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By Root 715 0

and I lived in LA, near Venice Beach in a blue-gray house with a white picket fence. I was doing a play at the Tiffany Theater, and he was a summer associate at Manatt, Phelps, Rothenberg & Phillips, and we’d fly back whenever we could. John had become an uncle for the first time when Caroline’s daughter Rose was born in late June. I was carting around Timebends, Arthur Miller’s 599-page autobiography, and one afternoon while I was submerged in the McCarthy hearings and The Crucible, his mother asked if I liked the book. I did, I said. Had she read it? “No, I haven’t.” She beamed like a child stealing candy. “But I’ve heard it’s good—I just looked up the parts about Marilyn Monroe.”

If I wanted to go off to the beach on my own, she would let me use her jeep. This incensed John, who, though a better driver, was relegated to one of the older vehicles. I had just gotten my license, but I still couldn’t parallel park. (The driving lessons had been a prodding gift from John, and he’d written on the card, “Merry Christmas Baby! May the rest of us beware.”) When he complained, she held firm. “She won’t get my jeep stuck in the sand and you will.”

On occasion, we’d venture off to the tamer parts of the island for Illumination Night or the Agricultural Fair, or for a concert at the gazebo in Oak Bluffs. One night, we went with his mother into Vineyard Haven for ice cream. We browsed the paperbacks at Bunch of Grapes, and caught an early showing of Roxanne at the Capawock. (I liked it, Mrs. Onassis didn’t, and John was indifferent.) But as I recall, she rarely left the environs near Gay Head, and her life there had its own rhythm.

If I was up early, I’d see her biking along Moshup Trail—sometimes with Maurice, sometimes alone—her head kerchiefed, maybe stopping off with her binoculars to spot a warbler or a Cooper’s hawk. Some days after lunch, if the water was flat, she’d water-ski at Menemsha or join us at the beach to swim laps in her cap and rubber fins. Other afternoons, she would read outside in the quiet, bricked corner behind the library. There she was sheltered from the wind and could look out over Squibnocket to the sea, with a view of the changing dunes and the empty island just off her shore called Nomans.

By then I knew not to disturb her.

…

On the second morning of Memorial Day weekend, there was a big breakfast, and afterward John and Rob set up a net in back of the house. With Ed Schlossberg, who would marry Caroline that July, they measured out the boundaries for the 1986 inaugural summer volleyball game. It was an especially sporty crowd that weekend, and Mrs. Onassis, Marta, and Maurice stood by and cheered. Even Efigenio came out in his trim, striped apron to watch.

John was big on “Do your best, win or lose,” and that day I tried. Despite my lack of ability, he was my own private coach. When I sent the ball sailing into the net and it ricocheted back to our side, he called a time-out to clue me in on exactly what I’d done right. “Just aim a little higher.” When my rusty underhanded girls’ school serve made it over but landed in questionable territory, he argued fiercely with Ed at the net until the point was called. Swept up by his enthusiasm and the constant pep talks, I almost believed that if I just harnessed my inner jock, one day this might actually be fun. I kept my knees bent, like he said, and my hands prone, but I eyed with gratitude the skinny girl across the court who was as disinclined as I was. After several hours and heated rematches, most of us lost interest and returned to the Barn, but John wasn’t done. He corralled whomever he could for water sports at Menemsha. I took off for the beach. Like sleep, sex, and food, time alone was a requirement.

There was a branched path that led to a set of silver canoes. From there you could paddle across to a break in the high dunes, slip the boat up on the sand, and walk to the ocean. He’d taken me there the day before. But first I had to find my book. I’d left it somewhere after breakfast.

When I reached the back of the house, I saw the volleyball