Miss Ruth was sitting in her dark bedroom and watching through the window. This time, waiting. Distinctly waiting. She had nearly dozed off a few times, but pulled herself back to wakefulness by the enticement of the living room lights still burning and also Sophie’s bedroom light. And Sophie’s shadow moving across the bedroom from time to time. So Miss Ruth knew that something was going on.
It was nearly midnight when the lights went out, first in the bedroom and then in the living room, and Sophie came down the front steps. Once again, she was wearing the slicker, and she darted across the quiet street and toward the far end of town.
What are you up to, Sophie? Miss Ruth wondered. If I were younger I’d go right out behind you and follow you to wherever you’re going, because you’re up to no good, and I owe it to your mama, at least, to find out what’s going on and where it is you’re running off to every night. Like a harlot!
Chapter Twenty-six
In the cabin, Sophie and Mr. Oto sat together on a cloth spread upon the floor, with the paper packets of chicken and biscuits between them and the kerosene lamp lending even more warmth to the humid air. Once again, under the gaze of the great crane in the painting, they sat together, saying little, but looking at each other frequently and smiling in deep contentment.
Mr. Oto thought that Sophie looked especially beautiful on that night, and something new in her spirit, so that she smiled more often and laughed aloud—a soft, pleased laugh—when he said that the fried chicken was very good. Very good, indeed.
At last, he wiped his hands carefully and then stood up, holding a hand down to Sophie. “Come with me,” he said in such a soft voice that, at first, Sophie did not know she heard him.
“Where?” And just as soon as she had asked, she realized that it didn’t matter.
“Just come with me, please. I want to show you something.’’
Sophie took his hand, somehow surprised at its warmth and softness, and after she stood, he did not release it, but blew out the lantern and led her to the doorway. Is he going to take me with him to try and find that strange crane? she wondered. And what if he sees it and I don’t? Like Miss Anne?
She followed him through the darkness, in and among the trees and with the sounds of the river beside them, until they crossed a small wooden bridge Sophie had not known was there and then came into the edge of sand dunes. A gentle whispering just beyond the dunes, and when they finally crested the last one, the ocean lay before them, in the dark, with the river’s mouth open to its gentle swells.
Mr. Oto leaned back and looked straight up into the dome of stars above them.
“There is your sky,” he said simply. And Sophie looked also.
Yes, she thought, There is my sky.
High above them, the endless heavens, the multitude of stars, some of them so far away that they could only guess their glitterings, and here they stood on the sandy bottom of eternity, and at the last, it was only his firm hand that kept her from soaring like an everlasting meteor into the heavens.
Then the same warm and gentle hand leading her past the dunes and out onto the flat, dark beach. He released her then and, stooping, removed his shoes and rolled up his trouser legs. Likewise, she removed her shoes and they walked forward and into the ocean until the tepid and slow-moving water was caressing their knees.
“The sea is too calm tonight,” Mr. Oto said.
“And so warm,” Sophie added. “It must be the Gulf Stream. But that doesn’t usually come this time of year.’’
“You know much about this ocean,” he said. “As I know about the Pacific near my father’s house in California.’’
Sophie didn’t answer him, because whatever was in the words, they called for no response whatsoever from her. In fact, she thought that he sounded as if he were speaking only to himself. And before she could even wonder at that, she knew—without any doubt—why he had brought her to where the river and the ocean melted into each other.
“You’re going away.” She heard her own voice stating what she knew to be true. But how she knew, she couldn’t guess.
“Yes. I must. For Miss Anne’s sake. And for yours. You must not endanger yourselves for me any longer. Miss Anne was right. The people are enraged, and there is great danger. So I will go very quietly, and no one will know this has ever been.’’
I will know, Sophie wanted to say. “And will you come back?” she said instead.
He didn’t answer right away. Around them, the ocean swells had begun to grow very gradually, and a strange, too-warm breeze moved across the face of the black water.
“When the madness of this war is over, I will come back. If you want me to come back.” And he was thinking to himself, If there were any way, my dear Sophie, I would take you with me. But there is no place for us. For surely, as my wife, you, too, would have become the enemy!
“Yes,” she said. “I want that very much.” And she didn’t say: And until that day, I will come to this place often, to look into the endless sky and to know that you are also beneath the same stars. And that will be enough.
The large and very sudden swell came from behind her, lifting her slightly so that her feet were as light as feathers upon the wet sand below, while at the same instant, she saw his eyes widen and his hands come up to catch her. The swell pressing against her from behind, thrusting her solidly against him. He stood as immovable as a tree, his hands gripping her shoulders, steadying her as the swell receded. But the ocean did not pull her back as it had thrust her forward. It left her solidly against him and with the warm skin of him under her surprised palms.
In his black eyes—those deep, kind eyes—she saw the twin reflections of her own face. Reflections that came closer and closer until she could no longer tell which was her face and which was his. Then the gentle shock of his warm mouth and the surprising strength of his arms sliding around her shoulders and encompassing her. The incredible oneness with the earth. With the sea and with the sand. And even with the multitude of stars high above. The tempo of the universe in her own jugular vein and the melting of all the edges of everything that separated her from the night. And from him.
Then, finally, his stepping backward and the deep sigh of incredulity that escaped them both.
“Are you all right?” he finally managed to whisper, and for one confusing moment, she thought he was referring to what had just passed between them.
But he meant the wave. Of course.
They walked back to the cabin in silence and with the stars hanging down around them so closely that they could almost reach up and touch them. And even if they had noticed the low, scudding clouds that were coming up and over the black horizon above the black ocean, they would not have cared.
Near dawn, Sophie walked back home, and it was a disturbing walk, indeed. With her thinking that at any moment the great crane of her dream would step out of the darkness before her, with its eyes glowing and its beautiful, white wings outspread. And if that happened, she would turn, most assuredly, and go straight back to the cabin. To him. Tell him that she would go with him, no matter where he went and no matter what happened to them.
But the crane didn’t appear.
Chapter Twenty-seven
At midmorning the next day, Miss Ruth went out into her front yard, pretending to pluck dead and discolored leaves from her dwarf azaleas, but really looking to see if Sophie’s bedroom shades were up yet.
They weren’t.
Miss Ruth peered at her wristwatch. Ten-fifteen, and she’s not up yet. What time did she come home? And where did she go, so late in the night?
So that Miss Ruth plucked only a few more leaves before she went back inside her house, put on a light sweater against the rising wind, and walked off down the street, depending only upon her sharp sense of right and wrong to provide vital clues into what she was convinced were Sophie’s transgressions.
She walked along slowly, swinging her arms a little and perhaps even convincing herself that she was merely out for
a nice walk on a beautiful morning. But the resolve of her purpose was ever with her, for after all, she’d known Sophie’s mother nearly her whole life, since they were both quite young—and she’d known Sophie ever since the day she was born. So it was her responsibility to try to find out what was going on. In memory of her old friend, and for the sake of that friend’s wayward daughter.
Just like her father, she is. And Willis had come calling on me first—until he changed his mind. So Sophie should have been my daughter. And I’ll certainly do right by her, no matter what it takes.
On toward the end of town she went, passing the last houses and strolling on down the unpaved road toward the marsh, and with the midmorning sun glowing and yet with a strange stillness in the air. Especially strange for that time of year. Almost as if the world were holding its breath in anticipation of what she would find out.
She moved ever forward, not knowing what she was looking for, but determined to find something—anything—that would solve the mystery of Sophie’s nocturnal wanderings. For Miss Ruth knew, without any doubt whatsoever, that Sophie had been going somewhere definite and distinct. Because of the resolve in her steps. That was for sure. It wasn’t just a nighttime stroll though that would have been suspicious, right by itself.
No, Miss Ruth thought as she took off the light sweater. She was going somewhere. Somewhere specific. Only where?
In the cabin, Mr. Oto slept only fitfully. The long, wonderful night with Sophie had left him saddened beyond his wildest dreams. How could it be that, at last, he had found his great love, but now all the insanity of war and the need for his running away and hiding like a thief was robbing him! And his resolve, in that half-sleep, was that he would come back for Sophie. He was sure of it.
Miss Ruth had moved far down the long road, and with the weather feeling so blustery and muggy, she was tempted to turn back. After all, she had come a long way already, and she still had to go all the way back. But something kept her going for just a little longer, and she decided she would walk only as far as that big palm tree she could see ahead, and if she couldn’t find anything, she would turn around and go back.
She moved ever closer to the big tree, and beyond it, she could see only mile after mile of palmetto scrub, the road trailing off, straight and flat, into the distance. Finally, she reached the tree and stood, gratefully, in the shade of its fronds, while she caught her breath and rested for a few minutes before starting back to town. She had come a long way. Longer, even, than she had realized. Looking back down the road toward town, she anticipated the walk home, and with the sun rising ever higher and the weather turning even warmer than it had been. And now, no breeze at all, a strange thing in itself.
Finally, Miss Ruth shaded her eyes and looked back down the road toward town one more time before she would start back. But just as she started to turn from the big palm, she happened to look down and see tire tracks in the sand.
What on earth? Why would anyone pull over right here—out in the middle of nowhere?
And then, when she looked more closely, she saw not only tire tracks, but footprints, too, and leading to a crease in the palmetto bushes. It was then that Miss Ruth remembered the old fishing cabin that had belonged to Anne’s father. Because once, when she and Anne were just little girls, Anne’s papa had brought them to the cabin one afternoon, to show it to them. It was right after he had it built, and he was very proud of it.
Is that where you’re going, Sophie? And if so—why?
And without another thought, Miss Ruth started off through the palmettos, following a trail that she had not walked since her childhood—remembering the deep sand beneath her feet and the lank, hanging moss in the trees, and, after a long walk, the cabin.
In the cabin, Mr. Oto still slept fitfully—unable, somehow, to fall into his usual deep and peaceful slumber. Something in the air, perhaps, he thought. Something very warm and almost oppressive—as if there were not a breath of air stirring. For the past hour or so, he had been concentrating on the chirping of tree frogs in the great live oaks, trying to gain some peace of mind. And rest.
But suddenly and without warning, the tree frogs fell utterly silent—all at once. A silence, in and of itself, that was almost deafening. And something else.
Someone was coming!
Sophie?
No, he thought at the last moment. Not Sophie. How he knew was a mystery to him, but so strong was his conviction that he slipped out of bed just as silently as a shadow, and across the room to lift the very edge of the torn blanket over the window.
Miss Ruth!
With her wizened and squinting face above the palmettos at the edge of the trees. And the bright sunlight flashing on her glasses. Lifting her hand and shading her eyes. Looking at the cabin.
Before Mr. Oto even had time to think, he stepped back across the room and rolled right under the cot, hardly daring to breathe and lying just as still as death, with his cheek against the rough planks of the cabin floor.
An oblique rectangle of sunlight across the floor when the torn blanket was pulled back, and he could see her feet. He hardly dared to breathe while the feet came forward and then turned slowly around in the center of the small room. And moved toward the box that was along the wall.
The painting!
The feet staying in that solitary place for a very long time, with the toes pointed at where the painting was propped up against the wall. His painting of Sophie as the Crane-Wife. And knowing that Miss Ruth was looking at it—with disdain, probably—violated everything he held dear.
Sophie—my dear Sophie!—of course, whose lovely image was upon the paper, blessedly unaware of the ridicule to which it would certainly be subject in Miss Ruth’s mind. And the great crane -that symbol of love and happiness!
And his father and the beauty of his gentle spirit. And the tale of magic and good fortune and fidelity that he had taken such pleasure in telling!
Lying in the dim light under the cot, Mr. Oto felt unfamiliar tears sliding down the side of his nose and dripping onto the floor.
And has it come to this? Hiding like an animal in a dark cave, while that despicable woman looks at everything I hold dear?
After what seemed like an eternity to Mr. Oto, the feet moved—toes pointing toward each wall and then moving, reluctantly it seemed, to the door and out of the cabin.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Miss Anne said:
It was early in the afternoon, I believe, when I started wondering if maybe Matilda had been right about a storm coming. Because the weather had turned quite warm and very still. So that my room felt musty and stale.
Big Sally came in, carrying an armful of freshly laundered sheets from the clothesline.
“Can’t use these yet,” she pronounced. “They’re not dry all the way. Have to hang them inside.” So saying, she temporarily dumped them on the foot of my bed and went to open my windows.
“Good,” I said. “It’s awfully warm in here.”
“Outside, too,” she grunted, shoving up the moisture-swollen windows. “Sheets should have dried by now. Been out there since morning. Too much water in the air for them. Too hot. Feel like Satan sucking the breath right out of this old world,” she said morosely, and then picked up the sheets and went back down the hallway.
And that’s exactly the way it did feel.
Not too long after that, I was having the first good nap I’d had in a long time. Because I was feeling very much at peace for the first time since I’d come up with the idea of hiding Mr. Oto in the cabin. After all, Sophie was making sure Mr. Oto had food and water, and even though I was still worried about how she’d gone to the cabin itself, I knew that I didn’t have to think about that again until before next Sunday—plenty of time for getting a hold of her and reminding her not to go to the cabin itself, but just to leave the supplies right where I’d told her to leave them in the first place.
So I was having quite a nice rest, when I heard hard knocking on the front
door and Big Sally going down the hall to let them in—whoever it was—and her grumbling the whole way. I wondered who it could be, because most of my visitors made their calls during the morning hours, figuring quite rightly that I would spend most of the afternoon napping and recovering from my fall.
Only took me a minute to realize who it was coming to see me, because of hearing Ruth’s little nervous tap-tapping steps coming down the long hallway toward my room.
Oh, Lord!
When Ruth came into my room, she had such a face on her—like I’d never seen before, and she plopped herself down in a chair without so much as a how-do-you-do and just sat there, staring at me.
“What’s going on here?” she finally said, as if that made perfect sense.
“What do you mean?” I said, and I didn’t try to hide the weariness in my voice, because I’d finally been able to relax, and I certainly didn’t feel like playing any games with Ruth. Really I wanted just to tell her to take her old sourpuss face right on out of there and leave me alone. But of course, I didn’t say anything like that.
“You know perfectly well what I mean,” she shot back at me, and that really made me angry. How dare she come bursting into my room and acting so ugly—and with me in my sickbed?
“Listen, Ruth,” I began, keeping my voice as calm as possible. “Whatever it is, just say it right out and let’s dispense with all this cat-and-mouse conversation.”
“Why, I never...” she sputtered, and then she went right into her “Why, I’m just trying to help” defense, which she always did if someone called her hand. “I’m just a good Christian woman who thinks it’s her duty to let you know.” That’s what she always said.
Sophie and the Rising Sun Page 13