“But he’s all right now, isn’t he?”
“There doesn’t seem to be any permanent damage to his heart, but my wife is still terrified that something will happen to him. He’s our only child.”
“I know how she feels,” June murmured. “My daughter Claire. . . she was diagnosed with. . . well. . . with a neurological disorder last fall. She has these. . . seizures. I’m afraid to leave her alone, that something will happen to her when she’s out of my sight.”
June looked down at her lap, stunned that she had said it, told Richard Hutchinson about Claire’s illness. Although she hadn’t said the dreaded word, epilepsy, hadn’t gone that far. But what must he think of her, unburdening her heart like this when they were nothing more than strangers?
Richard shifted beside her. For several minutes they sat together not talking, listening to the sound of their breathing and the murmur of the sea among the rocks. He shifted his position again and June felt his hand graze the back of her neck. She held her breath, afraid to move, afraid to look at him and break the spell. Her heart was ricocheting in her chest. The pressure of his fingers increased until he was stroking her hair, massaging her neck. She looked up at him and sucked in her breath at the naked desire in his eyes. She reached up to touch his cheek, running her fingers along the curve of his jaw. He pulled her to his chest and held her there. Something rose up in her throat, strangling her, and she tensed her body against his. She couldn’t breathe. Her limbs felt taut as stretched wire. She curled her toes against the sand, resisting his embrace, holding herself away from him for what seemed like an eternity. His breath rasped in her ear, drowning out the sound of the surf on the rocks. And then something gave way inside her, a slow, trickling release, like sand falling through an hourglass. She pressed her face into his throat. Her arms snaked around his neck and she held on tight to this man she barely knew, like a woman drowning.
* * *
I’m supposed to go straight home when school gets out and do my homework at the kitchen table until my mother comes home from work. That’s the rule. But yesterday, feeling jumpy under my skin, I got off the bus at the dusty crossroads in town and bought an ice cream soda at the truck stop I’ve been forbidden to go to.
Nothing bad happened. A couple of truckers sized me up, figuring me for a teenage runaway, but the hard-mouthed woman behind the counter made sure they kept their distance. Then I caught the next bus home, as if drinking a coffee ice cream soda at the truck stop was the most ordinary thing in the world. In a couple of weeks I may try it again, just to see what happens.
There’s a library over in Barstow and I go there every Saturday on the bus to bring back the books I’ve finished reading and to take out new ones. Mostly I’m reading about the sea and the age of exploration. I pore over the text, like ancient runes, trying to understand the mystery of the deep. I study maps of the sea floor, trace the ridges and valleys with my finger, imagine the inexorable darkness. Cold. I know it’s cold down there at the bottom of the sea.
When the wind comes up I lie on my back under the scratchy blanket on my bed and listen to grains of sand pelting the windows. If a big storm comes I wonder if we’ll be buried under the drifting sand, like the pharaohs in their tombs.
7
John was up at five and down at the boatyard in time to watch the sun come up. The man from Oak Bluffs was coming at eight and he wanted to get some work done on Sandhurst’s boat before he arrived. When he was finished with her, the boat would be one of the most beautiful he’d ever seen. Lean and fast, the craft had been designed to sit high in the water and was blessed with an elegant shape and a curving bowsprit that reminded him of a woman’s thigh. The wooden hull was of the very finest oak and mahogany timber. The deck, pure teak. He and Jack had stripped off the layers of paint and varnish, taking the finish all the way down to the bare wood so they could check for rot and ship worm. They had re-planked part of the hull with new wood, cleaned out the bilge and ordered a new pump. Just before Jack left for Florida, they had gutted the inside and hired a local cabinet maker to build a custom-fitted galley of pure mahogany with brass fittings he’d special ordered from a company in England.
John ran his hand along the gunwales, checking for any signs of roughness, feeling the curves with his hands. Sometimes he altered boats by feel and by eye rather than sticking to the exact specifications on the blueprint. It was more natural that way, the finished craft more organic, a living being that would bond with the sea and sky like one of the ocean’s creatures. He molded a piece of sandpaper to his palm and then rubbed his hand along the bare wood. There was a pleasant tightening of the muscles in his abdomen as he leaned into the rhythm of his strokes, enjoying the warm smell of the sawdust. The breeze blew in and rustled the wood shavings on the floor. John tried to remember a time when he hadn’t known the feel of a boat taking shape under his hands, molding the hull, sanding and rubbing the wood until it felt like something alive in his fingers.
His fascination with boats and the sea had bloomed during his childhood in Pittsburgh, a land-locked city choked with factory smoke and the clatter of steel mills. Alone in his room at night he would pore over the books he’d taken from the library on old sailing vessels and tales of sea adventures, tracing the outline of the ships with his finger.
In a drunken rage, his father had smashed the first model ship he’d ever built, so from that moment on he’d learned to keep his passion a secret, plotting his escape from the steel mills that were meant to be his future, planning a life by the sea.
At seventeen he left home for good and made his way to Boston where he’d apprenticed himself to a man at a boatyard north of the city. He worked hard, kept his head down, didn’t drink, stayed away from women. He was planning to make something of himself, prove his father wrong, and to quiet the echoes in his head that he was good-for-nothing, a sissy and a mama’s boy. When he took the job in Lockport it had felt like the beginning of a long-awaited dream. Working side by side with old Hans Larsen was a pleasure and Larsen, who had no son of his own, was grooming John to take over the business. For years he focused on his craft, not wanting anything else. Until he’d married June. First came the miracle of her love for him, followed by the birth of the girls and then his son. The misery of his youth had receded into a gray blur; it was nothing more now than a tiny blot on the horizon of his past.
A shadow blocked out the light and John looked up. He hadn’t heard anyone come in. Claire stood just inside the doorway, holding something up in her hands.
“Well, this is a surprise. You were sound asleep when I left the house.”
She smiled sleepily and yawned. “I woke up early. Mom sent me down here to bring you a thermos of coffee.”
“That was nice of you to come all this way. And nice of your mother to think of me.” He accepted the thermos and stopped his work to pour out a cup. The coffee was hot and black with just a little sugar the way he liked it and John felt gratified by June’s thoughtfulness. She’d been so moody lately, but it was like her to surprise him with a kind gesture, just when he thought their marriage was heading for a rough patch.
“Too bad you’re too young to drink coffee,” he said, holding up the cup and winking at Claire. “This really hits the spot. If you want to help you can rub those pieces of wood with linseed oil. Nice and easy now, here let me show you.” John plucked a clean rag from a pile of torn up T-shirts and dipped it into a jar of oil. He showed Claire how to rub the wood with long easy strokes. “Just pretend you’re petting a cat,” he said. Long, smooth strokes in one direction only. That’s a girl.”
Claire smiled happily. She sat perched on the work bench with a piece of mahogany resting on her knees, rubbing down the wood with the oily rag. She liked nothing better than to help her father at the boatyard.
At the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside, John looked up from his work. A man loomed in the doorway, outlined against the light. Lanky and tall, Emerson Wheeler hesitated in the entranc
e to the boat works before coming forward. When he extended his hand, John shook it firmly, hoping his surprise didn’t show. He hadn’t been expecting a colored man. He’d worked with colored men in boatyards before, of course, Cape Verdean immigrants from New Bedford, a few Negro Americans. Hard workers in spite of the abuse they often had to take from the foremen, along with the added indignity of lower wages.
Emerson’s eyes lit up when he saw the boat and he let out a low whistle. “Who’s this beauty for, the King of Spain?” He laughed, a rich dark laugh, throwing back his head so all his teeth showed.
John smiled. “Almost. Benson Sandhurst. Ever heard of him? Some Wall Street bigwig from New York. He’s renting a house here this summer. My guess is the man’s got piles of money.”
Emerson closed his eyes. “Mmh. Piles of money. Sounds good to me.”
“This is my daughter, Claire,” John said. “She’s my assistant today until I find a replacement.”
Emerson smiled. “She looks like a top class helper to me. How do you do, Miss Claire?” He made a slight bow and Claire jumped down to say hello. She started to put out her hand as she’d been taught and then stopped. “I can’t shake hands,” she said, appealing to her father for help. “I’m all greasy.”
“That’s all right,” John said. “I’m sure Mr. Wheeler understands.” He motioned toward his office and ushered Emerson inside so they could talk privately. John waited for Emerson to be seated and then turned serious, trying to think of the right questions to ask. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never really hired anyone before. I only just took over the business when the owner died last year. My assistant up and left a week ago to try his hand at a place down in Florida, so I’ve been short-handed for a while. I’m not even sure I know what to ask you. Do you have much experience?”
Emerson stuck his long legs out in front of him and tucked his hands under his arms. “I worked at the Dodson Boatyard over in Vineyard Haven for about a year. The man there said I was good with my hands and a quick study. He told me he’d write me a letter if you wanted to see it.”
“Any formal training?”
Emerson shrugged. “Not exactly. Some carpentry with a cousin of mine, a bit of this and that. I wanted to go to technical school to learn drafting and such, but didn’t have the money. But you can learn just as much from being an apprentice, right? I can read good and run figures. Never done any drafting, but I’ve borrowed some books from the library and I study at night.”
John smiled. “I like ambition in a man. Do you have a family?”
Emerson nodded. “Two kids, boy and a girl. My wife put me up to applying to you, even though it’s a trek over on the ferry.”
“Why’d you leave the boatyard in Vineyard Haven?”
Emerson looked away. “Some people didn’t want a colored man working on their boats. Thought I’d jinx ‘em or something.” When he looked back at John his eyes were flat, the laughter was gone from his face.
“Well, I hope that won’t be a problem here. Although I can’t promise anything. You know how some people are. But I need a good assistant and you seem like the man for the job. Anyone whose eyes light up the way yours did at the sight of a beautiful boat is good enough for me.”
Emerson’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’ll take me on? Just like that? Oh, man, wait’ll Delia hears this. You got a phone? I can call her right now.”
John tilted his head. “Right here on my desk. Can you start today? I’ve got a bonus coming to me from Sandhurst if I get this boat finished and in the water by Labor Day. I’ll give you a healthy cut if we make the deadline.”
“I can start right now,” Emerson said, pushing up his sleeves. “Let me just call my wife. She’ll be dancing in the kitchen when she hears I got a job. You won’t be sorry. I’m gonna work my tail off.”
John opened the door of the office. He saw Claire sitting up on the work bench looking at him expectantly. “You’ve been a big help, sweetheart, but Mr. Wheeler’s agreed to come on board so I’m afraid you’re out of a job.” He winked at Emerson.
“That’s okay,” Claire said, carefully laying down the piece of wood she’d been working on. “I’m sure Mr. Wheeler will do a better job than me.”
Emerson laughed. “We’ll see about that.”
John showed Emerson the work he’d done in the last few days and then left him alone to get acquainted with the boat. He motioned to Claire and they stepped outside. Seagulls circled above the jetty where a few men were standing with their lines in the water.
“Claire, honey. We’re going to be hard at work for the rest of the day, so I think it’s best if you run on home now. Do you need me to drive you?”
Claire shook her head. “I can walk.”
John hesitated a minute and then crouched down so his face was level with hers. “Can you keep a secret for a little while?”
She nodded.
“When you get home, don’t tell your mother I’ve hired Mr. Wheeler. I want to tell her myself tonight at supper. So mum’s the word, okay?” He put his thumb and finger up to his mouth and pulled them across his lips like a zipper.
“Sure, Daddy. That’s easy.”
“Good girl. Now, you go straight home now. No dawdling. I don’t want your mother worrying about where you are.”
“Promise.” Claire stuffed her hands into the pockets of her shorts and walked away from the boatyard. When she reached the fence, she turned one more time to wave to her father, but John had already gone back inside.
All day the two men worked side by side, sweating in the heat, a film of sawdust sticking to their skin. Emerson had been right when he said he was a quick study. He was good with tools and good with his hands. And John liked it when he closed his eyes and felt along the gunwales and hull, stroking the wood with his long, elegant fingers, learning the curves.
At the end of the day, they cleaned up the tools and coated them with oil. Emerson swept up the wood shavings, stopping often to wipe the sweat from his face. John offered to drop him at the ferry slip and they rode together in silence. He ignored the curious looks some people gave him as they drove through town.
“See you tomorrow,” John said as Emerson slid out of the passenger seat.
“Thanks again for taking me on,” Emerson said solemnly. “You saved my life.”
John smiled. “You may have saved mine.”
The drive home was quiet. There was no traffic at this time of day. Most of the beach goers were already back at home, sitting on their porches with their cocktails, anticipating dinner and the hushed atmosphere of evening.
John banged open the screen door and walked into the kitchen. He was anxious to tell June about his new assistant, although he wasn’t quite sure how she’d react to him hiring a colored man. He knew is wife was always worried about the look of things.
“I’ve got someone new.” He said as soon as he was inside the door. “Man named Wheeler from Oak Bluffs. He’s a good worker, good hands. I think I’m lucky to get him.”
June was standing at the stove. She turned toward him. Her face was suffused with a pink flush. “That’s wonderful, John, but Oak Bluffs? That’s a long way to travel for a job. He’s got to come over every day on the ferry?”
“Most days,” John said. “I told him he could stay overnight here once in a while if the going back and forth gets too much.”
“Well, all right. But you could have asked me about it first,” June said. A slight frown deepened the crease between her eyes. “What’s he like? I don’t like the idea of a strange man sleeping in the house and there’s only the breezeway with the cot.”
“He’s perfectly nice. Has a wife and two kids. Good manners. He’s from the South originally. Came up here with his parents about ten years ago.”
“What’s his name again?”
“Wheeler. Emerson Wheeler.”
“Emerson? That’s an unusual name.”
“Well he’s from Alabama. A colored man. Sometimes they have more i
maginative names than we do.”
June stared at her husband. The pink drained from her cheeks. “You invited a colored man to stay in our home?” She bit her lip. “Not that I have anything against them,” she said hastily, “but what will people say?”
“You can’t live your life by worrying about what other people will say,” John said. He seems like a good worker and I desperately need the help. You want Sandhurst’s bonus, don’t you? I worked with lots of colored guys at the boatyard in Boston and nobody had any trouble with it.”
June turned back toward the stove. When she spoke again there was an edge to her voice. “What you do at the boatyard is your business. But I don’t think it would be a good idea to have him sleep here. Things may be changing, but not as fast as you might think and having him here would just cause trouble. Things are just starting to look up for us. Why stir the pot if we don’t have to? Call the girls. Dinner’s ready.”
Claire and Evie were in the living room, sprawled out in front of the television. Ben was in his playpen, staring round-eyed at the screen. John picked him up and set him on the floor so he could toddle around.
“Girls. Your mother says dinner’s ready. Turn off the television and wash your hands now.” Groans from Claire and Evie, the usual flurry of protests. Ben clamped sticky hands around John’s leg. He stood in the middle of the living room and stroked Ben’s head, trying to calm himself. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been so upset with his wife. He hadn’t known she was prejudiced. Didn’t she realize how anxious he’d been to hire a new assistant? What did it matter if he was white or colored? Or maybe she was just frightened about some of the things she’d seen on television, the racial upsets and riots in the South. Afraid the unrest would drift up here. But deep down he suspected that it wasn’t fear that prompted her to say those things or even prejudice, for he knew deep down that she had a good heart. It was concern over what her friends would think, or perhaps not even her friends, but the summer people whose notice she was always trying to attract. It seemed to bother her more and more lately that she wasn’t invited to any of their parties or asked to join their bridge circles and coffee klatches. Maybe that was it. She felt snubbed by people she was trying to make friends with and it was making her irritable.
Yours Until Morning Page 7