Everybody Rise Read Online Free PDF Page B

earlier. “There’s another lake? I thought the lake was the one in town.”
    â€œThat’s the pond,” Evelyn said. “James Pond. All the tourists come here and think it’s Lake James and take a paddleboat out or whatever and then go home thinking all the fuss is about this pond. Lake James is huge. At least ten times the size of the pond. You can’t see it from town.”
    â€œWhy can’t you see it from town?”
    â€œPrivate drives, friend,” Nick said, hurtling up Mt. Jobe. “Get with the program.”
    â€œI’d think the residents would object to that,” Scot said.
    â€œThe residents all live on the private drives,” Evelyn said with a laugh. “They’re the ones keeping everyone else out.”
    â€œSuch communist ideas, Evelyn,” Nick said.
    On Mt. Jobe Road, each house was marked with a modest wood post and slightly madcap letters, naming the places with a mix of homage and play—T HE A ERIE, C AMP T AMANEND, T OE- H OLD, W EOWNA C AMP .
    Preston’s parents had bought their place, Shuh-shuh-gah, in the eighties, after Jean Hacking had a falling-out with her sisters and decided they would henceforth stop going to Osterville. Mrs. Hacking fit soundly into the social scene with her headbands and fleeces and creased pants, her pantryful of good red wine, her patrician East Coast roots, her competitiveness in hearty summer sports such as sailing and rowing, and her pronunciation of “hurricane” as “hurriken.”
    Though the Hackings had only been there three decades, a batch of newer arrivals had turned the Hackings into something of the old guard in Lake James. On the hill side of the road, away from the water, were people from Los Angeles and Florida and South Carolina who had bought plots of land without water rights just for the privilege of saying they had Adirondack camps. They had installed gravel drives and granite statues of bears or eagles and were forever fighting with the town’s zoning board over adding satellite dishes to their camps.
    Making a screaming left turn, Nick bumped into a wooden ditch and back out again, and Evelyn watched with some alarm as Scot’s dark head nearly hit the roof.
    Around the last turn, at the bottom of the hill, Evelyn spotted Shuh-shuh-gah’s welcoming brown-wood boathouse with its green window frames. The Hacking house at Lake James was part of an Adirondack great camp, one of many built by railroad, banking, and timber barons in the late 1800s. It was initially a hunting camp, with separate platform tents for cooking, sleeping, and drinking. Once upper-class women started joining their husbands in the Adirondacks, trading up from the passé getaways of Saratoga Springs and Cape May, the tented buildings were turned into wooden structures, though still with a rustic, unfinished quality that tried to make visitors feel like they were still living in nature.
    Only a handful of the camps had been kept in one piece, and the Hackings’ was not among them. What served as their main house had once been stables, and their boathouse was grand, with two covered docks and one open dock and sleeping quarters upstairs. The other parts of the original camp were now cut off from the Hackings’ portion by copses of trees.
    The first time Evelyn had come, it was raining when she’d arrived, a silver Adirondack storm, and she’d slipped down to the boathouse porch before joining Preston’s graduation party. Thin pines that were bare for the first sixty feet of their trunks ended in thick daubs of green, like those in a Japanese silk painting. Through the gray, she could see only a few lights of houses across the lake, and the only sound was of the rain hitting the wooden railing and the dock below her. For a moment, Evelyn felt like everything was quiet.
    Then she went to the party. Preston’s older brother, Bing, had a bunch of his friends up, and they were