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Krystelle Bamford Books

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Idle Grounds

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“And kids, despite obliviousness to many things like etiquette and social cues, are hugely in tune with sadness, especially their parents’. And what did our parents have to be sad about? Lots of things, it turned out, though it’s possible they were overly sad, which is called being maudlin. Or maybe they were sad about all the wrong things, that was possible too. They were sad about politicians and people they once knew who were dead or had changed so much they might as well have been dead, parking restrictions, library closures, and more private sadnesses that we had no access to.”

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“Forests are really just a repetition of patterns; it’s why people lose their minds in forests and also on oceans. The human brain needs disruption, I think, and that’s why we make things. You could say that an artist, for instance, finds patterns in everything but I think probably what an artist is really there to do is to tear a big hole in the maddening patterns, to create something that is so itself that it repels everything around it. I’m all for artificiality, is what I’m saying. It’s what humans bring to the table.”

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“Anyway, because of Beezy’s patrician vibe and the fact that our parents grew up in a very horses-and-beeswax part of an already pretty aristocratic area of the state, you would have thought they were marked for success. You would have thought they couldn’t have avoided it! But well into their youth each of the five really did their utmost to scupper their own chances in life in utterly idiosyncratic ways, which is the usual province of the middle-to-upper-middle class. We didn’t realize this at the time, of course. To us, our parents were doing just fine.”

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“At various points in our lives we had considered joining the circus, a daydream handed to us, in fact, by our parents. If we got mad and were casting around for something to do about it, our parents would suggest with great mirth that we run away to join the circus and eventually it became a concrete possibility in our minds, a genuine emergency hatch through which we could slip if things became too unbearable. Although we hadn’t been to a circus, we had ideas of what it might entail: days of trundling along in painted wagons and stringing cooking pots over rosy fires and sitting in front of mirrors lit up by light bulbs as large as conference pears, broken up by spurts of action in which we tested our fantastic discipline against the messy and somewhat arbitrary nature of death. I don’t think it’s something kids think about anymore and anyway we never did it. We stayed right where we were, which our parents always knew would be the case and also why they’d offered it up like a dare in the first place. It was unkind but also their way of reaffirming the cords that bound us.”

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“We didn’t know what to hope for, thing or nothing. Thing meant that our day, only somewhat extraordinary, would become truly remarkable, but it would also mean that whatever else we feared—a woman sewing us into our beds while we were asleep, for example—was possible even if it wasn’t probable. It opened things up in ways both surprising and permanent.”

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“It was interesting in that we were excluded entirely but after a while we got restless and went inside, where there were some more of us sitting on the steps that went up to the bathroom and bedrooms and this lot was talking among themselves like birds before they fly off in one jaggy but coordinated movement. There were ten of us cousins give or take and the tallest and also the oldest one was Travis. He was twelve. He looked at us with his long, swinging jaw, trying to weigh us up. Time had passed since the last time we’d all been together, his face said, but blood was blood.”

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