It’s past 2:00 a.m. by the time we pull up to Sam and Beth’s Princeton home. The lights are all off in the house, which means Karen must have gone to bed. It feels so long ago that we said goodbye to her and the girls at Le Refuge, but it’s been less than a day.
Sam and Beth’s Princeton home is much more formal than Le Refuge. The grand foyer has polished marble floors and a curved walnut staircase leading to the second level. The large living room showcases rich Oriental carpets and framed Picasso prints, and the paneled dining room features a breathtaking crystal chandelier and Queen Anne–style cabinet displaying Beth’s collection of antique fine bone china. There’s even a library like you’d see in an elegant English manor, with built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and moiré silk wallcoverings.
We carry our bags into the pitch-dark house and make our way blindly into the kitchen. Sam turns on the pendant light over the center island and opens the stainless steel refrigerator door to pull out a bottle of beer.
“You want one?” he offers. “Oh, wait, you prefer wine, right?” Sam reaches for an opened bottle of French Chablis, pours it into a Riedel wineglass, and hands it to me. I’m grateful for the hospitality. I’d normally be asleep at this hour but got a second wind around midnight. It’ll take some time for me to decompress.
“Wanna play a match?” Sam asks.
“Sure,” I say, happy to oblige. We grab our drinks and head downstairs to the rec room to play Ping-Pong. It’s one of the few activities we have in common.
When Sam was young, my parents bought a used Ping-Pong table from an ad in the local Pennysaver and set it up in our unfinished basement. We needed something to burn off Sam’s excess boy energy, especially during the endless Buffalo winters. Unlike me, a natural-born nerd, Sam struggled with school. My parents were at their wits’ end with his terrible report cards until I read an article in Parents magazine that made me realize Sam is a kinesthetic learner—he processes information through physical movement. From the time he was six until he went to college, Sam and I spent countless hours in the basement playing Ping-Pong, with me drilling him on everything from multiplication tables to state capitals to French vocab words.
I’ve barely had time to set down my wineglass and pick up my paddle before Sam serves the first ball. “Hey, no fair,” I protest, feigning outrage. “I wasn’t ready yet.”
“You’ll never be ready for me,” he teases. He pulls a second ball out of his pocket.
We’ve had this exact exchange innumerable times. It’s our own personal liturgy. Looking across the room, I’m reminded of Sam as a gawky kid, grinning mischievously, the light from a bare bulb glinting off his metal braces. Sam serves again, and I miss badly.
“You’ve gotten rusty,” Sam says. He finishes off his beer and walks to the carved oak bar. He returns to the Ping-Pong table with a cut-crystal tumbler of something dark brown on the rocks, takes a sip, puts the glass down and waits.
“Are you doing okay?” I ask.
“Of course,” Sam replies. He answers my high-bouncing serve with a decisive smash. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
I decide to give him his space. We play in silence for a while. When Sam goes back to the bar to refill his glass, I think about Sam and Beth’s goodbye at the prison, their last moments together. “It should be me,” he had said.
“Sam, I hope you’re not still blaming yourself for what happened.”
“It all came down to the deposition,” Sam replies. “Beth wouldn’t be in prison right now if it hadn’t been for the damn deposition.”
“It’s not your fault, Sam. You have to believe that it’s not your fault.”
“Then whose fault is it?” he asks. His tone is irritable, perhaps even bitter. Sam lifts the tumbler to his lips and empties the contents in one swallow before resuming the match. He serves the ball so hard it barely misses my head. It bounces off the wall and knocks over my wineglass, sending it shattering to the floor.
“Sorry ’bout that,” he mumbles as he drops his paddle and heads upstairs. I get down on my knees to pick up the shards.
lise
From the deposition of Lise Danielsson in United States of America et al. v. God Hälsa AB, Andreas Magnusson and Elizabeth Lindstrom
Q: Tell us about the first time you met Ms. Lindstrom.
A: I was sixteen, just arrived in America from Sweden.
Q: Did Ms. Lindstrom pick you up at the airport?
A: No, she sent Jorge.
Q: Who is Jorge?
A: Jorge is Beth’s driver. Also the gardener and all-around handyman. A supersweet man. He’s married to Maria.
Q: And who is Maria?
A: Maria’s the cook and housekeeper. Jorge and Maria, they’re like part of the Lindstrom family. Almost like a grandpa and grandma, you know?
Q: Okay, so after Jorge picked you up from the airport, what happened next?
A: We drove straight to the house.
Q: Which house: the Princeton house or the St. Michaels house?
A: The Princeton house. The St. Michaels house wasn’t built yet.
Q: Was Ms. Lindstrom waiting for you at the house?
A: No, only Maria. Oh, and Claire of course. Claire was just a baby then. She was so cute with her chubby cheeks and big brown eyes. She was like a living doll, you know?
Q: Did you meet Ms. Lindstrom later that day?
A: Um, no, not that day. I don’t think we met until a couple days later.
Q: You didn’t meet Ms. Lindstrom until a couple days after you arrived?
A: Yeah, that’s right.
Q: Did you find that strange?
A: Find what strange?
Q: Did you find it strange that you traveled all the way from Sweden to be her au pair but she wasn’t there to welcome you?
A: Well, now that you mention it, I guess it was a little strange. But, you know, I’d never been an au pair before, and I’d never been to America either. I didn’t know what to expect. Anyway, Beth is just different.
Q: What do you mean: Beth is just different?
A: I mean Beth’s not like most women. She doesn’t cook, clean, that kind of stuff. She’s all fancy, you know? She grew up in the Swedish Embassy with her own cook and driver.
Q: So you’re telling us that Ms. Lindstrom had a privileged life. Is that what you mean by “being different”?
A: You don’t know Beth, do you? My God, she’s different in so many ways.
beth
four