“Delaware.”
“Is that in Rockland?”
“Not really,” Ruth said, and as Kitty started to shake with laughter again, she added, “Take it easy, Kitty. It’s going to be a long day. It’s too early to start falling down every two minutes.”
“Is that in Rockland?” Kitty wailed, and wiped her eyes. The Courne Haven fishermen and their wives, gathered in the Wishnell gardens around the Pommeroy sisters, all laughed, too. Well, that’s good, Ruth thought. At least they know the little blond girl is an idiot. Or maybe they were laughing at Kitty Pommeroy.
Ruth remembered what Pastor Wishnell had said about Fort Niles disappearing in twenty years. He was out of his mind. There’d be lobsters enough forever. Lobsters were prehistoric animals, survivors. The rest of the ocean might be exterminated, but the lobsters wouldn’t care. Lobsters can dig down into the mud and live there for months. They can eat rocks. They don’t give a shit, Ruth thought, admiringly. Lobsters would thrive if there was nothing left in the sea to eat except other lobsters. The last lobster in the world would probably eat himself, if he was the only food available. There was no need to get all concerned about lobsters.
Pastor Wishnell was out of his mind.
“Your brother really beat up a shark?” Mrs. Pommeroy asked Mandy.
“Sure. Jeez, I don’t think I ever had my hair combed so much in one day!”
“Everybody’s caught a shark sometime,” one of the fishermen said. “We all beat up a shark one time or another.”
“You just kill them?” Mrs. Pommeroy said.
“Sure.”
“There’s no call for that.”
“No call to kill a shark?” The fisherman sounded amused. Mrs. Pommeroy was a lady and a stranger (an attractive lady stranger), and all the men in the garden were in a good mood around her.
“There’s no reason to be cruel to animals,” Mrs. Pommeroy said. She spoke around a few bobby pins in the corner of her mouth. She was working on the head of a steel-haired old lady, who seemed utterly oblivious of the conversation. Ruth guessed she was the mother of the bride or the mother of the groom.
“That’s right,” said Kitty Pommeroy. “Me and Rhonda, we learned that from our father. He wasn’t a cruel man. He never laid a hand on any of us girls. He stepped out on us plenty, but he never hit nobody.”
“It’s plain cruelty to pick on animals,” Mrs. Pommeroy said. “All animals are God’s creatures as much as any of us. I think it shows that there’s something really wrong with you, if you have to be cruel to an animal for no reason.”
“I don’t know,” said the fisherman. “I sure like eating them fine.”
“Eating animals is different from picking on them. Cruelty to animals is unforgivable.”
“That’s right,” repeated Kitty. “I think it’s disgusting.”
Ruth could not believe this conversation. It was the kind of conversation people on Fort Niles had all the time—dumb, circular, uninformed. Apparently it was the kind that people on Courne Haven liked, too.
Mrs. Pommeroy took a bobby pin from her mouth and set a small gray curl on the old lady in the chair. “Although,” she said, “I have to admit I used to shove firecrackers in frogs’ mouths and blow them up.”
“Me, too,” said Kitty.
“But I didn’t know what it would do.”
“Sure,” said one of the amused Courne Haven fishermen. “How could you know?”
“Sometimes I throw snakes in front of the lawn mower and run over them,” said Mandy Addams, the pretty teenager.
“Now that’s downright cruel,” said Mrs. Pommeroy. “There’s no reason to do that. Snakes are good for keeping pests away.”
“Oh, I used to do that, too,” said Kitty Pommeroy. “Hell, Rhonda, we used to do that together, me and you. We were always chopping up snakes.”
“But we were only children, Kitty. We didn’t know any better.”
“Yeah,” said Kitty, “we were only children.”
“We didn’t know better.”
“That’s right,” Kitty said. “Remember that time you found a nest of baby mice under the sink, and you drowned them?”
“Children don’t know how to treat animals, Kitty,” Mrs. Pommeroy said.
“You drowned each one in a different teacup. You called it a mouse tea party. You kept saying, ‘Oh! They’re so cute! They’re so cute!’ ”
“I don’t have such a big problem with mice,” said one of the Courne Haven fishermen. “I’ll tell you what I do have a big problem with. Rats.”
“Who’s next?” Mrs. Pommeroy asked brightly. “Whose turn is it to look pretty?”
Ruth Thomas got drunk at the wedding.
Kitty Pommeroy helped. Kitty made friends with the bartender, a fifty-year-old Courne Haven fisherman named Chucky Strachan. Chucky Strachan had earned the great honor of serving as bartender largely because he was a big drunk. Chucky and Kitty found each other right away, the way two garrulous drunks in a bustling crowd always find each other, and they set out to have a great time at the Wishnell wedding. Kitty appointed herself Chucky’s assistant and made sure to match his customers, drink for drink. She asked Chucky to whip up something nice for Ruth Thomas, something to loosen up the little honey.
“Give her something fruity,” Kitty instructed. “Give her something just as sweet as her.” So Chucky whipped up for Ruth a tall glass of whiskey and a little tiny bit of ice.
“Now that’s a drink for a lady,” Chucky said.
“I meant a cocktail!” Kitty said. “That’s going to taste gross to her! She’s not used to it! She went to private school!”
“Let’s see,” said Ruth Thomas, and she drank down the whiskey Chucky gave her, not in one swallow, but pretty quickly.
“Very fruity,” she said. “Very sweet.”
The drink radiated a pleasant warmth in her bowels. Her lips felt bigger. She had another drink, and she started to feel incredibly affectionate. She gave Kitty Pommeroy a long, strong hug, and said, “You were always my favorite Pommeroy sister,” which couldn’t have been further from the truth but felt good to say.
“I hope things work out for you, Ruthie,” Kitty slurred.
“Aw, Kitty, you’re sweet. You’ve always been so sweet to me.”
“We all want things to work out for you, hon. We’re all just holding our fingers, hoping it all works out.”
“Holding your fingers?” Ruth frowned.
“Crossing our breath, I mean,” Kitty said, and they both nearly fell down laughing.
Chucky Strachan made Ruth another drink.
“Am I a great bartender?” he asked.
“You really know how to mix whiskey and ice in a glass,” Ruth conceded. “That’s for sure.”
“That’s my cousin getting married,” he said. “We need to celebrate. Dotty Wishnell is my cousin! Hey! Charlie Burden is my cousin, too!”
Chucky Strachan leaped out from behind the bar and grabbed Kitty Pommeroy. He buried his face in Kitty’s neck. He kissed Kitty all over her face, all over the good side of her face, the side that wasn’t burn-scarred. Chucky was a skinny guy, and his pants dropped lower and lower over his skinny ass. Each time he bent over the slightest bit, he displayed a nice New England cleavage. Ruth tried to avert her eyes. A matronly woman in a floral skirt was waiting for a drink, but Chucky didn’t notice her. The woman smiled hopefully in his direction, but he slapped Kitty Pommeroy’s bottom and opened himself a beer.
“Are you married?” Ruth asked Chucky, as he licked Kitty’s neck.
He pulled away, threw a fist in the air, and announced, “My name is Clarence Henry Strachan and I am married!”
“May I have a drink, please?” the matronly lady asked politely.
“Talk to the bartender!” shouted Chucky Strachan, and he took Kitty out on the plywood dance floor in the middle of the tent.
The wedding service itself had been insignificant to Ruth. She had barely watched it, barely paid attention.
She was amazed by the size of Dotty’s father’s yard, amazed by his nice garden. Those Wishnells certainly had money. Ruth was used to Fort Niles weddings, where the guests brought casseroles and pots of beans and pies. After the wedding, there’d be a great sorting of the serving dishes. Whose tray is this? Whose coffee machine is this?
The wedding of Dotty Wishnell and Charlie Burden, on the other hand, had been catered by a mainland expert. And there was, as Pastor Wishnell had promised, a professional photographer. The bride wore white, and some of the guests who had been to Dotty’s first wedding said this gown was even nicer than the last one. Charlie Burden, a stocky character with an alcoholic’s nose and suspicious eyes, made an unhappy groom. He looked depressed to be standing there in front of everyone, saying the formal words. Dotty’s little daughter, Candy, as maid of honor, had cried, and when her mother tried to comfort her, said nastily, “I’m not crying!” Pastor Wishnell went on and on about Responsibilities and Rewards.
And after it was over, Ruth got drunk. And after she got drunk, she set to dancing. She danced with Kitty Pommeroy and Mrs. Pommeroy and with the groom. She danced with Chucky Strachan, the bartender, and with two handsome young men in tan pants, who, she found out later, were summer people. Summer people at an island wedding! Imagine that! She danced with both of those men a few times, and she got the feeling that she was somehow making fun of them, though she couldn’t later remember what she’d said. She dropped a lot of sarcastic comments that they didn’t seem to get. She even danced with Cal Cooley when he asked her. The band played country music.
“Is the band from here?” she asked Cal, and he said that the musicians had come over on Babe Wishnell’s boat.
“They’re good,” Ruth said. For some reason she was allowing herself to be held very close by Cal Cooley. “I wish I could play an instrument. I’d like to play the fiddle. I can’t even sing. I can’t play anything. I can’t even play a radio. Are you having fun, Cal?”
“I’d have a lot more fun if you’d slide up and down my leg as if it were a greased fire pole.”
Ruth laughed.
“You look good,” he told Ruth. “You should wear pink more often.”
“I should wear pink more often? I’m wearing yellow.”
“I said you should drink more often. I like the way it makes you feel. All soft and yielding.”
“What am I wielding?” Ruth said, but she was only pretending not to understand.
He sniffed her hair. She let him. She could tell he was sniffing her hair, because she could feel his puffs of breath on her scalp. He pressed himself against her leg, and she could feel his erection. She let him do that, too. What the hell, she figured. He ground himself against her. He rocked her slowly. He kept his hands low on her back and pulled her tight against him. She let him do all that. What the hell, she kept thinking. It was Old Cal Cooley, but it felt pretty good. He kissed her on the top of the head, and suddenly it was as if she woke up.
It was Cal Cooley!
“Oh, my God, I have to pee,” Ruth said, and pulled herself away from Cal, which wasn’t easy, because he made a fight to hold her. What was she doing dancing with Cal Cooley? Jesus Christ. She weaved her way out of the tent, out of the yard, and walked down the street until the street ended and the woods began. She stepped behind a tree, lifted her dress, and peed on a flat rock, proudly managing to not splatter her legs. She couldn’t believe she had felt Cal Cooley’s penis, even faintly, pressing through his pants. That was disgusting. She made a pact with herself to do anything she had to do for the rest of her life to forget that she had ever felt Cal Cooley’s penis.
When she walked out of the woods, she took a wrong turn and ended up on a street marked FURNACE STREET. They have street signs here? she wondered. Like the other streets on Courne Haven, this one was unpaved. It was dusk. She passed a small white house with a porch; on the porch was an old woman in a flannel shirt. She was holding a fluffy yellow bird. Ruth peered at the bird and at the woman. She was feeling wobbly on her feet.
“I’m looking for Babe Wishnell’s house,” she said. “Can you tell me where it is? I think I’m lost.”
“I’ve been taking care of my sick husband for years,” the woman said, “and my memory’s not what it ought to be.”
“How’s your husband doing, ma’am?”
“He doesn’t have many good days anymore.”
“Really sick, is he?”
“Dead.”
“Oh.” Ruth scratched a mosquito bite on her ankle. “Do you know where Babe Wishnell’s house is? I’m supposed to be at a wedding there.”
“I think it’s right up the next street. After the greenhouse. Take a left,” the woman said. “It’s been some time since I was there.”
“The greenhouse? You guys have a greenhouse on this island?”
“Oh, I don’t think so, love.”
Ruth was confused for a moment; then she figured it out. “Do you mean that I should take a left after the house that’s painted green?”
“I think you should, yes. But my memory’s not what it ought to be.”
“I think your memory’s just fine.”
“Aren’t you a love? Who’s getting married?”
“Babe Wishnell’s daughter.”
“That little girl?”
“I guess so. Excuse me, ma’am, but is that a duckling you’re holding?”
“This is a chick, love. Oh, it’s awful soft.” The woman grinned at Ruth, and Ruth grinned back.
“Well, then, thank you for your help,” Ruth said. She headed up the street to the house that was green and found her way back to the wedding.
As she stepped into the tent, a hot, dry hand caught her by the arm. She said, “Hey!” It was Cal Cooley.
“Mr. Ellis wants to see you,” he said, and before she could protest, Cal led her over to Mr. Ellis. Ruth had forgotten that he was coming to the wedding, but there he was, sitting in his wheelchair. He grinned up at her, and Ruth, who had been doing a lot of grinning lately, grinned back. Good God, he was thin. He couldn’t have weighed a hundred and ten pounds, and he’d once been a tall, strong man. His head was a bald, yellow globe, burnished as the head of a well-used cane. He had no eyebrows. He wore an ancient black suit with silver buttons. Ruth was astonished, as always, at how poorly he had aged compared with his sister, Miss Vera. Miss Vera liked to affect frailty, but she was perfectly hale. Miss Vera was little, but she was sturdy as firewood. Her brother was a wisp. Ruth couldn’t believe, when she’d seen him earlier in the spring, that he’d made the trip to Fort Niles this year from Concord. And now she could not believe that he had made the trip from Fort Niles to Courne Haven for the wedding. He was ninety-four years old.
“It’s nice to see you, Mr. Ellis,” she said.
“Miss Thomas,” he replied, “you look well. Your hair is very pretty away from your face.” He squinted up at her with his rheumy blue eyes. He was holding her hand. “You will have a seat?”
She took a deep breath and sat down on a wooden folding chair beside him. He let go of her. She wondered whether she smelled of whiskey. One had to sit awfully close to Mr. Ellis so that he could hear and be heard, and she didn’t want her breath to give her away.
“My granddaughter!” he said, and smiled a wide smile that threatened to crack his skin.
“Mr. Ellis.”
“I can’t hear you, Miss Thomas.”
“I said, Hello, Mr. Ellis. Hello, Mr. Ellis”
“You haven’t been to see me in some time.”
“Not since I came over with Senator Simon and Webster Pommeroy.” Ruth had some difficulty enunciating the words Senator and Simon. Mr. Ellis did not seem to notice. “But I’ve been meaning to come by. I’ve been busy. I’ll come up to Ellis House very soon and see you.”
“We shall have a meal.”
“Thank you. That’s very nice, Mr. Ellis.”
“Yes. You’ll come on Thursday. Next Thursday.”
“Thank you. I loo
k forward to it.” Thursday!
“You haven’t told me how you found your visit to Concord.”
“It was lovely, thank you. Thank you for encouraging me to go.”
“Wonderful. I received a letter from my sister saying as much. It might not be amiss for you to write her a note thanking her for her hospitality.”
“I will,” Ruth said, not even wondering how he knew that she hadn’t done so. Mr. Ellis always knew things like that. Of course she would write a note, now that it had been suggested. And when she did write, Mr. Ellis would undoubtedly know of it even before his sister received the note. That was his way: omniscience. Mr. Ellis dug around in a pocket of his suit and came up with a handkerchief. He unfolded it and passed it, with a palsied hand, across his nose. “What do you suppose will come of your mother when my sister passes away?” he asked. “I ask only because Mr. Cooley raised the question the other day.”
Ruth’s stomach tightened as if it had been cinched. What the hell was that supposed to mean? She thought for a moment and then said what she certainly would not have said had she not been drinking.
“I only hope she will be taken care of, sir.”
“Come again?”
Ruth did not reply. She was quite sure that Mr. Ellis had heard her. Indeed he had, because he finally said, “It is very expensive to take care of people.”
Ruth was as uncomfortable as ever with Lanford Ellis. She never had a sense, when meeting with him, what the outcome would be: what he would tell her to do, what he would withhold from her, what he would give her. It had been this way since she was a child of eight and Mr. Ellis had called her into his study, handed her a stack of books, and said, “Read these in the order I have placed them, from top to bottom. You are to stop swimming in the quarries with the Pommeroy boys unless you wear a bathing suit.” There had never been an implication of threat in these instructions. They were simply issued.
Ruth followed Mr. Ellis’s commands because she knew the power this man had over her mother. He had more power over her mother than Miss Vera did, because he controlled the family money. Miss Vera exercised her control over Mary Smith-Ellis Thomas in petty daily cruelties. Mr. Ellis, on the other hand, had never once treated Ruth’s mother in a cruel way. Ruth was aware of this. For some reason, this knowledge had always filled her with panic, not peace. And so, at the age of eight, Ruth read the books Mr. Ellis had given her. She did as she was told. He had not quizzed her on the books or asked her to return them. She did not acquire a bathing suit for her swims in the quarries with the Pommeroy boys; she merely stopped swimming with them. That seemed to have been an acceptable solution, because she heard no more about it.
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