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All Hogs by Alexander Saxton. I didn't know the Lillebergs.

They were friends of Sarah Khan, whose dad was some high mucky muck at one of the big banks.

But the Lilliburgs owned a cavernous mansion in the Muscocas, which they called a cottage.

And childless, every summer they extended an invitation to the kids of their colleagues and peers.

They thought that they were magnanimous.

I think that they were just lonely.

But that year, for the second summer in a row, I found myself in the prow of a speedboat

ripping white lines across a sapphire lake,

surrounded by five or six of my friends in dark shades and white sunscreen,

all holding grimly to our tilly hats as Sarah sat at the tiller and opened the motor up to top

speed. And in a $90,000 boat, what a top speed. That mansion looming up across the water, a ludicrous barn shape,

walled with tinted windows. 20,000 square feet of house crammed onto the zoning footprint of an old

unplumbed cabin. You could still see that cabin as an oil painting in the front hall. Like all

McMansions, the house waxed elegiac about what it had

destroyed. Doug and Linda Lilleberg were waiting at the dock with arms spread wide.

Hey, welcome, welcome. Linda, a sort of vague outline of white. Motherish and fussy and so alienated

from the world by generations of money that she sometimes seemed to phase

...