She also began to set her small household in order. She labeled each object—tea kettle, mantel clock, lamp—with the name of its heir, signed her bank account over to the school, and took her secret last farewells of everyone in the village, though none suspected the old woman’s designs. She planned to depart unnoticed on the day of the village festival, and soberly she prepared to take leave of her small village and house.
On the night before the festival, Miss Oliana laid out her clothes for the morning and slept lightly as the long trains rumbled heavy into town with circus animals and carnival rides. The men who raised the tents and slaughtered the calves by torchlight were never known for their quiet, reflective ways. They were loud and boisterous and half-drunk with work and travel and the clean night air and the pretty countrywomen, among other spirits.
But Miss Oliana must have slept, for she woke with the grainy light of morning and went to the shoreline and stowed her towel and clothes on the beach. She looked back at the sleeping gray hills of the village as she greased her body with a thick, herb-scented tallow that would keep her warm.
Then she waded out into the long cold water toward the rising sun, and a swell came to lift her off her feet away from the village.
II. Men and Horses, Hoops and Garters
She’d washed in from the sea long ago, a little orphan girl rowed ashore by a forgotten fisherman who’d found her tangled in his net. The village took her and raised her as one of their own. They didn’t tell her how she had come from the sea, her hair all tangles of seaweed and tiny crustaceans and shells.
As the years passed they saw the steady glow of miracle around her. She taught for years and years, but not until she began her strange swims out to sea did the villagers think to show their appreciation. The town elders proposed and organized a special gala in her honor, to be held during the famous summer festival.
It was the custom of the village to play host to a grand festival for the entire country. The event not only proved an economic godsend to the village and its merchants and craftspeople but also brought citizens and entertainers from all across the land to the village.
Word went out. A truly lavish and splendid affair was planned. Master chefs from the city were commissioned; the nation’s hybridizers worked to create a new bouquet in her name; pigs were penned beneath apple and pear trees to sweeten them for the slaughter; hot-air balloons were sewn into the shapes of books and inkwells and apples. And, miracle of miracles, the entire affair was kept so hush-hush that Miss Oliana never even suspected such a gala production, let alone one in her honor.
The preparations moved perfectly, as they invariably do when one is performing the right deed. And the day soon came to be, but when the people arrived to carry the guest of honor to the fairgrounds, Miss Oliana did not answer her door.
The door was unlocked, and someone entered the house and found the place tidy, but with no one at home. News spread fast, and if you had been perched above the crowd you’d have seen the whispers sweep over the people. The president stood at the podium and called for a search of the shoreline.
The people all went to the shore, and the ones who had gone into her house found their names on the objects—tea kettle, mantel clock, lamp—and they had taken the things in their arms and cradled them down to the beach where they assembled sadly with the others.
Search parties were formed, men in boats, women along the water’s edge, even circus bears combed the woods for the old woman. And the antiques began to warm in the arms of those who held them. The pitcher turned its neck and pursed its lips, as if to speak or cry or who knows what, truly? All the people knew was what they saw—or thought they saw—the old chair crackling as it straightened its back. The clock with its hands to its face, the bewildered little scissors, the grieving bedside lamp.
So totally overcome with fright and awe were the townsfolk that they never noticed the old man rowing in to shore with a boat full of tiny silver fishes. The boat tipped on its keel when the waves nudged it onto the beach, and the tiny fish spilled to the sand with the tinkling sounds of bright silver coins.
III. Sixty Silver Wishes
Anywhere you find timeless fishing villages along the sea, you’ll find the same unlucky fisherman who lives alone in his miserable little hovel close to the water. He is a fixture of these towns, a battered old bird against whom all others can take measure and say, There but for the grace of God . . .
And he rows home each dusk with his leaking boat empty of all but a tangled net and the scrap fish that he cleans and cooks for dinner. The village has stopped admiring the decrepit persistence of his folly, has run dry of pity for him, and has developed a taste for ridicule. A grunting old visage he is, of few words and no friends, and children are warned against going near him.
Stories grow around these men like mice from rags or flies from meat, but no one truly knows where they come from or where they go. And so it was in this certain fishing village by the sea that was known through the country for its grand summer festival.
He lived in a miserable hovel close to the sea all alone, and ever since his wife and daughter had died many years ago, he went out to sea every day, regardless of weather or events or anything. He went to the sea each day and fished and fished, and on the day of the fireworks and the circus tents his net felt heavy and full as he tried to haul it aboard, so heavy that he nearly lost his balance and fell into the water. He drew the net to the side of the boat and saw a woman in it. She had long bright hair twisted with seaweed and shells, and he could tell she had been quite beautiful, except her mouth and eyes were swollen with the stings of jellyfish. Her arms and legs were coated with bright fish scales and she glittered in the low clear sunlight.
She smiled up at him and he pulled her into the boat and she said, You have to put me back. She had a smooth and sweet voice and he could only stare at her, rub his eyes, look away.
Return me, she said. Throw me back.
How could I ever? asked the man, looking at her in his net.
Dear fisherman, she said with a sigh. She explained she had no storybook magic for him, nothing to give him, no wishes or favors to grant. Just throw me away, she told him.
She sat up in the bow and began to let herself over the edge of his boat, and for the first time in many years the man saw his life not as it could be but as it was, and his heart sank to the bottom of the sea, where his nets never touched or stirred, and he didn’t want to let her go. He said, No—please—just wait.
She waited a moment and smiled and curled herself over the side of his boat. And when the man pulled his net back in, he could hardly lift it aboard. He spilled the tiny fish into the bow of the boat and rowed to shore, feeling stronger by the stroke.
He approached land and heard the sad accordions and the mournful clink of chains as the elephants shifted their feet. The people, more than had ever assembled on the beach, stood holding objects in their arms like magic gifts to the sea. Kettle, clock, comb, and shoe. Lamp, spoon, and cup.
And when the man landed, his boat tipped and all of his fish spread bright like coins. He stepped out of the boat and stood and waited on the shore with all the others who longed dimly for the child girl to wash in from the sea, each wave and gull charged with miracles galore, the world within reach of delight.
To the Farm
Funny the things that come back to you. I’m standing in Putnam Supermarket the other day, little old lady just minding my own business, just waiting in line at the deli counter, couple of guys getting sandwiches in front of me, and then all of a sudden past the lobsters I see this other tank all dark and green. Few steps closer, few more, and my stomach goes with the pull—whole tank filled with eels—black and squirming against the glass, that raw stink of river and weeds, and this urge rising from inside my throat.
Comes out half laugh, half groan—and the men at the counter turn and smile—I’m over by the tanks at this point, arms open wide to the men, asking them what kind of person? I
mean, who in their right mind would eat these things, anyway?
Guys all grin like I’m a little crazy maybe—which is fine by me, don’t care what anyone thinks anymore, have come to embrace this cranky-old-woman-ness of mine—man behind the counter wrapping the sandwiches, saying he’s had them before, the eels, they’re not so bad.
To which I say, Bahhh!
And they laugh—and now I drift back—and I start to tell how, once upon a time, back when we lived on the Shetucket River, my husband Bob used to run drop lines off the dock, bits of fresh chicken on the hooks every morning. Who knows, I say, but I think he was thinking turtles. Never caught any fish or turtles that I remember. All I know is I’m home from work early one day, sunny summer afternoon down by the water for me, and somehow I get it into my head to see if anything’s on the line. Bob’s not home, naturally, so I’m there on the dock alone, expecting weeds or bad chicken on the hook, and then something starts fighting and fighting. Line goes all zigzagging and sharp, and I’m pulling it closer and leaning down for one last heave—when foop!—this big cold splash wraps itself wet and heavy around my arm!
Oh, I start screaming—and keep screaming—am slapping and hollering at this thing, its head tucking up under my arm. Bob comes rolling into the yard just about here, man running down to the river to me, me gasping to him about snakes, my knees trembling as Bob starts to uncoil the thing from my arm, him laughing how that’s no snake, Anna!
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha—height of fricken hysterical to him—becomes the story of the eel in my bathroom, creature taking up residence for the night, floating almost three foot long, ring of grease on the sides of the tub, and the musk of it, Bob asking the eel if she might like some candles and a glass of wine.
Now you know I’m a madwoman by morning! Yelling for him to get that effen thing out of my house! Take it up to the farm! Swear I’ll pour bleach on it! Swear I’ll pour ammonia! Vow great harm upon the eel and him!
What a sight I must have been—both then and now—and these guys at the deli are all smiles as I tell this. It’s one of those perfect moments in life, everything making brief and beautiful sense in the world, me saying, Sure gotta love an old bitty riled up over nothing, don’t you?
Sure, sure, they say—and we’re all smiling and happy—these guys with their sandwiches asking what happened next?
Well, I say, what d’you think happened next? I mean, what d’you think always happened next? I tell my husband to get that goddamn creature out of my house, and he rolls his eyes and yeah-yeahs himself off to work early—man never went to work early a day in his life—eel looking like she’s just gonna loll another day in my bathtub. All comfy, but I’ve got news for her and pull the plug and go about my business. Get dressed, start laundry, do dishes, whistle while I work, and when I check back on the progress of my eel’s death? Can guess what happened next, can’t you?
Guys look to one another, shrug they don’t know, everyone glancing to the deli meats, the dairy section, entire supermarket leaning close to hear.
Well, I say—and I get all quiet and whispery—when I go back to look, I tell them, the thing is gone! Bathtub’s empty and I’m standing there as if to calculate the drain, thinking no fricken way, no way an eel could fit down that hole. I’m staring as if to put it all together. Greasy ring around my tub, bar of soap in the dish, taste of river in the room, and then something brushes my feet!
Oh, I jump and scream all over again—thing lashing itself across the floor toward the toilet—and I’m pure hysteria and go for the paint thinner and Ajax and anything else under the sink that might be harmful. I’m pouring shampoo and rubbing alcohol as Bob comes waltzing home—man forever swooping in for the highlights—says he only ran to the hardware store and flower shop and has, of all things, a bundle of flowers for me.
Laughs in a way that makes the flowers not count for shit—and I throw them back in his face—and Bob goes about scooping the eel into a garbage bag, singsonging that his wife’s gone crazy-crazy-crazy-crazy-crazy-crazy-crazy. Laughs his sorry ass up to the farm, where he can clean and cook and choke to death on the bones of the thing for all I care.
Guys in the deli smile and wait for more—but that’s all she wrote, I tell them—and soon it’s down the cereal aisle they go, leaving me with the deli guy, man behind the counter asking what can he get for me. Half pound of honey ham, I say, half pound of salami, half pound of provolone.
Still have eels on the brain when I get home—the eel, the farm, the house on the Shetucket River, all those years in Baltic washing ashore to me now—time I backed the car over the embankment, way Bob died on the couch, bowl of ice cream on his lap. A person could sit half the night like this, amazed by what returns to them. Pair of porcelain collies on the sill, cuckoo clock over the hutch, wool blanket we used to spread on the grass in the orchard, and who am I to turn any of these things away now? Am half surprised no ghost of Bob comes knocking on the window to let him in.
Or so I say to the kitchen. And the walls, the stove, the whole house holds so still it begins to shiver—that high-pitched hum of glassware in the quiet—and what a strange old shipwreck of a life this is, isn’t it? Everything from Bayside to Greenpoint to the farm, all these bits and pieces trailing behind like so much debris. Doily my mother made, old piece of sea glass, cupboard gnawed by a pet raccoon, and what’s it all mean in the end?
Can stare the entire night at the light fixture on the ceiling, but that frosted glass, those dead shadows of bugs, none of it’s going to help explain anything. The plates, the refrigerator, the sink and faucet, the entire room just wishing the lights were off. The cabinets and doorway trying to will me upstairs already and into bed. The curtains wavering slightly, saying, Get some rest, old woman . . . Wake up and see how you feel in the morning . . . Then go back to the farm if you want . . . Wear that nice skirt and blouse you’ve been saving . . . Shock the bejeezus out of whoever’s left . . .
All right, I say to the house—and the rest of the night has me tossing and turning, sheets and pillows hot to the touch—moonlight on the trees, that shush of leaves in the dark, and over and over in my mind to the farm I go. Keep pulling up to the old house, keep standing in the yard, keep wondering who’ll step onto that porch when I arrive—Danny, Margaret, Annie—and I must fall asleep somewhere in all of this, because the next thing I know is sunshine and that sharp green of trees outside. Whatever dreams I had, they disappear at the slightest touch, leaving me tired again, exhausted and heavy, as if I’ve covered some great distance in the night.
Beautiful day out there—and I get dressed, fix my hair, and start driving to the farm—stop for coffee, stop for gas, and one cool hour of highway to the exit and back roads again. Am forever on the verge of lost as I go—feel I’m trying to catch some dream again, trying to remember some story I read or heard a long time ago—the little church, the truss bridge, the old mills and towns to pass, everything familiar, everything strange, all of it leading to this fork onto Pauti-paug Hill, and that déjà vu of cemetery in the gully, and then Bob’s stone near the front gate as real as anything else in my life. Can see him gray and shining from half a mile away, like he’s been watching all this time for me to pull up.
ROBERT S. CUSSLER
1926–1981
And I get out of the car—why not?—I hereby give myself permission to take this little detour of standing for who knows how long over my old husband like this. Just grass and sky and trees and birds and sunlight and air, and it’s days, it’s years, it’s an entire lifetime before the sound of tires on gravel brings me back to the world, the pop and crackle of pickup truck easing behind, and where am I now as I turn and straighten my skirt? Truck door opening, crunch of boots, and this man asking is that really who he thinks it is?
I stand there—curious to know who I might actually be to him—and he opens his arms and says, Aunt Anna! It’s me, Little Leo! Margaret and Leo’s son!
To which I say, That cannot be.
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sp; He smiles in a way that makes me smile and puts his hand to show how tall he must have been last time I saw him—and he hugs me with those easy thick arms of his, old smell of hayloft and cows and kerosene—and he holds me away, this man asking does anyone else know I’m here?
I shake my head—can’t seem to speak—Little Leo still this skinny little kid in my mind, his voice still squeaky and sweet as a girl’s, that boy inside this disguise of a man somehow. He’s saying to come to the farm, saying he’ll call Uncle Danny and Aunt Annie, saying he’ll see me up at the house, yes? He says all sorts of things that I can’t really hear, all of which ends with him telling me to take my time with Uncle Bob.
And after he drives away, sound of his truck tapering up the hill, I turn to Bob and ask if I should just go home. He’s under the grass, my husband, but I see him smirk. What, exactly, he asks, is home again?
Oh, it’s true, I say, even dead you have to be my nemesis, don’t you?
When Bob doesn’t say anything next to this, I spit his name and dates to the grass like watermelon seeds. Half of me feels bad for doing this, wants to take it back and say sorry, say I miss him and love him and all that gush—things I feel but never say—but the other half of me just scoffs, raises my face to the sun, takes a deep breath, and starts to the farm.
Up the hill and nothing seems to have changed. The barn, the house, the cows, the junk trucks in the pasture. Orchard’s a bit shaggier than I remember, but the hills, the fields, the light feels the same. Leo steps out of the house—and again that brush of sun and leaves, as if the world’s saying everything’s going to be all right—and Leo’s wife and daughter lovely and smiling beside him, five or six dogs wagging their way across the yard, all of us buoyed gently into the house, that candy-shop smell of hallway and kitchen, counters and sink the same celery green, table in the same place at the windows, brass lamp hanging same as ever from the ceiling.
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