Write soon.
xoxo, Hattie R.
Ruby crumpled up the letter and went to take it to the outside trash.
She’d chortled at Hattie’s off-color gibe, but couldn’t risk Mary stumbling across the note, the teeter-totter of their relationship at that second precariously balanced in a straight line. With the boys gone and Mother and Daddy mostly absent, too, Ruby had to keep their careful kind of peace. And Mary was known to rifle through the trash, looking for scraps to refashion into something else.
Plus, it was a dang good excuse to leave the house for a breather, what with the radio on all day, bleating news from the front lines. Sam was still at the navy yard in New York, but suddenly the ocean seemed like the galaxy’s most treacherous place. Especially after seeing Sam last weekend, when he was granted an unexpected furlough.
While in Sconset, Sam said nothing about his fears, but he didn’t have to as they were crawling all over his face. He seemed nervous to get within two feet of Ruby, as if his jittering and jerking might knock right into their unborn child. There were moments Ruby wished Monday would hurry up and come, so Sam could get the fighting out of his system. She prayed that the navy would return her husband in the condition he’d been received.
Hattie’s letter still in hand, Ruby bypassed the outside bin in favor of a quick stroll up Baxter Road. No use getting back to the house with any pep. She’d had enough ear-to-the-speaker for one day. Sure, she could disappear to other rooms, but with all the isolationist business last summer, it felt like Mary was waiting, just waiting!, for Ruby to show a lack of patriotism.
Ruby’s feet rapped on the road. Between homes, she peered out at the shimmering Atlantic. Even with the war on, Nantucket twinkled like the prettiest girl at the dance. What was it Hattie said? Summer days in Sconset are why we’re in this war.
True enough, Ruby decided. On-island they were rationing like the dutiful Americans they were. No gas? No problem. Let it be sailboats that fill the bay and bikes that line the streets. Nantucket was getting too crowded with motorcars anyway. Of course, biking was never as breezy as a gal might fantasize. The haul to and from town was long and the pedaling murder on the slip seams. Not to mention the hassle of painted-on “victory stockings,” now that nylons were forbidden. “Mexitan” had a tendency to run.
Ruby walked a few more paces up the road toward Sankaty Head. It struck her just how on the edge of America they were. No wonder Boston chums assumed the situation was dicey in Nantucket, times two all the way over in Sconset. It was true they had the constant presence of the coast guard, who patrolled the island’s perimeter dawn to dusk. But the men looked sharp and were not without their charms.
At the top of Baxter Road, after taking some appreciative ganders at the sea, Ruby turned and sauntered her way back home.
As she approached Cliff House, Ruby noticed Miss Mayhew tending to her garden across the way. Ruby smiled, for of all the domestics that’d tramped in and out of their lives, Miss Mayhew was her favorite. Hired help was another thing deemed unpatriotic these days. All the cleaning and cooking now fell to Ruby and Mary.
“Hiya Miss May—” Ruby started, but had to stop herself.
Good gravy, she didn’t even know the woman’s name. That was some how-do-you-do for a person considered a favorite. So much for the fleeting wish that they might be friends.
“Hello there!” Ruby warbled, trying to grin away the gaffe.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Packard,” Miss Mayhew said as she rose from crouched to standing.
“Please call me Ruby. Golly, your garden looks swell. I should have you work on ours.”
Ruby blushed, realizing how it came across.
“I mean…”
Miss Mayhew winked, as if in on the gag.
“Perhaps,” she said.
Ruby smiled at her dumbly, trying to figure what to say next. The words Miss Mayhew, Miss Mayhew, Miss Mayhew wound over and over in her brain. Dagnabbit, it was way too late to ask for a first name. Ruby felt like an utter boob.
“Are you headed to the navy jukebox jiggeroo tonight?” Miss Mayhew asked, saving Ruby from herself.
Lucretia? Loretta? Charlotte? Ruby shook her head. No, it was a simpler name.
“Sure,” Ruby said. “I love a good jiggeroo.”
Ruby dickered with the buttons on her dress. Should she return the question or was the assumption that Miss Mayhew had the option alarmingly dense? Ruby grew damp beneath her arms. She looked down to see rivulets of sweat gumming up her Mexitan.
“So, er, what are you up to the rest of the day?” she asked.
Just then a girl pedaled up on her bike, no care to the slip seams. This was a local dame, plain-faced and thick-ankled. Ruby recognized her as the woman who’d recently earned top spot as the island’s most famous old maid.
“Hi there, Marg,” Miss Mayhew said, and gave her friend a hug. “Margaret Hamblin, this is Ruby Packard. Mrs. Packard, this is my dear friend Margaret.”
“Miss Hamblin,” Ruby said, and jutted out an arm. “I’m honored to meet you.”
Margaret Hamblin was big news thanks to her boyfriend, a seaman from New Bedford who’d been found on a life raft in the middle of the ocean. His unarmed freighter was bombed by a Nazi submarine and he’d bobbed along for thirty-two days before rescue.
Several started out on the raft, but expeditiously met their gruesome ends. The man’s best mate, driven to lunacy by the cold and exposure, threw their food overboard before hurling himself into the deep blue. The only thing that survived, other than the man, was a picture of Margaret Hamblin.
“What a love story!” Ruby cried when she heard about it over a hand of bridge at the casino.
“I can’t believe his ‘girlfriend’ is thirty-five” had been Mary’s generous response.
It was bonkers, this war. Margaret’s beau wasn’t even a serviceman but they tried to sink him all the same.
“I’m so sorry about your Jules,” Ruby said. “And what he endured. But I’m thrilled he’s home where he belongs.”
“I didn’t realize news had traveled quite that far,” Margaret said, eyes jumping toward Cliff House.
“Uh, er…” Ruby stuttered.
“In any case, thank you for your kind words.”
“Well, I’ll let you two be,” Ruby said quickly, the air suddenly changed around them. “Nice to run into you both.”
Ruby flipped around and cut a path toward Cliff House. She glanced back once more to see the girls link arms. Thoughts of Hattie hit her in the chest with a pain that was sharp and real. Ruby reached into the pocket of her dress to feel for the letter. No need to dump it just yet. She’d find a way to keep it from Mary’s prying eyes.
August 23, 1942
Dear Rubes,
Oh you silly billy goat!
Don’t let Mary talk you into the blue moods about my being a career gal. Working for a living is hardly a chore given the men I work with. They’re all here. The ballplayers on the field, the serious types back at the paper, and, yes, the married ones, too. Don’t fuss! I steer clear of those fellas, despite their efforts. I have their number and the bid is not high enough. All that to say, the war hasn’t stolen all the men.
Ruby love, I might be a ways from having a ring on my finger (thank God!) but don’t fret about me dying from old maidism just yet. I’m not going to end up like the dame from the life raft, or however that convoluted story went. Gotta say I didn’t follow you all the way down that road but I think I sorta got the gist.
So tell me all about the island! I’m crushed that I didn’t get out this year. Never mind Dad’s old cottage, it’s Cliff House that I miss! There’s no place like Sconset on the whole damned planet. I would know. I’ve been to a country or twelve. Ha! I imagine it’s different with the boys gone but, let’s be honest, it’s the gals who keep things going.
Well, my dear, off I must go. Come and visit me in the city, won’t you? I know driving with gas is a no-go and every train is fil
led with servicemen. But you could charm any soldier off his seat. They’d be G-eyeing you left and right.
In the meantime, take care of that bean inside your tum. If it’s a girl, you shall name her Harriet. If it’s a boy, Harriet would suit, too. Simply call him Harry.
Farewell sweet Ruby—until next time.
Love and kisses,
H.R.
* * *
For a Saturday evening, Cliff House was unsettlingly empty.
Mary was off doing this or that with the Red Cross. She’d graduated from rolling bandages and was now permitted to dicker with actual human flesh. Hard evidence that these were desperate times.
Mother remained in Boston, the “not feeling well” number playing once more. The quintessential repeat show, a maddening encore. Sure as sugar (or not, since it was rationed), she stayed to look after Daddy, though she claimed he was doing swell. Mother always took his weaknesses as hers to bear. Ruby supposed that’s what a good woman did.
“Do I need to come see him?” Ruby asked one week before.
To say good-bye, she was too terrified to add.
“No!” Mother yowled, quite snippy for her. “We’re not there yet. I’ll let you know when it’s time. Don’t stew, darling. Your father is a stubborn old mule. You stay put and look after my grandchild. I don’t want you traveling about.”
So with Mary and Mother gone, not to mention the permanent absence of Hattie, Ruby was bored right out of her noggin. She’d already played four sets of tennis that day and tried to chat up Miss Mayhew to little success. And wouldn’t you know? Now she needed a smoke and was flat out of cigs.
Ruby checked her cigarette case and her two-in-one as well. She surveyed drawers and cupboards galore, not to mention Mary’s way station for “Bundles for Bluejackets.” The servicemen care packages included cigs but nary a spare could be found. Mary would never be so sloppy, which left one more option for snaffling some smokes: Topper’s room. He wasn’t the kind to let a butt go unused but he could be slovenly as hell.
Topper last visited Cliff House in April—over four months ago—and not body nor soul had entered his room since. When Ruby turned the knob, the door opened with a groan. She stepped gingerly on through, as if in a museum.
Glancing around at the trophies and flags and books, too many Hardy Boys to count, Ruby could almost kid herself that he’d be back soon. Except the room was too neat, too tidied and final.
With a sigh, Ruby approached his desk, which was un-Topper clean, no stray papers, golf pencils, or ball caps. No cigs either, as her luck would go. Ruby glanced up at the large crimson Harvard flag overhead.
“Come on, Topper,” she said. “Help out your big sis.”
Ruby jimmied open a drawer. Tops would flip his wig if he saw her mousing around like that but she needed a smoke and it didn’t seem like her brother’s room anymore. Or so Ruby told herself to make the situation square.
The drawers themselves were far more Topper, thank the stars. They were cluttered and jammed to the gills, a bit of him left after all. There had to be at least one loose cig somewhere.
In the bottom drawer, Ruby uncovered a stack of pictures. They featured family, mostly, though she found some friends, too. As she flicked through them, Ruby smiled. She imagined her baby brother fopping about, that camera jangling from his neck. Tops was a dang good photographer for a hobbyist. He should’ve gone to war for that and stayed behind the lines, shooting a camera instead of a gun.
Among the bundle were several of Hattie, Topper having expertly captured her beauty and light. She was at the beach in one, looking as though she were floating and not walking along.
Another was up close of Hattie’s face, seconds after she stepped out of the ocean, saltwater glittering between her lashes. Ruby got the puzzling notion that Topper was the reason Hattie hadn’t come out this season. Perhaps deep down it was him, not Ruby, who was last summer’s featured star.
Gummed up with nostalgia and love, for Hattie and Topper and the other familiar faces, Ruby wormed her way to the bottom of the drawer. Then, something caught her eye. A photograph. Something … strange. And a few more just like it. Heart floundering, Ruby studied them, her mind unable to piece together any semblance of sense.
“Ruby!” shouted a voice, followed by the thumping of feet. “Ruby! Where are you?!”
It took Ruby a minute to realize the sound was not in her head.
“Mary?” she said, confused.
Ruby peeked out into the hallway, where she saw Mary stampeding her way. She had on her full warden outfit, white helmet, black armband, and all.
Suddenly, an alarm began to sound.
“There you are!” Mary said.
It was an air raid drill, which was why her sister-in-law was too wound up to question Ruby’s presence in that room.
“I need to patrol the streets,” Mary said.
“I’ll come with you. Give me a moment to, uh, collect myself.”
Ruby turned and scurried back over to Topper’s desk. She dropped the photographs into their hideout and slammed the drawer closed.
“Come with me?” Mary said. “I’m the warden.”
“I know, I just thought…”
“No, you need to turn off all the lights,” she said over the whirring siren. “And put down the blinds. The warden’s house has to be in tip-top shape.”
“Okeydoke, consider it done,” Ruby said, grateful for the task.
Mary left for her patrol and Ruby set to pulling down the blackout shades, all the while Topper’s pictures flashing in her mind.
Those were Topper’s pictures, yes? Or they weren’t. Ruby still couldn’t decide exactly what she’d seen. And so she concentrated on her duties—a good distraction for now. Alas, between the drill and the events that followed, the images would fade almost completely away. It’d be silly to worry about a bunch of pictures when, by nightfall, Ruby’s entire world would transform once more.
38
Island ACKtion
GEOTUBES APPROVED!
May 23, 2013
Tonight the Board of Selectmen voted to approve the installation of geotubes along Sankaty Bluff. In a last-ditch effort to save the receding shoreline along Baxter Road, the board voted 3–2 to enter into a memo of understanding with the Sankaty Bluff Preservation Fund to support and help fund the geotube project.
“What bull*#*,” says lifelong Sconset resident and commercial fisherman Chappy Mayhew. “Complete and utter crap. I can’t believe those idiots voted for it.”
This news comes mere days after the selectmen struck down a hard armor measure, citing it as excessively detrimental to Nantucket’s shoreline. Naturally, town pot-stirrer Cissy Codman refused to take “no” for an answer. So while most of Nantucket thought Cliff House and its neighbors were down for the count, Cissy deployed the ever-popular “we’ll sue the pants off you” measure. It worked.
“I didn’t threaten to sue anyone,” she insists. “I simply had an attorney enumerate Nantucket’s legal responsibility to run utilities to that part of the island. The collapse of the bluff would cut off plumbing and electricity to most residents on Baxter Road. But, thanks to the wise decision of our esteemed selectmen, that won’t happen. I look forward to working together to ensure a successful geotube installation.”
In case the indomitable Mrs. Codman hasn’t gotten a hold of you by phone or by bike, geotubes are large sand-filled jute “burrito bags,” which will be installed in a terrace-like fashion along nine hundred feet of bluff. They’ll be held in place with anchors and covered in sand.
Proponents say geotubes not only protect the bank, but are compatible with the existing beach. As opposed to seawalls, they also minimize harm to downdraft beaches and do not adversely affect marine wildlife. What’s more, geotubes aid with storm damage prevention and flood control, enhance the view, and preserve recreation trails and public access to the glorious Siasconset beaches.
That’s what Cissy tells us anyway.
Listen, I’m the last person who would rain on Cissy’s parade. I don’t want to end up tied to concrete blocks and rolled into the harbor. But while the geotubes sound great and all, isn’t it ridiculously too late?
* * *
ABOUT ME:
Corkie Tarbox, lifelong Nantucketer, steadfast flibbertigibbet. Married with one ankle-biter. Views expressed on the Island ACKtion blog (Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, et al.) are hers alone. Usually.
* * *
39
Friday Morning
Bess and Palmer sit on a bench in the hallway of the casino, surrounded by the club’s famed latticework. They’re donning their choicest of tennis whites, as white must be worn on these courts. It’s a rule.
Palmer is gently kicking at her racquet while surveying the damp red clay outside. She’s in a one-piece dress, which is both retro and stunningly modern. Bess has on an old skirt and a top borrowed from Cissy. On this trip she did not pack for sport.
As Palmer sighs, Bess checks her watch for a fifth time, and then a sixth. It’s been raining steadily all morning. Though the club boys stand ready by the door, poised to brush the courts as soon as the weather breaks, Bess is certain there’ll be no tennis today. It isn’t the worst development. She’s not really in the mood for getting beaten.
“Should we go?” Bess asks. “The weather doesn’t look too promising.”
“Let’s wait a teensy bit longer,” Palmer says. “I’m dying to play! It’s been ages. Golly I miss it.”
The Book of Summer Page 21