by Noelle Carle
Alison sat in a chair next to her brother on the porch, lifting her bare feet to the railing and raising her cotton skirt to cool her legs. Remick suddenly jumped to his feet, spilling his water, and he raced down the steps and across their yard.
“Hey!” Alison exclaimed, watching him scramble over the fence and lope across the field, where she saw now that someone had fallen. She surged out of her seat to follow him, yelling back to Davey, “Better get Father!”
She saw as she looked back that Aunt Pearl whisked off the towel she had put around Davey’s shoulders as Davey hopped down from the stool with a grin. Going barefoot since school let out had hardened her feet, but the stubbled hay field proved painful. By the time she hobbled up to the scene, they had lifted Chester Gilman onto the hay piled up on the wagon. His father William was waving his hat over Chester frantically, while Roy, his uncle, was inexplicably pulling off Chester’s boots. Remick was feeling his pulse in his neck. Alison looked at Chester’s alarming color and felt his skin, which was hot and dry. She met Remick’s eyes as he crisply stated, “It looks like heat exhaustion. Have you got any water, Bill?”
Owen, who was driving the horses, jumped down from the wagon seat and ran around with a covered glass bottle that had about two inches of warm water in it.
Alison shook her head. “It’s not enough.” She climbed up onto the wagon and said, “Take us over as far as the fence. We can lift him over it and take him into the house. We can get him some water there.” She held out her hand to Remick who also climbed up. “I think our father is at home, right in his office,” she said to Bill who scrambled up to the seat beside Owen while Roy returned to the horses that were pulling the mower, gazing after them as they moved away with a mournful look.
She glanced over to the fence where Pearl was waiting, her hand shading her eyes. Remick lifted himself to his knees and shouted to her, “Get some of that lemonade you made. He needs fluids.”
Aunt Pearl’s friend, Lorelei Anders had given her four lemons she got while visiting her daughter in Florida, who had a lemon tree in her own back yard. Lorelei had carried a bag of them on the train all the way home, fearing to fall asleep lest someone steal them. Pearl took her lemons that morning, squeezed them dry and mixed in some carefully horded sugar. She set it in the icebox to chill for their supper, with dire warnings to anyone who dared touch it before then.
They carried Chester into the kitchen from the back porch, laying him on the divan there. Doctor Granger was in his office and came quickly into the kitchen, followed by Davey who collapsed with an excited huff into a chair, watching curiously as they administered the lemonade. Chester spluttered and coughed, then moaned. Bill Gilman moaned too, and staggered to another kitchen chair. He fanned his own face with his hat.
“May I get you some water, Mr. Gilman?” Alison offered.
The husky farmer ignored her offer, his gaze absorbed with his son’s form. Ever since he got the concussion playing at the old fort, Chester had seemed weak and sickly. They almost lost him twice since then; once to pneumonia and again a couple of years previous to scarlet fever. Since then he’d appeared to outgrow his weakness, to thrive and grow, ill health a thing of the past. Bill knocked on wood and said his prayers and protected Chester as well as he knew how, but he had cringed with dread when his wife had said a few weeks before that she was kind of glad Chester was sickly so he wasn’t required to go fight in France if the war carried on too long. Now this. He watched the doctor work over his son, regret written all over his face that his wife had made such a statement.
The kitchen door crashed open suddenly as Ida Gilman rushed in, her round sweaty face an alarming color of red. Her daughter Louise followed her, sobbing noisily that Chester was dead. She saw him fall, she cried out to everyone, dead off the wagon.
Aunt Pearl cleared her throat and began moving the children outside. “Davey, Allie, Owen. Time for us to get out of the way. Ida, sit right there by Chester. He is not dead, as you can see!” She herded the three Granger kids outside, clamping her hand over Davey’s mouth after he questioned loudly, “Is he gonna drink all our precious lemonade?”
That afternoon found Chester safely at home in his bedroom with his sister fanning him and his mother plying him with all the iced drinks she could lay her hands on. Doctor Granger worried that Chester may have suffered heat stroke, which could cause some internal damage. Owen was waiting to return to work, lounging on the porch steps, listening to Alison read a story to Davey. Remick was a still figure in the rocking chair, not even moving back and forth as he listened with his eyes closed. So absorbed were they in Moby Dick that each of them jumped a little when Bill Gilman stepped around the corner, his hat in his hand.
Owen rose quickly to his feet. “Hello, Mr. Gilman. Are we going to finish out the afternoon? Is Chester able to work?”
Bill nodded, his sea green eyes crinkling in the sun. “Ayuh, we’re gonna finish the field. Chester ain’t in any shape to work though.” He ran his hand over his whiskery chin, and then stared at his hat as if he’d never seen it before. “I come to ask Remick to take his place.” He kept his head down, but his eyes darted up to look at Remick.
Remick slowly sat up straighter, his eyes staring at his neighbor in doubt.
Bill raised his head higher, holding Remick’s look with his own. “You used to work for me, did a fine job of it.”
Alison weighed in with the obvious argument; words she immediately regretted. “What about his arm?”
Remick rose from the rocking chair, his face tight, and his lips trembling slightly.
The farmer wisely misunderstood and mildly answered, “I don’t mind if he uses his arm. Prob’ly need to.”
Remick burst out laughing and shot Alison a look of triumph. His brothers joined him while Bill smiled wide enough to show that he had no molars left in the back of his mouth.
Remick went to work that afternoon and continued to help even after Chester was recovered. His pallid skin turned brown and his appetite grew. And Alison marked the morning that Chester collapsed as the day that Remick truly came home again.
“Why shouldn’t a girl work on a boat like a boy?” Cleo questioned.
“Because,” Esther insisted, “it’s too hard. It’s not work for a lady.” She lifted the weight of her damp braid up off her neck as she spoke, for the heat continued unabated.
“I suppose you think women shouldn’t vote either,” Cleo flung back at her sister, her voice rising in challenge. “Don’t you want to be like the suffragettes, maybe go to jail? I think Theresa and Annette Ouellette are brave and strong; obviously strong enough to take their brother’s place. And…” here she sped up her recitation as she saw the subtle looked that passed between Alison and Esther. “Their other sister Celeste is going to France to be an interpreter. I even heard that there are women working at Bath Iron Works now. Maybe I’ll go up there and get a job.” Cleo leaned back on her elbows and stared out at the water from the beach where they had been swimming. “I just wish Daddy would let me help him.”
“You’d have to get rid of Aubrey first,” Alison remarked. “He’s like one of the family now.”
Cleo’s face lost its animation and she scooped up a clump of sand, throwing it out into the surf. “He’ll never be part of this family,” she muttered. Then abruptly she asked, “Have you heard from Sam lately? We haven’t for ages.”
“Not for a couple of weeks. He’s still in training. He’s fine,” Alison said, as much for herself as for his sisters. She missed him, longing to see his slow smile and more, longing to feel his kisses again. But she knew the danger to him wouldn’t be realized until he was shipped overseas. He was training in an infantry division, so would be on the front lines. He seemed nonchalant about the training and the work, but his letters hinted at a massive movement of troops overseas soon.
After several moments of silence in which cicadas buzzed in the trees and the waves splashed lazily, Esther stirred. “We’d better go get su
pper ready, Cleo. The tide will soon be turned. Dad and Aubrey’ll be in shortly.”
Cleo stretched out her legs and lifted her swim skirt higher. “God bless Mrs. Reid and her annual summer picnic.” Their teacher and some of the mothers had taken a band of children to a park in Merrymeeting Bay where a fair was set up and rides were exchanged for tokens. She had taken Caroline along in a little buggy, with the twins and the two younger boys. She wanted to give Esther and Cleo a little free time, who in spite of their differing views on ladylike behavior both worked hard running the household.
Alison watched as Cleo reluctantly stood to gather up their things. Her legs below her swim dress were long and browned by the sun, while her blonde hair was streaked with lighter shades. Her face was a small triangle, the sharpness relieved by her large brown eyes. Her nose was freckled, despite a myriad of creams and cleanses meant to do away with the offending spots.
“You coming, Allie?” Esther questioned, swiping the sand from her swim clothes. She stood up, then bent over to shake out her towel, her braid falling over her shoulder and brushing the ground. In an unconscious gesture she swung it back over her shoulder and shook her head.
Cleo had gradually been cutting her own hair, taking an inch or two off her pony tail every week. She wanted it bobbed, but knew that her father would object. She was counting on the fact that a gradual change would be less shocking. Her hair was midway down her back and Reg Eliot had never said a word.
Esther’s hair, unbounded, went down to her knees. She said a woman’s long hair was her glory. Alison’s was almost as long, but she felt somewhat like Cleo, that it was more trouble than glory. How free to be like one of the boys, go in swimming and just shake your head afterwards.
“No, I’m going home soon.” Alison listened to them as they moved off with Brute following them, panting in the heat and grunting with the effort of climbing the path. Cleo continued her attempts at persuading Esther to think about the issue of equality for women. She heard Esther’s patient but negative responses fading as they went. Then all was quiet. They were in a tiny back cove, reached via a steep path through the Eliot’s back woods. It was part of their property, secluded with a miniscule strip of sand, and bounded on either side by a tumble of boulders. No one came here but the Eliot’s and their friends. So when she heard footsteps coming down the path, Alison sat up and peered into the shadowed woods. Her brothers pushed through, peeling off their sweaty shirts, undoing their pants and pushing them down to reveal their swimming clothes. “Hi, Allie,” they both rumbled as they hastened toward the water. Remick would only swim here now, feeling the weight of stares at the public beach. He groaned as he came up out of the water and smiled as he swam back in.
Owen swam around like an otter, diving then turning to float on his back. “Hey, guess what!” he shouted to his sister.
“What?” she questioned, shading her eyes against the sparkle of the sun on the water.
“The Spencer’s are getting an automobile! And - the Coopers are getting a telephone. Once they have the lines coming down into Little Cove, everyone can get a telephone!” He grinned at her with water streaming down his face.
“Oh…good.” Alison found it hard to muster up enthusiasm over modern amenities. “Who will you call, Owen?”
Only momentarily deflated, he thought, and then shrugged. “Maybe President Wilson!” He fell backwards, swimming over to grab Remick to wrestle him under. They tussled awhile, laughing, yelling and splashing. Alison watched them with a smile. Every time she saw Remick react in such a normal way, she felt more and more comfortable with his return. He was taking to heart the Interior Secretary’s directive regarding eating less and growing more. He worked daily in the garden. He had expanded their small patch to a huge plot, in which was growing corn, beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, peas, and potatoes. He even brought home a few packets of flower seeds, planting one end of the garden with flowers.
So absorbed was she in watching her brothers that Alison didn’t notice who else had come down the path. Aubrey Newell approached her from the side, carrying two buckets on a clamming rake across his shoulders. He lowered them gently and flexed his shoulders. He was flushed in the heat and his sweaty shirt stuck to him. He looked longingly at the water, but sat down by Alison instead. “Would the Granger family like some clams?”
Alison peered into one of the buckets. It was covered with wet seaweed, almost three-quarters full.
“I got them this morning before the tide turned. Mr. Cooper put ‘em in his ice house for me.”
“We’d love them. Thanks,” Alison said, her mouth already watering at the thought of Aunt Pearl’s clam cakes.
Aubrey rested his forearms across his raised knees. His skin was deeply tanned and his hair needed a clipping. He seemed thinner than when he’d first arrived at Little Cove, but solidly muscled. He watched her brothers in the water.
Alison glanced at him. “I was just leaving. Why don’t you go for a swim?”
He was still for an uncomfortably long time. Alison was aware of a deep sense of loneliness in him and had a sense for the first time how it must feel to be an outsider. His room at the Eliot’s wasn’t really his; he’d brought little with him and gained little since. He didn’t seem to have a particular friend among the village boys his age, nor any attachment to any of the girls. He was friendly, although sometimes over eager, but he mixed well when they had their youth league and other events. However, he was offensive at times, pretending a familiarity that did not exist; yet withdrawing from normal overtures. Alison remembered his attempt at flirtation on that miserable day that Olivia Eliot had died. Nothing but pity stirred her heart as she considered it now, for he seemed such a lonely person. Even Cleo, who had once professed a great attraction to him, now scorned him. Alison attributed it to Cleo’s fickle nature, but felt sorry for Aubrey nonetheless.
Finally he replied, “Naw. I’ve got to take these clams up to the house. They’ll be waiting.” His glance flickered over her way. “I’m leaving soon as the season closes.”
“Oh. Where will you go now?” she questioned idly.
“Over to Brunswick. They have a cannery there where I can get work…for – for a few months. Just till I’m old enough to sign up.”
“I thought you were eighteen,” Alison said. “You still wouldn’t be old enough.”
He bent his head, and then watched her brothers as they made their way to shore. “I lied, “he said softly. A flush crept up his neck as he explained. “I know. I know I was wrong to. But seeing what other people are willing to do for the cause, well…it shamed me.” He met her eyes then, and blinked hard.
“Don’t mistake my brother’s enlistment as a strong sense of patriotism,” she said even more softly. “Not that he’s unpatriotic. But he had something to prove to my father and thought that was the best way.”
“Well, not just your brother. There’s others too, aye?” His Canadian accent had softened but he still ended his sentences quite often with the questioning “aye”.
She nodded and bit her lip as the boys approached them, grinning and soaked. “Well,” she hesitated. What she wanted to say was, if Sam had to go then you should too. But then she felt pity for him, as well as the others, and wished it were all done with. “Thanks for the clams,” she offered as she stood with her brothers.
“Sure,” he answered. Alison felt his eyes as they headed for home. Turning to look back, her gaze met his. He smiled; a quick, rueful smile that didn’t reach his eyes and in no way indicated a merry heart, then he turned away.
Chapter Eight
Exercising a Patience and Forbearance
“Mary, I’ve made a decision,” Reg Eliot said, not looking at her, gazing too intently into his coffee cup. He was biting his lip nervously, a gesture she found odd in one usually so confident. Mary’s own heart started a faster beat in her chest; at first hopeful, but as he continued in silence she felt her hopes sink.
They were sharing a cup
of coffee after supper. The children were outside running off the remnants of their energy. The sun was just starting to sink and she could see the girls, with Aubrey’s help, lifting the wash off the bushes and the clothesline. Mary continued to come on washday, and usually stayed to have supper with the Eliot’s. Despite the difficult labor, she’d come to look forward to her days there. But her wish to be a part of this family, unspoken even to herself, was no nearer fruition now than the first time she’d come to help.
Mary set down her mug a trifle sharply, aching for Reg to speak. She started to rise, to clear away the dishes, but Reg gripped her wrist and motioned her to sit. “Well? What is it then, this decision you’ve made?” she asked crisply.
His fingers slid off her arm and his shoulder slumped. Still he would not meet her eyes. “The children, the younger ones, are going to live with some relatives.”
Mary would remember later how odd it felt to go hot and cold all at once. She snapped her head up and regarded him as if she’d never seen him. “What?” she gasped.
He nodded. “My sister and her husband up in Waldoboro will take Caroline, Richard and Peter. William and the twins will go to Olivia’s parents in Boston. Henry is about strong enough to help on the boat, and I need Esther and Cleo here, for a while anyway. So… they won’t all go away.” Finally his eyes met hers, pleading with her to understand and agree.
Mary pulled her gaze away from his, blinking rapidly. Stupid great lout, she thought, yelling it in her mind. She could not say what she wanted, not without raging at him, so she said nothing.
Reg explained some more, his sandy hair falling down over his eyes as he hastened to clarify. “It’s Esther, you see. She says she won’t even think about marrying while I need so much help here. She’s getting all used up. All worn out, so soon.” His voice faded away.
Mary had known Reg for so long. She met him back when she and Olivia were at college, as he worked for Olivia’s parents, saving money to buy his own boat. He wooed her quietly but steadily, winning her over with his determination and settled purpose for his life. He was handsome then; lean, brown and careless of his looks, unlike some of the men Olivia’s parents urged her to consider. He was still handsome, still strong, although in her opinion, he’d always seemed too grim and cheerless for Olivia. But he was devoted, a hard and tireless worker and the occasions when he did smile and laugh, you couldn’t pull your eyes away. He was too thin now, and the gray in his hair had multiplied over the summer. The change she recognized today was defeat. Earlier, right after Olivia’s death, he’d been making an effort to be father and mother. But he couldn’t sustain that and now felt the sting of failure in addition to the grief over his decision.