John said, “But still we like this neck of the woods and I like my job, so there’s no point in moving, is there?”
“No,” Susan said, smiling her deceptively serene smile, “no. I’d better go check the kitchen.”
“May I help?” Lucy and I said together.
“Thanks, but I think everything’s under control.”
Lucy said to John, “If you find the house you want, the down payment, as I’ve told you—”
“Yes,” John said, “and we thank you.”
On the desk in the corner, over which a heavy pot of begonias hung from the ceiling rather unnervingly, I could see piles of books about plants, and stacks of magazines and newspaper clippings. Some would be about Susan’s dream: a greenhouse and a shop.
“Well, Emily,” John said, “how do you like teaching?”
I hesitated, and then realized I didn’t have to worry about hurting his and Lucy’s feelings. “I don’t like it,” I said. “I don’t like kids, and it all seems one hell of a waste of time.”
“How’s the school?” John asked.
“Oh, it’s the way most schools are, I suppose, there’s not enough money, and the administration sort of gropes along, and everyone’s gone mad from the dullness, so there are ferocious battles in teachers’ meetings about the dress code or gum chewing or the number of sick days.”
John laughed. Lucy said, “You’re still writing, aren’t you, Emily?”
“No,” I said. I looked again at Susan’s desk and dream. In Thornhill my dream had been fame and fortune and posterity. It had also been a farmhouse on a back road, which someday, when David’s pay went up a bit more, we could buy somewhere in Thornhill.
“Darling,” Lucy said, “you know you can always come home and spend all your time writing, you know that.”
“Yes, thank you,” I said, although of course I wouldn’t and she knew it. Two things I’d been certain of: I wouldn’t take alimony from David, and I wouldn’t live off Lucy any longer than I had to while I hunted for a job. Even those months had been too long for me, back once more in my girlhood bedroom where I had begun. The small white bed, the dressing table with the pink-and-blue chintz skirt made by Lucy’s mother, the desk where I had written my first stories, done my homework, written letters and letters and letters to David.
Susan came in, and Pam presented each of us with a drawing. “Why, thank you,” we said. Mine seemed to be of Bruce, interpreted in purple.
John said, “You wrote that you go jogging with a Morning Man?”
During the time of the divorce, it was John who was the easiest of the family to be with, maybe because he wasn’t family or maybe because he was John, matter-of-fact, sure of himself and of things. So was Lucy, but she was my mother.
“Yes,” I said, “he’s a nice guy. I bought a radio; it’s kind of eerie, you know how you listen to announcers and without realizing it you begin to picture what they look like from their voices, or at least I do, and then when you once in a while see a photograph of them in the newspaper or somewhere, you’re all wrong. With him, it’s backwards, his voice is wrong, it doesn’t sound the way he does in person.”
There had been no more encounters with Valerie at Dot’s, and everything was just the same, the running and the evenings together; I was sheltered. But, I told myself, for God’s sake stop talking about him.
Susan and Lucy seemed rather embarrassed, wondering what to say next. John said, “How about another round?”
With the second martinis, work in the kitchen became hectic, mashing turnips, mashing potatoes, making gravy, buttering boiled onions, pouring wine. We all grew irritable, as usual, including Bruce whose tail got stepped on. And at the last minute, as usual, John wanted pickles and relishes like his mother used to serve at her Thanksgivings and which Susan always forgot; Susan told him to get them himself, and, very silent, he opened the refrigerator and took out jars and spooned their contents into little dishes. He remembered to use the good china.
Then we were sitting, and there was calm. John began to carve the turkey. We admired the kitchen table transformed by one of Lucy’s mother’s damask tablecloths and her white-and-gold Limoges plates. The food smelled frantically delicious. I tried to think of something I’d give thanks for if there were someone to thank. Oh, you selfish bitch, think of the kids starving in Biafra, belly buttons popping out of distended stomachs. It’s the food you give thanks for, and that today you can forget calories.
Lucy said, unfolding her napkin, “This reminds me, Susan, are you through with Ma’s diary so Emily can read it?”
“Diary?” I said. Ma was Lucy’s mother; unable to pronounce Grandma and Grandpa when I was little, I had called her folks Ma and Pop. Ma’s real name was Emily. She had died two years ago, and Pop had died a year before her.
“Yes,” Susan said, and then jumped up. “I forgot the celery!”
Lucy said, “You know how it is, there was so much stuff from Ma and Pop’s house I still haven’t gone through all the cartons. But when I was sorting out one, I found a five-year diary Ma kept, it’s quite fascinating, nineteen-o-five, six, seven, eight, nineteen-o-nine. When Susan and John came visiting last time I gave it to her to read and she’ll pass it along to you.”
John raised his glass of wine. “Here’s to us.”
Pam spilled her milk.
The howl of an ambulance woke me up late on a Saturday night, and as I lay there trying to sort it out of a dream about some long senseless search, I realized it had stopped on this street and I got out of bed. The linoleum was sleekly cold under bare feet.
My bedroom window overlooked only the dark yard between this house and the next. Without turning on lights, I walked through the kitchen into the living room and peered out the window.
The streetlights made everything silvery pale. The ambulance was parked behind my car, and men were loading a stretcher into it. Then the howl began again, and they were gone.
I turned on the kitchen light and poured myself a scotch, and went back to the living room and stood, trying to hear what voices were saying what downstairs. After a while, Mrs. Dupuis’s old Chevrolet drove out of the garage. The house seemed suddenly very quiet.
Warren hadn’t come over tonight. He hadn’t phoned.
I turned on the television and watched a Barbara Stanwyck movie which I was sure I had seen when I was a little girl munching popcorn at a Saturday matinee in the smelly Saundersborough movie theater. I had another stronger drink.
So I was slightly headachy the next morning, and I decided I would be brave and drive to the ocean for fresh air. And on my way downstairs I was brave enough to stop at the second landing. Behind the Dupuises’ door, they were speaking rapid French. I knocked. Mrs. Dupuis, short and plump and wearing a flowered smock which made her look even rounder, opened the door.
I said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I heard the ambulance last night—”
“It was Mr. Crabtree,” she said, switching smoothly into English but retaining her accent, “he had a heart attack. I went to the hospital to be with Mrs. Crabtree, none of their children live around here, you know.”
“Is he—”
“He passed away.”
“Oh, no, how awful.”
“She’s sleeping now, they gave her something. I got hold of the oldest son, down in Massachusetts, and he’ll contact the others and they should get here sometime today. Except for the daughter in California, of course.”
“I’m so sorry. Tell her I’m so sorry.”
“I certainly will, Emily. Everything all right up in your apartment?”
“Oh, yes, it’s fine,” I said, wondering how much she’d noticed Warren’s visits.
Outdoors, the fat old beagle wheezed as he waddled painfully across the faded lawn.
I drove along the turnpike until I came to the Portsmouth exit, and then the route signs led me through town. We hadn’t yet got much snow in Hull, and most of it had melted; here at the seacoast there was h
ardly any at all. Would the entire winter be like this, not like the thick heavy white winters in Saundersborough and Thornhill?
The marsh grass was vivid orange. Ice had shrunk the pond in front of our honeymoon cabin colony, and the free water was crowded with ducks and geese and swans. The empty beach looked so cold I couldn’t believe I had ever sunbathed on it. Six miles out on the horizon the Isles of Shoals were sharp and clear. The Seaside Restaurant, I saw as I drove past, was still open.
And, thinking of Mr. Crabtree, of whether he had died while I was watching that old movie or later while I slept, I drove too far and suddenly realized I was nearing Ma and Pop’s camp. But something was wrong; the road was wrong. Had I gone crazy? Then I saw a sign that said OLD OCEAN ROAD. So this was a bypass across the salt marsh behind the camps, and I had a choice, I didn’t have to see it after all.
I heard my directionals begin to click. I turned and drove down the Old Ocean Road which had been simply the Ocean Road when we stayed here. There it was, a shabby gray cottage above black rocks.
I parked the car on the little gravel driveway and got out. But the salt air didn’t blow my headache away; it seemed to increase it. The gray ocean became white spume as it dashed itself against the rocks.
I was here, yet Ma wasn’t here to open the door and greet me.
Ma and Pop didn’t own the camp. It belonged to friends, and Ma and Pop rented it for a month each summer and drove up to it from Lexington, Massachusetts, and Lucy drove down from Saundersborough with Susan and me. We stayed the entire month then, but while Ned was alive we stayed only the two weeks of his vacation from the factory.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember much about being here with Ned. I wanted to remember everything. I could remember his helping Susan and me in our solemn searches for shells and starfish and sand dollars and white pebbles. I remembered our helping him dig clams. And I remembered how he would build a fire on the rocks and how Susan and I would stand avidly by to watch him put the lobsters into the boiling kettle; fascinated, we watched the lid scuttle about after they were dropped in. And I could remember one time when Susan and I were playing in the waves at the beach and we were suddenly caught in an undertow. We went churning around, choking up the ocean, terrified, and then there was Ned, hauling us out.
He was very handsome and young-looking, even to us. He looked so much younger than Lucy that once one of the kids on the beach thought he was our brother, Lucy’s son. Susan and I found this uproariously funny; Lucy hadn’t.
In the summer the stone wall in front of the cottage was pink with roses.
I tried to see myself, years ago, sitting on that black rock there, longing to be grown up and do splendid things.
I got into the car and drove back to the bypass. When I was fourteen, the trips to the camp became too much for Ma and Pop; they stopped renting it and stayed home summers, and grew older.
In Ma’s diary now they were engaged, both of them working at stockbrokers’ offices in Boston. Ma lived in Concord with her father; her mother had died when she was a child. Pop lived in Lexington with his folks.
Tues., January 3, 1905. Rain and then blizzard. Worked until five thirty train. Bought Chester (who was Pop) a watercolor for his birthday. Chester and I printed pictures and played cribbage in eve.
Mon., January 16, 1905. My sweetheart’s twenty-fifth birthday. May he be as well and happy when he is seventy-five.
Tues., January 31, 1905. In eve all of us girls went to Mrs. Stewart’s and had a linen shower for Betty. Had lovely time.
Thurs., February 9, 1905. Concord Dramatic Club gave Saffron Trunk. Very good. Lost my glasses on way down in the snow.
Sun., February 12, 1905. Sewed on red waist in A.M. Chester came up in P.M. and bro’t me dish and half dozen plates for a valentine. Began to snow hard in P.M.
Mon., February 13, 1905. Chester had a holiday, so he went to Old Howard in P.M.
Thurs., May 18, 1905. Chester came up in eve and cut out medallions for me and I sewed on white dress.
Sat., May 27, 1905. Went to Chester’s to spend Sun. He and I played three sets of tennis in P.M. Went to dance at Old Belfrey Club in eve. Jessie, Malcolm, Chester, and I went down to hot dog cart and filled up.
Sun., May 28, 1905. Went picking Solomon’s-seal in P.M.
Wed., June 14, 1905. Walked to lawn party with Chester. Gorgeous moon.
Thurs., August 17, 1905. Chester came up in eve. Bro’t me some sweet peas. They are my favorite flowers.
Wed., August 23, 1905. Busy stock market today on account of rumors of peace between Japan and Russia. Poor Chester over in the exchange alone.
Sun., August 27, 1905. Made sponge cake, salad dressing, and applesauce in A.M. Chester came to dinner as his folks are in Methuen. He drew me some designs for pin cushions, and I sewed braid on checked skirt.
Thurs., August 31, 1905. Chester’s folks offered him their house for twenty-five dollars a month rent, they paying us seventy-five dollars board, netting us fifty dollars on which to run the house and fifty dollars, his salary, to live on. The house can’t be fixed over this or next year, and I don’t want to be married until I can have a bathroom. It is too embarrassing.
Wed., September 6, 1905. Mr. Atkinson offered Chester position in their Butte, Montana, office. Urged him to go. Must decide at once. Hard for us both to do. He came up in eve and we talked it over and decided it best for him to go if his mother is willing, which I doubt.
Thurs., September 7, 1905. Chester’s mother thinks he ought to go to Butte, so he will go. We all feel terrible that he must go but it seems the only thing to do. He can come back in three or six months if he doesn’t like Butte.
Fri., September 8, 1905. Chester settled with Mr. Atkinson. Goes to Butte next Wed. Mr. A. said he could come home and get married when he got ready. It breaks my heart to have him go. It’s the hardest thing I ever did. If I could only go too! Butte has thirty-five thousand people. George Fisher was awfully discouraging about it. Other people not so bad.
Sun., September 10, 1905. Went to church, then to see Aunt Sally. In P.M. called on Jim Moody. Saw man who has been in Montana. Very encouraging. Richard Palmer to supper. Down to Isabel and Sam’s in eve. Also Malcolm, Jessie, Florence, Will, Ellen, Henry. Conversation vile.
Mon., September 11, 1905. Went to work. Went to call on Coles and Morrisons, then down to Jessie’s. Chester went to Lawrence to spend day with his relatives there.
Tues., September 12, 1905. Chester went to Boston, got his ticket & two hundred dollars. He was awfully blue. I came home in eve and he came up. He seemed better and I felt better too. I must brace up thro’ tomorrow. Mr. Atkinson told Chester he would at least double his pay. He was very nice to him.
Wed., September 13, 1905. Chester left at three thirty for Butte. His folks, Mrs. Morrison, Mrs. Perkins, Richard Palmer, Will, and I went down to train. He was in much better spirits than he has been. Do hope he will like it. Came home at four o’clock. Went down to Mabel’s in eve and sewed while the rest played bridge.
Mon., September 18, 1905. Had seven communications from Chester—two letters from Chicago, one on train, two postals, private wire of his arrival in Butte, box of Allegretti’s chocolates from Chicago. Do wish I knew how he is tonight.
Fri., September 22, 1905. Letter from Chester from Butte. Very favorable and quite enthusiastic. Do hope it will all continue. Ellen and Jane came up in eve and played cribbage with Priscilla and me.
Mon., October 2, 1905. Cloudy. Three letters from Chester and two papers. Sewed in eve. Went to bed at nine o’clock. Mr. Atkinson decided to give Chester one hundred dollars per month to begin on.
Tues., November 21, 1905. Went to Betty’s. Fifteen there. Wrote letters to Chester, wrote poems, guessed baby pictures, etc.
Tues., November 28, 1905. In P.M. had telegram from Chester. “Good news. Atkinson says spring OK. Cheer up.” Oh, I’m so glad. I wonder what month it will be.
Tues., December 5, 1905. W
orked till five forty-seven train. Sewed in eve. Went to bed early. So tired. Got Chester’s letter yesterday enclosing Mr. Atkinson’s and saying he would come when I told him to. I said last of April.
Wed., December 6, 1905. Took my sewing up to Mary’s in eve. They were playing bridge with Aunt Sally and Uncle Gordon. I told them I was going to be married in the spring.
Sat., December 9, 1905. Lend-a-Hand Fair in P.M. Bot lots of things for my house. Sewed with Mary in eve. First snow of the year.
Sun., December 17, 1905. Sewed at Kitty’s all day and at Priscilla’s in eve on centrepiece for Aunt Sally. Don’t know whether I can get it done or not, and I’m so tired I’d like to throw it in the fire.
Mon., December 25, 1905. Pa gave me ten teaspoons and two serving spoons that were my mother’s wedding presents.
Sat., January 6, 1906. Went up to Miss Hubert’s in P.M. and arranged about her making my muslins. Snow squall.
Thurs., January 11, 1906. Worked until five forty-seven train. Sewed in eve. All my table linen and sheets came. Sent Chester ten dollars in gold for his birthday.
Thurs., January 18, 1906. Miss Hubert sewing for me on three muslin dresses. Church supper in eve. Chester wrote that he wanted to be married earlier than May 1.
Sun., January 21, 1906. Almost 70° out and just like spring. In P.M. walked on Robinson’s Hill with Henry, Nell, and Philip. Henry stayed to tea. I worked on my wedding list. Six hundred names already, counting Mr. & Mrs. as one.
Tues., January 23, 1906. Temp. 65. Got telegram from Chester saying he preferred to be married April first, so I’ve set the day as the third. Ten weeks from tonight.
Wed., January 24, 1906. Finished wedding list in eve. Decided to have seven or eight hundred wedding bids and three hundred and fifty reception cards. Cold—25° at nine thirty P.M.
One Minus One (Nancy Pearl’s Book Lust Rediscoveries) Page 5