by Anita Shreve
She looks down at her dress — a dull calico — and fingers her hair, unwashed now for over a week. There is no time to dress properly. For the first time since she has arrived at Fortune’s Rocks, she laments the dearth of a servant to open the door.
“I hope this is not an inopportune moment to pay you a visit,” Philbrick says, removing his hat and taking her hand when she has opened the door to him.
“No, of course not,” she says, somewhat dazed by this entirely unexpected event.
She is surprised as well to see that Philbrick is considerably stouter than he was when she knew him, and she is at once reminded that he is, in addition to being a dandy, an epicure. Indeed, she sees that he needs to walk with the help of a cane and that he has on two different shoes, one quite a bit larger than the other. Perhaps he has the gout. He has shaved his whiskers, revealing pink cheeks and heavy jowls. His eyes are slightly pinkened at the rims. As she bids him enter the cottage, she looks once again at the faded calico she has on and thinks: He must see me differently as well.
He follows her into the kitchen, which, though spartan, is not unwelcoming. A vase of beach roses sits at the center of the worktable, and a pot of hydrangeas is on the sill. Still slightly rattled, she cannot at first think what to do with Philbrick. Apart from Ezra and the deliverymen, she has not had a single visitor to the cottage (and they can scarcely be called visitors). But then she recovers herself and tells Philbrick that she has lemonade and scones if he would join her for an impromptu tea. And though he begs her not to go to any trouble, she can see that he regards the prospect of fresh-baked pastries as a pleasant one.
“You are looking well,” he says when they are seated in the front parlor. Philbrick has taken the Windsor chair, Olympia a lady’s rocker that she brought down from her mother’s room. The windows are open to the fine day, and there is the steady sound of the surf, only occasionally interrupted by the far-off screeches of small children on the beach.
“Thank you,” she says, offering him a glass of lemonade.
“How long have you been here?” he asks, looking around at the room. She can tell that he is mildly nonplussed by the lack of furniture.
“I was at school at the Hastings Seminary for Females in western Massachusetts last year,” she says, “but I have decided not to return. I have been here since mid-July.”
“Your mother and father are well?”
“Yes, they are. Thank you for asking. Will you have some herring-paste sandwiches?”
“Yes, I think I might.”
She sets down the plate before him. “Mr. Philbrick, how did you know that I was here?”
“Oh, my dear,” he says not unkindly. “I am afraid I have had this news from any number of people. Did you mean to keep it a secret? If so, I fear you have greatly misjudged the nature of a small community.”
She notes for the first time the remarkable costume he is wearing — a yellow and black silk vest over a pale yellow shirt, and over that a rather splendid suit of fine linen. Where does he find such clothes in New Hampshire? she wonders idly.
“No, I did not mean to keep my presence here a secret,” she says, “but neither did I intend ever to announce my residency. But I am very glad of your visit, Mr. Philbrick. I have not yet had anyone come to call.”
“Good Lord, Olympia. You have turned into a recluse. I merely wished to see if there was anything you needed. There was a time when I regarded your father as my greatest friend.”
“Thank you,” she says warmly, “but there is nothing that I need at the moment.” She looks around. “Apart from a steam-heating system.”
He seems taken aback. “You intend to remain here for the winter?”
“I may,” she says, offering him another sandwich. Philbrick, she knows, is a man of appetite.
“Whatever for?” he asks. “Winters here are wretched.”
“I am having the house prepared for winter months. And I shall shut down some rooms, of course.”
“Even so.”
Olympia nods. “I feel the need to live by myself for a time,” she says quietly.
He studies her.
“And I was once very happy here,” she adds honestly.
Philbrick sets down his glass. He folds his hands over his considerable stomach. There is a long silence between them.
“Olympia, I have great sympathy for your plight,” Philbrick says finally. “In general, I am not a judgmental person. I daresay I have some understanding of difficult love and its consequences.” He pauses for a moment, and in the pause, Olympia wonders fleetingly exactly what his understanding of difficult love is. “I have some understanding as well of what you have suffered as a result of having known love. For I have no doubt your relations with John Haskell were born of love. In retrospect, I fancy I saw it between you.”
Olympia cannot at first reply.
“A certain current in the air when you and he were in a room together,” he adds, gesturing in a descriptive manner.
Olympia longs to be able to discuss Haskell with another person. But she knows that to do so with Rufus Philbrick will be to trespass on the grounds of familiarity, to risk his perhaps already compromised opinion of her.
“Actually,” Philbrick says, reaching for another scone now that he has successfully traversed the slightly treacherous landscape of love, “I rather thought you had come here for the child.” He picks a crumb from his silk waistcoat.
And it seems to Olympia then that all the world holds its breath, that the floor itself gives way and falls a thousand feet. Later she will wonder how possibly she could have managed — apart from a momentary and perhaps too abrupt glance at Philbrick — to pretend that she had more knowledge of what he spoke than she did.
“Remarkably good institution,” Philbrick adds.
Olympia runs her tongue against the roof of her mouth, which is suddenly paper-dry. Yet she dares not raise the glass of lemonade to drink, for she is certain that Philbrick will see the tremor in her hand.
“Some of these orphanages are appalling,” Philbrick says, “but Mother Marguerite runs a tight ship, I will say that for her. The good fathers of Saint Andre are always pestering me for donations, and I suppose they finally felt it necessary to make me a member of the board.” He shrugs. “Of course, I do not mind. It is a sound organization continually in need of aid.”
Olympia nods politely. She realizes she has been holding her breath. She lets air out slowly so as not to betray herself.
She opens her mouth, but cannot speak.
Philbrick leans forward. “My dear,” he says. “You have gone pale. I should not have spoken. I should know better than to bring up painful matters. Well, I have never been one for tact. . . .” He regards her carefully. “Please forgive an old man for having no manners.”
Olympia shakes her head. “I have always admired your boldness,” she says truthfully.
Philbrick wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I shall not keep you any longer, dear Olympia. I should go before I blunder further. Please feel free to call upon me if ever you should have the need. It would give me the utmost pleasure to be of assistance to you in any way.”
He stands and Olympia stands with him.
“I fear I have greatly upset you,” Philbrick says.
“Your visit has been a delightful respite from my daily tasks,” she says quickly to deflect his suspicions. “I hope you shall come again.”
Philbrick takes a card from a leather pocket case and hands it to Olympia. “You may write to this address at any time. Please give my regards to your father and mother.”
She turns and walks to the door, knowing he is examining her as he follows.
“Thank you for the lemonade,” he says at the door, offering his hand, “and please give my compliments to the cook.”
“There is no cook,” she answers.
“My God, Olympia, you really are alone,” he says.
“Yes, and I prefer it that way.”
He steps
down onto the lawn and examines her anew.
“I always thought you would have an extraordinary future,” he says.
• • •
She shuts the door behind Philbrick and waits until she hears the motor of his automobile start up. Her vision is blurry in her right eye, and a severe pain is starting in her left temple. She puts her fingers to her head, but the pain concentrates itself into a small nugget just beyond her reach. I fancy I saw it between you, Philbrick said. She feels nauseated and presses her forehead to the cool glass of the door. She has to clear her head and find her way to her bedroom. A current in the air . . . She turns to walk back into the house and has to put her hand out to the wall to steady herself. At the corner, she bends suddenly, fearing that she will be sick. That you had come here for the child . . . She wipes her face with the skirt of her dress and tries to concentrate. She has to find her bed. The pain grows hot and pushes against her skull. Some of these orphanages are appalling. . . .
Around her the hallway is spinning, and her son is in Ely Falls.
OLYMPIA LIES on her bed in her exceptionally clean house for days. It rains so much that the milk and the bread and the lobsters make a tidy and then a foul package outside her kitchen door. From time to time, she hears knocking, and she knows it must be Ezra. She does not want the man to have to worry about her in addition to all of his other responsibilities, but she cannot rouse herself to greet him.
On the third or fourth day, she climbs out of bed, weak from lack of food. Her room is stale and unpleasant. She washes herself, puts on clean clothing, and brushes her hair. She opens the kitchen door, finds the foodstuffs that have been left there, and throws them out, with the exception of a loaf of stale bread, which she toasts and eats with tea. She marvels at how her father could have given her baby to the orphanage at Ely Falls and not have told her anything about it. She thinks about how he must have blanched to have seen the Fortune’s Rocks postmark on an envelope that bore her handwriting. She wonders if he is even now worrying that she might inadvertently discover the whereabouts of the boy. She imagines him pacing in the upstairs hallway.
She has known from the moment Philbrick left her house that she will go in search of the child. The days she has lain on her bed have been spent not in indecision but rather in gathering strength for the task ahead. She has had to ask herself many times if she is prepared for such an undertaking: Suppose she finds the child, what then? Can she just simply ask for him back? And if so, will they give him to her? And if she gets him back, will she be able to care for him properly once she does? The boy will be just over three years old by now. She wonders if the child has been well tended, and she prays that he has. She does not know his name.
How, then, will she be able to find him at all? What Christian name was given to him at birth? And what of his surname? Did Olympia’s father allow the name Biddeford, or was he permitted to change the name to something else altogether? How are such things accomplished? Olympia has no idea and certainly cannot ask her father about these matters, since she would risk alerting him to the fact that she has discovered the child’s whereabouts. And risking that, she will further risk his moving the child or journeying up to Fortune’s Rocks to confront her, which she most sincerely does not want him to do.
On the morning of the seventh day, she dresses in a lavender-blue silk moiré suit left behind in her mother’s mahogany wardrobe, and wears with it a broad-brimmed rucked silk hat. Experimenting in a mirror, she discovers that if she angles the hat just so, most of her face is hidden. It is not so much that she fears discovery as that she does not want yet to admit any other persons who might know her into the fragile universe she has created.
The trolley to Ely Falls can be boarded at Ely, which is three and a half miles from the beach at Fortune’s Rocks. She has thought about walking but has reasoned that she might sully her skirts and boots were she to try it, and such a disheveled appearance might not serve her well in her mission. Thus Ezra, with whom she has spoken the day before, comes to fetch her and takes her to the trolley.
The lobsterman, whom she now knows is in his late thirties, is amiable company for her on the short ride into Ely.
“Was your father a fisherman as well?” she asks along the way.
“He was. And his father before him,” Ezra answers plainly.
“And you like the life?” she asks.
“I have two hundred pots in the water, and that keeps me busy,” he says. “I check them at daybreak before the sun is over the horizon. I have three sons, and I expect one or more of them will follow in my footsteps, though I have tried to discourage them from such a future. And I guess there’s your answer. It’s a hard life.” He says this without self-pity, the broad vowels of his accent soothing to Olympia’s ears. And indeed, when she looks down, she can see the text of many harsh incidents written upon the back of his hands. Without thinking, she reaches over and touches one of the scars, the touch startling both him and her.
She apologizes for her boldness, an apology he waves off as he explains that the deep cuts were made by lobster claws in the few seconds before he was able to peg them. She wants to ask about his wife, about what her life is like; and more, she wants to know, but will not ask — no, never would she ask this — if he loves his wife, if he thinks his wife loves him; if, in their way, they are happy together. For though her experience is limited, she knows that love is often inscrutable, indecipherable to observers, and yet it is that intimacy she most craves some understanding of. When they reach the trolley, he bids her a good journey and says that he will return for her at four o’clock.
The trolley is crowded with both natives and summerfolk, many of whom have come up from Rye, doubtless thinking to have a day of shopping in Ely Falls. There are no seats when she boards the dusty vehicle, and all the heat of the day seems to have concentrated itself within the wooden walls of the conveyance. The passengers are jostled and knocked about because of the unevenness of the track bed, and the smell of all those overheated persons is quite unpleasant. If it were not necessary to hold on to the grip with both hands to keep from falling over, she would cover her nose with a scented handkerchief.
Occasionally, through the crowd, she catches a glimpse of scenery. New houses have been built, and it seems the outer limits of the city of Ely Falls begin sooner than they did four summers earlier. They pass business signs that read PATENT MEDICINES and LIBRAIRIE FRANÇAISE and H. P. POISSON, PHOTOGRAPHER. Then FANCY GOODS, PARADAY’S SMOKE HOUSE, and BOYNOINS PHARMACY next to a sign that reads only LEWIS POLAKEWICH. There are striped awnings of many colors and tall department stores that either she did not notice on previous trips to the city or were not there before. The streets and sidewalks are thick with people and with carriages, and an air of business seems to have infected the crowd on the trolley. She gets off the trolley when most of the others do, though she has no idea where she is.
She stops a policeman in the street and is given directions to the orphanage. As she walks, the sky overhead takes on a blue-black appearance. In the distance, she can hear thunder. She begins to run but is caught in the sudden downpour and has to shelter in the doorway of a bank. After a few minutes, restless with her mission, she sets out again, only to receive another soaking a block from her destination. Running hard now, she at first mistakes the tall granite structure with its evenly spaced windows on the corner of Merton and Washington for a department store. And then, in passing, she sees above the door the words The Orphanage of Saint Andre.
The floor of the central hallway is made of stone. As she walks to a door marked OFFICE, Olympia’s boots leave small puddles in her wake. After a moment’s hesitation, she knocks on the door.
It is opened by a tiny woman in habit and wimple. The woman has small black eyes with many folds at the lids, and her mouth is deeply lined and pursed. She seems at first startled to see Olympia standing there, and then begins to regard her more closely. The sister takes in Olympia’s rucked silk hat, her wet bo
ots, and the lavender-blue skirts that cling to her legs. Her scrutiny is intense, and Olympia thinks the sister will shut the door in her face.
“Forgive me for interrupting you,” Olympia says, “but I wish to speak with someone in charge of the orphanage.”
“For what purpose?” the sister asks. The question is quick, in the manner of a schoolmaster who demands an equally rapid reply. The sister speaks with a French Canadian accent.
Olympia has rehearsed her speech so many times that she has thought nothing could possibly cause her to misspeak it. But so stern is the sister’s countenance that Olympia finds herself stammering, even as she realizes that the stammering will undermine her position.
“I . . . I wish to find a child,” Olympia says. “That is . . . I wish to ascertain the well-being of a certain child. Who will have been brought here three years ago. In the spring.”
“But why?” the sister asks, neglecting still to invite Olympia into the room.
“Because . . .” Olympia draws a breath. “Because he is mine,” she says quickly.
The sister sighs heavily and then steps aside. “Come in,” she says.
The sister walks to a chair behind her desk and sits down. “You young girls are all alike,” she says. “You think that you can just abandon your babies, leave them on our doorstep, and then come back in two or three years and walk away with them. It will not happen that way.”
“No,” Olympia says, moving toward the desk.
With a quick wave of her hand, the sister bids her sit down.