The widow was touched by Abigail’s story and by her efforts to contribute to the family coffers. Perhaps Abigail ought to try Mr. Rousse, the bookkeeper, Corinna suggested. She didn’t see how he could possibly keep his accounts straight, as distracted as he always appeared to be, whether pinching melons at the market or smoking on the barber’s porch before his daily shave. “A man like that is certain to need the help of a sensible girl,” she said. And sent Abigail on her way.
Mr. Rousse had never given much thought to hiring an assistant. He got on fine by himself, despite how distracted Corinna might have considered him. The way a man pinched a melon said nothing about how balanced his accounts were. Most of the time, Mr. Rousse’s were in perfect order. But Abigail’s pleas and her pouty collar were more than Mr. Rousse could resist and he offered to hire her on a trial basis. He showed her where the accounting books were stored and taught her how they were numbered and catalogued. And he sharpened her a brand new pencil.
Behind the desk he sat close by her side and told her about debits and credits, brushing his arm across her bosom as he stretched to indicate the columns for noting the ones and the others.
“Debits go out, credits come in,” he said. “Two sides to every account. The trick is to make them balance.” He showed her a long series of examples, brushing his arm against her again, every time he moved his pencil from the left-hand column to the right and back, until he was certain she understood clearly the nature of the help she could provide him. The whole morning she worked, and the afternoon, marking the registers, balancing credits and debits, outs and ins. She had a knack for keeping track of both sides at once.
But at the end of the day, Mr. Rousse terminated her trial employment, for he really did get on fine by himself and had no use for the help of a sensible girl, certainly not full time. Just a taste of Abigail’s spicy disposition was all that he had wanted. He paid her for the day’s work, but his payment, like the fishermen’s before it, fattened only her. Not the rest of the Davies family, which continued to grow in number.
The next time Abigail tried to find a job, she didn’t waste her time turning around in the center of town. Instead, she stuck an announcement on the glass pane of the wooden door that opened into the Savings Bank. Though there were never enough rainbow bills to go around on Oh, some of the islanders did have enough of them to warrant their storage within the safe, thick walls of the island’s only financial institution. And since those islanders liked to check on their rainbow bills daily, Abigail’s announcement was sure to be spotted. In neat black letters it simply declared AVAILABLE FOR HIRE beneath a picture of Abigail in a pale blue blouse that accented her dark complexion and accentuated her daunting cleavage. Abigail put up her sign at eight o’clock in the morning, before the Savings Bank opened for business.
At nine, the widow Corinna, who didn’t have any rainbow bills to check on in the Bank but who passed it every morning on her way to church, caught sight of the sign and its boasting blue bodice. She clapped both hands to her mouth, to hold in the “well-I-nevers,” and sent the rosary she held in her palm reeling noisily to the ground. Abigail, who had been loitering nearby, ready to present herself should some islander show interest in her sign, rushed to the widow’s aid, crawling on the ground to pick up the scattering prayer beads that had sprung free of their cord. The widow Corinna watched her, her gaze again glued to Abigail’s chest, until the girl had collected all the wayward beads and risen to her feet.
“My word,” was all Corinna could muster as she held out her empty palm to reclaim her holy bits. Then she remembered her manners and added, “Thank you my dear, very kind of you. But can you tell me the meaning of this shameful sign?”
Abigail was puzzled, for she saw nothing shameful about her advertisement. But she ignored the affront and reminded the widow Corinna about the boats and the frocks and the onion stew, the cloth, the whiskey, and the pigeon bones. She added to her tale the episode of Mr. Rousse the bookkeeper, telling Corinna about the movements of his debits and his credits. In short, she said, she still needed a job and had posted a sign to say so.
The widow was again touched by Abigail’s story and by her efforts to contribute to her growing family’s coffers. Perhaps Abigail ought to try Mr. Kipfer, the painter, Corinna suggested. She didn’t see how he could possibly handle a big job alone, for he was a very small man. “A man like that is sure to need the help of a sensible girl,” she said. And sent Abigail on her way.
If Mr. Rousse had never given much thought to hiring an assistant, Mr. Kipfer certainly never had. He got on very fine by himself, despite how small Corinna considered him to be, for he had an extensive array of ladders with which he adjusted his height at will. But Abigail’s pleas and her boasting bodice were more than Mr. Kipfer could resist and he offered to hire her on a trial basis. He showed her his rollers and taught her how to mix and stir the paint. Then he handed her her very own paintbrush.
Before following her up on the ladder, he helped her into a pair of fresh canvas overalls, which he buttoned up himself. Then standing behind her, one rung below, he stretched past her, spattering her white canvas clothes with streaks of sea green from his brush, which landed on the wall in front of them in dramatic and demonstrative strokes.
“Up and down, nice and even, you see?” he said. “Otherwise you won’t get good coverage of what’s underneath.” He remained one rung below her as he worked, spattering her canvas and stroking the wall, until he was certain she understood clearly the nature of the help she could provide him. The whole morning she worked, and the afternoon, climbing the ladder, mixing paint, applying herself to nice and even strokes. She had a knack for covering up what lay underneath.
But at the end of the day, Mr. Kipfer terminated her trial employment, for he really did get on very fine by himself and had no use for the help of a sensible girl, certainly not full time. Just a taste of Abigail’s spicy disposition was all that he had wanted. He paid her for the day’s work, but his payment, like the fishermen’s and the bookkeeper’s before it, fattened only her. Not the rest of the Davies family, which was growing in number now at least once a year.
The next time Abigail tried to find a job, she distributed flyers with her name and address, on market day, when all of Oh would pass through town. She didn’t include her picture on them, for that would have been too costly, and she sensed that the picture had something (she wasn’t sure what) to do with the widow Corinna’s “shameful” classification of her announcement on the Savings Bank door. She positioned herself near the entrance to the market’s main square, offering to each passer-by one of her fluttering pages. But the market was a noisy place, with its usual flapping batiks and clanking balances, and Abigail’s “pardon-me’s” and “may-I-give-you-one-of-my-flyers-please’s” were lost in the windy din. The islanders, intent on their shopping and haggling, could neither hear her nor see her, for in the visual assault that was the marketplace, even Abigail’s cumbersome chest was camouflaged among the coconuts, calabash, and onions.
Frustrated, the girl, who had long become a woman, stepped up onto the two-foot-high stone wall that encased the marketplace. To the wall’s height she added another foot or so to her position by jumping up into the air. The combined effect of gravity, Abigail’s propulsions, and the paucity of her polka-dotted dress, shifted the wind in her favor and her flyers were suddenly in great demand.
But, alas, the widow Corinna, who could not seem to escape the taunting of Abigail’s top half, chose just then to pass by. She clapped both hands to her mouth, to hold in the “well-I-nevers,” and sent the just-acquired cloves and peppercorns she held in her palm reeling to the ground. Abigail, who witnessed Corinna’s clumsiness from the vantage point above the wall, felt compelled to relinquish her post and rushed to the helpful widow’s aid, crawling on the ground to pick up her purchases. The widow Corinna watched her, her gaze yet again glued to Abigail’s chest, until the girl had collected all the wayward spices and risen
to her feet.
“My word,” was all Corinna could muster as she held out her empty palm to reclaim her cloves and corns. Then she remembered her manners and added, “Thank you my dear, very kind of you. But jumping about like that in the middle of the market! What were you doing?”
Abigail was puzzled again. She considered herself rather clever for outwitting the noisy wind and she didn’t know why Corinna should be so bothered by her behavior. But she ignored the remark (Corinna had always been a bit touchy) and again reminded the old woman about the frocks and onions and the growing family who still couldn’t afford any pigeons, adding to her tale, right after the part about Mr. Rousse the bookkeeper, the episode of Mr. Kipfer the painter and his nice and even strokes. In short, she said, she still needed a job and had jumped up and down to let the other islanders know it.
The widow was yet again touched by Abigail’s story and her efforts. Perhaps she ought to try Mr. Floroseda, the plumber, Corinna suggested. She didn’t see how he could keep all the island’s pipes clean on his own, for he moved way too slowly when he biked from job to job, stopping often to fill his nose with the scents of whatever flowers he spotted on the side of the road. “A man like that is sure to need the help of a sensible girl,” she said. And sent Abigail on her way.
If Mr. Rousse and Mr. Kipfer had never given much thought to hiring an assistant, Mr. Floroseda certainly never had either. He got on very very fine by himself, despite how slow Corinna considered him to be, for the way a man rode a bicycle said little about his pipes. And most of the time, Mr. Floroseda’s were in perfect order. But Abigail’s pleas and her paltry polka-dots were more than Mr. Floroseda could resist and he offered to hire her on a trial basis. He taught her about plungers and spigots and snakes, about faucets and washers and drains. And he gave her a kit with a handle and some tools.
In the dark damp of the crawlspace under Mrs. Hobbs’ wash basin, he showed her how to position herself to accommodate the curves in the pipes she came across. Stretched out on the floor alongside her, he brushed against her with every twist of his spanner.
“Not too loose, not too tight,” he said. “Otherwise you’ll crack your pipe.” He maneuvered his arm around her, working the spanner back and forth, until he was certain she understood clearly the nature of the help she could provide him. The whole morning she worked, and the afternoon, accommodating pipes and silencing the troublesome drip-drip of leaky faucets. She had a knack for keeping things quiet.
But at the end of the day, Mr. Floroseda terminated her trial employment, for he really did get on very, very fine by himself and had no use for the help of a sensible girl, certainly not full time. Just a taste of Abigail’s spicy disposition was all that he had wanted. He paid her for the day’s work, but his payment, like the fishermen’s, the bookkeeper’s, and the painter’s before it, fattened only her. Not the rest of the Davies family, which grew in number yet again.
Abigail was getting no younger, her family had grown, and still she had found no job, her search inevitably and repeatedly interrupted by her growing belly and her growing brood. She was fed up with trying to find work as someone’s assistant, fed up with being plump all the time while her family got thinner and thinner. So Abigail decided to go into business for herself. She had training, didn’t she? She had learned to balance both sides of any account, to cover things up nice and even, and to keep troublesome things quiet. And thanks to the positions she had assumed on a trial basis over the years, she knew about having babies.
Why, she should have thought of it sooner! A midwife, that’s what she would be. The islanders were always having babies. Business would be good. And if anyone on Oh could manage a pregnancy that needed managing, it was Abigail.
My mother’s was to be one of these, though not even Abigail herself could have guessed how much so, until I came along.
“Ouch!” Abigail cried out. She was at home with my mother, sewing the sunbonnet that I would wear on the day I caught Gustave’s eye.
“What is it?” A pregnant Edda, frightened suddenly, lowered her feet from the footstool that held them and raised her torso from the cushion of her chair, poised to rush to Abigail’s aid.
“Now, now, don’t go jumping up in your condition. Just a little poke. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.” Abigail sucked the drop of blood that pooled on her fingertip and threatened the clean white cotton of my tiny bonnet.
“It’s almost night. You should do that stitching in the daylight.”
“You’re right. Your husband will be home soon.” Abigail lifted herself from Edda’s sofa with the ease of a woman ten years her junior. She wore a full gray skirt over hips that bore witness to all the children she had had and a pink blouse that still struggled to contain her large top, though the years were slowly granting an advantage to the thinning cloth. “Time for me to go. I’ll be back tomorrow.” She gave Edda a peck on the forehead.
“Thank you, Abigail. What chance would my baby have without you?”
Abigail collected her things and left. She stepped out into the night that through the windows of Edda’s sitting room had announced itself, warm and soft. In the still, dark sky, the moon shone down on Abigail and followed her home, watching and winking. The leaves sang a song of foreboding as she passed them, the moon’s light splashed across her face, but Abigail paid them no mind. In shuddering choruses their smooth, shiny sides tried to warn her, while their rough, faded halves told her the tale of the moon’s deceit. Of the leaf stitched from two stolen parts and the almond seed sown almost nine moons before. Of the fruit that Abigail’s hands were about to reap. In response, the moon just mocked the silly leaves, guiding the waves that drowned their song and crashed on the sandy shore, gnawing it and soothing it in turn.
10
While we’ve busied ourselves with the story of Abigail Davies, Raoul and Gustave have had their hands full with the solutions’ next logical steps. Gustave’s step landed him back on the paper’s front page, and Raoul’s sent him back to the Belly, waiting on a beer and a little black magic.
“Bastard!” Raoul chuckled. He shook his head over the Morning Crier, now wrinkled and tired from the long day’s wear. He was smiling when he said it again: “Bastard!” With gentle movements he smoothed the creases from the headline and, satisfied that it was sufficiently legible, he turned it wrong way round and shoved it at Cougar, who stood opposite him behind the bar.
PARANORMAL PILFERING OF PUYMUTE PINEAPPLES—TAKE TWO
“I saw,” Cougar nodded at him. He glanced at the paper and polished a shiny cocktail shaker with his sleeve. “He got you again,” he said, straightening his tie in the reflection that grinned and gleamed at him from the curves of the silver tumbler.
“Got me?” Raoul giggled. “Got me?”
Cougar was puzzled. He stopped his grooming and looked Raoul square in the face. “Yeah. Got you. You, Customs and Excise Officer Raoul Orlean who still doesn’t know where the first lot of fruit went and now another lot’s missing. Got. You. Didn’t he?”
But Raoul didn’t hear Cougar’s question. Raoul was off on that road of holes and humps, zigs and zags, obstacle and illumination that Mr. Stan Kalpi had traveled before him. He was defining his variables, adding them up, and sorting out the solution’s next logical step.
You remember Raoul’s variables lined up on the library table, shaded from the afternoon sun and Miss Partridge’s reign? The hanky, the hard candy, the keys, and the coins? The tiny plastic shoe, as small and insignificant as Gustave’s denials of dear Almondine, and the plum, soft as Raoul’s head when for a moment he believed them? There was a pencil, too, sharp as the buzz from the fly in Raoul’s brain that had said to come up with a plan.
The stopwatch suggested that Raoul take his time and wait, wait for Gustave to slip like the ballpoint that slipped and slid across Raoul’s notebook during their interview earlier that same day. Gustave had orchestrated the pineapple caper for cash and had even offered Raoul a slice of the prof
its, that time they talked mealybugs over hot pineapple wine. Raoul’s rainbow bills reminded him of that. His cigarettes, side by side in their cellophane pack, those told him that more and more capers would befall Puymute’s patches, though like the chewing gum whose flavor fails when it’s stretched, Gustave, too, would falter, if he tried to push his luck.
Raoul would let him try to do just that, and, like the bookmark, would follow the actions of the story’s antagonist until they grew sloppy and betrayed him. So implied the lip balm that had seeped its gooey wax beyond its cap and onto the inside of Raoul’s trouser pocket before landing on the library table. Raoul must watch and wait, and when Gustave inadvertently handed him a clue, a paper-clipped page in the book of pineapple plots, then Raoul could go back to the library and study up on what to do. This final step he deduced from the sorcery books and the dictionary that he suddenly saw as clearly and as plainly as noses on faces. If he managed to catch Gustave smuggling pineapples in flagrante then Officer Orlean would have some bargaining power and might just get Gustave to confess the truth about Edda and Almondine.
Which was why it made Raoul giggle with excitement that Gustave had struck again so soon and why he didn’t hear a word of Cougar’s question.
Cougar, unruffled, went back to his quiet primping, but not before filling one of the mugs that dangled over the Belly’s bar with island beer, and pushing it Raoul’s way. Raoul, newspaper still in hand, sipped and smirked and studied, shaking his satisfied head from side to side. He knew the story by heart, but he continued to read and re-read it, looking for patterns and clues to measure against what had happened and what was to come, confronting the curves and the detours of his dusty path. Confident that in due time it would deposit him, worn but wiser, home.
“You saw?” Nat asked and declared at the same time, as he slid onto the stool next to Raoul’s and swiped his paper. “Just took a lady mountain-climber to Dante’s Mountain. Says she’s always right about everything and she thinks we ought to call it Dante’s Hill.”
Left at the Mango Tree Page 11