Belonging

by Nancy Thayer

  “We can’t see your house from ours because of the lay of the land and the trees, but we’re always there,” added Morris.

  “Oh, please,” Claude protested. “You two are always flying off to New York.”

  “You do manage to have the best of both worlds,” Pat reminded the Latherns.

  “And the Snows? How are they working out?” Bob asked.

  “Very well, so far,” Joanna began, but June interrupted to ask, “Are they civil?”

  “What June means,” her husband interjected, “is that the Snows, like a lot of the native island people, have a bit of a chip on their shoulders. They tend to blame anything negative in their lives on what they call the year-round summer people.”

  A maid in a black dress appeared discreetly in the doorway, signaling Pat, who in turn said, “Shall we go in?”

  The dining room, an opulent peach and gold chamber, gleamed in the light from the elaborate chandelier suspended over a long mahogany table. They sat down to a first course of steamed littlenecks and mussels in a wine broth, and for a few moments the only words spoken were murmurs of appreciation.

  Then Bob picked up the thread of conversation. “You can’t blame Doug for being bitter.” He turned to explain to Joanna. “The past few years have played havoc with a lot of people. For a few years we had a real estate boom. Like the rest of the country. It seemed like property values were going to climb eternally. Of course you know what happened. Here as well as in what we call the real world. Doug Snow was one of those who had bad luck. He sold off the piece of land and house he’d inherited when his parents died: a nice bit of property but nothing too exciting. Probably made two hundred thousand tops on it. Just enough of a profit that they could buy as an investment—with a whopping loan from the bank—an old summer house in Dionis. Water views. Architect-designed, but needed work. They invested a lot of money and time in the place, fixing it up for summer people, and right in the middle of it all the bottom fell out of the market. I believe Snow paid something like three hundred thousand for the place. Thought he and Todd could fix it up and sell it for six hundred thousand, easily. Instead, he had to sell it for under two hundred, because he couldn’t keep up with the mortgage payments, and he still owes money to the bank, and he never gained back the cost of all the work and time and materials they put into the house.”

  “What a shame,” Joanna said.

  “It’s a common story, unfortunately,” Morris told her. “It happened to a lot of people here. Of course, some others made fortunes selling their family homes. It was just the luck of the draw.”

  “Still, that family does tend to take it out on others,” June observed. “Helen Snow does housecleaning, a perfectly honorable profession as well as a fairly enjoyable one, I’d imagine, given the luxurious houses there are to clean around here. Not to mention what she charges: sixteen dollars an hour. She thinks she’s too good for her job. She acts like dethroned royalty. Very standoffish.”

  “Well, Todd and Doug seem perfectly nice,” Joanna said. “Quiet but pleasant.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t hoping to come across Farthingale’s treasure out there,” Morris remarked.

  June nodded her agreement. “That would just be like them.”

  The maid removed their shallow plates of broth and the bowls of discarded shells, and brought in the main course: grilled salmon with pear chutney, fresh asparagus, saffron rice. Bob went around the table pouring wine.

  “Ah, yes, the treasure,” Joanna sighed. “Is there really any substance to it?”

  “Oh, my dear, of course,” Claude replied. “Don’t you know, there’ve been dozens of shipwrecks on this island over the past few hundred years. Why, there’s an entire book devoted only to Nantucket shipwrecks!”

  “Mmm,” Pat agreed, wiping her lips with her damask napkin before going on. “The Nantucket shoals have caused many wrecks. And the fog. Terrible storms which drove ships up on the beach.”

  “But were there fortunes in them?” Joanna asked.

  “Yes, actually, in many. Families coming from England or the Continent to live in the New World brought the family’s jewels with them. As well as gold coin. And of course there were the wars, and pirates. There are accounts of vessels wrecked along the very coast where you live, and the entire cargo of linens and foodstuffs—boxes of tea, of spices—and silver and gold as well, all strewn up and down the shore. The islanders could run out and take their pick.”

  “Quite a few houses here have been built with the wood washed up from shipwrecks,” Bob added.

  “Really.” Joanna thought a moment. “That’s a little—eerie, isn’t it?”

  “Darling, just think of it as recycling!” Claude laughed.

  “Claude found a treasure in his house,” Bob said.

  “Oh, really?” Joanna looked at Claude.

  “Really. My house is very old. Seventeen-ninety. Tiny, low ceilings, some of the windows held together with wooden pegs instead of nails. You should come see it.”

  “I’d love to,” Joanna replied.

  “It’s a dream,” June said, and at the same time Morris said, “It’s a jewel.”

  “Thank you, darlings. Joanna, have you ever heard of an Indian room?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “In many of the early houses, a small space was built into the chimney flu in which to hide silverware and other goodies from Indians.”

  “Nantucket never had problems with Indians, I feel honor-bound to point out,” Bob interjected. “The term came over from the mainland.”

  “So when I was having work done on my fireplace—you know, they drive a sort of long tube down your chimney and pour concrete in all around, and voilà, a new flu?—but before then, they had to put in a new damper, and they found it, up inside the chimney behind some loose bricks: a little hideaway, and inside were some tortoiseshell combs with beads glued on, and a gold locket with a curl of hair inside—so romantic I could have died!”

  “And a tea set of English silver, complete with sugar tongs,” Bob reminded him.

  “Yes. I hate to mention it. That’s the one thing I sold, for the money, you know, so I could fix up my little place. But I did donate the combs and the locket to the Historical Association.”

  “Is that the group who sets rules for the way houses are built and added onto?” Joanna asked.

  “No,” June answered, and Morris continued, “That’s the Historic District Commission.”

  “We’re all very big on history here,” Claude informed Joanna.

  “Claude, don’t be snide,” Pat scolded.

  “Do you know about the Quakers, Joanna?” June asked. “You might be interested. We still have Quaker meetings here. One of the main tenets of the Quakers was the belief in the intellectual and spiritual equality of men and women.”

  “Equality and simplicity,” Morris elaborated. “Their ideals are the inspiration for Nantucket’s unique beauty.”

  “Oh, please,” Claude protested, waving his hands. “The Quakers were nuts. They banned dancing and playing cards—good God! They weren’t even allowed to wear buttons on their clothes! Buttons! They thought buttons were the inventions of the devil!”

  “Still, Claude, you can’t discount them entirely. Think of Lucretia Coffin Mott. She was one of the first abolitionists, and when she traveled the country making her speeches, her husband went with her and sat onstage holding her bonnet! Can you imagine that today? We’ve done nothing but go backwards since then!” Pat’s voice rose in argument.

  The maid removed the dinner plates and set a crisp salad before them. The discussion continued and Joanna watched, amused and surprised by the way the others were caught up in the relation of the past and the present. When the maid brought in blue-and-white Spode dessert plates laden with homemade strawberry shortcake, everyone stopped to savor the treat, and then Pat turned the conversation back to Joanna.

  “Have you found a housekeeper?”

  “O
h, yes,” Joanna replied. “I wanted to ask you about someone. Madaket Brown.”

  A sudden silence fell across the table.

  Then Claude said, “Really! You’re all too dramatic. Joanna, Madaket Brown is a fine young woman. Thoroughly grand.”

  “Yes,” Pat agreed. “Claude is right. Madaket is all right. Perhaps a little reclusive. But nice. And hardworking. She has to be, to survive.”

  “I don’t know,” June mused, her brow furrowed. “These days they’re saying that genes carry on certain traits, and her parents were definitely trouble.”

  “Now we’re coming to the gossip,” Claude whispered theatrically to Joanna.

  “Scoff if you will, but it’s a fact: Dan Brown sold drugs.” Morris announced.

  “And Cisco was—promiscuous,” June added.

  “Cisco was Madaket’s mother,” Pat informed Joanna. Taking a sip of wine, she leaned back in her chair. “Madaket’s parents were both gorgeous, and wild. They caused a lot of commotion on this island. They both had exotic looks—well, they should, they’re part everything: Irish Catholic, early Puritan, Portuguese sailor, black. Even a strain of old Nantucket Indian blood. Dan Brown, Madaket’s father, ran the stable on Madaket Road. He was magic with animals.”

  “And with women,” Morris added grudgingly.

  “And with women.” Pat nodded at Morris. “Half the women on the island took riding lessons when Dan worked there. When he was about twenty-five, he married a young girl named Cisco. She was a real beauty. Her mother, Irene, was a nice enough woman. Sort of weird, with her herbs and stuff. I think the Indian strain must have come through Irene and Cisco. For a while Dan and Cisco were inseparable. You could feel their passion for each other if you were just standing in the room with them. They used to be seen walking in the woods in the middle of the night. Then they had Madaket, and I don’t know what happened. Perhaps Dan was worried about supporting his family.”

  “Perhaps he was worried about supporting his habit,” Morris said drily.

  “You don’t know that he did drugs,” Claude pointed out.

  “Please,” Morris protested, “we know that he sold drugs.” Morris turned to Joanna. “Dan was arrested with cocaine and heroin on him. About fifteen years ago, when Madaket was still a toddler. He was tried, sent to prison, did some time, came back, and continued to be trouble.”

  “Every kind of trouble,” June continued, picking up the thread of her husband’s tale. “Drunkenness. Fighting. Stealing. Breaking and entering.”

  “He never carried a gun,” Claude reminded them.

  “Oh, well, that makes him a saint!” June shot back.

  “He was so handsome,” Pat sighed. “Such a waste.”

  “Where is he now?” Joanna asked.

  “Six feet under,” Morris quipped. “To make a long and exceptionally turbulent story short, when Madaket was about five, Dan ran off with someone else’s wife. They both died in a car accident on the mainland. They were drunk; Dan was driving. Madaket and Cisco moved in with the grandmother, Irene. Cisco worked as a chambermaid, and she slept around like a real little tramp for years. Then she got pregnant and died in childbirth. The baby died, too. I think that was hard on Madaket. She was only twelve. She’d been a cheerful child until then, even though she was already shunned by a lot of parents. Not that you could blame the mothers when Madaket’s mother had been sleeping with their husbands.”

  “Madaket lived with her grandmother, Irene,” Bob continued. “When she was sixteen she dropped out of high school and went to work. She must be eighteen, nineteen now. Still lives in the awful little rented shack she shared with her grandmother. She’s always been a loner. Never dated, never hung around with the island girls. Just worked, and helped her grandmother pick berries for jams, and mooned around barefoot on the moors, and rode that bike of hers. You can see her everywhere on that bike. That’s how she got the name Mad Kate. She loves bad weather. In the worst storm you’ll see her out biking furiously toward the moors, pedaling like mad against the wind, totally in her own world.”

  “It’s a little spooky,” June said.

  “You wonder what’s going on behind those deep black eyes,” Morris agreed.

  “And then she’s got that rather disturbing body,” June added. “She should lose some weight.”

  “Come on!” Claude protested. “That child is effing gorgeous! She’s a walking Rubens. Just looking at her makes me wish I were of the typical persuasion!”

  “I think she must be terribly lonely,” Pat said musingly. “No friends her age. No friends at all, really. No wonder she acts half-wild. I think you’re all being dreadfully unfair. She hasn’t done a single thing wrong. It’s unjust to blame a child for the parents’ sins.” Turning to Joanna, Pat concluded, “I don’t see any reason in the world why she couldn’t be a good housekeeper. She’s got loads of energy, and she’s young and strong.”

  “I don’t know,” June protested. “I just don’t trust these island people.”

  “Please,” Claude objected, leaning forward, “give us a break. The island people! Darling, it’s the summer people who are serious crooks. They’ve bought their waterfront million-dollar homes with money they’ve embezzled from savings and loans or nursing homes or whatever misguided state of which they’re a government official. All the men can do is sail a boat on a calm day and all the women can do is lie down for plastic surgery or a quick—”

  “Claudie,” Pat admonished softly, patting his hand.

  “Sorry. I get all riled up, I know. But honestly, now, June, can you name one single thing that Madaket’s done wrong?”

  June pursed her mouth. “No, Claude, I can’t. She’s just so quiet and secretive. She passes right on by me on the street without saying hello, after all these years.”

  “Perhaps she’s shy,” Joanna suggested.

  “Perhaps. But don’t forget that the islanders have their own kind of snobbery,” June insisted. “And I think the girl’s got to be weird, coming from that family. But other than that,” she relented, “I really can’t say anything bad about her.”

  “My advice is, Joanna, get a young woman,” Pat said. “I’ve hired older women who couldn’t carry the vacuum cleaner up the stairs or even see the dust through their glasses.”

  For coffee they moved back into the living room, and Joanna took the opportunity to stretch. She walked around the large room, studying the paintings.

  “You have so many lovely things,” she told Pat.

  “She should, dear, she owns an art gallery,” Claude informed her, coming to stand next to her.

  “Really?”

  Pat nodded. “On Main Street. The Hoover Gallery.”

  “I’ll have to come in. I don’t have a single decent picture. Well,” Joanna laughed, “I only barely have any furniture.”

  “Pat has divine taste,” Claude said. “And she travels all the time, the lucky thing, to London, Paris, Venice, and Florence. She knows everything that’s happening in the art world.”

  “I don’t really need to travel to do that,” Pat told Joanna. “We have an amazing artists’ colony right here. Artists move here from all over the world because of the light. Something about the way the moisture in the air diffuses the light. And of course, in the summer we have so many people from all over the world who know good art and can afford to buy it.”

  Joanna paused before a painting which was like a whirlwind of blossoms: vivid greens, delphinium blues, intense violets. “Now this, I love. I think this must be what flowers look like to bees. Such passion, yet captured, held still.”

  “Ah, there you are, Claude, that should lift you out of your depression,” June said.

  Joanna turned.

  “Claude did that,” Pat informed Joanna, and she hugged Claude, who looked toward the ceiling in great discomfort.

  “You painted that?” Joanna asked. “Do you have others like that? Could I come see your work? Are you exhibited in Pat’s gallery?”

 
Claude made a choking noise, gasped: “Throat!” and left the room.

  “Is he all right?” Joanna glanced around the room. No one was rushing after him.

  “Did he swallow something the wrong way?”

  “No, no, don’t worry, sit down here with us,” June said, patting the sofa cushion next to her. “Claude is the world’s most clever conversationalist until you talk about his work, then he becomes absolutely tongue-tied.”

  “He’s tremendously talented,” Morris said, “but just as tremendously insecure about his work.”

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass him—” Joanna began, but Pat said, “No, no, you didn’t embarrass him. You probably made his day. His week, his month! And don’t worry. I do exhibit his work, and I’ll show it to you anytime. He’s very much in demand.”

  When Claude returned to the room, they were all involved in a discussion of world events, and he slipped back into his place in the group with ease.

  When the party broke up, Joanna was pleasantly fatigued, and as she drove back to Squam, she followed the Latherns, who left at the same time she did. She steered her Jeep along behind the red lights of their Isuzu, her thoughts still back in the Hoovers’ house: she’d liked Pat a lot. And Claude. It had been a good evening.

  The night was darker, thicker, out in the country. She slowed to a crawl on the rutted Squam Road. The Latherns turned into their driveway, tooting a light staccato farewell. When at the end of her long driveway she saw her house waiting, with the porch lights shining like beacons, she laughed aloud with pleasure. The air when she stepped out into it was damp and chilly and full of reverberant rustlings from the bushes. She hurried inside.

  Tucked away in bed that night, her thoughts wandered restlessly from the work the Snows were doing on her house to the dinner party and most often to Madaket. She imagined the young woman lying alone in her bed, dreaming of riding her bike through a howling storm, her braid undone, her hair flying behind her like a stormy cape. Madaket, who said she was never bored. Madaket, whose parents had deserted her. Madaket, whom some people didn’t trust, because she could be alone. Something in Joanna responded deeply, instinctively, to the young woman. She felt both like her and very different. But putting emotions aside, it was simply true that Madaket was the best candidate for housekeeper.