“I’ll have to insist on paying you more rent.”
She waved her hand with a grunt. “I’m not worried about that.” He knew she was right and agreed with a reluctant nod. He couldn’t be here to take care of Jean and on the boat at the same time. And he couldn’t ask Ava to look after him. She’d probably refuse anyway. “Now. I’ll clean up. Go bathe. You smell,” she said, smiling. “Then we’ll get started on the room.”
A while later Jonathan emerged from the bathroom, smelling and feeling a great deal better. He paused and peeked through the slightly ajar bedroom door. Ava sat cross-legged on the bed, writing furiously. He walked down the hall to find his mother and Jean sitting on the floor of the spare bedroom. A cedar chest was open, and Margaret sat on her knees, digging through piles of Jonathan’s things from when he was young. Jean spotted a small, tattered teddy bear and reached for it.
“What can I do?” Jonathan asked, surveying the mess of boxes and crates.
Jean looked up, slightly shocked at Jonathan’s clean-shaven face and combed hair, and smiled.
∞∞∞
“Ruth?” Elyse watched the countryside, wobbling in her seat next to Ruth as the train steamed toward New York and away from her child. “Do you think he’ll be happy here?”
“I do. Jonathan will be good to him. I’m sure of it. He’s got a big heart.” Elyse looked at her with compassion.
“You care for him.” It was more a statement than a question.
“I do.” Ruth looked down. “I always will.”
“But your husband is a good man to arrange for our travel, to help and be so hospitable. I still feel I must repay him for what he has done. He has been very kind.”
“Victor has his own reasons for helping, and they have nothing to do with kindness. Jonathan is good, kind, and strong. Victor is . . . nothing like Jonathan.”
“Tell me.” Ruth thought twice before confiding. She cautiously wondered whether Elyse was yet another spy to watch and report. But what would Elyse have to gain? She was dying and had her own money.
“You know, I’m probably signing my own death certificate, but . . . .” She proceeded to tell Elyse about the two men’s entangled past. It left Elyse slightly wide-eyed with shock and worry. “You know, sometimes I think that’s the only reason I’ve stayed so long. I feel like I might be able to keep an eye out for Jonathan this way. Maybe warn him. Victor gets more secretive as time goes on, though. And I think he knows. I think he knows I still care for Jonathan and that I would betray him in a heartbeat to protect Jon.”
Elyse laid a hand on Ruth’s, surprised and grateful that she didn’t shrink away, the way most polite society did. “I still care for him greatly myself. If there is anything I can do, please tell me,” she offered. Her eyes held sympathy and the two women sat quietly for a moment, holding hands and reflecting on their common love. Ruth looked at her and felt obliged. Even in her own moment of grief, she was kind enough to reach out and listen.
Several moments later, an idea came to her. “There is one thing,” Ruth began, breaking the silence.
∞∞∞
Shortly after a formal dinner, Victor excused himself and Ruth, leaving Elyse to finish her dessert in silence. Victor led Ruth to the parlor and closed the door behind him. He interrogated her and demanded to know the exact words exchanged and made her repeat, twice, Ava and Jonathan’s reactions in detail. He grinned to himself, enjoying the fact that Ava was upset to the point of physical illness.
Go to hell, you filthy, evil bastard. You’re not a fraction of the man he is. Go straight to hell, Ruth thought as she stared at the floor to hide her hatred.
“If that’s all you need, I’d like to go to sleep. It’s been a long day,” she said softly and he waved her away. Elyse was also in the process of leaving the dining room to retire for the evening, and Ruth watched her climb to the top of the stairs. Elyse stopped, looked down, and gave a scant nod.
Elyse later slipped downstairs quietly and found Victor in the parlor alone. Several glasses of brandy and malicious satisfaction twisted his mouth into a smile as he stared at the dying fire. “Monsieur. I wanted to thank you once again for your help, your hospitality, and your kindness.”
“It was no . . .” She glided across the room toward him, her sheer gown flowing behind her, leaving nothing to the imagination. “. . . trouble.” She sat in the chair next to him, leaning over to let her gown expose full cleavage.
“I just wish I had a gift to express my gratitude. Some way I could,” her eyes flickered up with insinuation, “repay you.”
He grinned and reached out, tracing a finger along her collar bone and down along her cleavage to draw the seam of the gown further apart.
“I’m sure we can think of something.”
∞∞∞
Elyse boarded the ship bound for her homeland at noon the next day. She was at peace with her son safely delivered to his father; the last of her affairs now in order. And by fulfilling Ruth’s request, her parting gifts to Victor–syphilis, tuberculosis, and a wasting liver disease.
March 31st 1930
Claire walked leisurely down the beach, picking up shells, unique rocks, and small pieces of driftwood to paint. She glanced at the sun, which hung low in the sky and wandered away from the blanket and picnic basket she had laid out. It had been Aryl’s idea, she remembered with a smile, to start having Friday dinner picnics on the beach whenever the weather allowed, which provided a few precious hours to be truly alone and talk freely about anything. They talked about the frustrations of communal living, about the other couples’ current strife, but mainly they talked about their future.
He kept a list of all their hopes and plans in his pocket. Some were nothing more than outlines of far off things that were too early to detail. Others were detailed to the point of color choices for their new home one day and names for their future children. They went over the lists every Friday as they ate, adjusted plans where needed and added new details that came to mind.
He was late, and she stood, holding her hand over her eyes for a long time, watching the ocean for a sign of his boat. She suddenly startled as a bit of sand grazed her leg. She looked down to see a little girl, maybe six, playing in the sand a few feet away. Pixie cut, strawberry-blond hair surrounded her face as she dug deep into the sand.
“Sorry,” she said softly with a grin and quickly went back to her sand play.
“That’s all right.” Claire hugged herself with crossed arms, smiling. “You’re not out here all alone, are you?” she asked while looking around for the girl’s family.
“No, my momma’s over there.” She pointed to her without looking up from her sand pile. “I have to go soon,” she said with pleasant finality. Claire looked in that direction, and, even though she could only see a foggy silhouette down the shoreline, she waved.
She bent at the knees and dug lines in the sand with a stick.
“I’m Claire. What’s your name?”
“Beatrice Joy,” she said with oomph, beaming, terribly proud of her name. She patted her sand castle, frowning occasionally, unconscious of her tongue poking out the side of her mouth in concentration. Although Claire hadn’t heard anything over the ocean waves, she noticed the mother now within calling distance.
“Beadie, what did I tell you about running off?” she said with a frustrated smile, shifting a baby boy in her arms. “I hope she wasn’t any trouble,” the mother said to Claire.
“No, none at all. We were just talking.” Claire stood and raised her hand again against the glare. The woman stood a foot taller than Claire, and the sinking sun behind her illuminated her red hair in a radiant silver and gold circle of light. One large hand cupped the bottom of the baby boy who laid his head on her shoulder, and she held her other hand out. “Come now, Bea. It’s time to go home.” Without hesitation, the little girl rose, leaving the sand tools she had scavenged from nature behind and ran several steps to take her mother’s hand. Claire watched until the
y were almost out of sight, and the little girl turned at the last, looked over her shoulder and waved with a contented smile as they vanished into the brilliant core of the sunset. Claire raised her hand, holding it still in the air until they vanished.
April 5th 1930
Jonathan stood outside the bedroom doorway, debating and then leaned in, only exposing his left side. The last two times he had attempted to talk to her, he needed to dodge whatever happened to be within Ava’s reach. This way, he figured he could duck out easier, if he needed to again. He poked his head in, resting it on the inner frame, and his voice cracked with hushed imploring.
“Ava, it’s been two weeks.” She glanced at the calendar and back at Jonathan with a blank expression. Well, that’s an improvement from burning hatred, he thought hopefully.
She sat on the bed, legs folded under her skirt, back against the wall, and suddenly gathered her letters to hold them to her chest protectively, scowling at him.
With her hands occupied now, he took a few tentative steps into the bedroom.
“Looks like Maura wrote you.” She looked down at the letters she cradled, nodded slightly, and fixed her vacant stare past him. “My mother said you got several letters at once. I wonder if some got delayed along the way.” Her shrug was barely noticeable as she looked down at them again. “Listen, I have to go into town today. I was wondering if you’d go with me. Might feel good to get out of the house.”
“I have been. I’ve spent almost every day with Claire,” she said under her breath. Each day, she hastily did her share of chores and then spent the rest of the time alone in the locked room or visiting Claire. Jonathan had effectively been kicked out.
“I know,” he said, nodding. “I meant out of the house with me.” He leaned with crossed arms waiting for her rejection. He could see her thinking and dared to feel hopeful.
“I have to pick up a present for Arianna.”
He nodded quickly. “We can do that.”
“And I have to get a few things for her shower.” He’d have let her shop their entire savings away as long as it meant spending time with her, closing the gap between them. He missed her; it picked at his heart’s wound to be in the same room and have her barely acknowledge him. He inhaled her familiar scent just out of reach, tortuously forbidden to reach out.
“Whatever you need,” he spoke dully, disguising his elation. He chose a lightweight, forest-green sweater to go over a white shirt. Tan or black dress pants were his only choices, so he chose black and headed for the bathroom.
More promptly than usual, he appeared in the living room shaved, styled and with a bit too much cologne applied. He tucked his wallet into his back pocket and caught the keys his father tossed to him. As Ava walked out ahead of him, he grinned hopefully at his parents.
“Don’t wait up.”
Less than a mile down the road, Ava began wrestling with the window lever, struggling to breathe.
“Oh, it’s been jamming lately.” He pulled over and leaned across to tug at the rusted handle. She leaned back on the seat and he came up slowly, smiling sweetly. “There you go.”
She coughed a ‘thank you’, overwhelmed by the reek of liquid persuasion.
“Did you spill it or something?” she asked, slightly irritated, leaning closer to the open window.
“Yeah, on my pant leg,” he lied gracefully. “I would have changed but, you know, I figured you wanted to get going.”
As minutes of silence passed, Jonathan scrambled to find something to say. “Are those your letters from Maura, or are they some you need to mail?” he asked, referencing the stack of letters she held.
“Both. Maura’s and invitations to the baby shower. Arianna wanted to send some to New York, even though she knows none of them will be able to come.” She stared at the countryside. “I already wrote to Maura this week.”
Jonathan thought he detected the slightest bit of warning in her voice. There was a flash of cold fear in his gut, and he reaffirmed his effort to change her mind. He wished Maura was here. She could talk Ava out of leaving, if that’s what she was planning. Maura would walk in disconcerted, swearing, demanding answers and a drink. Then she would sit them both down and tell Ava how unreasonable she was being. He could almost hear her as he drove.
“Now what’s goin’ on this time? The two of ye sittin’ on opposite sides of the couch again, I thought ye were well past that by now. What’d ye do, Mr. Jonathan?”
He’d plead his case, profess his love, and then Maura would turn on Ava and set her straight. After more cursing and loving threats, she’d leave and all would be well.
He opened his mouth and closed it, fighting the rising lump in his throat. He swallowed hard and tried again. “How is Maura?”
She recognized something in his voice that made her heart ache even more for Maura, and for a few moments, she ignored her anger at him.
“Not all that well, I’m afraid. Ian lost his job. She's still working, but she says things are getting bad in the city. Tarin has been working at the cannery, but that’s not going well either. The supervisor likes to get friendly with the girls, and the first time Tarin came home in tears, well, Maura took care of him well enough.”
He heard Maura’s concerned voice in his head as the story came to life in his mind.
“Why, Tarin! What’s the matter, love?” Tarin collapsed onto the couch, sobbing. Maura went to her immediately, stroking her hair and trying to comfort her. “Now, tell me, love, what’s got ye so upset?”
Tarin proceeded to tell Maura of her new supervisor and his wandering hands. “Mr. Craig does it to all the girls, auntie. Grabbin’ and pinchin’, slappin’ their bottoms when they walk by. He hadn’t paid much attention to me, but today he . . . .”
Maura’s face was set hard and almost as red as her rich, auburn hair. Her green eyes flashed, narrowed and she urged Tarin to continue.
“Well, he’s done worse to other girls, that’s for sure. But today he grabbed at my bodice, slapped me rear, and laughed the whole time, like it was entertainin’. He’s a gross, fat man. An’ he smells.” She wrinkled her nose; most of her tears now subsided.
“Well, Tarin, ye can go to work tomorra’ without worry of this ever happenin’ again.” She kissed her on the head and crossed the room, lifting the black, metal tongs from its peg on the hearth. “Auntie will see to that,” she professed as she walked out the door coatless, headed down to the cannery.
“Did he live?” Jonathan asked, laughing. “Or are your letters now addressed to the women’s penitentiary?”
“Oh, he lived. Maura can be quite convincing when she wants to be. And she convinced Mr. Craig not to even so much as look in Tarin’s direction again,” she said and smiled, squinting her eyes against the sunlight. She felt the slightest twinge of jealousy toward Tarin, wishing Maura were here to put Jonathan in his place. She smirked at the visual of her standing before him with a set of fire tongs in her hands. She continued with the story.
Maura walked into Mr. Craig’s office without knocking. Before he could register the fiery whirlwind that blurred through the door, Maura had the fire tongs buried neatly in his crotch, the tongs above and below, grasping his bits and parts with constriction that demanded attention.
“What are you doing, you mad woman!?”
“Ye’ll lower your voice, Mr. Craig,” she said. Her voice was low, insistent and unwilling to negotiate. “And ye’ll hear me out, or I swear on everything that’s good and true, I’ll rip off yer parts, and ye’ll have to choke your own throat to get yerself off because that’s where I’ll have stuffed yer wee piece.” She applied pressure to the tongs to emphasize her point.
He squealed an unnaturally high octave and held his hands up in surrender.
“Now. Ye know of a girl named Tarin? Sweet Irish lass just started workin’ here a few weeks ago?”
He nodded quickly, wide-eyed with the sudden realization of the meaning behind the visit.
“She’s the one
ye had your nasty paws on this afternoon. Well, Mr. Craig, I’m here to tell ye that if ye so much as look in the direction my niece happens to be . . . our next visit won’t be quite so pleasant.” She added pressure as she finished her sentence.
He gasped and groaned, clutching the arms of his chair. “Please,” he whispered.
“Do we have an understandin’ then?” she asked suddenly smiling sweetly at him.
He was convinced this woman was stark raving mad. “Yes,” he whispered.
Jonathan laughed until he could hardly see the road, and despite herself, Ava laughed, too.
“God help anybody,” he said, wiping his eyes, “who crosses that woman.”
Ava gave him a quick glance and wished Maura were here now, handling him much in the same manner. They fell into silence for many miles, Maura heavy on their minds. Suddenly, he arched his back, leaning on the steering wheel with a wince and a groan.
Ava glanced at him. “What happened?” she asked indifferently.
“Oh, it’s nothing. My back hurts. The couch is rather uncomfortable.” He eyed her sideways, hoping it would lead to a compromise of letting him back into the room. “So, how have you been feeling?” He noticed she was re-reading one of Maura’s letters. She folded it quickly and stuffed it back in her handbag.
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