I had. Just like a kid, down on his knees prowling around the tree, squeezing the presents.
Sampson didn't know the rules. All he knew was pretty colors under, of all things, a big bush thing in the house. We all heard a ri-i-p and, "Da Da," and saw Sampson waving a harmonica. As with everything, it went straight to his mouth for a chew. One good suck in the right place and he stopped in astonishment.
"What a smart boy." Amy handed him a present of his own. "Would you like to start now?" She gave her gift of the harmonica to David. "Or wait 'til your son does it all for you?"
"Seems I've got no choice. All three of you, I bet all four of you, are set on having things your way." Still, he waited until we were almost through with opening our presents before he started on his.
It wasn't just what we gave to each other that I remember so well from that Christmas, it was the absence of tension. No one was worried, or testy. Amy didn't worry about her baby. I didn't feel closed in or annoyed with Sampson, or feel left out when they talked about their baby. David relaxed because we did, and spent the whole day with us, instead of escaping to his paints. Sampson responded to the happiness and toys and pretty paper to throw around. David played checkers with me, and lost, but regained his manly superiority, as he called it, when he beat Amy at chess. The chess set was his gift to her. She teased him into another game and they were still at it when Sampson and I went to bed. Much, much later he woke me when he slid in beside me.
"Sorry," he whispered, "Didn't mean to wake you."
"It's okay," I whispered close to his ear. On impulse I nipped it sharply.
"Oho, woman! Think you can get away with that do you?" He tweaked my nose.
I grabbed his hand away.
He made quick little bites at my throat.
I was weak from keeping my giggling quiet and his hands to himself. Wanting him flushed through me so that I didn't, couldn't, didn't want to stop him. Sometimes I think of David, and that...fulfillment...that only...sexual love can know...
That night too, is why I cherish that Christmas memory so. It was the only time we made love with Amy there in the house. Maybe if I'd been more unbending about that...
23. You Aren't Amy!
Aunt Sophie seemed confused. We were both embarrassed. The fire was about out and it was late.
I suggested we go to bed. Quietly, we did.
After breakfast next morning, I eased her back into her memories as we worked on a couple of casual pants-suits I'd wear at work. My job is in a camera shop. I serve customers by day and have the use of the developing and printing equipment at night. It's an ideal setup because I can do my own printing of the shots I take on weekends and for special occasions of goings-on in town. The best ones I sell to our local newspaper. So far, the profits are small but I've reached the point where I receive more calls than I make, and that's encouraging.
I was anxious for Aunt Sophie to get her story finished. I wanted to know about what happened to Sampson? I feared the worst. It seemed more gentle, and easier, to start with the second baby.
"Did Amy have her baby all right?" I said, as we spread the cloth on the dining table and began pinning the pattern in place.
"Oh, Amy's baby." She paused, distracted, and straightened up from the table, a pin held in mid-air. In her eyes was a question as she turned to me.
"Didn't I... No, I guess I didn't. Well..." She bent again to the pattern and pushed the pin into the paper, joining it to the cloth, and picked up her story.
* * * *
The baby was due in early February. The doctor was going to come to the house when Amy started labor. That was the plan, but she came back from a visit to him in mid-January, upset.
It was raining, as usual. She came in with water dripping from her hat and coat. She pulled her hat off and threw it onto the shelf above the coat rack. Sampson babbled to her from the couch where he'd just pulled himself up. I helped her out of the wet coat and hung it over a chair to dry.
David sat her on another chair before the warming fire and undid her blond hair so it fell to just below her shoulder blades. She moved her neck around as he lifted and separated the wet strands. He took the brush from where he kept it on the mantle above the fireplace and teased out the damp clumps at her forehead down to the ends of her hair. Taking the comb that always lay beside the brush he straightened her drying hair, separated it into three strands which he plaited into a single braid down her back. His hands were gentle and sure, they had done this task many times. Amy's breathing slowed as she relaxed with his touch. It always soothed her when he put his hands in her hair.
She turned to look at me. "The doctor is leaving." She spoke in a rush, the words falling on top of each other.
"Sophie, he's going back to Portland. His father is old and not well, and he says there's not enough of a practice for him here since the road work slowed down. There's not enough people here."
David stroked her shoulders to calm her.
I didn't see that there was much of a problem. After all, I delivered without a doctor and so did my mother.
"I'll bet," I said to her, "that your mother didn't have one either."
"No, but with my brother and sister, David's mother was there."
I was hurt. "Amy, you know I'll be here. I've delivered all of Mandy's kids and they're all okay."
"Oh, I know, Sophie." Her forehead wrinkled and she screwed up her mouth. She was trying to be calm but couldn't hide her worry. She was scared. "I do trust you. You know I love you, but I wish... Oh! I wish my mother was here."
"She's not here. Mine wasn't either, you will remember. Looks like all you've got is me."
I was sorry for her distress at this unexpected turn but surprised that she was making such a fuss about it. I tried to soften my exasperation by adding, "And David. We've all been through this before. You'll see. It'll be all right."
David hadn't said much 'til now. His hands stopped moving, resting lightly on her back. "You're not going to have the baby here."
We both turned to look at him.
"Doctor James said there's a good doctor in Seaside and that's where you're going."
"Seaside?" we said together. "That's over eight miles away."
"It's closer than Portland. If a doctor can't come here, you will go to him." He struck the back of Sophie's chair with his fist.
She pulled away from his reach, looking at him, eyes wide, startled.
"Some doctor. All the time promising to be here, and then, just when you need him, leaving you alone."
I said, "But she won't be alone. I wasn't alone. I'll be here, like you were with me."
"You aren't Amy!"
I barely heard Amy's quick breath. "David."
For a second he looked confused, then his voice fell as he reached out to me.
"I only meant..." His eyes were wet with the hurt we both felt and, I'm sure now, with the fear he felt for Amy. "Sophie. You were, are, strong, and..." He fumbled for words. "Oh, Sophie, If anything happened...to Amy...to the baby...." His voice was low, serious.
You've got Sampson, I thought, unfairly, and guiltily, knowing I could never say it. I turned my head away. The thought had just popped in. I tried to keep my hot face hidden.
He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me toward him. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't hurt you for the world, Sophie." His eyes were sad. "I love you. But this is different."
My first flash of jealousy at Amy's baby was gone. I knew I was being foolish, though I didn't know why, yet.
"David." I straightened up. His hands fell from my shoulders but I reached up to his face, and touched his cheek lightly. "You're right." I looked at Amy. "I'm the one who is wrong. Of course I want what's best for Amy." Their strained faces relaxed a little. "And for your baby."
Briskly, I gathered my no-nonsense voice, not unlike the one Amy used on me when she came to my cabin. "And if it's a doctor in Seaside, I better get you ready."
Relieved, David said, almost cheerfully
, "We all have to get ready. Four weeks for four people--five people." He stopped for a moment and pulled his shoulders back, as if adjusting a new weight. "In Resort City. We have lots of work to do."
He could be so annoying. "David, you obviously haven't thought this out. How do you know it's going to be four weeks?"
"Two weeks 'til the baby comes and two weeks after for Amy and the baby to rest." He was smug about his mathematics.
Amy and I looked at him. She spoke up first. "It might be longer, it might be sooner. Babies don't always follow the schedules we set up."
I said, "You can't know for sure how long you'll be gone, and Sampson would drive us crazy cooped up in a strange place. It'll be easier on all of us and less expensive if he and I stay." I looked at Amy. "Although I wanted to be with you. But--" I made myself sound confident. "You'll be okay, just fine."
And she was. They left a couple days later, grocer Puffin proudly driving them in his new Ford, glad of a reason to go somewhere and show off his new car--and make a few dollars.
Amy gave birth to Lillian May a week after they got to Seaside. Not much wiggle room in David's time-schedule. The baby was perfect, but Amy was too weak for the trip back until nearly a month later. Her labor turned out to be long and difficult. They'd been grateful for the medical assistance, and so was I. And in a silly, secret way, I felt superior.
When he got home David pulled the Smithers' family Bible from where they kept it in the top drawer of their bedroom chest and David added the birth of Lillian May to the chronicle.
Born to Amy and David Smithers
Lillian May Smithers
Seaside, Oregon January 25, 1920
Thanks be to God
24. The Loneliest Weeks
The five weeks they were gone were the loneliest weeks of my life. Worse even than the five months in the cabin, for then I'd had David at least once a day.
I popped corn, but it was tasteless. Sewing made me nervous. I worked on the Beach quilt and had it nearly finished. It was hard without someone to keep Sampson entertained while I sewed. I could only work on it when he was sleeping. I enjoyed it though, as it had all fit together much better than I had imagined. Somehow, working with the material, I felt closer to that time when I had first been getting to know David, as if that barely-bearable tension I'd felt then was somehow stitched into the design, into the material even.
The day came when I turned the last piece of the binding under, when I backstitched the last stitch, making a good knot. Then I embroidered my name in the left hand corner, on the sand:
The Beach in Winter
Sophie Elm
Cannon Beach. Feb. 1, 1920
I had a cup of tea and admired it, then took it to my bedroom and put in on my bed. Done.
I found the house too quiet at night, too lonely to stay up much after Sampson had gone to bed. When I got to bed it felt so big for just me. Some nights I'd give in when Sampson wanted to get in my bed, not his. It was comfort to us both. After a few days he stopped looking around so much for David and Amy. With the passing of time, I missed them even more, despite the fact that Sampson and I were really close during those weeks alone. He turned eleven months old while they were gone. Every day of his growing brought a new experience for both of us.
I established a new routine that met our needs better. We were more casual about things, such as waiting until evening before washing up the day's dishes. I was able to relax with my baby in a way I wasn't able to when I'd had chores to do with Amy. We sat together in ease while he nursed. I turned the chair to the window so we could look out at the ocean. It was peaceful as Sampson picked up my mood and nursed more quietly than his usual active way, watching with me as the ocean swelled and poured foam onto the shore.
But with no adults, the days were often lonely and boring. About once a week I'd walk up to Puffin's store, carrying Sam, to get basic foodstuffs but more to have someone to talk to. The trips to the store always unnerved me some. We'd told Puffin the same story I'd told the boys, that I was staying to housekeep and take care of David's wife during her pregnancy. He didn't see either Amy or me when I was in the last of my pregnancy but still I felt uncomfortable living under the sharp eyes of Puffin and his wife, Mrs. P.
They were used to seeing the four of us together and accepted the story that Sampson was Amy and David's child. I was nervous about going there with the baby even though we had told the Puffins that it was easier for all if Sampson stayed with me while they were in Seaside for the delivery. To that end I even bought milk from them for Sampson. They didn't know I used it to get him used to a cup but that his primary milk was from me.
The other reason to go to Puffin's store was to see if there were any messages or mail for me. There seldom was, but one day Amy's publisher sent finished copies of her first book, Sampson, Boy of the Sea, and I wrote her immediately. She answered, ecstatic with the birth of her healthy daughter, and a book in the same year.
The weather again got on my nerves, but for a different reason. Now there was no one to watch Sampson when I went outside. He was walking around the furniture, flinging everything within reach to the floor. I thought he was going to drive me crazy. When he was awake I wanted him asleep and when he was sleeping the house was dead quiet and I wanted him awake. We fought over the bookcase. It fascinated him, I guess because, like a dog nuzzling old shoes when it's left alone, the books smelled of David and Amy. They played with them, so he did.
That's why I started reading. One night when Sampson went to bed early, tired after a day of chasing the cat around the house, wailing when I was outside and hanging on me when I was in. He'd made his usual mess. I was putting the books back in their place when I found Girl of the Limberlost from under the dining table.
The cover was wet where he'd chewed on the edges, so I left it on the table to dry. It was still there when I settled down to write Mom and Dad. I wrote them at least twice a month, telling them all about Amy's baby. I'd already explained about the new one coming, making it sound like I'd come home if I could, but Amy was such a weakling that I couldn't just yet.
Everything seemed too quiet, inside and out. It made me twitchy. The book just laid there, its chawed cover still dark from Sampson's four slurpy teeth. Looking at it, all I could think of was Amy and David sitting night after night reading by the fire. David often read out loud. I always wondered how they could sit like that, for hours sometimes. I was sure it'd drive me crazy.
But now, tonight, I was lonely for them, and like Sampson, the next best thing was their books.
I put more wood on the fire, partially just to hear the crackle, and settled down in David's chair with a thin quilt over my legs and a cup of hot tea on the little table beside his chair. I sat there for a while watching the flames, thinking over the last two years, until I couldn't stand thinking anymore and opened the book.
You must remember that I'd never read anything but the Bible, and only parts of that, and a few schoolbooks, history and such that I found boring. I took a while to get used to a story like that with no Chapter 1, Verse 3, or battles to remember. Once I got over feeling wasteful about spending time on reading, I got caught up in it. It took me a week or so to find out the girl was going to be all right, despite her crazy mother. And when I finished it I started another, about a strange boy. Little Shepherd of the Hills I think it was, and read that through. Then I started on Moby Dick but it was hard reading and I never did finish it, though David tried to get me to.
25. PRE-T-T-Y
They returned in the first week in April, David, Amy, and beautiful little Lillian.
As I said, about once a week Sampson and I walked into town, taking the steps David had cut into the hill behind the house up to the road. Cannon Beach wasn't much of a town, then, just a few buildings, plus the hotel. The store had a phone where David could call if he had any messages for me.
When I walked in, early that first week of April, both Sampson and I were cold from the mist. I sat
down in the chair by the coal stove and unwrapped the baby. My arms were aching from carrying him. He was getting to be a big boy. It felt so good to sit down for a bit and just listen to Puffin's gossip. He didn't think it was gossip, of course. He told everyone who would listen that Mrs. P. told everything she knew and a lot that she didn't and that was why he never told her the messages that came through the phone.
It was a clear case of the pot calling the kettle black, although it did drive her mad that he never told her anything.
He was tall and thin, spry. Mrs. P. was short and heavy, downright fat, though I hate to say it. I was there once when the phone rang. He nearly ran her over getting to it, being agile. Mrs. Puffin moved slow, and breathed hard if she tried to speed up any. He always beat her to the phone, no matter where he was.
Their name fit her. I always wondered what she was like when they got married, whether she had grown to fit the name or it was accidental. She was a good soul. When he told me about the baby she was as thrilled as I. The next time I came in she gave me a pink bonnet she'd made, trimmed with lace and embroidered with tiny roses, to give to Amy for Lillian.
Puffin liked to make his customers guess if there had been a call. "Well, hello," he'd always say when you came in. If there had been a message his voice would have an important I-have-a-secret tone that attracted your attention. It made you look at him curiously, which was what he wanted.
It irritated me that this self-important man would play with me so. If you got mad and said, "Okay, Puffin, out with it. Did somebody call?" he found something that needed doing in the back room. Make you wait.
"Mrs. P.," he'd call, "There's a customer out here for you." Since she knew less than you did about what message might have been left, the two of you would stumble around the subject, filling your order and awkwardly discussing the weather until he came back in, acting as if he'd suddenly remembered. "Oh, by the way, would you believe it?"
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