The Editor. Steven Rowley

of the wondrous things happening. Nothing about Jackie. No real concern about my medical emergency, although my mother knew me well enough to know there was no serious call for alarm. (A therapist friend called these “bids,” my calling home with extravagant takes to get a reaction. But my mother had my number; she was maddeningly patient, never raising her paddle, passing my lot on to other, more excitable auction-goers.) This is where we are, this stalemate our new home.

      I would have loved to share this trip with my mother. She would have hated this flight and in fact may have refused to board it, offended by having her weight silently gauged. But she would have loved to spy on Martha’s Vineyard, to see firsthand the places and names that she’s read about in following the Kennedys over the years: Nantucket, Hyannis Port—even Chappaquiddick. Several months with no communication is not that unusual in our relationship. It’s not the norm, but it’s not unheard of. We’ve done this before. Still, there’s a weighty sadness to our current silence; this is not merely a period of us being too busy or too lazy to speak. I have defied her expressed wishes—what else is there, really, to say? Calling to announce I had been invited to Jackie’s beach house to work on the book would only rub it in.