Yours Until Morning

by Patricia Masar

  Yours Until Morning

  by

  Patricia Masar

  Copyright © 2012 Patricia Masar

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

  Too full for sound and foam,

  When that which drew from out the boundless deep

  Turns again home.

  –Alfred Lord Tennyson

  1

  Heat shimmered off the roof. Dry tufts of grass crackled underfoot, as June walked from the yard to the house and back again. She cocked her head to listen but there was no sound from Ben. How he could sleep in this heat was a mystery, but a blessing all the same. Except for Ben she was alone in the house. John was down at the boatyard and the girls had gone into town to watch the summer people arrive.

  She stooped to pull a cluster of weeds from the paving stones by the door. As she straightened up she saw her two girls coming down the lane, scuffing their sneakers in the dust.

  “See anybody interesting?" she called out. "Movie stars, millionaires?”

  “None that I could tell,” Evie said. "All the women were wearing big floppy hats and sunglasses."

  June felt a flicker of disappointment, but no matter. It was good to have the summer people in town, whoever they were. In recent years, Lockport had attracted a new and different crowd. People with glamour, money, style. They rented the old ship captains' homes on the waterfront and held glittering, liquor-fueled parties until late in the night. John disliked the noise and the crowded streets, but as far as June was concerned Lockport was at its best with the summer people in town, bringing with them the scent and jangle of another world.

  She smacked her hands together to wipe off the dust and peered anxiously at Claire’s face. The medication seemed to be working and the doctors assured her everything was fine, but she could never relax knowing a seizure could happen at any time.

  “You look pale, Claire, are you feeling all right?” She pressed her palm against her daughter’s forehead. “Maybe you should go upstairs and lie down for a while. You don’t want to bring on an…episode, do you? Not when things have been going so well.”

  Claire made a face and stomped into the kitchen with June right at her heels, ready with a reprimand, but she held her tongue. No sense in starting an argument now. It was too hot to quarrel and she didn’t want to do anything to set Claire off. The doctors said not to let her get overexcited.

  Evie was making lemonade, squeezing the lemons by hand. “I wish we’d get an electric one,” she said, flexing her fingers. “Here, you do some.” She pushed the cut lemons toward her sister.

  June frowned at the sticky juice on the counter. She was already worn down by the day and it was only early afternoon. Perhaps it was more than the heat that was making her tired. Ever since Claire was diagnosed with epilepsy last fall the worry over her daughter’s health seemed to drain all the strength from her body.

  “Should we make it pink?” Evie rummaged in the cupboard for a bottle of food coloring while Claire stirred the lemonade with a wooden spoon. Intent as a sorceress, Claire squeezed the red dye into the pitcher, and watched as the pale liquid turned the color of a freshly plucked peach.

  On the other side of the lane Stone cottage was quiet as a tomb. Their new neighbor for the summer was either out or shut away in one of the many small rooms inside. The husband must have gone back to New York by now. She'd only seen him from a distance, but he looked nice enough in his linen suit, tie loosened, and a hint of white teeth when he smiled. Their boy, too pale and thin, didn't look well. June never saw him leave the front porch and she wondered if he wasn't allowed out. The wife rarely showed herself in the yard or even on the back porch and more often than not the big green Cadillac was gone from the driveway.

  She was still of two minds about their new neighbors, ever since Mrs. Hutchinson snubbed her by not coming over on the day they moved in. June hadn’t known what to think, waiting all day in her best summer dress with a pot of coffee on and a store bought cake on the table. It wasn’t neighborly to be so rude. But why she wanted that woman’s favor anyway, much less longed to be her friend, was anybody’s guess. Maybe she missed Meg, her usual summer neighbor, who was stuck in bed with a burst appendix.

  Or perhaps it was something else: a desire to reconnect with her younger self, all the way back to the days when she was a girl in Boston, going to parties and playing tennis, attending dances with eager young boys wearing their first aftershave. When she’d called Ruth Hatley down at the real estate office and learned that Elizabeth Hutchinson was originally from Boston, but lived in New York now where her husband worked on Madison Avenue, June’s imagination had taken flight, picturing herself and Mrs. Hutchinson whiling away the afternoons on the front porch of Stone cottage, sipping iced tea with sprigs of mint and talking about Boston, maybe even discovering they knew people in common. Isn’t the Harbor Club divine? June would say, tossing her head back to show the clean white line of her throat. Do they still have those marvelous Saturday night dances? Of course June had only been there once with a school friend – her own parents hadn’t been members – but she wouldn’t have to tell Mrs. Hutchinson that. A little embroidery never hurt anyone. Mrs. Hutchinson needn’t think that June was only a boat maker’s wife.

  The girls sat at the kitchen table, taking tiny sips of their lemonade to make it last. The lid was off the sugar bowl and a trail of white crystals was scattered across the vinyl cloth.

  “I’m going up to check on Ben, June said. “Don’t forget to wipe up after yourselves. I don’t want ants in here.” As she climbed the stairs, a strange soreness bloomed in the back of her legs and she wondered if she was coming down with a summer cold. Ben was awake, lying on his back in the crib, his blond curls plastered to his head. She reached over and picked him up, holding his hot body against her hip.

  “Do you want some juice, Ben?” She peered intently into his face, hoping for an answer, but he wasn’t talking yet. He just babbled at her in his alien speech and grabbed for the choker of plastic beads around her throat. The girls had known plenty of words at this age, but Ben still refused to say anything recognizable. Every time she brought it up with John he responded with a shrug, saying that Ben would learn to talk in his own time. But June was beginning to think that something was really wrong. Did bad blood run in the family? Would Ben be afflicted with some brain ailment like Claire? June quailed at the thought, but there was no time to worry about that now, she admonished herself. Worrying would just make her old and weary before her time.

  With Ben awake it would be a good time to go into town and get some shopping done. The girls could entertain themselves for the rest of the afternoon. But June was only halfway to town when she realized it was a mistake to come out in the afternoon heat. Better to have stayed at home on the back porch where it was cooler. The wheels of Ben’s stroller floundered in the soft sand on the side of the road and she thought about turning back, but if she could just make it to Barry’s drugstore at the beginning of Ocean Street she’d be able to buy a cold drink and sit inside where there would surely be a fan going. Maybe someone she knew would drive by and give her a lift, but the road into town was quiet now.

  Sweat stung her eyes and pooled under her arms. She held her elbows out to the sides to keep her dress from being stained. At least Ben was quiet. He like being pushed in
his stroller and it was the one thing that seemed to calm him down. Normally June liked going into town, especially in summer, the hum and jumble of the streets, buying the few sundries she could afford with the money John gave her or lingering in front of the shop windows to gaze at the displays. The town had a festive air in the summer, she nearly always ran into someone she knew, and it was a pleasant diversion to stop for a minute on the sidewalk and trade recipes or the latest gossip.

  It was too hot for any of that today, and somehow things felt different this summer. It just wasn’t the same without Meg next door. Or maybe it was the constant worry over Claire that was casting a pall over her mood. If Meg were here they would spend the mornings drinking iced coffee at Stone cottage or in her own kitchen, telling stories and laughing about the antics of their husbands and children. With Meg around she’d never had a moment’s worry about the girls, who’d run together with Meg’s daughters like a pack of puppies, in and out of the two houses, not a care in the world. But with Meg confined to her bed in Rhode Island and Claire sick, everything had changed.

  At the edge of town she stopped for a minute to compose herself, discretely patting powder on her nose and applying a fresh layer of lipstick. June’s dress was limp from the heat, but she smoothed down the skirt and checked that the belt was centered on her waist. First stop was Barry’s and then she could get on with her shopping. The streets were deserted; even the dogs had sought out the shade and lay flat out with their tongues lolling on the hot cement. She ducked into the cool interior of the drugstore, where the odor of syrup and maraschino cherries hung heavily in the air.

  “Hallo, Mrs. Kerrigan. Hot enough for you?”

  “I’ll say. How are you, Barry? Business must be good in this weather.”

  “Can’t complain. Lots of summer people this year, too, more than we’ve ever had, I reckon. Lockport might just make it onto the map one of these days.” He leaned over the counter and waggled his fingers at Ben. “How’s my little man?”

  “A bit cranky in this heat, but who isn’t?”

  “Well I’ve got just the thing for that. How about an ice cream soda?”

  “Mmh, sounds tempting, but a girl’s got to watch her figure.” She smiled flirtatiously even though Barry was old enough to be her father. “Better make it an iced tea.”

  June carried her drink over to a booth near the door where she could make a quick exit if Ben started crying. She scanned the sidewalks for anybody interesting, an outsider just come to town or one of the regular summer people, although they were probably all sitting in the shade of their own porches or down at the beach under big striped umbrellas. Rattling the ice cubes in her glass, she sipped her tea and idly traced her finger along the wet rings on the table.

  When she stood up to go Barry was taking an order from a young couple who’d installed themselves in one of the red leatherette booths. Their bright open faces and adoring gazes made June feel wistful. Enjoy it while you can, she thought.

  Barry waved at her. “Give my best to John.”

  “Will do.” June returned to Ben, who she’d left parked in the shade of the awning. He was fidgeting in the stroller, pulling at the straps to get out.

  “No, no Ben,” June said, pushing his hands away. “Stay in your stroller.” She rocked it back and forth to quiet him down.

  The list in her dress pocket was damp with perspiration, and she squinted in the sun to read it. White thread and a packet of needles. A new head for her dust mop, shoelaces for John and some barrettes for Claire who was growing her bangs out. At the bottom of the list she’d scrawled the words ‘curtain fabric’ with a big question mark after it. She didn’t have enough money for curtains, but it wouldn’t hurt to go over to Florence’s to see what they had in the way of muslin.

  She reached down to adjust Ben’s sun hat and when she stood up she saw Mrs. Hutchinson coming out of the grocery store trailed by Billy Ellison, hired for the summer to bag groceries and run deliveries. She waited for the husband to appear, but no one else came out of the store.

  “Just put them in the back seat, young man,” she said. “Don’t dawdle now or my ice cream will melt.” She adjusted the yellow pillbox hat on her head and slipped on a pair of sunglasses. When Billy had settled the groceries in the back of the Cadillac, she opened her coin purse and handed him something, her white gloves blinding in the sunlight. June couldn’t see what it was, a quarter perhaps. When she snapped the purse closed, Billy flushed and thanked her, backing away toward the store. Just then Mrs. Hutchinson looked straight at June, but she didn’t show any sign of recognition, merely opened the car door and got in, holding her crisp linen dress over her knees as she slid behind the wheel.

  Her face flushed hot with humiliation. She didn’t wait for Mrs. Hutchinson to pull out of the parking lot, but jerked Ben’s stroller along, anxious to get away from her. In her distracted state June walked right past Dilson’s appliance store. It was a weekly ritual of hers to gaze in the display window at the shiny Maytag washing machines that did the whole wash and rinse cycles automatically. No filling the heavy tub for washing and rinsing, no struggling with a wringer that kept breaking down. The prices were outlandish but it gave June comfort to imagine owning one someday. But today she didn’t linger at the window to look. It seemed like a kind of torture, now, to tease herself with things she couldn’t afford, what with Mrs. Hutchinson flaunting her Cadillac and her fancy clothes and money being so tight these days.

  If only John had a bit more business savvy. He was just too kind, that’s what the problem was, fixing the boats of friends for barter, accepting a bucket of oysters or a couple of flounder for a hard day’s work. John hated asking people for payment, especially if he knew they were hard up. But it seemed that the only ones who were hard up these days were themselves. She’d talked to John about this on a number of occasions, tried to get him to see that people were taking advantage of him, but he always said she was being silly, that he preferred to see only the good in people and in life. But maybe with all the summer people this year there would be more charter customers. That usually brought in good money. Most of them tipped John at the end of the day if the fishing was good. At least then John wouldn’t feel he was fleecing his friends. It seemed like everyone was doing better than they were, the merchants and hoteliers excited and flush with the prospect of the summer people and all their cash.

  The green Cadillac wasn’t parked in the driveway of Stone cottage when June arrived home. Mrs. Hutchinson must have come back from the market and gone right out again. June wondered if her ice cream had melted in the heat, and a tiny part of her couldn’t help wishing that it had.

  Claire and Evie were on the back porch engrossed in a game of Parcheesi. When John’s gray Ford truck wheezed up next to the house, both girls jumped up and ran outside. John swung out of the truck and Claire and Evie fought to be the first to clasp him around the waist. His face was flushed, his shirttails pulled out from the waistband of his work pants. June pulled away from the window and hurried upstairs to change her dress. When she came back down into the kitchen in her pink and gray gingham, cinched at the waist, John was soaping his hands at the sink. She leaned over to peck his cheek. “We’ll have to hurry if we don’t want to miss the farmer’s market,” June said.

  “Sorry I’m late.” John rinsed his hands and dried them on a dish towel. “But I have a good excuse.” He paused dramatically and then grinned. “Jack and I got a big order today. Rebuilding a boat for Benson Sandhurst. Ever hear of him? Some big-time rich fellow who works on Wall Street. He’s rented one of the houses on the water for the summer. And the best thing is, he says he’ll give us a cash bonus if we finish’er in time for the derby.” The words tumbled out in a rush. John could not stop smiling.

  June didn’t know what to say. It was the first good news they’d had in a long time. “John, that’s wonderful, but what about Jimmy’s boat? Emma said you were doing some repairs for him.”

  John flushed.
“Oh, that. Jimmy’s a friend. He’ll understand this is a big deal for me.” His face was pink with excitement and sunburn. June hadn’t seen him this happy in a long time and John was so easy to read that she knew exactly what he was thinking: that this job was just the boost he needed to establish himself. She couldn’t help but think about the money and her heart skipped a beat. Maybe now they’d be able to fix up the house a little and buy some new shoes for the girls. They were starting junior high in the fall and would need new clothes. Already she was wondering how to broach the subject of the new washing machine she’d been wanting forever.

  June moved around the kitchen, opening cupboards and the icebox, wishing she had something to make the meal a little special to celebrate John’s good news. Maybe she could cut some roses from the trellis on the back porch and put them in a mason jar on the table. John was out in the tool shed, banging away at something. Ben was fussing in his high chair. There’d be another bout of crying if she didn’t get some food into him soon. June looked up at the clock. In a few hours, when dinner was over and the dishes washed and the children put to bed, she’d have a little time to herself to relax and put her feet up. She liked to sit out on the front porch as darkness fell, when the only thing that broke the silence was the flutter of moths and the chirp of crickets. She would look out at the lights in the houses scattered among the dunes and try to imagine the scenes being played out in each of them, the conversations and tussle of other people’s lives.

  Her throat felt scratchy and she put her hand on her forehead and examined her neck for signs of tenderness. Maybe she should drop by Dr. McIntosh tomorrow and let him look her over. At the thought of their family doctor, she opened the cupboard over the sink and took down a bottle of little white pills. She shook two out and lay them next to Claire’s plate. It had been a good day so far. No sign of any seizures. Before she went to sleep she could made a little red cross in the diary next to her bed. Another seizure-free day. Thirty-four and counting.