The House on Oyster Creek

by Heidi Jon Schmidt

  “I did,” she said, rather proudly, as if marrying Henry were some ridiculous trick she’d pulled off, like jumping twenty trucks on a Harley-Davidson.

  “I used to babysit for him,” Ada said. “Weeks at a time, when his parents went back to the city. He lived in his own little world.” Looking out over the bay, she said, almost to herself, “They weren’t bad people. They just didn’t know what a child was, that’s all.”

  “What do you mean?” Charlotte asked, too quickly, so Ada came back up to the social surface and returned to pleasantry.

  “Isaiah Tradescome, Henry’s grandfather, was born on his father’s ship, in Calcutta Harbor. Did you know that?”

  “No. No, I didn’t. But I guess there’s a lot I don’t know. Why do you say that about Henry’s parents—that they didn’t know what a child was?”

  “They didn’t know quite what to do with one, that’s all,” Ada said. “But I don’t suppose . . . Say, Priscilla Tradescome had the loveliest china collection. She loved delicate things. She didn’t come from seafaring people; she never knew quite what to do with herself at the shore. She’d say, ‘Terra firma for me, Ada,’ when she was on her way back home, as if she felt stranded out here.”

  Natalie would have inquired further, but Charlotte was too timid. “Yes, there’s beautiful china in the cabinet—I wouldn’t dare eat from it,” she said.

  Ada didn’t answer. They were stuck with each other for another half mile at least. Charlotte searched around for a good subject. A blue butterfly floated ahead of them, lighting on the goldenrod around the entrance to the Driftwood Cabins, catching up with them again. Charlotte looked up the dirt road, trying to guess which cottage might be Darryl’s.

  “This place has seen better days, hasn’t it?” she said.

  “It used to be an asparagus farm,” Ada said. “Just a wide, sunny field. There were farms all along the highway—turnips, lavender—everything grows well here. The sea breeze keeps the climate mild. Then those tourist cabins, and now look.” She shook her head, talking to herself again. “Birth by neglect, death by neglect, and very little in between.”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Town?”

  “Nothing, dear, talking to myself, as an old woman will. And I’m Miss Town, not Mrs.—I never married.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Not at all, it’s a natural mistake.”

  They were crossing the low bridge; the tide streamed out beneath their feet. A dirt road cut into the trees on the other side, leading to a long row of big new houses at the edge of the marsh. Charlotte didn’t know the owners, though she had probably waited with them in SixMart or eaten a clam roll at the next picnic table at PJ’s. Her eye would have skipped them, in their khaki shorts, beach coverups, and sunglasses, as it searched out the people she was curious about, the local people. A cloud of grackles ascended from one oak tree to settle in another, cawing back and forth to one another as they plucked every acorn from every twig.

  “Aren’t they having the time of their lives,” Ada said. “The Ecological Life League says the shellfish farms are affecting the migrations. I’d hate to lose our birds.”

  They cut through the Mermaid parking lot, passing Reggie the glass eater on his bicycle with a wire basket of clams over the handlebar.

  “Telegram,” he called.

  “Rhode Island Red,” Ada answered, crisply polite. Her driveway turned directly off the highway—it would have been a cartway when the house was built. Back then people traveled by water, and the sheltered spot at the head of Mackerel Bay would have been perfect. As they reached it Ada stopped and asked, “How is Henry? We always wondered. . . . after . . .”

  “I think he’s good,” Charlotte said. “We have a daughter, you know, and . . .” She was thinking that she did not really know how Henry was. He was obsessed with the government, the war, global warming, bird flu . . . working to prepare a Kissinger obituary that laid the truth bare finally, stuffing himself with tales of horror from the barbarians to Guantánamo. He was disgusted with her frivolity, furious with himself for giving in to it and moving here . . . and underneath that? Bereft. Disappointed, ashamed, and alone.

  “Yes, I’d seen you with a child.” Ada looked at her questioningly. She pointed to the top of the telephone pole beside them, and Charlotte looked up to see an immense bird’s nest made of seaweed and salt hay balanced on top. “Have you noticed the osprey? Can you imagine nesting in a spot like that? Good-bye, dear, I’m glad we met.”

  Charlotte suspected that Ada was not particularly glad, that she preferred her own company, her own thoughts and memories. Her step was light as she turned down the grassy little drive toward her home, picking up her conversation with herself again, stopping to pull a ragweed out from among the asters in bloom around her front door.

  “Cape Cod girls, they have no combs, they comb their hair with codfish bones.”

  The girls were jumping rope in the schoolyard, or trying to. Charlotte had assumed that all four-year-olds tended to walk into walls, but Mrs. Carroll said that wasn’t so, that Fiona was deficient in “motor planning.”

  “Her dad can throw her up in the air, tickle her . . . you know, just ordinary roughhousing,” she said. “It helps them learn how to move.” Charlotte had imagined Henry throwing Fiona into the air, Henry becoming distracted by a Very Important Thought, Fiona going splat on the pavement.

  “Is there anything else that would help?” she asked. So out had come the jump ropes, and here Fiona was, watching plump little Alexis bounce and sing, with an expression of murderous envy. When Fiona tried it, she would jump as she turned the rope, then stare dumbly as it hit her shoes.

  “Try it again,” Charlotte told her. “You’ll pick it up if you give yourself a little time.”

  “Cape Cod boys, they have no sleds, they slide downhill on codfish heads,” Alexis chanted, jumping.

  “Cape Cod boys . . .” Fiona began, turning the rope perfectly, but forgetting to jump at all.

  “Cape Cod cats, they have no tails,” Alexis continued, seeming to taunt her. “They all blew off in Cape Cod gales!”

  “Cape Cod . . .” Fiona tripped herself and fell down. “I hate jump rope!” She threw the rope on the ground and tried to kick it. Even there she missed.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” Alexis observed, picking the rope up and skipping easily, glancing over to be sure her point had been made.

  “And I hate you!” Fiona said.

  “Fiona?” Fiona tumbled into Charlotte’s lap, butting her little head against her mother’s chest. “Can you tell Alexis you’re sorry?” She felt the head shaking an absolute no. Alexis skipped along, counting—one hundred five, one hundred six. . . . Charlotte rather hated her too.

  “Can I have a turn?” Charlotte asked. Alexis handed the rope over and Charlotte skipped twice before stumbling. “This is hard!” she said.

  “You can do it better than that,” Alexis said disdainfully, but Fiona started laughing, watching her mother fumble.

  “Not that way, Mom,” she said. “I’ll show you.” She took the rope and tried again.

  They were the last two kids in Mrs. Carroll’s yard. Charlotte watched the road, wishing Darryl would drive by, but it didn’t lead anywhere except back to the highway through the pines.

  “Mom!” Fiona said. “I did it!” And she had, sort of—swung the rope over her head and jumped once before dropping it in exultation. “I did it!” she said.

  “Not really,” Alexis said.

  “She’s on her way,” Charlotte said. “You’ve helped her learn to-day.” It was the best she could manage; she could only hope her smile looked real.

  Betsy arrived, breathless with apology, to pick Alexis up. She was so simply, easily pretty—small and slender with her blond hair pulled back loose—it was always good to see her, the way it’s good to see an apple tree in bloom.

  “I had to pick up Skip’s stationery,” she said. “He’s starting his own practice, did Alexis say?�
��

  “That’s exciting,”

  “Nerve-racking, a little,” Betsy said. “But it’s what he’s dreamed of, so here we go. We’ve bought the old Hooper place, on Main Street? Skip’ll take the office in front, and I’ll have my jewelry store in the annex, and the upstairs apartment looks over the harbor in back; it’s amazing.”

  “Congratulations! That’s wonderful!”

  “You girls will have to come for tea, once we get settled.”

  “Of course,” Charlotte said. Of all the women she’d met so far, Betsy was the most likely friend. She was from upstate New York, had come out to waitress one college summer and met Skip, whose parents had a summer place. “What’s to become of Speck and Nittle, though, without Skip?”

  “Well, Speck passed away right after Skip joined the firm,” Betsy said. “And Ralph Nittle . . . he’ll do fine; he’s been everyone’s attorney for the last hundred years. It’s Skip I’m nervous about! He’s my bread and butter.”

  “He’s so sharp,” Charlotte said. “I’m sure this will be a great thing for you two.”

  “I don’t know,” Betsy said, biting her lovely lip. She used her beauty as artfully as a sculptor, without realizing it. “He only has one client.” She shook her head as if she were nervous, covering her pride.

  “Someone with deep pockets, I hope.”

  Betsy made wide, confiding eyes. “I wish I could tell,” she said.

  “But I’ll be seeing you cruise by in a yacht one of these days?”

  “Wouldn’t that be fabulous? Like, with crystal chandeliers and a steward to bring the champagne? Oooh! Alexis, honey, come on, Daddy’ll be home soon.”

  It was maybe two days later that Charlotte went to the post office and found Darryl standing stock-still in the lobby, staring at a letter he’d just ripped open.

  “Hello!” Charlotte said, and he looked up and blinked. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “I . . .” he said. “I . . . look at this.” A fine piece of letterhead it was too—heavy paper, cream colored, with SCHUYLER GODWIN, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW embossed in a subtly modern font. It announced that Jeb Narville was suing Darryl, and Tim and Carrie, and Bud Rivette, and all the shellfish farmers off Tradescome Point. He contended that he owned to the extreme- low-tide line, that any bit of the bay that was not underwater twenty-four hours a day belonged to him. And he wanted them off the flats.

  “Do you know what this means?” Darryl asked, his voice almost breaking. “Do you have any idea what I—what we all—have put into this? This is my best hope. It might be my only chance to . . .”

  To get out of the Driftwood Cabins, to have a place of his own, a wife, a family. His chance at redemption, no less.

  “It can’t be right,” Charlotte said. “The town granted you permission to use that land, didn’t they? That’s why they call them shellfish grants.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So how can he sue you? You’ve never claimed to own it—you’re just working it. He could—I guess he could sue the town?”

  “I suppose,” Darryl said, “except he’s sued me, and I can’t afford a lawyer. None of us can.”

  “You’ve all been out there for years and years,” Charlotte said. “This doesn’t make any more sense than if he were insisting he owned town hall.”

  “It’s . . .” He started to explain, but she could see in his face that there was way too much of it to tell. “It’s complicated.”

  “But the land beyond the wrack line is public; no one can own it.”

  The frustration on Darryl’s face reminded her of the look on Henry’s when he needed to use both hands.

  “I don’t have time to explain this,” Darryl said angrily, turning to leave. “I can’t lose the tide.”

  13

  THE KING’S LAW

  “There’s no possibility that they do own the flats, is there, Henry?” Charlotte asked. She was scrubbing littlenecks for clam sauce; just after low tide she had answered the door to find Darryl there in his hip waders, holding out a bag of clams for them, and one of pasta seashells for Fiona the picky eater.

  “I’ve got more than I can sell right now,” he said, shrugging off their thanks, but she guessed he was trying to say he didn’t blame them for his troubles. Which was nice, because Charlotte had dreamed she’d committed a murder, that she was carrying a severed head around, frantically looking for a place to hide it before the police—or the devil—found her out. If she hadn’t barged in here, blithely selling off the property, Henry would still be at the Mirror, Darryl would be working the flats, and everything would go on as it had for generations. Henry had invited Darryl in for commiseration, but he had lifted a muddy boot, declining, smiling into Charlotte’s eyes with an understanding that was way beyond forgiveness.

  “We don’t mind a little mud,” Henry said heartily. “Stay for a beer at least. Your father never turned one down.”

  “No, I’m sure he didn’t,” Darryl said, with a quick, laughing glance at Charlotte. “I’ve got a meeting, though—this lawsuit. . . .”

  With that they all became wretchedly uncomfortable, making various gestures of worry and absolution mixed with bright, conventional thank-yous. Darryl went back into the wet evening, leaving a trail of muddy footsteps behind him.

  “I mean, we own to the high-water mark, right?” she asked. “Everyone does.”

  Henry looked as if she’d asked whether the universe would end by explosion or implosion, and said nothing.

  “It belongs to someone. It’s not just floating in limbo,” she said.

  “If you say so.” Physical reality—boundaries, tide lines, weights and measures—didn’t fit into Henry’s mind. He couldn’t help feeling that Charlotte only affected to understand such things, and he detested affectation.

  The pasta boiled, the wine and tomatoes were absorbed in the oil, Charlotte dumped the clams into the skillet, covered it, and turned up the flame. The smell charged the atmosphere—made it feel holy, dinner a ritual that reaffirmed the hope Charlotte had begun with—that she and Henry, two strange, lonely people, could make a home together where they’d be safe enough that they could be doubly brave in the outer world. If only . . .

  Henry softened, trying to give her an answer.

  “The oystermen have been out there all my life. They were granted that land by the town. Amos Stead used to bring Father a barrel of oysters every Thanksgiving. They’d keep in the mudroom all winter long. Father loved oysters. . . .”

  He smiled, sad. Now that his father was dead, and Henry didn’t have to fight him, tenderness was seeping into the wells of rage.

  The clams burst open one by one; Charlotte lifted the lid and steam covered the windows.

  “Some people used to say we owned to low tide,” Henry said, “but I never attended. Who would want to own a piece of tide bottom?” He shook his head. “Of course, I never even wanted to own dry land. When I drive home down Point Road now, though, I . . .”

  Charlotte had never seen him nostalgic, except maybe for Water-gate. She smiled; he avoided her eyes.

  “The deed says, ‘by the waters of Mackerel Bay.’ ”

  “Whose deed?”

  “Theirs is based on ours. The language is the same; the only thing different is the line between the two properties. I mean, if you took it literally, ‘by the waters’ would mean a different thing every minute.”

  “Special for me?” Fiona asked. Charlotte had cooked the pasta seashells separately and served them in Fiona’s plastic Tigger bowl.

  “That’s why Darryl brought them,” she said.

  “I’m sure it has some particular legal meaning,” Henry said irritably. He thought she was crazy to imagine she could have any effect in these matters. If she hadn’t rushed in where angels feared to tread, they wouldn’t have gotten sucked into this mire—surely she wasn’t going to wade in farther?

  Ada Town minded the church thrift shop on Tuesdays, so down Charlotte went into the airless church basemen
t. Like all thrift shops it smelled of old sweat and smoke and perfume; but the book section always had something interesting, and when the summer people left, the place became a gold mine for a few weeks. Charlotte had found a stuffed tiger twice Fiona’s size, with the price tag, three hundred dollars, still on. A gift from some estranged father? Who knew? The thrift shop price was ten dollars, and Fiona named it Pussywussy and pulled it around the house on a makeshift leash. This week there was a Kate Spade handbag, Seven jeans, and a thick cashmere sweater in an amazing shade of teal with sweat stains that would probably never come out. And one thing Charlotte badly wanted: a canvas coat just like Darryl’s—Carhartt. And a tartan shawl.

  “Isn’t that funny, dear,” Ada said. “I brought that piece in myself. I love these Scottish woolens. My father—Pastor Stewart, I mean—was a Scot. I guess it’s in my blood.” She said this simply, and Charlotte thought she was perfectly right, even though Pastor Stewart wasn’t her natural father.

  “It’s so nice and cozy, and I love the colors,” Charlotte said, wrapping the shawl around her shoulders. “Is it a Stewart tartan?”

  “Hardly, dear. Braemar. I wouldn’t let a Stewart go.”

  “Do you know them all?” She wanted Ada’s trust, so she could find out more about Henry, and about Wellfleet.

  “I made a study of them when I was younger. I loved thinking about Scotland,” she said, smiling into the distance.

  “Miss Town, you said the shellfish farms were bad for the birds?”

  “Apparently so,” Ada said. “That’s what Preston Withers tells me, and he’s the director of the Ecological Life League. Those boys don’t seem to care what harm they do. Not that they’re boys anymore. . . . Now they have boys of their own. They don’t respect any law, except that might makes right.” She sounded only sad. “Their fathers and grandfathers went to sea, and that’s a vicious way of life. They can’t get themselves over the bridge, but they feel big and important here.”

  “But that’s what Wellfleet is, a fishing town.”