Testing the Current

by William McPherson

  “You’ll be punished for this,” his mother said.

  “Are you going to tell Daddy on me?”

  “Go to your room,” she said.

  “No,” Tommy said. He said it very calmly, though he could feel his heart beating in his chest. “I’m going outside,” and he walked off the porch and through the path in the woods, across the bridge to Boomer Island and across the other bridge to the island the Steers and Daisy and Phil lived on, and followed the path that went behind the Steers’ house and into the woods until he came to the clearing at the old Indian cemetery, where he sat on the field grass, in the sunlight, leaning against one of the little houses, weathered and bleached over the years, that the Indians built over their graves. He sat there a long time, feeling the warmth of the sun, listening to the bees in the wild flowers. It was peaceful there. It occurred to him that he’d never had lunch, but he wasn’t hungry. He was a tyrannical child, he thought, and he had lied to her, too. Tommy had never seen his mother so full of wrath, nor had he known himself to be so hateful. It was not good. He stayed there a long time, his back against the decrepit shelter. The shadows of the trees were slanting over the cemetery now, and when the shadows grew longer and crept up and covered him, he began to feel chilly. He shivered. He would have to go home, he knew that. He dreaded it, but he knew it. He got up, picked a bunch of wild flowers and put them on the grave, and left the cemetery, returning to his house by the same paths and bridges.

  When he got home he went into the living room and stood before the big stone fireplace. The bull moose glared balefully down on him. It was moth-eaten. He wished someone would throw it out. He wished there were a fire in the fireplace, but there were only the ashes from the last fire. He heard his mother stirring in her room, and in a few minutes she came downstairs. She looked different now. She looked quite different. “I’ve been lying down,” she said. She had changed her dress, too. “Tommy, come sit here beside me.” She patted the couch on the other side of the fireplace. “Please. Sit down next to me.” Tommy sat on the couch. “Tommy, when I told you I was twenty-two”—there were tears in his mother’s eyes—“that was such a long time ago, so long ago. It was just a story that I thought would amuse you. You always liked funny stories. You know that.” Yes, he knew that. “It wasn’t a real lie, just an innocent little fib. A silly story I made up, a white lie.” There was a tear on his mother’s cheek now. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you. I wouldn’t want to hurt you for the world. You’re the most precious thing I have.” She sat there in the corner of the couch, her eyes glistening, her hands open on her lap. “The most precious thing I have.” Tommy looked across the rug to the other couch where Mr. Wolfe had been sitting. He didn’t know what to say. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said again. “Please don’t hurt me, either. There’s too much hurt in the world, Tommy, too much hurt.”

  Tommy did not want his mother to hurt. “I don’t want you to hurt me, either,” he said.

  “I wish we had the piano here,” she said. “You could sit beside me and I could play the song we love so much. It would make us both feel better.” Tommy could hear in his mind the lovely notes of Kinderszenen, floating in from far, far away.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, that would be nice.” It would be nice to be under the piano again, feeling the tingling of the strings. His mother put some kindling in the fireplace, and a couple of logs, poured some kerosene over them, and lit the fire.

  “Daddy will probably be home soon,” she said, “and then we’ll have dinner.”

  But his father didn’t come home soon. He called and said he’d been having a business meeting and it was running late, and he was going to take the men to the country club for dinner. He’d probably be home afterwards. Mrs. Addington called a few minutes later. She asked his mother if she’d like to join her and Mrs. Wentworth for drinks and a simple supper. “Mac’s not home,” his mother said, “and I’m here with Tommy.” Mrs. Aldrich said something. “Thank you,” his mother said, “but really I’m not feeling very well. I have a headache, and I think I’ll stay here with Tommy tonight. He’s tired out, too. We’re both tired.” His mother made tomato soup, and they had toast, and then he went to bed. His mother went to bed shortly after, and when his father came home the house was asleep.

  Tommy had a strange dream that night. It was like the terrible dream he’d had twice before, the one he called his furnace dream, but different. There was a man in it, and there was the flickering light, and there was a mask in it, too, like the one on his wall but worse, and maybe some Indians and some of the people from the Island, maybe the furnacemen from the plant. He thought Mrs. Steer was in it, and Mrs. Slade. There were a lot of people in it. He could see faces in the light. There was the chopping block, but it was like stone, maybe like some of those Mexican things. It was definitely a bad dream, but not so frightening as the first one, and it was hard to remember. It was the last time he dreamt it.

  They had a quiet weekend. His mother spent a lot of time addressing the invitations to the dance. His father mailed them on Monday. There were many, many of them, and the Islanders were growing more excited about the party, talking about what they might wear, what sort of gift they might send. The gifts were all being delivered to the house in town, which slowly began to fill with silver. That was nice. His mother liked silver, and some of it was very pretty indeed. There were many arrangements to be made—who was coming from out of town, who would stay where—many plans. The house had to be made ready, and the offers of hospitality for the out-of-town guests accepted. Tommy’s mother thought that the family might stay in town that night; some of the people from away could have the cottage. They’d enjoy it. The orchestra had to be confirmed, the menu planned, the champagne ordered. His father insisted on the champagne. A silver wedding anniversary didn’t happen every day, and this was going to be very special. It was going to be a party such as hadn’t been seen around Grande Rivière in a long time. That’s what they all said.

  One morning a few days later Tommy was standing on the bridge to Boomer Island, watching Mrs. Steer swim back and forth, back and forth, down fast with the current and back more slowly against it. She saw Tommy, too, and he walked over to her dock when she had finished and was wrapping herself in a big towel. The sun was bright, but it was still early, and as it rose slowly higher in the sky its rays grew warmer and Mrs. Steer threw off her towel and dried in the sun. Amy had been invited to breakfast at Mrs. Wentworth’s, she said. Mrs. Wentworth did that sometimes. She liked children.

  “I’ve been noticing you lately, Tommy,” Mrs. Steer said. “You used to seem so happy, such an open, bright, happy boy. What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Tommy said. “Nothing special, I guess.” Then he said, “I’ve had a funny dream,” and he told Mrs. Steer what he could remember about his dream. “You were in it, too,” he said.

  “When I was a little girl,” she said, “and already a fairly good swimmer, I used to have a dream. It was a recurring dream. I was swimming in a sea of leather, and, though trying as hard as I could, I made no progress at all. Sometimes I remember that dream. I remember the feeling of utter frustration. We all have strange dreams, Tommy, from time to time. It’s part of life.”

  They sat there for a while on the dock, in silence. It was nice to warm themselves in the sun, and Tommy felt very close to Mrs. Steer. She’d never given him one of her dreams before. “I’m going to tell you a little poem,” she said. “Listen:

  You must turn your mournful ditty

  To a merry measure;

  I will never come for pity,

  I will come for pleasure.

  “I don’t understand it,” Tommy said.

  “You will,” Mrs. Steer said. “You will. I think I’ll write it out for you. Wait here.” She picked up her towel and walked up the steps to her cottage. She came out a few minutes later, dressed, and walked back down to the dock. She handed Tommy the poem, written on her own letter paper in the handwriting
that was so different from anyone else’s. His mother said it was European, that Mrs. Steer spoke perfect English but wrote with a European accent. “Sometimes we all have bad feelings,” she said, “like bad dreams. Sometimes we can’t help our feelings, but always we can help what we do about them. You’ll be a happy child again, Tommy,” she told him. “You really will. I promise.”

  Tommy folded the paper carefully in half, and then he folded it again. “I’ll save it,” he told Mrs. Steer.

  “You don’t have to save it,” she said, “just remember it.” She put her arm around his shoulder and together they moved up to the porch, where Mrs. Steer poured herself a cup of coffee and gave Tommy a glass of milk and some crackers with her own mayonnaise on them. The next time Tommy went to town, he took Mrs. Steer’s paper with him and put it in his locked drawer.

  The Aldriches returned to the Island later in the month, but they didn’t bring Michael with them. Mr. Aldrich had been called home because of the international situation, which was bad, especially the Bolsheviks, who were being treacherous again, and the distance was too great and the trip too expensive to bring the whole family for such a short time. It was hardly worth opening the cottage, Mrs. Aldrich said, but summer wouldn’t be summer without at least a visit to the Island, and she didn’t want to miss the party, either. Tommy was sorry that he wouldn’t see Michael; Michael would have been interested in the scalping. Bill had a scar on his head but his hair was growing back, and he and Rose were the same as ever. “Just a happy married couple,” Mrs. Sedgwick said in that way she had. Lena didn’t seem any different, either.

  Mrs. Aldrich brought a tablecloth from Spain that she was going to lend Tommy’s mother for the party. She called it a banquet cloth because it was so big. It would go on the head table. The tablecloth had been made all by hand, of the finest lace, and was so precious that it wasn’t ever washed. Before Tommy saw it, he expected it would be crusted with milk from old spills, spotted with gravy stains, and look very old and soiled. But when he saw it, he was surprised: it didn’t look dirty at all. Mrs. Aldrich said that whenever anyone spilled anything, she just cleaned up the spot at once. It was a lot easier for her to treat the spots as they occurred. That way it never showed the dirt. Oh, of course sometime it might have to be washed, she said, but it would probably never look as good again. She’d leave that job for her children or her grandchildren. “You’ll have to mind your manners at your parents’ party, Tommy,” she told him. “I don’t want any spills.”

  “I’ll try,” Tommy said.

  The McGhees arrived for their visit with the Aldriches. Madge and Phelps came with them. Nick Kingsfield came home, but he didn’t open the Farnsworth cottage. He didn’t know what he’d do with the place, he said, and he stayed with Tommy’s brother David uptown. Mrs. Farnsworth’s house had already been sold. The out-of-town guests were starting to arrive, and the extra bedrooms on the Island and in town began to fill up. Tommy’s Aunt Clara and Uncle Andrew were going to stay in town, because his Aunt Clara didn’t like the Island very much—probably because she was so fastidious, Tommy thought, and there was only one bathroom in the cottage. His father’s sister, Tommy’s Aunt Martha, was staying up there, too, with his Uncle Charles, but they weren’t bringing Tommy’s cousins. The party was just for grown-ups, and they could stay only a very short time. Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Roger were going to stay on the Island with Tommy and John, and his parents would divide their time between the places. Tommy’s parents didn’t have room for everybody, so his Uncle Christian was staying in the Sedgwicks’ guesthouse. He loved the guesthouse as much as Tommy did. The population of the Island seemed to double overnight. Mrs. Wentworth and Mrs. Addington took two couples, the Aldriches another, and other friends put some of them up at their houses in town.

  As the guests arrived, so did the silver. Tommy had never seen so much silver in his life. Even Mrs. Sedgwick, whose silver was old and came from Philadelphia and had been in the family since the Revolutionary War, was impressed. His Aunt Clara and Uncle Andrew arrived with a set of silver goblets that came from the finest jewelry store in Chicago, and his Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Roger brought two candelabra from Detroit. His Uncle Christian brought four small silver salt dishes with tiny spoons and blue glass liners. They stood on tiny clawed feet, and they’d been made in England a long time ago. Tommy liked to rub his thumb across them, feeling the design that had been hammered there. His Uncle Christian called the work repoussé, and his mother admired the salt dishes very much. She said Christian had very good taste. Tommy thought the clawed feet would go very well with the other animals in the dining room—the plates on the rail, the platters and the soup tureen, all those china faces with the mild eyes that he knew so well. Tommy wondered if his Uncle Christian thought of things like that. His father’s Canadian cousins were too old to come to the party, but they sent a piece of their mother’s plate. Mrs. Slade sent a statue from Marshall Field’s of an antlered silver elk. It stood about eight inches high, and Tommy told his mother that it belonged in the dining room, too. His father said the dining room was getting to be a regular zoo. Reilly delivered the package himself with a note from Mrs. Slade regretting that she and Mr. Slade wouldn’t be able to attend the dance, though they were grateful for the invitation. Mrs. Sedgwick sent a tray that she’d gotten somewhere, and his Aunt Martha brought another when she and Uncle Charles arrived. Mrs. Steer sent something she’d already had, but it was beautiful. It had belonged to her mother, and Mrs. Steer said she could remember it from her childhood, when it had sat in the middle of the desk in the library of her house in Denmark. It was an inkwell. It was made mostly of glass, but it had a silver top with someone’s monogram on it. Tommy hoped he might get to use it, but they never did put any ink in it. Tommy wondered if Mr. Wolfe would give his parents twenty-five silver coins, but he didn’t. He sent a cocktail shaker, instead. Tommy couldn’t keep track of all the gifts, there were so many.

  The day before the dance, Tommy and Amy cut down the cattails with Bill and Harry and Jim, the Indians, and they all took them over to the country club, where they cut some more that grew along the banks of the main creek. They wanted to be sure to have enough. Buck helped them, too. “What you doin’ that for?” he asked, and when Tommy told him that they were going to soak them in kerosene and light the driveway, Buck said, “Shit, boy, your mamma’s gonna set this place on fire.”

  “No,” Tommy said, “she’s just going to light it and make it pretty.” And she did.

  His mother spent most of the next day at the club, making sure everything was in order and that the Indians and the extra help they’d had to get from the hotel knew what they were supposed to do. That morning she had laid out his white pants and his blue jacket, a white shirt, and a tie. Yes, he hardly ever had to wear a tie, but he had to wear one tonight. He was old enough. Not old enough for long pants, his mother said, but old enough for a tie. His mother and father were dressing in town, so his brother John and his Aunt Elizabeth made sure he got dressed right, and John tied his tie for him. Then they left their cottage and walked over the bridge to the Sedgwicks’, where they waited for Mrs. Sedgwick and Emily to finish dressing. John was wearing a white dinner jacket, and he looked very handsome. Mr. Sedgwick and Tommy’s Uncle Roger and Uncle Christian were wearing the same thing. When the ladies appeared, everyone exclaimed at how pretty they looked, and they did, too, in their pale flowered dresses that rippled when they moved. All three of them, his Aunt Elizabeth included, were wearing flowered dresses. “We’re the flowers in the summer garden,” Mrs. Sedgwick said. She was very gay; she loved parties. So did his Aunt Elizabeth. She looked very elegant. Tommy, John and Emily, Uncle Christian, and the Sedgwicks were going over together in the Sedgwick launch. An Indian had been mustered up to row Tommy’s Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Roger, because his aunt was afraid of motorboats and his uncle, who certainly could row a boat, didn’t know the river very well and it could be hazardous, especially at night.


  “Now, Tom,” Mrs. Sedgwick said as they were getting into the launch, “go slow. We don’t want a lot of water splashing through the air. We’re dressed for a party, not for a swim. Besides, I think it would be nice if we could hear something besides the noise of that engine. I think it would be nice if we all sang a hymn.” Mrs. Sedgwick liked hymns, and as the launch pulled slowly away from the dock and headed down the little channel toward the twinkling lights on the bridge to Boomer Island and the river beyond it, Mrs. Sedgwick began to sing, “O God, our help in ages past,” and Tommy’s Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Roger joined in from their boat a distance back. Tommy could see the Steers with Amy getting into their boat, from their dock, and they began singing, too:

  Our shelter from the stormy blast,

  And our eternal home.

  Tommy loved the hymn, and he loved it that they in the launch—Emily and John, Uncle Christian, and even Mr. Sedgwick—and his aunt and uncle in their boat, the Steers in theirs, all heading in a broken line toward the Boomer Island bridge, were joining in, Mrs. Steer too, and led by Mrs. Sedgwick, they began to go through the verses, one by one, even the verses Tommy didn’t know, and when the singers faltered, not knowing the words, Mrs. Sedgwick’s soprano voice floated above the water:

  Under the shadow of Thy throne

  Thy saints have dwelt secure;

  Sufficient is Thine arm alone,

  And our defense is sure.

  The launch purred slowly on, its motor at the lowest speed. As they passed under the bridge and into the broad river, Tommy could see other boats coming from their docks on the other island toward the shore: the Aldriches and the McGhees and their guests, Mr. Wolfe and an Indian rowing old Mrs. Wentworth and Mrs. Addington and theirs in two boats, Mr. Treverton rowing alone. And as each of them heard the hymn from their places on the river, they all began to sing: