, popping up root systems. There was a graveyard feeling: everywhere the gray skeletons of trees. The moonlight filtering in lit up silver puddles and sprays of cobweb. It glanced off the Object’s red hair as she moved and darted ahead of me.