Yours Until Morning

by Patricia Masar

  Evie passed through the heavy wooden doors and they banged closed behind her. June turned to Emma. “Claire has epilepsy. She was diagnosed last fall.”

  Emma searched June’s face, concern in her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  June hugged her elbows and walked to the window. Claire and Evie were sitting in opposite corners of the backseat of Emma’s car, not talking, their faces turned away from each other.

  Emma came up behind her and put a hand on June’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone. I was afraid. Of what people would say. Of Claire being shunned.” She turned and looked at Emma. “You’ve worked as a nurse. You know how people react to things like this. Claire would be treated like a leper – or worse.”

  “Oh, June.” Emma put an arm around her shoulders.

  For a moment June allowed herself to weep in Emma’s arms, but then she pulled away. “I’m sorry you had to see this.”

  “You don’t need to go through this alone.” Emma pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed at June’s face.

  June did not want to talk about it anymore. She wanted to put the whole thing behind her, to erase the memory of the seizure forever from her mind. The building seemed oppressive now and she opened the door and walked into the sunlight and over to Emma’s car, holding her shoulders carefully back, her head high. She glanced at Claire’s pale face, but Claire turned away from her gaze. June knew she had promised them ice cream sodas, but all she wanted to do now was to get Claire home as quickly as possible. To get her away from people who would point and stare if she had another seizure. Thank god it had happened here with only Emma as a witness. She just hoped Emma wouldn’t tell anyone, although maybe it didn’t matter anymore. What did it matter if people knew? The fact was that Claire was ill. She couldn’t go on hiding it forever.

  The girls sat stiffly the back seat, not talking, not doing anything in particular. In Evie’s face June saw a dawning of understanding of what lay ahead, not just a new school, but the whole long road of life, with its twists and turns and treacherous slopes. A road she would have to travel on her own, without anyone to guide her.

  June tried to catch Claire’s eye, but she stubbornly refused to meet her gaze. “We’ll go to Sal’s another time.”

  Nobody said anything.

  Emma opened the car door and slid behind the wheel. There was sorrow in her face, but June didn’t want her pity. The red brick school sat in the dusty heat, a silent witness. June didn’t want to think about Claire going there every day, at the mercy of the other children, the indifferent teachers with their glasses perched on beaky noses. If only there was some way she could keep her at home, away from prying eyes.

  Emma started the car and pulled away from the school, driving through the town, back toward Lockport. It was just past two and the streets were nearly empty. As they pulled away from Hammet Mills and drove through the fields of dusty corn, June’s breath caught in her throat. They were silent as they drove home, the big car moving through the green fields like a boat through the waves. This time when they passed the graveyard, nobody bothered to hold their breath. It was a silly superstition, anyway, June thought as the cemetery loomed up in front of them and then passed without a sound.

  16

  Not yet light and John and Emerson were hard at work, putting the final touches to Benson Sandhurst’s boat. They had to get the craft into the water by tomorrow if they had any hope of her competing in the fishing derby on the following day. The boat had been hauled out on dry land for several months and the planks in the hull needed enough time in the water to swell up and close any cracks in the seams. The craft might take on a little water in the first couple of days, John thought, but with the brand new bilge pump, there shouldn’t be any problem. Except for one or two minor details, he wasn’t worried about anything, not with a boat like this, as tight and solid a craft as any he’d ever worked on. He and Jack had re-planked most of the hull, before Jack took off for Florida, and then he and Emerson had caulked and sealed it, painted it over and over again till it shone. She was a beauty of a boat.

  John’s hands and shoulders ached. The two men had been driving themselves to the brink of exhaustion to get Sandhurst’s boat finished on time. On top of that there were the weekend charters to contend with, long hours on the sea with boozy businessmen from Boston and Providence, out to catch the big one, to prove their manhood and impress their friends. Only once did he have a woman on board one of his charters. John did not subscribe to the old seamen’s superstition that a woman on a boat was bad luck, so he hadn’t minded her coming along. At first he had thought she was one of the men’s wives, but then later it became clear that she was somebody’s mistress. She sat on the fore deck the whole time, in a big sun hat and dark glasses, bare legs stretched out into the sun. From time to time she poured some mysterious liquid out of a thermos and into a plastic cup that she’d pulled out of her purse. Probably a martini. But John didn’t ask; in fact, he hadn’t paid much attention to her at all. Only the man whose mistress she must have been made an ass of himself, strutting around on the deck like some puffed up rooster, cheering in jubilation and flexing his muscles when all he caught was a lousy mackerel.

  John was secretly looking forward to the fall, when the weekend charters would taper off, when the weather turned rough and the sea changed from placid blue to a mysterious steely gray, with storms threatening off the coast. Then he could spend more time in the boatyard and more time at home on the weekends, playing games with the children, doing all the little repairs in the house that June was always after him about. Caulk the seams around the doorways and put in the storm windows and make the house cozy for the long, cold winter, when the wind would whip over the dunes and blow through the pines till they howled.

  He paused in his work to admire the gleam of brass and varnish under the arc lights. They had taken the entire boat down to bare wood, sanded every nook and cranny and then applied a dozen layers of varnish to the teak deck and even more layers of white paint to the oak hull. The teak was smooth as syrup. The brass fittings, all special ordered from a shipping outfitter in England, gleamed with polish. The portholes had been replaced, a new galley installed. Custom fitted berths had been bolted into the cabin. The brand new diesel engines would power the 36 foot craft noiselessly through the water.

  John wiped the sweat from his face and glanced over at Emerson who was crouching on the deck, his shoes wrapped in burlap to protect the deck from scuff marks.

  “Want to break for coffee? She’s as ready as she’ll ever be. Sandhurst’s coming by this afternoon for a final look-see.”

  Emerson leaned back on his haunches. Perspiration sparkled in his hair. “Coffee? How ‘bout a gallon. I’m a walking dead man. I don’t think I’ve ever worked this hard before in my life.”

  John grinned. “It’ll be worth it. I can taste that bonus money now. I just hope he’ll be satisfied.” He ran his hand along the gunwales.

  “Satisfied? The man’s gonna spring up on the deck and dance with joy. He’ll have the most gorgeous craft in the harbor. That’s what he wants, isn’t it? Something fancy to show off to his friends.” Emerson stood up and wiggled his hips in an imitation of the mamba. “He’ll just dance around and purr, like a kitten lapping up cream.”

  John climbed down from the boat and opened a thermos of coffee. He poured out two cups and stood over in the doorway of the boat works to watch the sun over the water. He felt good about the boat. They had worked fast to get her ready, but they hadn’t cut corners, had not skimped on any of the improvements. There was nothing in the design or balance of the boat that gave John pause. He would be proud to own her himself, would someday like to have the money for such a luxury craft. Maybe next summer he could start to build one for himself, save up for the wood and fittings and construct it slowly over time. But perhaps that was wanting too much, reaching too far. Wasn’t Emerson always saying that the shortest path to unhapp
iness was wanting things you can’t have?The Evening Star might not be anywhere near this elegant, but she was a sturdy little thing and rode the waves well.

  Emerson walked over to John with the thermos of coffee. He had lost weight in the last couple of weeks and his dungarees hung low on his hips. “Ready for a refill?”

  John nodded.

  “You going out in this derby on Saturday?”

  “You bet. I’m taking one of my daughters out this year. It’s great fun. Why don’t you come along, I could use an extra hand.”

  Emerson looked embarrassed. “I’ve got a confession to make. As much as I love building boats, I’m not much for going out in ‘em. I get seasick.” He ducked his head and looked chagrined. “And I never did learn how to swim.”

  John threw back his head and laughed. He felt punch drunk with exhaustion, so tired he wanted to lie down in a bed of feathers and sleep for a long, long time. “You’re a mystery Emerson. I thought you’d be itching to get out there on this fine craft.” He turned serious. “And anyone can learn to swim. It’s never too late.”

  “Yeah, I know. Delia’s been aiming to teach me. My boy Clayton’s already like a fish in the water. But Delia’s from around here. She’s used to the sea. I grew up surrounded by cotton fields. There was a river a few miles from where I lived. I could have swum there, but my mama had me scared to death by stories of cotton mouths big as my arm, and this big old snapping turtle that would come up and take my toes clean off if I even stuck my foot in the water.”

  “I never learned to swim either till I came here,” John said “Not many places to learn in Pittsburgh. I’d get up early in the morning and go down to the beach before anybody was there and force myself to go into the water, meet those waves slapping against my thighs, half scared to death. I swear I almost drowned a dozen times.” He laughed. “And sometimes when I swam far out, I’d get this chill going over me….”

  “Somebody walking on your grave,” Emerson’s eyes widened.

  John started. “I guess… but it was more like… I could feel the depths of the ocean in my bones, the whole ocean falling away from me into this big gaping chasm. Sometimes I had to pull myself back from that image just to swim ashore again. Scared the daylights out of me.”

  Emerson was solemn.

  “Hey, what time’s that sign painter coming again?” John busied himself at the tool bench to shake the feeling of dread that had fallen over him.

  “Dunno. Around one I think.”

  “Just so long as he’s finished before Sandhurst turns up. It’ll be nice to show him the boat with the name painted on her stern. Sabrina Jane. Suppose that’s his wife?”

  “I’m guessing it’s the mistress.”

  “Could be. Nothing surprises me anymore.” John grinned.

  All through the morning and into the afternoon they focused on their work, tinkering with the fittings and the engine, tightening a screw here and a bolt there. They went over the surfaces again and again, running a chamois cloth over the deck and hull, rubbing out fingerprints, till the varnish gleamed. The sign painter showed up at the appointed hour, a beefy troll of a man, who set to work, executing in swooping calligraphy the name of the boat in dark green lacquer on the transom. Sabrina Jane.

  Emerson had gone out in search of something to eat and came back with deep fried cod and fries wrapped in newspaper, enough for two.

  “You hungry?” He motioned to John to help himself from the food in the cardboard container.

  John shook his head. “No appetite. I’m too jittery wondering what Sandhurst will say. His good word could make or break me.”

  Emerson shrugged. Grease shone on his chin and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. “Nobody can make or break you but yourself. Don’t let the fat cats get to you. Isn’t that what you told me the first day I walked in here?”

  “You’re right, but I still can’t help being nervous.” John picked up a broom and began to sweep the floor in short, jerky movements.

  He was lost in his own thoughts when a tall man, running to fat, appeared in the door of the boat works. He brushed down the sleeves of his gray linen suit and let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. If that isn’t the most beautiful boat I’ve ever seen this side of the Mississippi.” He entered the boat works, puffing on a pipe. He clapped John on the back. “You’ve done a good job, my boy.”

  John tried to hide his embarrassment, although he was genuinely pleased with the praise. “Don’t just thank me, thank Emerson here. I couldn’t have done it without him.”

  Mr. Sandhurst gave Emerson an appraising look and then turned away.

  “We’ll have her on the rollers and in the water first thing tomorrow morning,” John said. “You’ll be all set for the derby on Saturday.”

  “Hmm. Yes, the derby. I wanted to talk to you about that. Doesn’t look like I’ll be able to make it this year.”

  John’s chest contracted. For a moment he forgot how to breathe. Did this mean Sandhurst wouldn’t pay him the bonus? He’d been counting on the extra cash.

  “But Mr. Sandhurst, Sir, if you’ll forgive me, I thought that was the whole point, to have the boat ready for the derby. You mentioned a bonus and everything…” John stopped, he didn’t want to sound as if he were pleading.

  “Oh the bonus. Don’t you worry about that. A promise is a promise and you’ve kept your end of the bargain, just under the wire it looks like, but that’s good enough for me. No, I’ve got to get down to New York in rather a hurry. Some idiot in my outfit has made a mess of things and I’d better straighten it out before all our clients lose their shirts. Don’t worry about your bonus, I’ll get it to you next week. Cash on the barrelhead.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and sucked on his pipe, walked a slow circle around the craft, leaned in to examine the hull, then stood back to take in all 36 feet from stem to stern.

  He took the pipe out of his mouth and turned to John. “Even though I can’t go out on Saturday, no reason the boat’s got to be stuck in the harbor. Why don’t you take her out, John? You’d be doing me favor. I promised a friend of mine and his son that we’d go out together and I hate to disappoint them. Richard Hutchinson. He and his family have rented a place here for the summer.”

  John’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Richard Hutchinson? He and his wife have rented the cottage next door to our place.”

  “Well, whaddya know. Small town, huh? His brother’s an old classmate of mine. Nice people. I’m sure you’ll give him a good day out.” Sandhurst leaned in close to John and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Just don’t go inviting that fellow over there. I don’t want people getting the wrong idea.”

  John opened his mouth to say something in protest. He looked over at Emerson, who had turned his back on the two of them and was busy cleaning tools. But he shut it again and kept still. Sandhurst would only end up calling him names and stalking out. “I’d be honored to take her out, Mr. Sandhurst. It’ll be her maiden voyage after all. Or second maiden. If there is such a thing.”

  Sandhurst laughed and made a crude joke about not being a virgin twice over and left.

  John let his breath out and joined Emerson at the tool bench. He picked up a rag and started to wipe down the wrenches and saw blades with oil. A muscle jumped in Emerson’s jaw. The cords tensed in his neck.

  “Never mind him,” John said. “People like that can’t see farther than their own noses. Like you said, don’t let the fat cats get you down.”

  Emerson was silent, polishing steel as if his life depended on it. John didn’t know what else to say. He joined Emerson in cleaning up the tools and they worked together in silence. He was so tired it was hard for his brain to take it all in. To think he’d be captaining the Sabrina Jane tomorrow in the annual fishing derby. Wouldn’t that be something? Sandhurst’s boat was a Cadillac compared to the Evening Star. On the Sabrina Jane he would feel like a man of substance, a true captain, a master of the sea. He just hoped this Richard Hutchinso
n fellow was easy to get along with. He’d scarcely said two words to the man all summer, but he knew that Claire and the man’s son had become friends. He felt a pang of regret. With the Hutchinson boy on board it would be all the more difficult for Claire to be left behind. Next time he’d make sure that she got to go along. Next year he’d take both girls out and make a real day of it.

  17

  June plugged in her electric rollers and frowned at her hair in the mirror. While the rollers were heating up she stepped into her blue linen dress and white high heeled sandals. She was hoping to meet Richard at two o’clock, but she’d wait all day in the fishing hut for him if she had to. She couldn’t stand it any longer. It had to be resolved now. Her nerves were stretched to the breaking point and all morning she’d felt like a cat was clawing on her back. With Claire’s seizure yesterday, her fears that more would come, and her future with Richard hanging in the balance, it was difficult to keep another thought in her head.

  As soon as they’d returned home from Hammett Mills she’d called the doctor and made an appointment for the following Tuesday. If Claire’s seizures couldn’t be kept under control, June had already decided to keep her at home during the school year. She would just teach Claire herself, or perhaps they could scrape together enough money to hire a private tutor. Some retired school teacher might be willing to teach Claire for a small wage. Ever since John told her the boat was finished in time and that they’d get the bonus next week she had come up with a hundred ways to spend the money.

  June brushed her hair out and fixed it with liberal dose of hair spray. She gathered together a comb and her lipstick and cigarettes and stuffed them in her purse. She told the girls she was going out for a couple of hours. With an anxious look at the clock, June hurried out the kitchen door and headed through the dunes and scrub pine in the direction of the fishing hut. It was a hot day with no wind. She would be glad when fall came; she was looking forward to cooler weather, although she dreaded the time when the summer people would leave and Lockport would return to its out-of-season state of deserted cottages and empty streets. The houses along the water front would be boarded up and the ice cream stands would close. The days would grow shorter and the nights longer, the house would sigh and creak in the wind, a feeling of dread would descend upon her like a fog.