With a desperation that frightened her, June yearned for something to happen, something, anything that would break up the routine of her life. When she tried to imagine her future, all she could see was an endless succession of household chores, cooking and cleaning and struggling with the wringer on the washing machine. The girls would grow up and get married and continue the same life of endless tasks that she was living now. What was the point of it all? Evie, if she were lucky, might do well by marriage. With her looks and manner she could attract a son of one of the wealthier families that came to stay in Lockport for the summer. But what guarantee did she have that this would happen, or that it would give Evie the life she wanted for her? June desperately wanted something better for her children, only she didn’t know how to make it happen. And what about poor Claire? If she never got better, how could she ever marry, have a family?
June had secretly begun to believe that Claire’s illness was her own fault, something she had done to herself when the twins were still in her womb. She’d had bad thoughts, perhaps, or bumped her belly too hard against the corner of a table or drank too much liquor or took too many hot baths. It could have been a million things, or nothing at all. She remembered the despair she sometimes felt after the girls were born, alone in the house with them day after day, feeling like the walls were closing in on her, wondering how she would ever manage without anyone to help. She’d had bad thoughts for a time in the early days after the girls were born. Thoughts of leaving the babies in the care of a neighbor and walking away from her life forever. Boarding a Greyhound bus to California and working as a waitress in some obscure town on the coast. Maybe it was those bad thoughts that had made Claire sick. What goes around comes around. Isn’t that what her mother had always told her as a girl? Maybe it was all coming back to haunt her now.
She was just finishing up the dishes when she heard the sound of feet scraping on the kitchen doorstep.
“Anybody home?”
“Oh hi, Emma. Come on in.”
Emma Sanders pushed open the screen door with her hip. Her red hair was piled on her head in an elaborate bouffant. She smiled at June with her brightly painted mouth.
The hinges squealed and June winced. “I’ve got to get after John to put some oil on that door. Hurts my brain all that squeaking.”
Emma laughed. “I’ve been after my Jimmy to do a few things around the house, too. But he’s always got some excuse.” She made a face and the two women chuckled wryly, comfortable in the familiar territory of shared domestic grievances.
“I brought you a pie,” Emma said, pulling a dishcloth off the top off a cherry pie. “The boys came home with so many cherries the other day I didn’t know what to do with them.”
“Aren’t you thoughtful? It smells delicious,” June said, taking it from her. “Should we have a slice right now? I can put a pot of coffee on.” She handed another cookie to Ben to keep him happy and turned back toward her friend.
“Save it for your family,” Emma said. “I don’t think I could stand the sight of another cherry.” She laughed. “I’d love a cup of coffee, though. Iced if you can make it.”
June poured fresh water in the percolator and plugged it in. When the coffee was ready, she struggled with the metal ice trays for a minute before the cubes popped out and clattered across the counter. She served the coffee over ice in tall glasses, topped with a good splash of cream. The two women sat across from each other at the kitchen table in companionable silence for a few moments, sipping their cold drinks. June had just put a clean checkered cloth over the scarred wood table. Although she yearned for modern appliances and the cabinets were homely and the Formica counters were worn, the kitchen was still the most comfortable room in the house and it’s where she always sat with her friends.
“So, did you meet them yet?” Emma asked, nodding in the direction of Stone cottage.
June made a face. “Not the husband. Just her. And it wasn’t exactly a big success. She stays in the house all day or drives off in that big Cadillac of hers to go shopping somewhere. Her name’s Elizabeth, but her husband calls her Tibby. I heard him once when they were out on the porch. He seems all right, although he’s not around much, only comes down on the weekends is my guess.”
“Maybe she’s too busy hobnobbing with the Kennedys.” Emma smiled at her own joke.
“She’d probably like us to think that.”
Emma made a sympathetic face. “Don’t let her get you down. You know how people from Boston can act so self-important.”
June bit her lip. Emma knew she was from Boston, but had probably forgotten it by now. After fifteen years in Lockport people were starting to forget she hadn’t always lived here. June didn’t know whether this was a good thing or something to fret about, never really knowing where she stood in relation to the townspeople, or what they really thought of her.
“Would you listen to us nattering on like two hens.” Emma stood up and smoothed down the front of her dress. “I’d only meant to stop by for a minute. We’re going up to my mother’s this year for the fireworks and I’ve still got a million things to do. I hope we’ll have a clear night. Winnemanette is always the first place to get fogged in if the weather turns.” Emma slung her pocket book over her arm. “Did the girls march in the parade this morning? I’m sorry I missed it. I’m sure they looked darling. Give my love to John.” Emma waggled her fingers in goodbye as she went out. June waved at her through the window.
She was desperate to confide in someone about Claire’s epilepsy. Emma Sanders was her best friend. If she couldn’t tell her, who could she tell? But she knew if she told just one person, even Emma, especially Emma who was a dear friend, but a confirmed gossip, it would be all over town in a matter of days. It was just as well she hadn’t said anything.
It was quiet over at Stone cottage. Keeping an ear out for the girls, in case they came home early from the parade, she opened the cabinet under the sink and fumbled in the back for the bottle of vodka she kept hidden there. She pulled it out and poured a good slug into her iced coffee. One little drink wouldn’t hurt. June looked guiltily over her shoulder to see if Ben was watching, but he was busy mashing his food against the plate and what did he know anyway. June sipped her drink, hurriedly, eager to feel the warm flush of alcohol in her blood.
* * *
Happiness is a fish that slips through your hands. You think you have it for a moment, but then it’s gone, sliding away in a flash of silver.
When Evie and I were ten our father took us to the county fair in Winnemanette, where a gypsy woman in a red velvet tent told my fortune for a nickel. Her long black hair was tied up in a braid and she had a mole on her chin that moved when she talked, her voice a hoarse whisper, heavy with garlic, as she told me that one day I would live in a hot climate far away from the sea. I scoffed at her nonsense, thinking it was a good nickel wasted. I was going to live in a penthouse apartment in Boston or New York, and my days would be filled with glamour and excitement. In the summer I would rent a house in one of the fashionable seaside towns on the Cape and breeze into town at the end of June, with my canvas beach chair and sunglasses and a big floppy hat.
I wish I could find that gypsy now and ask her to tell my fortune again. I would give her all the money I have in my possession to hear what she had to say this time around.
There is nothing here but sand, an endless plain scoured by wind. In my sleep I dream of the sea and long to wake to the smell of salt and the cry of gulls. I swim in the ocean, out and out, scanning the horizon for a sign: an albatross, a school of dolphins, a lost whale. This place was once a vast inland sea, where half-blind creatures swam in the watery light. Their fossilized remains lie scattered on the ground. When the wind comes up it stirs the sand into swirls and eddies. Little grains nestle in the folds of my skin.
It is better at night when the sky blackens and the stars come out. More stars than I have ever seen, flung across the heavens, like bright pearls, where they wink and
sputter above my head. A star falls and I make a wish. Another star leaps from its perch and is gone forever. I hold my hands up to the heavens and wait for something else to fall out of the sky: a drop of rain, a streak of lightening, a flood.
4
It was a beautiful night for fireworks, the sky clear and pricked with stars. The tide was going out and waves lapped gently on the shore. They had eaten all of June’s fried chicken and most of the potato salad. In the waning light, John gently tossed a plastic ball to Ben. “Good boy, Bennie, catch the ball now.”
All around them families were lounging on blankets on the sand, quietly talking as darkness fell. Watermelon rinds and chicken bones were piled up on plates. Children ate ice cream sandwiches and the men drank beer. Every now and then someone laughed, a high bark, or a low titter, sounds that carried across the beach and through the air. There was little wind and no surf. Small children, exhilarated by the treat of staying up late, ran along the beach, dodging picnic coolers and barbecue pits, kicking up sprays of sand. As darkness descended, people lit lanterns or switched on flashlights, rummaging in the melting ice in plastic coolers for another Coke or a bottle of beer.
Claire and Evie stretched out on a blanket, their knees bent, their hands tucked under their heads, gazing up at the sky. Ben had tired of playing catch with the ball and was sitting next to his sisters on a beach towel, scooping up big fistfuls of sand and letting it slip away through his fingers.
When the first fireworks exploded over the water, the crowd lifted their faces and gasped in delight. The sparkling display bloomed in the dark sky and then drifted down in a cascade of glittering light. Ben looked up at the sky in terror and then covered his ears at the next loud boom and whimpered. June tried to distract him with a toy, but he would have none of it. He clung to her, crying and whimpering into her chest. Soon, she knew, he would start to howl.
“I’d better take him home,” she said to John. “Would you mind keeping an eye on the girls?” June was hoping John would offer to take Ben home, so she could stay and enjoy the fireworks, but he just smiled at her distractedly. “Poor Bennie. He must be tired out from all the excitement.”
She brushed the sand from her dress and slipped on her sandals. After buckling Ben into his stroller, June started up the beach. The fireworks lit up the sky, illuminating the faces of the townspeople and summer visitors gathered on the sand. As she walked through the dunes, June passed couples hidden in the shadows, clinging to each other in passionate embraces. She averted her eyes and quickened her step. Ben sobbed steadily, but as they left the beach and moved away from the crowd he began to quiet down. From this distance, the fireworks made only a dull booming sound, like a depth charge underwater, and June turned to watch the exploding flowers light up the sky.
It reminded her of a summer long ago, the year she turned seventeen. She’d been vacationing in Maine with her family on their yearly holiday, and had met a young man there, a junior at Bowdoin College. Taking her into his arms, he had kissed her on the porch of their rented cottage in the light of the fireworks display, whispered in her ear, caressed her neck with the back of his hand. Chills had run up and down her body, her knees felt weak. She had never before been so close to surrendering as she had with that boy. His strong, tanned arms were warm around her, the blond hairs on his forearms tipped with gold. Ages ago. Another lifetime.
What would her life be like now if she had married that boy, or somebody else just like him? Would she be living in a townhouse in Boston or New York or even as far away as San Francisco? Would she be feted and flattered as the wife of a powerful man? It wasn’t as if there hadn’t been other possibilities. She’d had scads of suitors as a girl and two other boys had proposed to her before John came along, but she’d turned them both down after hardly a thought, thinking they were silly boys and it was all just a game. She had felt flattered by their attentions, but both boys were dull, too eager to discuss their own charms and accomplishments, full of braggadocio and self-importance. Like two peas in a pod. One was studying to be a lawyer, the other, a dentist.
Exactly the kind of boy her mother wanted her to marry and in an effort to please, June had gone to parties and dances with these boys and played tennis with them and their friends. There were bridge parties and boating trips on the Charles. It had all been very, very dull. For a while, after she’d turned down both proposals, one after the other in quick succession, she had entertained the idea of never marrying at all. She would become an actress and make her debut on the stage in New York. As her fame grew, she would go out to Hollywood and to star in tragic films, in which her character died at the end of a broken heart. It wasn’t just girlish nonsense. She had done some acting at school and the drama teacher said she had potential, had urged her to keep at it and see what happened.
And then she met John. Some friend of his had dragged him along to a dance he hadn’t wanted to attend, in a borrowed dinner jacket that was too short in the sleeves. June had been attracted to him from the moment he walked into the room. She liked the way he stood off by himself much of the time, dignified in his badly fitting clothes, comically out of place. She had wanted to smother him with kisses, lead him by the hand to a dark corner and nuzzle his neck. He was everything her mother dreaded in a prospective husband: blue collar, poorly educated, lace-curtain Irish.
And June had married him. Just like that, like plunging off a cliff, enchanted by his good looks and charm, his utter unsuitability. She had been quite tickled with herself that she had caught him, this oddly charismatic man who told her he would carry her away and build her a house by the sea, hummed songs in her ear, promised her the moon. He had the sunniest disposition of any man she’d ever known – or at least it seemed that way, but perhaps that was just the result of his determination to look on the bright side of things no matter what happened. It was one of the aspects of his character that had attracted her in those heady days of their early courtship: his wide grin, gleaming blue eyes that hinted at faraway places and impossible dreams.
But that was years ago, a silly schoolgirl seduced by his singing, by the romance of the sea, the thought of a cozy home, snug against the winter storms. So many years had passed since then. What had changed? Everything, June thought. Time changes everything. She wasn’t in love with the sea anymore.
Ben fidgeted in his stroller, trying to get out. She continued walking through the scrub of beach plums and wild roses. Brambles snagged the hem of her dress. It was dark and she didn’t have a flashlight, but she could have found her way with her eyes closed, she knew the lay of the land so well. By the time they reached the house, Ben had fallen asleep. June lifted him out and carried him upstairs. The house was hot and stuffy. She opened a few windows and then went into the kitchen without turning the light on.
From a high cupboard she pulled out a bottle of whiskey, hidden behind a sack of flour, and poured a good amount into a glass. She added ice and a splash of water and took the drink out to the front porch where the air was cooler. The breeze had picked up a bit and she breathed in the smell of salt and seaweed. She sipped her drink, feeling the flush of the alcohol in her limbs, the warmth gathering in her chest. She rattled the ice cubes and drank the rest down in one quick motion before setting the glass down on the floor.
Her mind floated off to some quiet space and she stepped off the porch and headed down the lane, listening to the crickets chirp in the dark. She couldn’t go far, the presence of Ben, asleep in the house, kept her there like a tether. But she wandered down the lane, humming to herself a little, feeling the cool sand on her bare toes.
On the porch of Stone cottage a figure loomed in the shadows. She couldn’t make out who it was, all she could see was the glow of his cigarette, but it must be Richard Hutchinson. She hadn’t seen him again, not since the day they’d moved in. She supposed he only came up on weekends. June ducked her head as she passed the house, hoping he wouldn’t see her.
“I guess I missed them,” he said
.
She looked up. His face was ins shadow. “Pardon me?”
“The fireworks.” He waved his cigarette in the direction of the harbor. “I just got in a while ago.” He smiled and his teeth shone white in the darkness. “We haven’t met. I’m Richard Hutchinson.” He flicked on the outside porch light so she could see him better.
June walked around the hydrangea hedge and stood at the bottom of the steps. “June Kerrigan.”
“My wife’s down at the Harbor Side Restaurant, watching the fireworks from there. There’s supposed to be some dance on afterward.”
“That sounds nice.” The Harbor Side Restaurant was the fanciest place in town with steak and lobster dinners, champagne in buckets and a marble dance floor. It was only open in the summer for the tourists. June had never been inside, much less eaten there.
“I’ve just come up from the beach with my son,” June said. “He was afraid of the noise. He’s sleeping now. My girls are still down there with my husband.”
Moths had gathered around the porch light. Beetles flung themselves like small projectiles through the air and smacked against the bulb. “You might want to turn that light out,” June said, or you’ll attract every insect for miles around.” She smiled at the thought.
Richard flicked off the light. He was still wearing the pale linen suit he must have traveled in, although he’d pulled his tie loose and taken off his jacket.
“Did you just drive up from the city?”
He nodded. “Traffic was terrible. I thought I’d beat it by coming here so late. Tibby’s probably having a fit because I haven’t shown up yet.”
Yours Until Morning Page 4