by Karen Kelly
He excused himself then, referencing the waiting willow, and bid them all a polite goodbye.
Helen’s eyes followed as he moved toward the tree, and after a few moments she spoke to Doe without turning her head. “I imagine that boy gave Sarah a run for her money.”
“That he did.” Doe nodded slowly. “You know what they say about still waters.”
“Indeed.” Helen continued to gaze across the rows at the figure now up on the ladder. “But while deep water is often still”—she shifted slightly in her chair, clearing her throat—“it is also true that the deepest part of a river is where the current is most dangerous.”
Joanna wondered if it was possible she had heard correctly. The moderate warmth of the afternoon had suddenly produced a thin sheen of perspiration that covered her entire body.
“You’ll remember, Dorothy,” Helen continued, “that when the children were young, I was always very careful to warn them: It is futile to fight a strong current. The best course is to avoid swimming in the river at all.”
With that she turned and gave Joanna a bright smile. “I believe I’m ready to go back, dear, if you would be so kind as to push me. I’m sure Wayne has finished the entire newspaper by now. We wouldn’t want to be responsible for a rendezvous with detective fiction.”
Wordlessly, Joanna stood and grasped the handles of the chair. As she maneuvered to turn it around, the wheels rumbled over a small cluster of exposed tree roots and Helen’s exclamation reverberated: “My goodness, had we known how rough the going would be, you might have thought twice about bringing me!”
There it was again. Joanna was beginning to read subtext in everything the woman said, and it was making her insides twist. She couldn’t find a single response as she pushed the chair up a small incline to the nearest path.
Doe walked next to her, and when they reached the car, she squeezed Joanna’s shoulder. “Thank you for bringing the old girl to see me. It wouldn’t be easy come winter—you’d have to put snow tires on this rattletrap!” She gave a little kick to one of the wheels on the chair, then leaned down and kissed Helen again on the cheek. “Goodbye, Hedy. Come and see us in the spring—we’ll have lilacs in all of the urns.”
Wayne helped the frail little woman into the backseat and Joanna climbed in next to her. As the car swung around, Helen called to Doe through the open window, “I’ll be back again, Dodo. Keep a close eye out for lost souls and wayward spirits—we wouldn’t want any mischief or mayhem.” She gave a little wave with her crisp white glove, and Joanna swallowed hard as the Rolls glided away.
Six
AUGUST 1924
“Please stand still, Miss.” The seamstress was kneeling next to the wooden box on which Susannah stood in a beaded ivory gown.
“Sassy, why are you so fidgety? Poor Louisa can hardly get a pin into the fabric.” Helen was standing a few feet away, her arms crossed, eyeglasses perched on the end of her nose.
“Wyatt’s leaving at noon. I told him I’d go see him off,” Susannah said, twisting at the waist and tugging the slinky fabric down at the hips.
“Well, things would go a lot faster if you’d just let Louisa do her job.”
Squaring her shoulders, Susannah looked straight ahead. “Chap is taking him to the station soon. They can’t wait for me—Wyatt will miss the train.”
“It’s a shame he has to go so soon. My goodness, it isn’t even Labor Day.”
“The crew is back and starting up already. They barely took a break after Paris.”
“Our little Wyatt—on the Yale crew.” Helen shook her head. “It seems like just yesterday he was trailing around behind Kit and Chap, hoping to shag balls in the outfield.” Her words were tinged slightly blue as they trailed off. “Wouldn’t Frances just love to see him now?”
It was true that no one had ever expected Wyatt to become a rower—except perhaps his mother. Everyone assumed he would step right into Chap’s cleats as shortstop on the baseball team, but Frances had convinced her husband to buy their son a single-seat shell for his sixteenth birthday. From that moment, Wyatt was on the river. Over the next few years, he became so skilled at sculling that he was invited to practice with one of the best boat clubs in Philadelphia. Almost every weekend found him on the Schuylkill with the rowers from Vesper. Wyatt knew he would have to break his back if he ever hoped to make the eight-man heavyweight crew at Yale—just the month before, they had won an Olympic gold medal in Paris—but it was both the opportunity and the honor of a lifetime. The only cloud in the sky was that his mother wasn’t there to see the glistening fruit born from the little seed she had planted three summers before.
“We stopped at the cemetery before dinner last night. Did you know it’s her birthday next week? Wyatt brought flowers to put on the grave.” As she spoke, Susannah arched her back and looked behind her. “Louisa, I want it shorter than that.”
Helen was looking out the window. “I would never forget her birthday.” Her eyes were miles away. “Remember how we would take the train into Philadelphia and make a day of it? Oh, how we loved to lunch at Bookbinder’s. The oysters!” She laughed out loud, tipping her forehead onto her fingertips. “It took Frances several tries to develop a taste for them, but bless her heart, she just kept at it, making the most terrible faces! That girl was a sport.” She had become a little teary, but as her gaze drifted back to the dress, her eyebrows shot up. “My goodness, I do think that is quite short enough, Susannah. Any higher and your knees will show.” She squinted disapprovingly at the hem.
“Your mother is right.” Louisa sat back on her heels, tilting her head. “This gown needs to fall just exactly where it does. You don’t want to interfere with the drape of the silk when it’s cut on the bias.” She took a pin from the cushion on her wrist and made one final fix, and then stood up and looked it over with a critical eye. “It really is the most marvelous thing. The beading is exquisite, and it fits you like a glove. Paris, did you say?”
“Yes, India got it for me when she went last year. It’s dreamy, isn’t it?” Susannah gave a little shimmy, and a thousand strands of tiny glass beads moved like a wave across her body. The bias-cut silk hung straight and narrow from slender straps, clinging like mist in all the right places. It was a dress unlike any that had debuted before, at least on any Bethlehem debutantes. “I wish Wyatt could see it. I still think we should have just had the party sooner.”
“You know perfectly well that you cannot be presented before your eighteenth birthday. There’s not much we could do about that.” Helen reached over lightly and adjusted one of the dress straps. She ran her hand softly across her daughter’s shoulders, gazing at her in the mirror. “Your hair looks very pretty this way. I like the new short style.”
The week before, Susannah had astounded her parents when she came home with her long, flaxen hair sheared to a bouncy, wavy bob. It had taken them a day or two to adjust to it, but they knew their daughter, and they understood that she was—by nature—modern. Neither of her parents could deny that the style suited her. It wasn’t just that the soft chin-length waves flattered her features, framing her face with a halo of gold, but also that the progressive aspect of it matched her spirit.
“I want it marcelled for the ball.” Susannah swiveled her head in the mirror, considering the angles. “We’ll have to tell Lucy to bring her irons.”
“I daresay we should tell Lucy to bring her shackles.” Her father had appeared in the doorway, wearing golf knickers and argyle socks above his brogues. “I would be remiss if I allowed any daughter of mine to roam free among the hounds of Bethlehem looking like that.”
Susannah twirled around. “Hello, Daddy.” As customary when she encountered her father, her smile was wide. “Does that mean you like it?” She wiggled her shoulders and the beads swayed.
His gaze was a study in affection and approval. “I think we should send condolences to the dressmaker. All that hard work, only to have his dazzling creation put to shame by the girl in
it.”
He turned to Helen with a brief, acknowledging bow of his head. “Queen of Troy, I beg your leave. We’re only playing nine holes this afternoon—I will be at your service for whatever the evening holds.”
“You know perfectly well what the evening holds,” Helen scolded him lightly as he turned to go. “You bought the tickets yourself.”
“That’s right.” Hollins snapped his fingers and turned around. “I remember now. There was a voice haranguing me like a raven sitting on my shoulder: ‘Chekhov! Chekhov!’ I thought I’d better get those tickets before I was pecked to death.”
Susannah and Louisa giggled as Helen grabbed an embroidered pillow from a nearby slipper chair and threw it at him. “You’re incorrigible. You will thank me later for the cultural enlightenment.”
“Ah yes—culture.” Hollins looked to the ceiling and squinted. “Something about a family bickering over selling the farm, as I understand it. Enlightening stuff, indeed.”
“It’s a cherry orchard. And you are a philistine.” She was shaking her head, but then she conceded a wry smile. “But I suppose that is the gist of it.”
He blew her a kiss as he turned to go, and she called after him: “You’re playing with Charles, I hope?”
“Yes, the usual foursome.”
“Oh good. I’m glad he’s getting out. Wyatt is leaving for New Haven at noon, and I know that will be hard.”
Hollins stopped in the doorway and looked at Susannah. “He’s leaving today? Isn’t the showcase for that little frock next weekend?”
She nodded forlornly. “The crew is in practice already. That’s why we had the dinner for him last night.”
“Well, that’s a crying shame.” Hollins shook his head. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing. Who’s the lucky escort?”
“Chap has very generously agreed to be Sassy’s date for the party,” Helen answered on behalf of her daughter.
“Well, good! He’s had plenty of practice. First India, now Susannah … hmmm … we could be on to something. I wonder if he’d be interested in a ticket to The Cherry Orchard tonight?” He walked away to the sound of his wife’s exasperated huff, waving a hand behind his head.
* * *
By the time Jimmy delivered Susannah to the Collier house on Seneca Street, Chap was helping Wyatt load his suitcases into the rumble seat of the Dodge. Since his wife had died, Charles Collier had a newfound interest in cars. With Hollins’s expert guidance, he had acquired the shining maroon touring car for his sons to drive. It was a beauty, with polished maple spokes, a black ragtop, and a gleaming silver hood ornament. On the running board was a wicker hamper, held in place by a wooden accordion gate.
As Susannah stepped out of her father’s own new prize—a pearl-white Stutz—Chap gave a perfunctory wave and headed into the house. “Five minutes,” he called to his brother. “That train isn’t going to wait.”
Wyatt looked down and shoved his hands into his pockets, scuffing his shoe on the driveway as Susannah approached. Despite the years they had known each other, the sight of her still caused his blood to hurry a little—if not outright rush—and he was always afraid it would show on his face.
“Someone told me there was a shifty, delinquent-type around these parts, fixing to hop the next train out of town,” she quipped, sauntering up to him. She carried a basket of cookies, still warm from the oven.
He peeked under the checkered linen cloth. “Mmmm, Elvie’s snickerdoodles.” He picked one up and took a bite. “They can hunt me down with a pack of bloodhounds, but they won’t get these cookies.” He brushed a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “Be sure to tell Elvie thanks. I’m going to miss her baking most of all.”
“Is that right?” Susannah raised an eyebrow. “If I had known her cookies were so important to you, I could have saved myself some trouble and just sent the basket with Jimmy.”
Wyatt set the basket on the hood of the car and gave her an impetuous and slightly awkward hug. It was a rare display of public affection; he stepped back with a self-conscious smile. “I’ll tell you what’s important to me—knowing you’re going to be here when I get home at Christmas.”
Although Wyatt’s shoulders were wide and his frame sturdy, he wasn’t a lot taller than Susannah; she had only to lift onto her toes a little to give him a bright kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be right here where you left me, sitting in the same old boring classrooms at Bishopthorpe, surrounded by all the same old dreary faces.”
But her reassurance didn’t quite do the trick. He looked off and down, blinking a staccato refrain, and there seemed to be a stone in his throat as he swallowed. “I don’t know how I’m going to do it. After everything that happened … You know…” He paused and drew a quick breath. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
The bond between Wyatt and Susannah that had begun in childhood had been annealed by tragedy. After Wyatt had shown up in the nursery that day with his bunch of wilted daisies, Susannah began turning to him regularly, relying on him to carry her through the worst of her grieving. And then the tables turned.
Like most men who have a disposition for devotion, Wyatt’s had started with his mother. Chap had always been his father’s shining star, firstborn and first at everything. Although Charles loved both of his sons equally, by the time Wyatt got around to any milestone, his brother had been there already. But, from the moment Wyatt made his second chair entrance into the world, Frances had taken pains to make sure he sat first fiddle for at least some performances, and so—from the very beginning—Wyatt was mad about his mama.
A year before she died, Frances was essentially gone. The Trudeau Sanatorium in New York was one of the foremost tuberculosis hospitals in the world, but the tiny village of Saranac Lake was isolated and the journey was arduous. The boys traveled to see their mother only once. The cold mountain air of the Adirondacks was considered restorative, but in the winter the roads were impassable. When it became clear that Frances was not improving, her husband made one last journey—without his sons this time—to bring her home while he still could.
For eleven days Wyatt hardly left her side. His mother had a breathing apparatus to prevent contamination that reminded Wyatt of the gas masks he had seen in photos of the war. She only had to wear it when others were close, but she wasn’t strong enough to manage it on her own. Wyatt found that he could hold it to her face with one arm as he carried her in the other—she was as light as a feather. He would pick her up from the bed in the parlor and move her to the chaise longue on the porch without even disturbing the tuck of the quilt wrapped around her. Of course, he wasn’t the only one in attendance—Charles was there as much as he could be, and Chap would sit with her in the evenings when he got back from his summer job at the plant. But over the course of that wistful, watchful interlude, Wyatt stayed off the river, rowing instead against the current of time.
The last day was no different than the others—he was reading to her from Jules Verne, the same wondrous adventures that she had read to him as a young boy. From across the porch he could see a small, appreciative smile form whenever he read a particularly familiar line. The day before, he had started on Mysterious Island, and that morning he picked up where he had left off. After a time, he came to the lines:
“What a big book, captain, might be made with all that is known!”
“And what a much bigger book still with all that is not known!”
He looked at his mother, remembering. She was gazing at him, her head to the side, and he could see a tear trailing down her cheek. She remembered too. When he was ten years old, this passage had inspired him to make his own book. It was a cardboard-bound compendium of everything he didn’t know, page after page, all blank but for the headings of subjects he was determined to master. The pages were alphabetized: Salt Water; Scars; Sky; Sleep; Stars. He had shown the book to his mother with solemn resolution. “This is all I could think of that I don’t know about. I’m going to fill in all the pages a
nd then I’ll give it to you.” He’d wanted to give her everything; that was the best way he could think of to do it.
As Wyatt paused in his reading, Frances made a small beckoning motion with her hand. He started across the porch, but she wasn’t wearing the mask and when he was a few feet away, she moved her wrist weakly, stopping him. Her voice was just a whisper, fighting through consumed lungs: “Fill your pages, my sweet boy.” She closed her eyes then, and there was a soft rattle from her chest.
After his father and Chap had rushed home, and calls and arrangements had been made, and the mortician had come and gone, Wyatt sat on the porch for a long time. As dusk fell he took up the book and began to read, his voice quiet in the stillness. He was alone now, but when he looked across the room, he saw a young mother with a little boy nestled close in the curve of her arm; and it was her voice he heard murmuring the words of the final chapter—a gentle, lulling cadence that enveloped him like a soft blanket.
In the weeks and months that followed, it was Susannah’s turn to provide the support that kept the structure from crashing down. She was tender with Wyatt, but it was her effervescence—her artless, natural sparkle—that buoyed him, carrying him over the rock-filled rapids of his grief like his rowing shell. And she didn’t work alone. Wyatt became a regular at the Parrish table, where Helen fussed over him like he was a ghost orchid. Where Helen left off, Elvie took up. It was a welcome arrangement—Kit was in his junior year at Princeton that fall and India had started at Barnard, so Wyatt’s presence helped fill the nearly empty dining room. Some evenings, when Charles could no longer stand the silence in his own home, he would join them. But Chap, although just a stone’s throw away at Lehigh, was wrapped up in campus life. Unless Kit happened to be home, he occupied a chair for only the occasional Sunday supper.
Everyone had been present the previous evening for Wyatt’s farewell dinner, however. Elvie had made Wyatt’s favorites—lamb roast with mint jelly, scalloped potatoes, and chocolate cake. As she was serving coffee, Charles gave a toast. “I’d like to take this opportunity to offer my most humble and heartfelt thanks. The debt of gratitude that I, and my sons”—he nodded at Chap and Wyatt—“owe to our hosts—this evening and for many evenings past—is immeasurable. Without the Parrish family, we would have foundered on the rocks. Your generosity, your unfailingly open arms, and your warm, gracious household have given us the strength we needed to get through…” He drew a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut briefly. “Well … to get through everything. Frances always knew how special this family was. More than anyone, she would want you to know what your friendship has meant to all of us.”