AT 29

by D. P. Macbeth

  Minutes later, the carriage came to a stop in front of the Yarra Inn on the waterfront. The celebration that followed continued, unabated, through the afternoon and into the night. Scores of people wedged their way into the Inn where food and drink was plentiful, donated by every business and every farmer who had ever known the Whitehursts. The small band that marched in the morning now set-up in the hotel’s tightly packed hall where its music, much of it the most merry of Nathan’s repertoire, brought everyone up to dance. Interspersed among the songs and feasting, were a bevy of speeches in praise of the Whitehursts’ contributions to the community. Those with ties to the military spoke about the bravery of the men who fought at Gallipoli. Aaron was singled out as one of the men who brought honor and distinction to the village. Many times during the day the three Whitehursts were called upon to speak and, after demurring once too often, were finally escorted to the front of the room where each expressed surprise and gratitude for the outpouring of affection. In the following days many visitors came to the cottage to say good-bye to Melba.

  ***

  Her ship departed Sydney on the Saturday following the wedding. Aaron and Laura accompanied her on the train from Melbourne to Sydney and then helped her bring several trunks to her tiny quarters on the second deck. The massive ocean liner, with its gigantic smokestacks piercing the sky, filled Melba with awe. The size of this vessel, combined with the seeming power it possessed, gave her comfort as she braced for the long voyage home to America.

  As the whistles blew loud, announcing the ship’s imminent departure, the three gathered at the top of the gangplank. Melba turned to her son, embracing him with a fervor she refused to contain. In the time since his return from the war they had bonded again as mother and son. Not with the memories they had shared from his youth, but with a new collection that included his love for Laura and the self-confidence that both women had helped him regain. As they parted, she placed a small key in his hand.

  “This opens the trunk with your father’s music. Protect his legacy and pass it to your children as I pass it to you today.” Then she turned to Laura and took her in her arms. “I am pleased that you have married my son. No one, but you, could have helped him through his trials. I will always love you as I love him.”

  Aaron and Laura watched the ship round the point at the head of the bay where Captain Cook first approached the land ‘down under’. Then they turned toward town where they planned a week’s honeymoon, presaging their life together.

  The days and nights of sightseeing, sumptuous eating and lovemaking, was the happiest of their lives. When not walking the waterfront or hiking out to the magnificent beaches just beyond the city center, the two made for the lush gardens and parks that were quickly giving Sydney a worldwide reputation. The British influence was everywhere in the trees, shrubs, flowers and lawns that grew in meticulously designed and elegantly maintained order. The botanical gardens of Hyde Park particularly enchanted them and they found themselves picnicking on its sprawling grasses each day. In the warm midday breeze they feasted on bread, cheese and wine, purchased from street vendors along the walk from their hotel a few blocks away.

  In the evenings, they took in the city’s fledgling entertainments; opera, theater and a wildly popular diversion, moving pictures from America. Occasionally, they found a pub in the old district where they danced after the evening’s earlier entertainments until they could stand no longer. Then, in a nod to carefree luxury, they hired a carriage back to the hotel.

  On the last day, Laura tended to the only bit of business remaining from her old life before Aaron. Leaving him behind in the early morning, she walked across the city to the military hospital where the British Auxiliary Nurse Corps attached to the Anzac battalion was headquartered. There, she signed papers marking her resignation. Then she spent the remainder of the morning making the rounds, saying good-bye to the doctors and nurses who had come to admire her so greatly. In the afternoon, she rejoined Aaron at the Botanical Gardens where they enjoyed one last picnic, vowing to return each anniversary forever thereafter. As evening approached, they collected their things from the hotel and strolled to the central railway station on Eddy Avenue.

  In 1919 little was known of the Atrax Robustus, a darkly colored arachnid that grew to three inches in length and inhabited the regions around Sydney. There were few accounts of this aggressive spider in the brief historical record written by the English who had come to inhabit the young country. Still, many personal diaries told of a mysterious illness that came on exceedingly fast, often driving the convicts and settlers who first arrived in the country, to collapse and even death. The indigenous people, of course, knew this treacherous creature well and kept a careful lookout for its telltale signs, funnel shaped webs that were not webs at all, but tubular burrows that the animal lined with a silk like structure. It could be found in moist areas that contained sand and clay.

  Sydney’s Central Station was expanding in direct corollary to the population of the city. Much dirt and sand was displaced to make way for new buildings, the paving of streets and the laying of new rail track. Mounds were scattered at the sides of the railway station, waiting to be transported to other parts of the city where it would be used to expand the waterfront. Some of the earth that was moved was, indeed, moist and sandy with a clay base that the spider naturally chose as its dwelling place.

  Aaron struggled with the two pieces of luggage. With only the one arm, he had to tuck the smaller of the two under his shoulder while gripping the other by the handle. Laura, mindful of his pride, usually did not offer to help, but this time she insisted on taking the smaller bag to lighten his load. As she reached to take it from him she slipped on the sandy soil beneath her feet and fell forward onto one of the earthen mounds. Aaron quickly dropped his load and helped her to her feet, careful to brush the dirt from her long full skirt.

  Suddenly, Laura felt a piercing sting on her neck, just to the side of her throat. She brought her hand swiftly to the spot and swatted the cause of her pain to the ground at her feet. The huge black spider remained still, momentarily stunned, then scampered away under the eyes of the startled couple. Laura rubbed her neck, feeling the area of pain expand and swell as she reached down with her other hand to retrieve her bag. Then they continued to the platform and climbed upon the train to find their sleeper car.

  Atrax Robustus came to be known as the Sydney Funnel-Web Spider. An antidote for its lethal venom was developed in 1981, far too late to save Laura who succumbed in her sleep in the upper berth of the Sydney to Melbourne overnight express.

  Aaron returned with her body to the farm outside Apollo Bay where she was buried not far from the graves of his grandparents. His grief was all-consuming as he drafted a telegram informing his mother of Laura’s death. He knew Melba would not receive it until she arrived at Nantucket several weeks later. He hoped by then, she would accept the last words in his message, imploring her to stay on the island far from the empty farm at Apollo Bay where nothing remained to lure her back.

  A month later, after receiving Melba’s mournful reply that contained a impassioned plea for him to come to be with her on Nantucket, he sent a simple return message, no. Then he left the farm to join one of the many construction crews being assembled to begin work on the Great Ocean Road. Despite only one arm, his Anzac veteran stature gave him preference for a job. Wracked with depression and suffering from trembles that came on without warning, he isolated himself from his fellow workers, seeking out one-man projects high in the hills far from the main work areas. There, he toiled alone clearing trees and brush. He slept in a canvas tent, returning to the main encampment only to draw his pay and purchase supplies. He remained alone, living and working in this way until 1932 when the road was finished.

  Over the thirteen years of his self-imposed isolation, Aaron slowly descended into periods of madness. Not the violent kind, but the internal wildness of thought that produced outbursts of screaming to the wind and sky. With onl
y the memory of Laura, his convalescence and the seasons back at the farm, he could summon little from his damaged emotions to dispel the episodes of quaking misery that overtook him. In time, he found ways to control his heartache by singing the few songs he remembered from his wedding day. His voice, like those of his forebears, was strong and true, magnificent to the few workers that occasionally heard it carried on the wind down the mountainsides to where they dug at the ground with picks and shovels. These workers knew of the one-armed man who chose to work alone on the peaks above. He became legend to them as they talked around the campfires at night. He was a fearsome seven foot giant, some said, although none had ever met him. He could clear more land in a day than ten men did in a week, even with one arm. If anyone dared draw near his space he heaved rocks and gravel down upon them, driving them back. And, he could be heard shouting with an unnatural ferocity that discouraged even his bosses from disturbing his isolation. When he appeared in the main camp to collect his pay, the workers stayed clear, observing him from a distance, only to confirm the legend. He wasn’t seven feet tall, of course, but he was massively bigger than his peers. The years of toil made him extraordinarily muscular. He bothered with no one on these infrequent forays to civilization. No one bothered him.

  At the end of his sojourn in the bush he knew of no other place to go than to return to the farm at Apollo Bay. He simply appeared one day without being seen in the village. The tremors continued, but the emotional suffering had dulled with the passage of time. The hermit ways he adopted at Laura’s death remained, however, and he would receive no visitors nor tolerate trespassers on his land.

  The cottage needed repair. When his work was done in the fields, he busied himself making it habitable again. He was joyless except for the satisfaction he found from the crops he grew and the warmth of a permanent abode. He never again slept outside in the elements.

  One day, a few months after he returned, he came in from the fields to find a packet of letters on the doorstep. He knew they must be from his mother. As he unraveled the twine that held them he could see that they were in order by date. He located the last one, which had arrived two years earlier. This one was written in a hand that did not match the others.

  Dear Aaron:

  Your mother passed away on Nantucket Island on February 10, 1930. Her last request was that you be notified although it is not known if you are alive. She spoke of you often, with a special happiness that all mothers feel for their offspring. Be comforted that she passed quietly in her sleep.

  If you are still living, please know that your mother was greatly loved by all who knew her. Her passing was marked by sadness among the people of the island. That you could not be with us does not diminish our view of you as painted by the descriptions she gave us. I knew your father, Nathan, to be a fine man. Melba assured us that you are his equal in all ways. While she lived, she always hoped that you would one day come to her on Nantucket. Now, in her absence, that opportunity still remains, but know that none of your family still calls it home.

  On the far side of the island there is a parcel of land overlooking the ocean in a hamlet called Sconset. Our father purchased it many years ago, knowing Melba and Nathan had planned to make it their home before his unfortunate loss at sea. Your mother kept the land and has provided for its continued holding with the remaining funds left behind at her death. It is now in your name.

  Should you come to America, you can find me in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I believe I alone, remain as a blood relative to you. Be certain that you will always be welcome.

  Your Loving Aunt,

  Sarah

  He took the thick packet of letters and toyed with it in his hands. His mother was a distant and brief memory that conjured mere heartache in concert with the sudden and tragic loss of Laura. Later that night he tossed the packet, unopened, into the fireplace, keeping only Sarah’s letter, which he placed with his father’s music in the trunk Melba left behind.

  Twenty-Four

  Jimmy checked into his Burlington hotel, unloaded the Centurion and wheeled it into his room on the first floor. He napped for an hour then showered and headed south on Williston Road, Burlington’s red ketchup junction, arrayed on both sides with every fast food restaurant known to man. Pizza was on his mind as he spotted The Barn, a Burlington landmark he’d frequented during his college days. He ate quickly and returned to his hotel room, content to pass the evening in front of the television. The Memorial Day weekend, headlined by the annual Lake Champlain Half Iron Man Triathlon, featured prominently on the news.

  On Thursday morning he awoke later than normal, feeling refreshed. The weather was unusually warm and the cloudless sky invited him outside to take a run. After breakfast he drove the route he would run on Saturday, starting at the edge of Malletts Bay then continuing through Colchester across the Heineberg Bridge, down North Avenue and back, 13.1 miles altogether. Then he directed the Saab north to Roosevelt Highway and Route 2, taking the long, stunningly beautiful northern route through the Lake Champlain Islands. He knew the towns along the way, Grand Isle, North and South Hero, and Alburgh. He deliberately took his time, stopping frequently to step out of the car and gaze at the shimmering blue waters. He expected biking to be the most difficult part of the competition. Navigating the Centurion through this arduous 56-mile stretch of hills and valleys along the lakeshore filled him with trepidation. He fought against his doubts as he meandered north, turned at Alburgh and sped back to Burlington.

  He parked just off the Church Street mall. A few years earlier the town fathers decided to convert Burlington’s main thoroughfare into a pedestrian walkway lined with shops and restaurants. In good weather the restaurants opened sidewalk tables, giving the college town a festive appeal. Four colleges called the Burlington area home with the largest, UVM, a magnet for out of staters drawn by the school’s pretty campus and high academic standards.

  The sun had drifted behind the taller buildings, casting shadows along the sidewalk in front of storefronts that once showcased familiar interiors to Jimmy. He had a minor mission as he walked the length of Church Street. He wanted to find the second floor bar where he was playing when Cindy found him. It was curiosity, not longing that set him on his quest. He simply wanted to climb the stairs, reminisce and kill some time.

  The three-story building was unchanged, its bright green door beckoning strollers to come inside. He stepped back and peered up at the second floor window. The outlines of the bar’s trite name, Poor Richard’s, still showed although the stenciling had been pulled away. The watering hole no longer existed. He entered and climbed the stairs, noting the bare walls where concert posters once hung. At the top he came to a glass door that opened into the former bar. A large wooden desk was positioned just inside with bookcases lining the wall ten feet behind, crammed full. To the left, the pub’s former bar still stood with a large full-length mirror on the wall behind. Glass shelves, attached to the mirror, sat empty of the myriad liquor bottles they once held.

  The desk was immaculately ordered. A typewriter sat on a stand to the right, a telephone next to it on the desktop. A pad of paper with an odd circular design was placed in the middle. A pencil rested on the pad and Jimmy could see unfamiliar handwritten symbols at various points within the circle. A voice called out.

  “Can I help you?” A man stood on the other side of the room with a helpful smile. He was slender, but not tall, about Jimmy’s age with long, but well-groomed brown hair. He came forward as Jimmy replied.

  “Just looking around. I played here a few years back.”

  The man waved his hand. “Poor Richard’s closed six months ago. My sister owns the building. I’m keeping an eye on things until she finds a new tenant.”

  Jimmy walked deeper into the room, pausing in front of the window where he once played. He turned and surveyed the open floor, picturing how it once looked, jammed with tables full of college students, sipping beer and singing along. His stint at Poor Richard’s wasn’t
long, two weeks of nightly performances at no pay. He did it merely to pass the time and stay in practice while he calmed his irritation with Daisy. He had already decided to return when Cindy arrived to bring him back. Instead, they stayed another week, beginning their five-year relationship.

  “So you’re a musician?”

  Jimmy turned. “Sing, play guitar, piano and some harmonica.”

  “When were you here?”

  “Five years ago.”

  “That was the heyday. What brings you back?”

  “The triathlon on Saturday.”

  “Oh.” The other man reacted with a look of interest and respect. “One of those test your mettle types.” He walked over, extending his hand. “My name is Jeff Hines.”

  Jimmy shook his hand. “Jim Buckman, and no, strictly a first timer.”

  “It takes a lot of effort to get ready for something like that.”

  “I still don’t know if I’m ready.”

  “You’ll soon find out.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Hines smiled. “Well, best of luck to you.” He took the chair behind the desk. “Feel free to look around.”

  Jimmy spent several minutes walking the room. He knew the exact spot behind the bar where an array of single malts was once kept. At the time he was well into his addiction. When his curiosity was satisfied he crossed to the entrance, thanked Jeff Hines and pulled the door open, but a question turned him back.

  “May I ask you what you’re working on?”

  Hines looked up, betraying mild surprise. “It’s a chart. Something I do in my spare time, astrology.

  “You’re an astrologer?” Jimmy was intrigued.

  “Among other things, yes. It’s a hobby.”

  Jimmy let the door swing shut, studying the other man. He didn’t fit the stereotype, too proper and well-groomed, sitting behind a desk like a scholar or a businessman.