At that moment the front door swung open and Mr. Pugsley fairly flew toward me, his short, stumpy legs a blur of motion beneath his stocky little body. I was on my knees in an instant, and Mr. Pugsley covered me with sloppy kisses, grunting, snorting, and wheezing like a happy little pig.
“Mr. Pugsley,” I repeated over and over, stroking him and showering him with kisses of my own. “Mr. Pugsley, I’m so glad to see you!” I tried, quite unsuccessfully, to fight back the tears that brimmed in my eyes, blurring my vision.
There was a sudden flurry of activity at the front door, and I glanced up, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. The incongruous sight on the front steps jarred me, and I stared, bewildered, at the small group of children staring back at me. There were three of them: a tall, rangy black-haired boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, and another, smaller version, seven or eight years old, I’d guess. These two looked familiar to me, but try as I might, I could not recall when or where I had seen them. A small blond-haired girl of about four clung to the biggest boy’s ragged trousers. I had never seen her before, of that much I was certain. But the other two … they triggered a vague memory that I just could not seem to place.
“Lucy, dear,” Marni began, “stop gaping and say hello to Walter, George, and Annie Perkins.”
Perkins … Perkins … the name rang a bell.
“Hello,” I said, thrusting my hand toward them, “Pleased to make your acquai—”
The tall boy, Walter, interrupted me. “We’ve seen each other before, but I don’t suppose you’d remember.”
He made no move to take my hand, which I awkwardly dropped to my side. “Well, you do look familiar,” I said apologetically, “but I can’t quite recall where we might have met.” I glanced at Marni, looking for help, but she was already making her way inside.
Walter stared at me rather coldly and said nothing. His little brother, George, looked away uncomfortably, and Annie, taking her cue from Walter, stuck out her bottom lip at me in a most insolent manner. “And that’s our dog,” she said, bending over and pulling Mr. Pugsley toward her. Not wanting to contradict her, at least not yet, I held my tongue, understanding fully how quickly one could become attached to him. We could settle that later. I turned my attention back to Walter.
“Perhaps we met at the boat club?” I ventured, thinking of the many days Father had taken Mother and me over there for a fancy luncheon or a formal dinner.
Walter snorted. “Do we look like the sort who would belong to a boat club?” he asked.
I could feel the color rise to my cheeks. I’d insulted him, of course. It was obvious, from his shabby attire to his overgrown hair, that he was not of the same class as Father and Mother and me, that he wouldn’t travel in the same circles. Feeling both embarrassed and defensive, I scoured my memory again. Where in the world had I seen them before? What was it about them that made me feel so uncomfortable?
Suddenly it came to me! It wasn’t during the term before the accident, or even during the past academic year, for that matter. No, it had to have been more than a year ago that those two, Walter and his brother, George, had shown up at school.
I remembered the day now, how they arrived late, barefoot and dirty, and how they were ushered to the back of the one-room schoolhouse until Miss Randolph could decide what to do with them. Through hushed whispers I learned that they came from a dirt-poor fishing family, that their mother was dead. They stared about our classroom in a belligerent manner, daring anyone to meet their gaze. They were reputed to be unruly and dangerous. We steered clear of them, avoided their hostile stares, and for the most part pretended they weren’t there.
As I recall, they didn’t last long at school—they had both been placed with the youngest of students in the pre-primer class, and the older one, Walter, had bloodied a number of noses during recess time, successfully warding off the taunts of the other older boys.
“It was at school,” I said softly. “You came to school for a while, didn’t you?” This I offered in a most polite voice, hoping to feign ignorance regarding their school troubles. It was an awkward situation to be in, having to speak to someone you had previously chosen to ignore. I continued on, desperately trying to fill Walter’s brooding silence. “I remember you didn’t stay long. Did you transfer to another school?”
As soon as I spoke, I knew I’d made the situation even worse.
“Yes, Miss High and Mighty,” he said sarcastically, “George and I transferred to a private prep school; didn’t we, Georgie?”
George, apparently unaware of the subtleties of sarcasm, looked at his brother wide-eyed. “I don’t remember that at all,” George said, a concerned tone to his high-pitched voice. “I only remember the mean school. Is that the one you’re talking about?” Walter ignored him, glaring at me instead.
Meanwhile, Marni, who appeared quite ignorant of my discomfort, had changed out of her schoolmarm dress and into a pair of denim overalls. Apparently no one else was the least surprised at the sight of her dressed in such an absurd way, busying herself with chores, bustling in and out of the house. I had never in my life seen a woman dressed like that! But, despite my surprise, what I really felt most was anger at her for leaving me there with Walter and, at the same time, shame.
I bit my lower lip, deciding what to do next. Walter had every right to be angry. He had been virtually invisible to me, like something unpleasant that washed ashore, something you didn’t touch, something that the tide would eventually carry away. That was not going to be the case this time, I was sure. I took a deep breath and thrust my hand at Walter again. George looked seriously from one of us to the other.
“Walter,” I said, “I’m very sorry. I was unkind to you. I didn’t know any better then, is all; I just didn’t think....”
“Most people don’t,” said Walter. I could see he was softening a bit, but he still made no move to take my hand. I let my hand drop, but pressed on.
“I understand a lot more now than I did back then,” I said, realizing as the words tumbled out that it was true. It was as though I’d left that other world completely behind. To my horror I felt tears sting the backs of my eyes and I fought to control the quivering of my bottom lip.
He avoided looking at me directly, a fact for which I was most grateful. “Marni told us you lost your parents,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” I replied. I blinked hard, raised my chin, and thrust my hand at him one last time. “Do you accept my apology or not?”
Walter took my hand then and, as if to ward off my tears, gave it a firm shake. Apparently taking their cue from their brother, George and Annie seemed to relax, their defensive expressions giving way to wide-eyed curiosity. Then they followed Walter in offering their hands.
“We lost our mother, too,” Walter said. George kicked at the ground and looked down.
“I don’t even remember her, though,” said Annie. “She died when I was borned; right, Walter?” Walter nodded. I couldn’t help but notice the tender way he placed his hand on her narrow shoulders, the almost imperceptible squeeze that he gave her.
“I’m very sorry,” I said again, “for everything.” Walter made a dismissive waving motion with his hand and looked away, his cheeks coloring.
“Why don’t you have a look inside the cottage?” he asked, and before I could answer, he was leading the way in. I followed along, grateful for something to do besides talk.
The next half hour or so was spent settling me in. Marni ushered me throughout the cottage, pointing out this and that, George and Annie loping along behind us, watching my every move. The cottage itself was small and plain, the floors of wide-planked, pale pine, the walls whitewashed to a light sunny beige. There was little in the way of furnishings—a simple oak table, long and rectangular, in one corner of the room, surrounded by six odd chairs. At the opposite end of the room a stark, straight-backed bench resembling a church pew ran the length of the wall. It was not the furnishings, but rather the odd collections o
f peculiar objects and knickknacks that caught my eye. Large dried sea stars stood along the window ledges, their long bumpy arms reaching toward the wavy glass windowpanes. A huge conch shell claimed a spot in the center of the table, its weathered white armor curled around insides as delicate and pink as the skin of a baby.
And there were not only gifts from the sea adorning the place, but oddities that must have come from faraway, exotic places: a blood-red carpet splashed with jagged-edged geometric designs in gemstone shades of blue, green, gold, and purple. A silken shawl in sunset colors was draped around an overstuffed chair like a brazen ball gown, its fabric a tumble of paisley tied at the edges in long, exquisite golden fringe. A small corner cabinet held a collection of brilliant orbs of glass that sparkled and blinked in the sunlight like a group of wide-open, curious eyes.
Walter carried my trunk to a small room, and I followed him.
“This is it,” he said, placing my trunk at the foot of my bed.
Annie shoved her way past me to the bed on the opposite side of the small room.
“This is my bed,” she said petulantly, challenging me to contradict her. She turned to Walter, her hands on her hips.
“I still don’t see why I can’t move to your room, yours and Georgie’s.”
“I’ve already told you the way things are done—the proper way, that is,” Walter said. “It’s girls with girls, boys with boys.”
Annie sighed, folded her arms across her chest, and glared at me.
“I get to sleep with Toby!” she said.
“Toby?” I asked.
“The dog,” said Walter. “Toby is what she named him.”
“His name is Mr. Pugs—” I bit my tongue, I supposed, for the sake of getting along. I could see there would be no reasoning with her.
“All right,” I said, “Mr. Pugs—the dog can sleep with you.” For now, I added, silently, of course. We’d see, after all, who Mr. Pugsley himself preferred to sleep with.
Once I was settled, Marni took us outside, where my education was to begin, my first lesson involving the preparation of the evening meal.
“Chowder tonight,” she said. “We’ll need a couple of dozen clams.”
She gave us each a large bucket, a short-handled rake-like tool, and a narrow pointed shovel.
She turned and looked me over, head to toe, a frown forming between her brows. “That frock will never do,” she said. “Walter, bring her a pair of your overalls.”
I felt myself flush at the very suggestion. I’d gotten into enough trouble tucking my skirts up into my bloomers. Imagine what Uncle Victor would say about me wearing boys’ work clothes! Georgie snickered as Walter went back into the cottage.
“Go on inside,” she told me, “and put on the overalls and a practical shirt.” I hesitated on the step. Of course, I didn’t own a practical shirt. What in the world would I have needed one for? Surmising as much, she nodded.
“Walter,” she called again.
“Yes?” He stuck his head out the door.
“Lucy will need a shirt as well.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, casting George a sour look. I went inside and waited. In an instant he disappeared into his room and returned with a pair of well-worn overalls and a patched cotton work shirt.
“Here you are,” he said, tossing the clothing my way, avoiding my eyes. I, for my part, grabbed the bundle of ragged clothing and turned on my heel toward my room.
I peeled off my dress and petticoats and slipped self-consciously into Walter’s clothing. I had to roll up the shirtsleeves and trouser cuffs several times in order for my hands and feet to emerge. The shirt felt amazingly soft, my body relaxing in the loose comfort of its folds. The overalls, too, had a cottony, worn feel as they brushed against my skin. I found that moving about in my new-old clothing was quite pleasant—the conservatively cut legs and arms afforded me a freedom of movement to which I was unaccustomed.
I stepped out onto the porch slowly, waiting for a comment about my transformation, but they were already walking toward the path, and I had to run to catch up. We were at the shore in no time. Marni rolled the legs of her overalls up over her shins and nodded at me to do the same. Walter and Annie and George were already knee deep in water, raking like crazy.
“Find the low-tide mark,” Marni said to me, “and move just beyond it.” I followed her into the water, cold even in midsummer.
“This is where we find the mature quahogs,” she said, “and that’s what we need for chowder. Back on shore, nestled in the sand, you find the smaller quahogs. Those are called littlenecks and cherrystones.”
My first attempts at clamming were dreadful, raking up nothing more than a few large stones and some seaweed. To my chagrin, this was the source of great amusement for the entire Perkins clan. I was much more successful on the mudflats, under Annie’s direction, digging for steamers. First, we’d watch for a small squirt of water spurting up from the sand. That, Annie explained, was the clam spitting in anger before digging itself deeper. We’d watch for the spit, then dig with great diligence. It took a while to get the hang of it, but once I did, I found myself in much better stead with Annie. It seemed that she took credit for my limited success and saw my meager pail of clams as a tribute to her expertise.
Between us we came home with several dozen clams, which we cleaned and shucked and simmered in a great kettle of cream and onions and potatoes.
I could hardly recall a meal I’d enjoyed more.
Yet despite the contented, full feeling of the chowder in my belly, and the satisfaction I’d had in contributing to its preparation, my mood waned with the setting of the sun. The darkness brought along a certain strangeness, a solitary sadness that was different from the loneliness I’d experienced in my own home. My thoughts, filled with longing, turned to Mother and Father and to our days together that would be no more. I missed Addie, and wondered after my aunt Pru. Then my musings turned to bitter thoughts of Uncle Victor and Aunt Margaret.
I chose not to take part in the quiet games that Walter and George played together in the candlelight—cards and jacks and marbles—and did my best to ignore Annie’s high-pitched lullabies that she lovingly sang to a dirty, worn rag doll. Instead I gazed out the window across the bay, hoping to catch a glimpse of a light in the window perhaps, a beacon from the house—my house—anything to reassure me that it still stood there waiting for my return. But there was only darkness.
I glanced away from the window finally, to find Marni staring at me intently, her book in her lap, a small pair of round spectacles on the tip of her nose. She removed her glasses, closed her book, and stood.
“Everyone to bed,” she said. “Tomorrow will be an early day.”
A cheer went up from the Perkins clan, and I found myself looking about, from one to the other. What were they so excited about?
“An early day, silly,” said Annie, the early coming out more like uh-ly. “Don’t you know what that means?”
I shook my head, a little tired of having a four-year-old explain everything to me. Marni turned my way, those pale green eyes of hers fairly boring through me. “An early day,” she said carefully, “is a day when we sail.”
Sail? I looked at her, my mouth agape. She looked away first, and went about clearing up the cards and the marbles and the jacks. “It’s only fitting that a sea captain’s daughter remain a good sailor.”
To this I said nothing at all, for my voice was lost. I hadn’t been out on the water since the accident. The thought of sailing again filled me with panic.
“But,” I began, “I thought we would be studying tomorrow....” My voice was small and tight and ready to crack. I hoped Walter hadn’t noticed. I glanced about to find them all—Annie and Georgie and Walter—staring at me.
Marni stared at me as well, not unkindly, but rather with a determination and look of resolve that frightened me. She hesitated before she spoke, as if measuring her words.
“There are many means of studying, m
any avenues for learning.” She nodded at the Perkins clan, and they lowered their eyes and went off to their rooms. Only Annie remained, half hidden behind the bedroom door, peeking around the doorframe. Marni approached me and leaned in close. Her peculiar eyes held mine, forbidding me to look away.
“Courage,” she said softly. “I know it will take great courage for you to set foot on that boat.”
A barrage of images tumbled through my mind—of Ulysses on the ship, his agonized face tilted skyward; of the siren in the water beckoning him; of Father and Mother, and the Brute, the water swallowing them up. And what about the curse? The Simmons family curse my aunt had referenced in her letter? It was one thing to pretend, ship’s wheel in hand, in the safety of Father’s chart room. It was another to actually venture on the treacherous waves. Marni waited and I gulped, squeezing my eyes shut, blocking out the images, fighting for control.
“Look at me, Lucy,” she whispered. I felt her hand beneath my chin, raising my face to hers. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. “It took great courage for your father to do what he did. Remember that.”
I looked away, my uncle’s words about the accident taunting me. How I’d wished, a hundred times, that Father hadn’t been so brave; if he hadn’t been courageous, he’d still be here. His courage wasn’t something I was ready to give him credit for—not in the face of the tremendous loss it had caused me. Marni turned my face back toward her.
“Once you’ve learned courage,” she said, “all of the other lessons are easy.”
Hadn’t I been courageous thus far? But would courage alone be enough to propel me aboard that boat?
Marni took my hands in hers, her grip amazingly strong.
The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons Page 9