Letters To My Mother

by Rebecca Heath

  “You said, too, that I have friends. You’re wrong. I have a wide circle of what others might call ‘friends’, but I think ‘acquaintances’ is a better word. They’re people who send Arlene and me Christmas cards, who invite us to dinner, other professors I chat with in the halls. But there’s not one person in that sea of faces I can turn to and say ‘I’m heartsick because I love a girl I can’t marry; please counsel me’ or ‘I’m lonely, please listen to me.’ No, we prattle on about the weather, or what make of car we’re buying next year. We talk about football, and you know how football bores me. It’s as though silence is a void which must be filled, even if the fill is garbage. Maybe they’re dying inside, too, and we’re all sending each other SOS messages that never make it past the barriers of social trivia.

  “I’ve been living this way for years, Kate, desperately lonely. Then, one day, a shy girl walked into my office and started telling me about storks’ nests and pistachio vendors and how she felt listening to an old man play the lute. You know how it is to be lonely with no one to confide in, and I’ve been your confidant, just as you’ve been mine. We were friends before we were lovers, dear, and while we’ve heaped many things on our relationship since the beginning, it’s the bedrock of friendship which laid the foundation for everything that followed.

  “You think you don’t matter to me? You’ve brought me joy in so many ways. The other day one of my students returned from a trip to Martinique and gave me a conch shell to decorate my bookcase. The shell reminded me of you, of that day in the curio shop when you picked up a conch and held it to your ear, of the delight on your face when you heard the sea roar inside it, and how you held the shell up for me to listen. I never see a sailboat or look at the stars without thinking of you.

  “Perhaps my words can move you; perhaps they can make you cry as they’re doing now, but only growing up will make you happy. You’ll be leaving for Mexico in three months and, much as I’ll miss you, I’m glad you’re going. You have to learn to stand alone, and you’ll never manage that with me any more than a rose can bloom in the shade of an oak tree.” David reached out and stroked my cheek. “I love you, Kate. You’ve turned back the dial of my life.”

  It was getting dark when we approached the dormitory. Through the open window above the garden, we heard the voices of the girls from Blaine Hall, rehearsing for “Spring Sing,” an annual music competition. We stopped to listen just as they were finishing "Deep Purple" and starting a selection from Carousel. Rosemary was at the piano, surrounded by a group of eight or nine singers.

  “Rosie’s wearing her glasses,” David observed with a smile.

  “Chopin she knows by heart; for Richard Rodgers she needs sheet music.”

  “Spring break begins on the twenty-third. Your parents recently moved to California, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, a month ago.”

  “Are you going home?”

  “I think so, why?”

  “Arlene is flying to Boston with the children to spend a week with her family. I’m sailing up to a little island in the San Juans. Nothing special. Just a time to think, to do a little fishing, a little clamming. Will you come with me?”

  “Yes.”

  The music spilled out over the windowsill, into the spring evening.

  If I loved you,

  Time and again I would try to say

  All I'd want you to know.

  If I loved you ….

  I looked at David with tears in my eyes.

  “Kate, there’s a school of thought which says a quarrel between two lovers improves their relationship, that a fight clears the air and brings them closer together. I don’t subscribe to that theory. Today you and I came perilously close to losing something precious to us both; next time we might not be so lucky.”

  David put his arms around me and I hugged him, grateful for the second chance.

  Chapter 16

  Blaine Hall, Room B102

  University of Washington, Seattle

  March 21, 1957

  Dear Mother and Daddy,

  I just finished my human paleontology final exam – the last one of

  winter quarter. A week ago the professor, Dr. Osborne, told the

  class he’d give us as long as we wanted for the normally

  three-hour test; I’m not sure now if he was joking, but I thought

  he meant it at the time, so I showed up at eight for the final with

  four blue books in hand. At eleven o’clock I was just getting

  started - you can imagine my horror when he called for the blue

  books! I reminded Dr. O. of what he’d said, and he asked me

  to follow him to the Anthropology Department. I wrote for the

  next two hours, regurgitating every mandible, cranium and femur

  ever discovered. I think I got a good grade in that course.

  I’m eager to see your new apartment, but something’s come up

  here, so I plan to spend spring break in Seattle…

  When the alarm clock rang at three thirty Saturday morning at the end of finals week, it took me half a minute of fumbling in the dark before I could silence the buzzer. I got dressed, lifted my duffle bag over my shoulder, and tiptoed downstairs. The kitchen staff would arrive at five thirty, heralding breakfast with the aroma of frying bacon, but at three thirty the first floor was deserted. Although I could have gone stomping through the living room without anyone’s hearing me, I walked stealthily, keeping to the rug, and avoiding the creaking floorboards. The lock on the front door opened with a resounding thunk; I went outside and pulled the door closed behind me, and as the lock slid noisily back in place, I hoped I hadn’t forgotten anything.

  David was waiting for me in the driveway; he put my duffle bag in the trunk beside his own and gave me a quick kiss. His unshaven cheek brushed against mine; it felt like sandpaper, and I reached up to touch his face.

  “Sorry, I overslept. I’ll shave on the boat. I don’t suppose you’ve eaten anything, have you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Me neither. We ought to have breakfast before we leave; this is going to be a long day.”

  David pulled in at a truck stop on the way to the marina. In contrast to the silent residence hall and the empty streets, the parking lot full of men chatting and smoking cigarettes was an oasis of activity in a dark city two hours before sunrise. We took seats at the counter next to a group of truck drivers engaged in a lively discussion with the waitress, a leather-faced woman in her late forties whose straw-colored hair clashed with her olive complexion. The man sitting beside me had his sleeves rolled up and his elbows on the counter, exposing a devil with an octopus tentacle for a tongue tattooed on his left forearm.

  “Shee-it,” he exclaimed, waving cigarette smoke in my face. “If it was up to me we’d go into Hungry and drop an A-bomb on the Reds. You know why we don’t? It’s the damn Jews and Commies in Washington.” David nudged me with his elbow. “Hell, you know the Russkis are goin’ to attack us sooner or later, so why don’t we beat’em to it? Those guys in Congress are yellow, that’s why.”

  The waitress refilled his coffee cup. “Yeah,” she agreed, “those fuckers don’t have any balls.”

  “Shee-it.”

  When we reached the marina it was still dark, and David started the outboard immediately, eager to get underway. As soon as we cleared the breakwater, he turned the tiller over to me and went on deck to hoist the sails. Together we’d studied the chart of lower Puget Sound: we would leave Seattle before dawn and head north toward Whidbey Island, pass it to port, and continue up the Saratoga Passage into Skagit Bay. David was timing the trip to take advantage of the slack current at Deception Pass, a narrow and turbulent ribbon of water between Whidbey and Fidalgo Islands, where the swirling currents boil through at speeds up to nine knots at maximum flood. According to his calculations, slack water would occur at six in the afternoon, and we had to be ready to transit the pass precisely at that time or anchor s
omewhere and wait until the following day. Once through Deception Pass we faced another open stretch across the Rosario Strait that divides the eastern portion of the Sound from the San Juans.

  David’s destination was Boone Island, scarcely more than a dot on the chart, one of the many small outcroppings in the southern San Juan chain. He was purposely mysterious; he told me only that he’d visited the island once a couple of years before and had always planned to return.

  Aboard Sturmvogel, I’d never been out of sight of Seattle, and I watched eagerly as the lights of the city receded in the distance, replaced at dawn by steep evergreen-clad shores to the north. The weather was clear with just enough wind to sail, but David kept the motor going because we had a schedule to meet.

  We took turns steering and navigating; using a hand compass, I marked the bearings of buoys, bluffs and towers, charting our steady progress northward. Even though the city was far out of sight, civilization still surrounded us. We passed a number of towns on Whidbey Island, an occasional sea plane flew overhead, and we saw a few ferries and other small boats, powerboats mostly, carving broad V’s in the water in their hurried passage north.

  We reached Skagit Bay by late afternoon and since David calculated we would keep our rendezvous with Deception Pass on time, he turned off the motor and we sailed for an hour before sighting the bridge over the channel. To port lay lovely Cornet bay, and we debated whether to anchor there for the night. I wanted to stay; we’d already been underway for more than twelve hours, and I felt apprehensive about trying to find Boone Island in the dark, but David prevailed. I cast a wistful glance at the bay as we headed for the narrow passage between the steep wooded bluffs, and understood how Columbus’ sailors felt gazing back at the Pillars of Hercules.

  After the anxiety of going through Deception Pass, the glassy smoothness of Rosario Strait was almost anti-climactic. David set a compass course and noted the log reading; with darkness obscuring the landmarks, we would be navigating by instruments from that point. The wind died to a whisper and David started the outboard again while I went below to open a couple cans of stew and heat the coffee. We ate dinner in the cockpit, spooning our stew from deep plastic soup bowls, while watching the sun go down behind the forested mountaintops.

  David knew much of Puget Sound’s history and, as night fell, he told me stories of Indian raids on the first settlements, of the smuggling of Chinese laborers and of the early British exploring parties. The last thing I remember is his story about a farmer who found a cache of smuggled opium and used the drug to cover his barn, thinking the brownish-red material was paint.

  “Kate, wake up; we’re here.”

  I yawned and looked around. A full moon was just rising in the east and to the west a black silhouette loomed out of the water, but in the dark I couldn’t make out the features of the island, if indeed it was an island.

  “How long was I asleep?”

  “I’m not sure, maybe about an hour. You don’t do much for my ego. I was rambling on at great length how the Haidas tried to massacre the governor’s family back in the Indian Wars of 1856, when I realized my entire audience had fallen asleep. It’s an occupational hazard for a biochemist.” He gave my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “That’s Boone Island over there. I’m going to cut our speed and head for the cove. How about getting the windlass handle for me?”

  We approached the island slowly, and as we neared the shore, I could make out a tiny bay, barely large enough for three boats to anchor, a thin strip of beach and, behind the beach, a solid phalanx of trees, somber and indistinguishable in the moonlight.

  “How deep is it in here?” I called from the foredeck.

  “About twelve feet; when you’ve let out fifty feet of chain let me know and I’ll start backing down.”

  David brought the boat to a halt and I let go on the windlass. The 35-pound anchor splashed into the blackness below, followed by the rattle of chain on the bow rollers. When the anchor was set, I sat with my back against the mast and watched the moon trace an undulating pencil of light across the surface of the bay; the scent of evergreens drifted from the island. Daybreak would bring airplanes overhead and powerboats out in the strait; perhaps the island was inhabited. David hadn’t told me. But for that one night were isolated from man and from the works of man.

  I returned to the cockpit, where David was holding a small flashlight between his teeth and writing in the log.

  “What a beautiful evening,” I sighed.

  “Isn’t it though? After that nap you should be good for another two or three hours at least. How about joining me in a cup of hot buttered rum.”

  “Is it big enough to hold both of us?”

  “Smartass!” David exclaimed, whacking me across the bottom.

  He went below, lit a match and Taylor roared into action. With the burner’s orange flame illuminating the galley, I caught sight of the dirty dishes in the sink.

  “While you’re down there, could you heat me some water for washing the dishes?”

  “Leave them for tomorrow.”

  “No, I don’t want to face dirty dishes first thing in the morning. I’ll wash them before we go to bed.”

  David didn’t answer and I heard him filling the teakettle.

  When he returned a few minutes later, he was carrying two steaming mugs.

  “Here, try this; I didn’t put much rum in yours.”

  I tasted the drink. “Mmmm it’s good.”

  David sat down in the cockpit beside me and extended his long legs across the well to the seat opposite. I snuggled close against him.

  “Have I told you today that I love you?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t believe so. That’s a capital offense aboard the good ship Sturmvogel. It’s called disrespect for a ship’s officer and the punishment is keelhauling.”

  “What’s keelhauling?”

  “The captain takes the miscreant below, strips her naked and … hauls up to her keel.”

  I laughed. “You can be so silly sometimes. When I see you in public, proper and dignified, as you were at the AAAS convention, I can scarcely believe this side of you exists.”

  “I know. I’m schizoid. The other me is Leopold. I like David much better, don’t you? Leopold’s such a pompous windbag.”

  We sat for a long time in silence, enjoying the night, relishing the thought of having no schedule for the next six days, no watches to look at. I was falling asleep with my head on David’s shoulder when an eerie wail floated through the trees and across the water.

  “What’s that?” I asked, sitting up.

  “A loon.”

  “Oh.” I put my head back on David’s shoulder and shut my eyes. “Loon. Isn’t loon a lovely word? I remember when I was in high school and used to shelve books in the library. There was a novel called Loon Feather. I always meant to read the book because of the beautiful title, but I never did. It was about the Chippewa Indians, or maybe it was the Iroquois. What were the six tribes of the Iroquois nation? The Oneida, the Onondaga …”

  “You’re not making a whole lot of sense.”

  “I know; I feel all warm and sleepy. It must be the rum.”

  “I didn’t put enough rum in yours to make a kitten tipsy. I think you’re a closet narcoleptic. Come on, Kate, let’s clean up down there. You wash, I’ll dry – and we’ll go to bed.”

  David lit the kerosene lamps and we washed the dishes. When he’d dried the last bowl, David disappeared into the forward cabin and returned with two sleeping bags, his old blue one and a red bag I’d never seen before.

  “I have something to show you. You see this sleeping bag? It’s brand new. Now I don’t want you getting any grandiose idea that I bought the bag for you, because you made it abundantly clear to me at Christmas how you feel about receiving gifts. On the contrary. The bag’s for any young woman who spends the night aboard with me, so tonight you may use it.” David was having a hard time keeping a straight face. “It has one interesting feature.” H
e opened both bags, laid one on top of the other, and zipped them together to make a double bag.

  “There! What do you think of that?”

  “Very cozy. Tell me, am I the first one to try it out?”

  “Let me see,” he said with mock seriousness. “Well, there was Janet, and then there was Linda and then…”

  I wadded up one end of the bag and tried to cram it in his mouth. “I always suspected you had a sadistic streak.” We struggled for the bag and fell on the bunk, laughing. David propped himself up on one elbow and looked at me. “Kate, I love you.”

  I took his face between my hands and kissed him. “I’m so glad we came here.”

  “It’s time for sleep.”

  “Sleep?” I asked mischievously.

  David became serious. “Yes, sleep. Remember the conversation we had last week? We have plenty of time for sex; tonight we can be lovers in a different way.”

  I changed my clothes in the small head compartment and put on a heavy flannel nightgown, a “Mother Hubbard,” I’d bought in anticipation of the chilly nights.

  “Good grief!” David exclaimed when I returned to the main cabin. “Who designed that thing? Margaret Sanger?”

  “See? I’m doing my part.”

  I climbed into the bag and flicked my tongue against his upper lip.

  “Uh-uh. Not tonight. Let’s just cuddle.”

  “’Cuddle’. How well you pronounced it.”

  “I have an expert speech teacher.”

  “Are you sleepy?”

  “A little. Why, do you want to talk?”

  “I’ve been wondering about something for a long time.”

  “What?”

  “Would you tell me about Helen?”

  I couldn’t see his face in the dark, but I felt him give a start.