Diana hopped over the fence, and jumped up on the rotating ramp. Ford said something, but the music was still loud, colors spinning, and she couldn’t hear him, didn’t want to hear him. She reached Samantha and pulled her off the horse, looking right and left for the man and the little girl. But there was no one else inside. There was only Ford.
25
November 1, 1871
The house is complete, and just in time as a dusting of snow arrived early this morning. There is still some painting to be done, a few odds and ends, but all in all the work is finished, and Hiram says the rest can wait until spring. I myself welcome the quiet, and am happy to have the winter to harbor us before the crowds arrive again next summer. Maybe by then feelings will have changed, things best left forgotten. Nearly all of the camp dwellers from Trinity Park are gone for the season, and chances are better we will see no more confrontations, at least for now. The house we have built is warm and sturdy and should be fine withstanding the weather. Hiram had Mr. Carl build the well in the cellar, which will make obtaining fresh water during the weather that much easier as I just need to travel up and down the stairs rather than out into the yard. I like the yard though, and the house lies adjacent to the graveyard, and though the tombs are few, some are nearly a hundred years in age, and there are many nice spots to rest beneath the shade in the warm weather. Hiram, in a rare mood of good spirits, chuckled while sipping his morning tea in our new kitchen and discussed the graveyard.
“I don’t mind living beside the dead,” he said. “The dead tend to be much more reasonable than the living.” It is so unusual to see him light in spirit, that I cherished the moment, and am recording it nearly immediately. This house will be good for him, good for us. I can feel it.
January 6, 1872
There is more than two and a half feet of snow covering the island. This year it seems we’re averaging a storm a week. The back parlor of the house has a small alcove at the back, overlooking the graveyard, and Hiram has designated it as a spot for prayer. He sits there for hours at a time watching the graves and watching the snow. Spirits appreciate the snow, he has told me, as they feel much freer to arise from the graves and move about, quietly whispering in the wind. At one time, I would never have believed I would hear Hiram speak this way—of spirits left to wander the earth—but I do not question him on his new thoughts or new ideas, nor do I tell him that I have read up on the spiritualist movement a great deal myself. The whole concept for me is fascinating, but I fear of how he may respond should I bring it up. His temper has quieted with the winter, but his mood still remains dark, and sometimes I go three days or more without hearing him speak. On these days he retires to his bedroom, and it gets so quiet within that I have to wonder at times if he is still breathing. He won’t come out to eat or wash, and I fear his temper should I ever disturb him.
The island is so deserted now that you see few souls even on a walk into town to pick up some dry goods and groceries at Otis Foss and Company. Even the majority of the cottages—all those not winterized—on the campground are closed, shuttered up and the balconies empty, and when I do gather the nerve to pass through, it feels like a ghost town with not a soul within view. Hiram successfully sold our old little cottage near the tabernacle, but as far as I can see the new owners have yet to even visit. In late spring, I imagine, I will see them, and the thought of it brings me a dull pain in the pit of my stomach. Despite some of the dark days, and the turmoil of this past summer, I loved our little cottage, even more so than our old house proper in Edgartown.
January 24, 1872
Hiram has begun to speak to me again about having a child. We have tried before but to no avail, and my deepest fear is that I am barren—he has suggested this before, in the midst of fits of rage, and called me worthless. What good is a woman, he has said, if she cannot bear you children? But even if I can, I’m not convinced it would be the best decision. Who is to say what effect having a child might have on Hiram? But with his melancholy and moods—and at his worst, the hysteria—I might fear for any child brought into this house. I have learned to navigate my way about—taking my cues from his different behaviors, reading his eyes—and I have learned when to speak and when to keep quiet, and although I still find myself beneath his open hand now and then, I can’t say it happens as much as it has in the past. As long as things are kept in order and to his liking, I give him less reason to succumb to his temper. A child though would not know these things. And how do you teach a child to fear his father?
He came to my room two nights back and we did have relations. He kept his eyes shut tight and his lips were muttering words I could not comprehend as he moved on top of me, and it was over quickly. When he was finished, he adjusted his suspenders up over his shoulders, and mopped at his brow. He would not look at me as I lay on the bed, but he did say something about it being a necessary sin, and sometimes we must succumb to the Devil to work in the name of the Lord, and then he was gone from the room. I blew out the lamp beside my bed, and then rolled onto my side to watch the snow falling beyond the window. It doesn’t seem as if it will stop this year.
February 7, 1872
He comes to my bed now almost nightly, and has, on several mornings inquired upon me as to whether there is anything he should know. I have told him that it is too soon to tell, but I know that is not true. I feel no different. Nothing. My body has not changed, and even for the short period I was with child before, a few years back, I could feel the difference, and even the awareness itself—that you are suddenly more than just you—is rather startling. I have no such awareness now. It is just me. I am sure of it.
February 14, 1872
Hiram is planning on journeying to the mainland. He has come into more property—bequeathed to him by an elderly uncle in Abington—and he says he has no use for it, nor for the town in which the house and plot of land sit, and so he is traveling to finalize the sale with a bank in town; bankers cannot be trusted when you deal with them from afar, he has said, as they are not required to look you in the eyes. A look into a man’s eyes will tell you everything, he has said, what he will, and will not, stand for. The plot of land is substantial, and the sum of money he will receive is not small. Hiram, for one reason or other, has always seemed to have a fair share of luck when it comes to land, property, and money. It just seems to come to him.
He has not asked me to accompany him, nor have I asked to go. Crossing frightens me this time of year, the biting wind, the endless snow, and half of the harbor frozen. You could catch your death riding by carriage up the coast, and I, myself, am in no hurry.
March 3, 1872
A trance lecturer is coming to Edgartown, and I may be in luck as the event is scheduled for an evening while Hiram is away on the mainland, completing his transaction. I have read much about this man, and his name, Paschal Beverly Randolph, has been in all the papers. It could be quite a show. I will have to travel by coach, and perhaps spend the night at an Edgartown inn, but the snow has begun to recede and the journey may not be wholly unpleasant. Unless of course, Hiram were to learn of it—then of course “unpleasant” may prove to be the understatement of the century. He would not be pleased.
26
Diana stopped at the pharmacy on the way back from picking Samantha up at preschool. One-hour photo that they promised would be ready within two days. The store was mostly empty. The girl at the film counter was heavy with long, straight blonde hair and glasses. Chomping gum. She rang the price up wrong twice, and then Diana, with Samantha in hand, took the photos to the car. Tore open the package as Frank Sinatra sang on the radio. “The Summer Wind.”
The photos went all the way back to summer. She hadn’t developed any in some time. She hurriedly flipped through them. Last summer. State Beach. Norman and Cybil. Norman standing atop the “Jaws Bridge”—used in the movie—holding Sam’s hand, waving to the camera, just before jumping. A photo of Ford standing on the balcony with his telescope—one she had taken from th
e yard—and photos of Samantha hiding behind graves in the cemetery. Pictures with Frankie, sitting outside at the Brew House. The harbor at sunset in October. Then Thanksgiving. She hesitated a moment. A dinner table image, of Cybil holding a wineglass to her lips, staring at her brother.
There was a shot of the street buried in snow. Several snow shots. A snowman in the yard. And then the pictures of the carousel. Samantha, wide-eyed and staring, clinging to her horse. Ford in the control booth. Bright spinning lights, some blurred, and the rest of the room, empty, lost to shadows. And then Samantha coming around again, this time crying. And that was all. No man, no child. There was no one else there.
27
Christmas had come and gone, and Phillip was coming to visit, bringing Barry along with him. Diana could tell that Ford wasn’t happy, but he had been continuing on best behavior ever since she returned with Sam—a few eruptions with shouting, pouting, but nothing more—and he wasn’t about to say no. Not yet. And Diana knew that she had to seize the moment while she could.
Besides, she figured, Phillip and Barry were safe. Ford and the two of them had seemed like pretty good friends when Diana and Ford had first met, and along with the card games, they were always going out to the bars, and Ford had gone fishing with Barry a few times, and talked Barry into playing on his softball team two summers before. Diana remembered Ford teasing him—“He looks like he’s swatting at flies up there at the plate”—but it was all good-natured, and even Barry had laughed. And Ford was always willing to help with whatever was going on. Diana remembered Ford changing Phillip’s oil, and helping the two of them refinish their floors once they got the okay from the landlord. And then the parties. Late nights, and early morning cleanups. It had all been good, at least until he and Diana had started dating—“He’s a great guy,” Phillip had said. “He’s had a hard life, but he’s come out remarkably unscathed, and believe me, you and I know how hard that is to do. Unscathed,” he repeated. “But I mean it, both me and Barry really like him”—and then nearly overnight, Ford seemed as if he wanted little to nothing to do with them.
Now they were scheduled to arrive on a Friday afternoon, and Diana had been cleaning for three days. One of the reasons Phillip had moved out of their parents’ house as young as he did, he said, was because of the filth. “I just couldn’t take it,” he had told Diana, “On every surface, in every corner. It never seemed to end.” And this was partially true, Diana conceded privately; there was the filth but there also was Barry. And if Phillip lived at home, he could not live with Barry, and although she would never admit it to Ford, she knew in her heart, that Phillip wanted nothing more than to live with, be with, Barry.
She and Sam met them at the ferry in Vineyard Haven. Ford was sleeping. It was still early February, but the past few days had been warm, low forties, and the snow had begun to recede. Diana and Sam watched the boat in the distance, blowing its horn as it approached the wharf.
Phillip came rushing, nearly stumbling, down the ramp, excited, in a fleece vest and knee-length denim shorts.
“You know how I overheat,” he said. “As soon as January is over, that’s it. I’m done with long pants. One month out of the year, that’s it.” He did have a slight sweat broken on his brow, his lips wet with spittle, and he already smelled like alcohol. “For a commuter ferry, their gin and tonics aren’t all that bad.”
Barry was two steps behind him, dragging on a cigarette and much more bundled for the elements. Lanky and tall, he worked as a roofer. He wasn’t quite thirty, but his hair was already gray, heavy bags and dark circles beneath his eyes—he always looked as if he hadn’t slept in months. His skin was yellow from three packs a day, and he still wore his mullet from the eighties. Barry loved the eighties.
Diana hugged Phillip—awkward, her family had never been big on hugs—and then she hugged Barry, just a little bit tighter. She had once had a crush on Barry, briefly, actually dated him a couple times when he first moved in with Phillip, and if he wasn’t so intent on killing himself prematurely with the cigarettes, she thought he still would be attractive. Phillip hugged Sam, and patted her head.
“My favorite niece,” he said. “You look like you’ve grown.”
“I’m your only niece,” Sam said.
“For now, you’re right. Grandma said she had a bag of Christmas presents for you guys that she wanted me to bring down, but when she came by yesterday, she forgot to bring them.”
“Yeah, well,” Diana said, “she lied.”
Phillip grimaced a bit. He had always been their mother’s favorite, and as long as he stayed in the closet, Diana imagined he would stay that way. Though even if he did come out, her mother probably had enough denial saved up in her arsenal of bullshit to cover it all up, nice and clean. Convince herself it wasn’t true. Phillip could be whatever she wanted him to be, and that was that.
“I don’t think she lies so much as she … enhances the truth.”
Diana took one of his bags, slung it over her shoulder. “No. She lies.”
Phillip giggled. “Okay, you’re right. She lies.” He gazed toward the car parked in the corner of the empty lot, hesitantly. “Where’s Ford?”
“Home,” she said. “Sleeping.”
“Oh, good. Maybe we’ll have time to get a couple drinks in before he gets up.”
“A couple?” said Barry. “A couple for you was about three hours back.”
Regardless of Barry’s remarks, Diana thought, he seemed more amused by it than anything else. He was used to Phillip’s drinking, obviously—he had to be as Phillip rarely stopped. He was a sloppy drinker but never a mean or angry one. Maybe only mean to himself, perhaps when alone, beating himself up, but then again, he probably had enough of their mother in him that he could pretend to be anything he wanted, or pretend not to be.
Barry had only brought a tiny duffel bag with him, and Diana wondered what he planned on wearing all weekend. If he hadn’t lived with Phillip for so long the way he did, she would never think he was gay. She wondered what it was that tipped Phillip off whenever it had, although when they first met, moved in with each other, they had both had girlfriends. So maybe she was wrong …
Phillip turned to him in the car. “Did you remember to pack your wool socks? I left them out on the foot of your bed this morning.”
Nope, she thought, definitely not wrong.
“Are you kidding me?” Barry said. “That room is such a mess, I can never find anything.”
Phillip sighed. Looked over at Diana. “I clean it once a week for him.”
They crossed the drawbridge from Vineyard Haven into Oak Bluffs, and then took the road curving up past the hospital. Sails down on the few boats left moored in the harbor. Samantha was telling Barry about some of her classmates at preschool—Lydia who had three hamsters, and Edwin who told her he had a booger collection on the wall of his room at home. “He’s disgusting,” she said. “Even Mrs. Abrams told him so.”
Barry smiled. “Well, I think I had a booger collection when I was his age, too. Everybody does, right? It’s only disgusting if he eats them.”
“He does,” said Sam.
Phillip gasped a little as they surmounted the hill overlooking Oak Bluffs. The harbor, the clock tower, and Sunset—once known as Squash Meadow—Pond.
“You know,” he said, “it’s still beautiful even this time of year. I’ve never been down here in the winter. How long has it been since we came down here for the weekend, Bar? Two or three years at least.”
“At least,” Barry said.
When they pulled into the driveway, Barry lit up a cigarette right out of the car, cupped it in his hand to block it from the wind. Sam was already up on the porch, reaching for the doorknob, as if in a hurry to see someone inside. Phillip stopped in the driveway, staring up at the house before him, the porch swing slowly moving back and forth, and the graveyard behind.
“You don’t like it,” Diana said.
“No,” said Phillip. “I love it
.”
They were both talking at once as they came through the house. It was a thing with their family—everybody talking at once—and although an outsider might find it hard to follow the threads of the conversation, for them it was easy. Something of an art form. Diana had just started telling him about the color—a burgundy—she hoped to paint the dining room when she stopped short upon entering the kitchen. Ford was awake. Already showered, and sitting at the table, drinking his coffee, reading the paper. He never got up this early the day after working and she wasn’t expecting him to be now.
He looked up at Phillip, and Phillip forced a smile, nervous, and then Ford stood, and casually stepped over, reaching out to shake his hand. He smiled wide, beaming.
“Hey, Phil,” Ford said. “It’s been a long time.” And then he pulled him into a tight embrace, Diana watching on, cautious. Ford finished hugging Phillip and stepped over to shake Barry’s hand. “I’d hug you, too,” he said, still smiling, “but you’re not family.”
Barry waved his hand in protest. “That’s okay. I don’t need to be hugged.”
“How about something to drink, then?” Ford asked. “Must’ve been a long trip.”
“A drink,” said Phillip, “sounds awesome.”
Ford went to the fridge, pulled out three Budweisers, tossed one to Phillip, one to Barry, and then cracked the third himself. “What do you guys think about the color Diana’s going to paint the dining room?” he asked after a moment. Diana was ready for the criticism, the sarcasm, but Ford just sipped his beer.
In the Midst of the Sea Page 18