by Paula Fox
“Say another poem,” Aaron demanded as he sat up, yawning.
“That’s the only one I know by heart. I’ll have to memorize another.”
“Bring it tonight,” he said. “Else I’ll die of boredom.”
She laughed.
“It’s true. You’ll see! Unless Deirdre has a tantrum and throws dishes at me. You’re going to have chicken for supper. It’s one hundred and twenty years old. Mama never throws anything away. She’s crazy.”
“You ought not to talk like that about your family,” Elizabeth said self-righteously.
“Ho, ho!” cried Aaron, springing to his feet. “You ought to hear the way they talk about me! All night long … whispers from the bedroom …”
He began to dance around the gravestones the way he had last night when Elizabeth had seen the Herkimers through her bedroom window.
Suddenly, he cried in a falsetto voice, “Settle down, Aaron!”
Elizabeth felt a chill of fear. Maybe he would dart up the crest of the ridge and fling himself into the sea. What if he refused to go home? Would she have to carry him all the way back?
“I’ll wake the dead,” he said in a tone of voice that suggested he was imitating words he had heard. He sighed then and looked vacantly at the bay.
“Let’s go home,” he said. “It’s time I had my milk and cookies. I’m tired of talking.”
He was silent on the way to the Herkimer house, and after he’d opened the screen door and gone inside, he didn’t glance back at Elizabeth.
Mrs. Herkimer called from a window, “Thank you for looking after him, Elizabeth. I hope he didn’t act like a beast.”
“He was fine,” Elizabeth answered her crisply. Really, they did behave as though he were a freak! She passed Deirdre, who was lying in the sun on a shabby quilt. A straw hat covered her face. She must have overheard Elizabeth and her mother speaking, but she gave no sign or greeting.
When Elizabeth arrived at the cottage, the big room was empty. She guessed Gran was still resting. She took one of the soft little apples from the basket and ate it, standing next to the sink. Grace came to her and touched her ankle with one paw. She bent to pet her. After a moment, the cat went back to the sweater and curled up. Gran came down the stairs.
“Did you write home?”
“Yes. And I found the cemetery. I took Aaron. The Herkimers sort of made me take him.”
“Did you mind?”
“Not really. He’s funny. You never know what he’s going to say.”
Gran nodded. “That may be part of what puzzles his parents,” she said. “He speaks what’s in his head.”
“Grace just touched my leg with her paw to make me pet her. Maybe animals do think. They just can’t change their minds.”
“Some people would say that if you can’t change your mind, you can’t think,” Gran observed. “It would be better for Aaron if the Herkimers could change their minds about him.”
“Don’t they love him?” Elizabeth asked.
“They love him because he’s theirs,” Gran said shortly.
Elizabeth recalled Aaron had asked her for another poem. It made her feel cranky to have to ask Gran to write down “Absence,” but she did, if grudgingly.
Gran said she’d do it later, before they left to have supper at the Herkimers’. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked. “I feel chilly. The wind is rising.”
The sun had disappeared behind gray clouds. Gran began to make a fire in the stove.
“Don’t you get tired of having to do that every time you need to boil water?”
“I do,” Gran answered. “But if I had a real stove, there would also be electricity and a telephone and sofas. Another good thing out here, there’s so little to forget. In Camden, I never can find my keys. I’m always afraid I’ll leave a gas burner on, or the lights … things like that. It’s a part of being old I really hate.”
Elizabeth hoped she wouldn’t say anything more about being old. It made her uncomfortable in somewhat the same way her friend Nancy did when—as she was given to doing—she sang all the words of a love song, and Elizabeth couldn’t make her stop or even look away from her blissful gaze.
Gran put a dish of ginger cookies on the table. “They’re damp. Everything gets damp on the island. I wonder how your little brother is doing. He’ll be starting to smile. That makes parents crazy with joy even when they know it’s indigestion. I recall your daddy’s first smile. He must have been about six weeks old. I was carrying him to the sink to give him a bath.”
Gran carrying Daddy! It seemed impossible. But the effort to imagine such a thing distracted her from the pictures of Stephen Lindsay that Gran’s words had evoked. Then she thought of Deirdre, mad as a snake, stalking around the place while her parents ceaselessly watched over Aaron.
“Things are not what they seem,” she stated, and realized that was something her mother often said.
“You can say that again,” Gran agreed.
Elizabeth did. Gran laughed.
Later, she put on one of her cotton dresses. She went to Gran’s room to ask her if it was the thing to wear to the Herkimers’.
Gran was standing in front of her little mirror. She was trying on different scarves, holding them close to her face and muttering to herself. She suddenly saw Elizabeth reflected in the mirror.
She smiled in an embarrassed way. “You’d think I’d have gotten accustomed to the way I look,” she said. “But I don’t seem to have.”
Gran was vain!
She took a slip of paper from the bureau and handed it to Elizabeth. It was the poem, “Absence.” She read it silently, then held it out to Gran.
“No. I won’t take him that,” she said. “It’s too lonely.”
Gran touched her hand without speaking.
6
Against the red glow of the setting sun, the mainland and its scattered villages appeared to be moving, a night train in which passengers, growing aware of the dark, flicked on lights, one by one. It was low tide. From the exposed wet earth rose a powerful smell of mingled salt and iodine. The water made intimate sounds as it withdrew, as if consoling itself.
Gran was wearing the olive and rose scarf she had settled on and was carrying a flashlight. Across the meadow, the Herkimer house glimmered like a cluster of fireflies. The barn was a black shape, already moved into night. It was still easy to see the path through the meadow. Gazing toward the spine of the ridge, Elizabeth saw a yellow bar of sunshine like the light at the bottom of a closed door.
Mr. Herkimer was waiting for them outside. “Welcome,” he called in his matter-of-fact voice, and held the door open.
They entered a hall where jackets, coats, and caps hung from hooks in the wall. An old teddy bear sat on the newel post of a staircase, its arms straight up, a button eye hanging from a thread and resting on one cheek like a tear.
To the right was a dining room with a long table and chairs. To the left, the living room. Lit candles and kerosene lamps sat on every surface, even on windowsills. A fire burned in the hearth. On the mantel above it were dozens of framed photographs.
The place could not have been more different from Gran’s cottage. Chairs, tables, benches, even a chaise longue, jammed the room. It must have taken many trips on El Sueño to transport so much stuff, thought Elizabeth. The tables, too, were crowded with objects of brass and china and tarnished silver, stones in bowls, shells in baskets, and on one table, curling around a lamp, what Elizabeth took to be horse tackle.
Mrs. Herkimer rose grandly from a battered armchair. At the hem of her long green skirt, Elizabeth saw a large hole. Mrs. Herkimer, catching her glance, remarked airily, “Moths … moths …”
As greetings were exchanged, Elizabeth saw Deirdre sitting on the floor near the fire, staring into the flames. Her T-shirt was wrinkled and dirty and her shorts were several sizes too large.
“Deirdre—for heaven’s sake! We have guests,” her mother reproached her.
“Hello,
” Deirdre said with a shake of her wild bramble of brown hair. She didn’t turn around to look at anyone.
“For Deirdre, there are no occasions. When did you last change your clothes?” Mrs. Herkimer asked the girl’s back, but went on at once as though not expecting an answer. “Hasn’t the weather been glorious, Cora? Aren’t we blessed?”
Gran had remarked to Elizabeth that Mrs. Herkimer gushed over weather, praising the good days as if she were somehow responsible for them.
Mr. Herkimer rubbed his hands together like a fly and asked, “A glass of wine, Cora?”
“Just the thing, John,” said Gran.
There was a clatter of feet on the staircase, and in a second Aaron burst into the room. “We’re having a party!” he cried, running to Elizabeth and grabbing her around the waist.
“Let go of her, Aaron,” ordered Mr. Herkimer. “If you tackle guests like that, they won’t come again.”
“He’s really taken to you,” Mrs. Herkimer said. “It’s unusual. He hardly likes anyone except his uncle Fred.”
“I hate Elizabeth!” yelled Aaron. At once he pressed her hand and whispered, “I don’t mean it!”
Mrs. Herkimer ignored the outburst and sat down with Gran on a sofa. Aaron released Elizabeth and wandered over to the table where the seashells were and began to sort them.
“How do you like our little island in the sea?” Mrs. Herkimer asked Elizabeth.
“It’s very nice,” she answered.
“‘Nice,’” repeated Mrs. Herkimer. “A tepid response. Cora, don’t you find young people’s vocabulary shrinking? Sometimes, of course, they say ‘great.’ All of John’s students do, whether the subject is Batman or Julius Caesar.”
Elizabeth was surprised to hear Gran reply that she didn’t mind what young people said as long as they read a book now and then. She guessed Gran wouldn’t ever show Mrs. Herkimer she agreed with her. It would be like agreeing with Mrs. Herkimer’s self-satisfaction.
At that moment, Mr. Herkimer returned with a tray of glasses of wine, and Mrs. Herkimer excused herself to go to the kitchen.
It was the way evenings were at home when Elizabeth’s mother and father had people to dinner. They were like sentries guarding their guests. As soon as one left the room, the other would appear. When Elizabeth, as occasionally happened, was invited to stay awhile with the company, she had discovered that her interest ebbed away in a few minutes. A thick curtain seemed to drop between her and the grownups. She heard their voices, but thought about other things. It was no different tonight. She stopped listening to Gran and Mr. Herkimer and went to the fireplace to look at the photographs on the mantel. All of them were magazine pictures of people skiing or sailing or riding horses. Deirdre snickered from the floor.
“Those aren’t pictures of us,” she said. “Mama bought them because she liked the frames.”
Elizabeth squatted down so she was close to Deirdre. They stared coolly at each other. “Why are you so mad at me?” Elizabeth asked.
“I don’t know you,” Deirdre replied. “So I can’t be mad at you.”
“Elizabeth!” Aaron called.
“Go play with the nut,” said Deirdre. For a second, she appeared about to smile. Her mouth twitched. Then she scowled. “You’ll be doing me a favor,” she said.
Aaron had replaced the shells in the basket. “I have a present for you,” he said. He reached into a pocket and took out a metal giraffe, its brown spots nearly faded away. “He can see over the trees, over this island, to everywhere,” he said. He pressed the giraffe against her palm. “Hide it!” he commanded her. She slipped it into the pocket of her dress.
“Dinner is ready,” announced Mrs. Herkimer from the hall.
Elizabeth had never seen so much cutlery and so many plates piled on a table. At each place was a paper napkin printed with clowns, probably left over from a birthday. A small pale chicken lay carved upon an oval platter, and two silver dishes held watery beets and string beans. There was a basket of sliced white bread and a large bowl of steaming potatoes.
Aaron insisted that Elizabeth sit next to him, and when she sat, he began to bang the table with a fork and jiggle around in his chair. Mr. Herkimer told him to calm down and placed a potato on his plate.
Aaron looked down at it. He said in a loud, solemn voice, “This is what I’ve wanted all my life.”
Elizabeth burst into laughter.
“Good!” cried Aaron, and clapped his hands.
“Aaron is very theatrical,” said Mrs. Herkimer as she sat down.
“He’s an attention hog,” said Deirdre.
“Oink! Oink!” squealed Aaron.
Except for the potatoes, the food was dreadful. Gran ate small bites of chicken very slowly. She caught Elizabeth’s glance and rolled her eyes upward.
“This is a plain American meal,” declared Mrs. Herkimer, as though there might be doubt about what it was. “Honest food is all I have time for. Reading and reports for the historical society take up all my strength. Then, of course, I have my family. Before we return to Orono, I have to complete a report on nineteenth-century prison life in Maine.”
“A good subject for you,” Gran murmured.
“Oh, Cora! Do you remember when you first came to Pring?” Mrs. Herkimer cried. “I was painting then, too, but I hardly have the leisure now for such hobbies.”
In a voice as hard as crystal, Gran said, “Painting is not a hobby.”
Mr. Herkimer cleared his throat loudly. “Have you noticed those plastic bottles washing up on our shores this summer, Cora?” he asked. “Twice as many as last year. They’ll never sink.…”
Aaron was pulling on Elizabeth’s arm.
“I only eat potatoes, cookies, canned pears, and tea, and one glass of milk a day,” he said. “When you have me to supper, that’s what you have to give me.”
“I’ll never have you to supper,” Elizabeth replied, smiling.
“Lucky you,” Deirdre said.
“Listen to what Deirdre likes to eat,” Aaron said. “Worms! Green ones from the sand, and oozy red ones from the ground. Ugh!”
“I’ll make you eat those words!” Deirdre threatened.
“See!” he said triumphantly to Elizabeth. “I told you she’d say that!”
“Children. In the words of the poet—shut up!” said Mr. Herkimer mildly.
“Do you enjoy sailing?” Mrs. Herkimer asked Elizabeth. Before she could answer, Mrs. Herkimer continued, “My people were, so to speak, born to the mast. My grandfather used to sail out of Newport—”
“He used to sail out of the local bar three sheets to the wind,” muttered Deirdre.
“And win any race he entered,” Mrs. Herkimer went on blandly, ignoring Deirdre’s words. “But I must say, John has become quite a good sailor even though he was born in western Ohio and never saw the sea until I showed it to him.”
“You can last in these waters exactly one hundred twenty seconds,” Mr. Herkimer said cheerfully to Elizabeth, as if he were telling her good news. “It’s been timed, though I can’t think how. The fog is the other menace. It will seem perfectly clear. First there’s a haze, and suddenly you’re enveloped. Can’t see your hand in front of your face.”
“Maine sailing was my own father’s specialty,” Mrs. Herkimer said. “Cora, didn’t you have a little sailing dinghy once?”
“Helen, you’ve forgotten. I sold it years ago in Molytown. My arthritis got so bad.”
“And then you’re so busy with your little paintings,” Mrs. Herkimer said in a fruity voice.
For a moment, Gran looked grim. Then she smiled, as though someone had whispered a joke into her ear. “That’s right, Helen,” she said. “No time for hobbies like sailing.”
“Perhaps Elizabeth will come with us on our boat one of these days,” suggested Mr. Herkimer.
“You’ll have to wear a life jacket,” Aaron whispered to her. “But it won’t matter if the ship goes down. We’ll all freeze to death, anyhow.”
“And what grade are you in?” Mrs. Herkimer asked Elizabeth, a question asked her by grown-ups as far back as she could recall, and which always seemed more significant to them than her name.
“I go into the sixth in September,” she answered.
“Only the sixth?” Mrs. Herkimer said thoughtfully. “I would have imagined—Deirdre is already in the tenth. Of course, she skipped a grade. It may be a problem for her to graduate at sixteen.…”
“You’re boasting, Helen,” Mr. Herkimer admonished her in a tentative way, as though he were only half-serious.
“Boast? Me?” exclaimed Mrs. Herkimer. “Why, I’m the least boastful person in the entire world!”
Mr. Herkimer passed around food, but no one, not even Mrs. Herkimer, took second helpings. Deirdre was pushing a string bean from one side of her plate to the other. Mrs. Herkimer began to complain about Jake Holborn, how he rammed their dock more often than he used to, and was damaging it. “He’s too old to run that boat,” she said. “I think he should retire. He’s certainly stuffed a mattress full of money by now, after all these years.”
“I don’t think so,” Gran said firmly. “He only delivers to one or two other islands besides Pring.”
“Mama! He’s poor!” Deirdre said indignantly. “I remember that time we stopped by his trailer to order some lobsters when we were on our way here. His place looked like an old freight car.”
“Our little socialist,” Mrs. Herkimer said.
“I’d like to live on a train,” Aaron told Elizabeth. “I’d be the passenger who never gets off.”
“You’d get bored,” said Elizabeth.
“No,” he disagreed. “I’d have the whole car to myself. I’d only invite certain people to visit and have tea. If you got on my train, I’d ask you to stay.”