Genealogy: a novel

by Mae Wood

  Wiggling his fingers under the bindings, he unfolds the paper, folding it neatly to keep. The lid comes off and inside is what he hoped. A photograph of her. Three-quarters profile, looking over her shoulder. The quiet smile he’d adored, her eyes bright with happiness, and those eyes told him what he needed to know. That she felt it, too. That she knew, too. That this picture was taken for him alone and no other. It is as close to a boudoir picture as he’s ever seen. She is more beautiful than he dared remember. The empty veranda is suddenly much too public. He tucks the photograph under the papers in the box and shuffles off to his bedroom.

  Latching the door behind him, he pushes back the mosquito netting and sits on his bed, the box next to him. He pulls the photograph out, careful to hold it by the edges, ghosting his fingers across her soft skin, skin that he touched but a few times and dreams of touching at night.

  The letter! He unfolds it, to find it illuminated, the margins painted and inked with swirls and glyphs and stylized grapes and foxes in the most magical way.

  Dear Elliott,

  I’ve finally taken a photograph that looks like me. I know you probably think I was avoiding your request, but I was not. For three months, I’ve sat for photographs, but they all looked too dour, far too serious to send you. Because when I think of you, I think of laughter and warmth and that is what you deserve from me as well.

  Do you want to know the trick of it? I was thinking about our little canoe excursion and how I was determined to show you how capable I was, only to discover that you are quite the boatman who didn’t need assistance from this lady. I do appreciate you humoring me, because it was a great laugh at the time and I think of the day often.

  This is my last letter to you from Seattle until the fall. In a few days, I’ll be back on the train, heading across our great country, and I cannot wait to see what surprises are in store for me. Hopefully no men invading my berth this time.

  A year, please say that it is only a year until you are on your way back to see me. Though your offer to meet in Japan sounds lovely, I’m not quite that brave, but flattered you think me so. Going across the States takes only a little courage—and I am fluent in English.

  I hope you like the accents I’ve painted on the pages. I’ve recently finished painting flowers on a ceramic water pitcher and think it turned out nicely. I’m looking forward to showing it to you someday. In the meantime, these little doo-dads and what-nots are inspired in part by the covers of this magazine my roommate subscribes to, and some gorgeous paper in a stationer’s shop window. I decided to try my hand in creating a similar border. I hope it does not disappoint.

  My teaching contract has been renewed for the upcoming school year, and, after that we shall see, won’t we?

  Love,

  Your Alice

  Elliott reads the short letter again. And a third time. It’s more than he could imagine. Love. She wrote love. She’d never said it. Neither of them had, but there was no doubt now. Love, Your Alice.

  The letter in his right hand and her photograph in his left, he paces his bedroom. He looks out the window and envisions standing in this room with her. With her in the nightgown he’d seen her in on the train. With her flushed from his kisses as she’d been that evening after the theater, where they’d sat for an hour in the darkness, hand in hand.

  He needs to be near her again, to see her, to hear her. A year. A year. A year.

  He props her picture up on his writing desk and smooths the letter with the flats of his palms. He reads it once more. He sets out writing paper and fills his fountain pen. He dates the first sheet and the words rush out of him onto the paper.

  Dearest Alice,

  I could kiss you on your very kissable lips! Thank you, my darling, for your photograph. It does more than resemble you, but captures and reflects the joy you bring me. Even when you are serious, such as instructing me on how far to dip my oar under water on our canoeing adventure, there is a light in you. For that I am incomparably thankful.

  A year from now we shall be together, God willing, and after a few days to ensure this all isn’t a fever dream—and I am sure it is not—our future will be fixed. We will be fixed. Together we shall go on any adventure you wish, more canoeing and picnics and movies and long rambling walks in the evening, now taken hand in hand with confidence. The hundreds of humdrum aspects of life will be richer with you beside me. With us together.

  And who knows what characters we may meet along the way? Spies from the Ottoman Empire, sent to the Philippine Islands all the way from Constantinople? A one-legged opera star with vaudeville dreams? Or even two strangers on a train unaware of the stars’ plans for them?

  It is more than the stars who have brought you to me, dear Alice. I do not believe in fate. I believe in hard work. Yet I also know the heavy role of chance in our lives. A thousand tiny missteps and our paths would not have crossed. And missteps is what they would be. There is no destiny. Our destiny is what we ourselves create. Yet you feel like destiny to me. Like you and I were written even before there were stars in the sky. The stars did not bring you to me. We are beyond time. We are beyond the twelve months and the ocean between us.

  Even the parcel with your photograph and beautifully rendered illuminated letter—you are quite the talent and I look forward to your painted pitcher gracing our breakfast table. I do wonder what you’re trying to tell me, though, with the fox and the grapes. Surely not that I will call you sour. Because, dear Alice, know this. There is nothing but sweetness in me now. Nothing but hope for the future.

  You know that I have long struggled with my decision to leave the seminary and depart from my appointed path toward the Church. I knew it was the right decision when I made it and I didn’t regret it, but I couldn’t justify it. There was nothing I could point to and say “There. That was why.” Despite my adventures in the Islands, at times my choice seemed like an Easter chocolate. It looks good and tasty from the outside, but the inside is hollow. Was the agony I’d put my family through worth anything in the end? Was my work to repay my debt to the Church for my education truly worth anything? When I met you, I had less than one hundred dollars to my name. I was returning to Iloilo still a shell.

  You filled me up, Alice.

  I am in my bedroom, behind a locked door so that I can carve out this time with you. Before Joseph and Lewis return with whomever they are dragging to sup at our house this evening. This time is sacred. You are sacred to me. Tomorrow I will write to you of all of those humdrum things that fill my day-to-day, but right now, I need you to know this—I am yours.

  Love,

  Your Elliott

  The next morning Elliott mails the letter on his way into the store where he spends his day managing the pharmacy as one handles a wind-up toy and digging into his lending accounts. He speculates in sugar, makes a loan to a local fisherman for another boat, and drafts a letter to his lawyer to request a foreclosure on an unpaid mortgage. It’s a rough plot of land, and likely better suited for a coconut grove than the failed sugar crop the borrower put in the ground, but Elliott will take the toehold in building his future.

  Before siesta, he looks at the sky and determines that the rain may hold off long enough for a short round of golf on the club’s nine holes. His next chance to golf may come months from now because he needs the rare combination of a slow day in the store and dry weather. He goes home to pick up his clubs and knee breeches and finds Joseph packing a swimming outfit and towels.

  “We’re off to Guimaras, if you want to join us. Penny Powell’s parents are in Manila and she’s having a bit of a do at the family beach house. Lewis is even taking the afternoon off. He’s down at the docks arranging for some paraws or pump boats to get us there while Cook wrangles some picnic treats for us.”

  Elliott doesn’t hesitate to change his plans. A small bag to carry his swimming outfit, a towel, and a bottle of gin. What more could a man truly need for an afternoon at the Powell beach house?

  With a wicker
hamper between them, Joseph and Elliott skirt the sea wall all the way to the docks where they meet up with the rest of their set. Lewis is taking the lead, motioning to the dozen of their friends which boat they should sit on, making sure that the ice is packed and plenty for the day, and whatever arrangements he deems need to be made are made. Elliott settles in on the bench of his assigned paraw and Penny sits next to him, chatting about how fun this little impromptu outing will be, how pleasant the weather is, and how thankful she is that her parents are in Manila.

  Soon the sails are hoisted and the three boats are underway, crashing through the surf and then sliding along the surface of the sea. Guimaras is a short ride away. He and Lewis had paddled across the strait once, merely to prove to themselves it could be done. But the present company is much more pleasant and pretty. Penny and Edith and Whitney and Pru and some woman who always lurks around the edges, and Elliott isn’t sure if he’s ever even been formally introduced to her. Rachel, he thinks. Something Old Testament and pretty. He should ask someone before they arrive and he inevitably lands in conversation with her. Rebecca is another pretty biblical name, he muses, the name softly slipping out his mouth and immediately consumed by the wind and waves as he wonders what Alice would think of that name for a daughter.

  “She likes you,” Penny says to him, leaning in toward him, one hand clutching the wide brim of her smart straw hat against the sea breeze.

  Elliott turns toward her in confusion, wondering how Penny knows Alice and then realizing that they don’t know each other. “Who?” he asks.

  “Leah,” Penny says.

  Not Rachel, but Leah, he thinks. Leah, the unloved one. “Well, she can go on liking me all she wants, but it’s not going further than that. And at the risk of being impolitic, I could say the same about Joseph. He’s fond of you.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes. And I tell you this in confidence, Penny. Truly in confidence. He likes you very much. Told me as much one evening at our house when he berated me about being too tired to go to the club in hopes of playing bridge with you.”

  “He also can go on liking me, for all he wants. He can like me for as long as he wants as well, for that matter,” she replies with a wink.

  “Really?” Elliott answers with curiosity. He hadn’t noticed Penny being more friendly than her usual self to Joseph when the gang spent long evenings together at the club since his return, and he thought Joseph’s interest was one-sided, but he always found it difficult to determine whether Penny was ever being earnest.

  “We shall see,” she replies, echoing Elliott’s noncommittal phrase, and Elliott chuckles in response.

  “Do you want to tell Miss Leah Whoever She Is or shall I need to be aloof all day?”

  “Oh! Don’t do that! I was counting on your dancing some, and as much as I’m fond of Joseph, I’ve never seen him dance. Maxixe, foxtrot, he’s always on the sides, which is funny, don’t you think? Otherwise he’s always quite the center of attention.” Elliott shrugs because no response is needed to Penny’s prattle. “Perhaps he has two left feet,” she muses.

  “Cruel isn’t becoming on you,” Elliott tuts, a playful note in his deep voice.

  “Me? I’m only bemoaning that the man can’t dance. Nothing cruel there. And I think it’s by choice, not by reason of his birth.”

  “Well, if the esteemed Penelope Powell cannot move the man to dance, he is intractable.”

  “And are you more amenable to my wishes?” she says with a smile that teeters between angelic and wicked.

  “I am nearly fixed, sweet Penny, but of course I’ll dance with you.”

  “Especially if it helps ward off Leah, I suppose.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “As a plate-glass window. And anyone would know you’re hung up on your Alice.”

  “Alice again?” moans Lewis with a roll of his eyes. “Listen, friend,” he says, beckoning with his forefinger for Elliott’s attention. “Can you do all of us lonely singles a favor and not gnash your teeth too loudly while we all have a good time? That would be superb.”

  Elliott turns his head away from Lewis and the gang, gazing out across the water. Because as much as he doesn’t want to be, he is still in fact single. The happy chatter of his friends dissolves into the background as he remembers being with Alice on a boat and wishing she were next to him on this boat, headed to this party. He thinks of their picnic, the day before he left, the day that stretched into evening and through the night and into the small hours of the morning. He’d planned a visit to the zoo and lunch on the banks of Green Lake. He’d waited in the sitting room of the hotel, his hat in hand.

  “Good morning.” She’d greeted him with a smile, wearing a white blouse, tied with a blue ribbon that matched her eyes, and a long dark skirt that hid her from the world, but try as it might, could not hide her from him.

  “Good morning,” he’d said, resisting the urge to greet her with a kiss and instead settling for the warmth of her smile. “I was thinking we’d go up to the zoo,” he said and she agreed.

  “Yes! They even have some camels, from what I read in the paper. I’d like to go to Egypt one day, see the pyramids. But today I’ll settle for a camel.”

  “Europe and Egypt. And anywhere else you want to explore,” he’d promised.

  And off they’d set on a northbound trolley. Through the metal cages of the zoo, they’d thrown peanuts to bears, who’d stood on their back legs and begged for the small treat. The sun had warmed them as he’d promenaded her to the lake, feeling proud that such a beautiful creature graced his arm and enjoying how her sweet laughter filled his ears. He’d noticed her gaze longingly at the boats dancing on the water.

  “Shall I see about renting one?” he’d asked, pointing to a small wooden shack with boats stacked beside it.

  “Could we?” No hemming or hawing or demurring. A simple welcomeness to explore with him. That was what he enjoyed about her the most.

  “Of course,” he answered, happy to be able to bring her joy.

  “Have you paddled a boat before?” she’d asked as the boat had wobbled more than a little bit before he took his place on the caned seat behind her.

  “Never,” he said.

  “Well, then, let me give you a few pointers,” she’d said over her shoulder before launching into detailed instructions on how to hold the paddle, how to move it through the water, how to drag it to slow or twist it to steer.

  “Alice,” he’d said, barely able to tamp down his laughter at her zealous helpfulness. “I live on an island.”

  “Oh,” she’d said, dipping her head. The large brim of her hat obscured her face, but not the flush of color that crept up her cheeks. “So, you’re probably better than I am. My family goes to a camp on Lake Michigan in the summer.” She turned her body away, facing forward and paddling.

  “I’d like to go with you,” he’d called to her, digging his paddle into the water to propel them away from the small pier and along the quiet banks, the tall evergreens towering over them, casting long reflections on the sun-dappled afternoon.

  “I’d like that, too,” she’d said, looking over her shoulder at him. “Every August.”

  “Mark it down.”

  The sunlight bounces back at him, reflected by the water, but it’s not Lake Michigan as he’d hoped a year ago, but the strait. Even if he left tomorrow, setting aside everything in haste to meet her, he wouldn’t make it in time. But next August. Next August he will.

  Once ashore, the party climbs the steep path to the gingerbread confection of the Powell home that is perched on a cliff above the beach. Elliott’s eyes take in the sweeping lawn and impressive view across the strait to their home.

  “Sugar,” Joseph calls to Penny, the name a play not on her sweetness but the basis of her family’s wealth, “lawn bowling or croquet?”

  “Croquet,” answers Penny over her shoulder as she directs the help to set up a tent for shade. Of course, it’s croquet for Pen
ny, thinks Elliott. Lawn bowling isn’t secretly savage enough for her tastes, the reigning princess of Iloilo.

  A houseboy brings out the equipment and the men pace the lawn, sticking wickets into the neatly trimmed grass. Another boatful of their set arrives on the dock, and the men in lightweight suits and women shaded by brightly painted parasols parade to the Powell house.

  Cocktails and talk of walking down to the beach to swim gives way to more cocktails and less talk of swimming. The phonograph emerges from the house and jaunty ragtime sounds fill the humid tropical air. The sky begins to deepen as afternoon slides into evening.

  “I’m holding you to dancing soon,” calls Penny, who is flanked by Pru and Joseph. “Until then, let’s make a foursome for one final game before we lose the light entirely. Girls versus boys.”

  Elliott washes down the last of his gin and tonic, then crunches the melting ice in his teeth. “Joseph, do you think we can manage?”

  “Not without reinforcements. Saunders!” Joseph calls across the lawn to a group lounging in chairs, waving his hands above his head. “Grab a girl and join us!”

  The sky is deep blue and riotous lavender, streaked with orange. Penny roquets Elliott’s ball, knocking her red one into his green one and sending his well out of position and not far from the cliff’s edge. “You may need more backup than simply Georgie to manage us,” crows Penny as Pru and Abigail smile.

  “We shall see,” says Elliott. He steps up to his ball, weighing his mallet in his palms, and surveys the course. A solid whack and his ball sails through a wicket. Elliott raises his mallet above his head in triumph. The game is far from over, but the men are still in it.