All the Best People

by Sonja Yoerg

  They arrived at a grassy area. As she removed the dress covering her bathing suit, Solange stared across the wide water at the Adirondacks, hazy blue like worn chambray, and north, where the big islands coveted their secret shores. She carried her daughter to the water and stood her between her legs. Carole squeezed her mother’s hands and made oohs of surprise each time a gentle wave lapped against her chest. The water at the edge of the lake felt more like a breeze than anything liquid, and looked like crushed glass glinting in the sun.

  “Come on, now.” She lifted Carole into her arms and waded farther in. The child gasped as the water rose to her neck. “I’ve got you, darling.” She kissed her daughter’s sun-warmed cheek and tipped her to float prone on the water, holding up her round belly with one hand and laying the other on her back.

  “Show me how you blow bubbles.”

  Carole stuck her face below the surface, blew air from her nose and lifted her head, sputtering and grinning.

  “Good girl! Now, kick. You don’t want to go under.”

  The girl kicked from her knees. The splashes delighted her. She knew she was sending water at her mother’s face and kicked harder. Solange laughed and held Carole’s knee in place. “Kick again, legs straight. That’s it. Kick, kick, kick, kick.”

  • • •

  A terrifying nor’easter had blown through ten days before. Sidewalks and streets were still blocked by downed branches and trees, and heaps of snow lay everywhere. The slice of lake at the bottom of Main Street was dull as gunmetal in the weak light of late fall. Solange picked her way through the mess, and Carole trotted alongside carrying an armload of sticks she’d collected to build a house. An oak tree, a foot in diameter, stretched across the path, the final obstacle before they reached home.

  “You’ll have to put down the sticks so I can lift you over.”

  “No.”

  “What will we do, then?”

  Carole looked to the sky, considering. “Can we build the house here?”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Thirty hundred minutes.”

  “We’ll miss supper, I think.”

  The girl frowned with such seriousness, Solange stifled a laugh.

  “If you leave them in a pile here, we can get them tomorrow.”

  Carole stepped off the sidewalk and placed the sticks on the ground, lining them up one at a time. She returned to Solange, who swung her onto her hip and stepped over the log. The girl was so heavy! Less than a year before she’d be in school. Solange hugged her closer, breathing in her daughter’s scent of baked pear and sun-drenched linens. “Darling girl. Should we see if Elsie has any cake left?”

  Carole burst into the kitchen, Solange hustling after her. A stockpot poured steam into the air, and two loaves of brown bread cooled on a tray. Elsie, tall and square-shouldered, stood over the butcher block slicing carrots, and greeted them with a wide, gap-toothed grin. Osborn had insisted on a housekeeper because his family had always had one. Solange wouldn’t have minded the housework but admitted she enjoyed the extra time with Carole. When the depression hit, Osborn had wanted to cut Elsie’s days from six to four. Solange convinced him their savings could not measure up to the hardship Elsie and her family would suffer. Osborn capitulated.

  Elsie served Carole potato soup and bread, then offered to bathe her.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Solange said.

  “Takes less time the way I do it,” Elsie said, not unkindly, and scooped Carole from her chair. The girl yawned and drooped onto Elsie’s shoulder.

  “Oh, but she loves to play in the water.”

  “That she does.” Elsie pointed at the newspaper splayed open on the kitchen table. “News about that boat wreck. Aren’t you kin to them Ploofs?”

  “My father is a cousin to the Shappies, so, yes.”

  Elsie nodded. She wasn’t a lake dweller but she wasn’t Protestant money, either. Solange kissed Carole’s cheek, held open the kitchen door for them and took a seat at the table. She’d never been one for reading news or discussing politics. But she knew the story Elsie meant. Everyone did.

  Solange scanned the headlines, mostly about the storm and its aftereffects. She’d been expecting the name “Ploof,” but her eyes snagged instead on “Reston & Howard.” Her husband’s firm.

  RESTON & HOWARD TO REPRESENT PUTNAM

  Capsized boat case “straightforward,” firm contends

  Burlington’s premier legal group, Reston & Howard, has been tapped to defend Henry W. Putnam against claims filed by Sylvester Ploof seeking restitution in the sum of $2,000 for bodily harm and loss of property during the storm of November 13.

  “We’re proud to be entrusted with this case,” said senior partner John B. Reston, “and intend to see our client vindicated.” Asked if an attorney had been assigned, Mr. Reston indicated an announcement was forthcoming. “Telegraph lines were only restored yesterday. We’re just getting our feet under us.”

  According to Chief of Police Timothy Stearns, Ploof and his family sailed on a loaded sloop from Thompson’s Point in Charlotte on a northerly heading. Caught in the sudden storm, they moored at a dock on Birch Island, owned by Putnam. The caretaker, Terrance Williams, untied the boat, which later succumbed to the storm and was dashed against the rocky shore.

  “We couldn’t verify exactly what might’ve been on board and was claimed as lost,” Chief Stearns stated. “It’s not like there was a bill of lading.” Thievery from vacation homes has risen sharply in recent years, he noted.

  Putnam was not available for comment, but his offices confirmed the logging executive has not resided at Birch Island for seven years.

  A trial date has not been set.

  Solange leaned back in the chair and shook her head. Such a slanted article, implying that Sylvester Ploof moored at the island to launch a raid. The injustice, the prejudice, brought heat to Solange’s face. The poor family had lost their boat—their home—and instead of receiving compassion were suffering insinuations of thievery and misrepresentation. It was so common as to be expected, but that didn’t take the sting out of it.

  The write-up troubled her in a more personal way, too. Osborn’s firm had taken the case. As the youngest attorney in the group, he would have had no say in the matter, but the association disturbed her. When the news of the capsized boat first reached them, Osborn had called it “a tragedy,” so she doubted he’d be eager to work on the case.

  Solange folded the pages, rose from the table and added the newspaper to the pile in a wooden crate next to the kindling.

  She went to the living room to read, but her mind was preoccupied by the article. She tidied the nursery then sent Elsie home early and prepared dinner herself. Osborn was eager to play with Carole when he arrived home, so Solange waited until the meal was finished and the child put to bed before broaching the subject of the case with him.

  “I was going to bring it up.” His tone was casual. “They’ve appointed me lead counsel.”

  She froze, her teacup in midair. “It’s not a subject for joking, Osborn.”

  His expression signaled annoyance. “I’m perfectly serious. And frankly, I’m surprised you don’t have more confidence in me.”

  “It has nothing to do with confidence in you. But you’re the least experienced attorney. Why would they put you in charge?”

  “Well, they suspect the case will spark social tensions in the community. I dare say it already has.” He lifted his eyebrows and held her gaze. “If an attorney of Reston’s stature takes the case, a liberal-leaning judge might feel more compassion for Ploof.”

  “And why shouldn’t he?”

  Osborn shrugged. “I can’t speak for the judge. He hasn’t even been named. But Putnam has the right to representation.”

  “Of course. But don’t you find it distasteful that a man worth millions is refusi
ng to part with two thousand dollars? His caretaker set a family adrift in a storm!”

  “Distasteful? Perhaps, but my job isn’t to take offense. And the caretaker was concerned for Putnam’s property.”

  Solange thought of the mansions, and of the shanties. “Property over life isn’t a toss-up. And look at it from Ploof’s side. He had no choice but to tie up at the first dock he could reach. And if it had belonged to someone of more modest means, they’d never have come to any harm.”

  Osborn frowned, weighing his words. “As I understand it, the strategy will be to show that Mr. Ploof’s reputation caused the caretaker to perceive a threat.”

  Solange edged forward in her chair, indignation rising in her chest. “If Ploof had earned that reputation, Osborn, you might have a point. But what other reputation could a family labeled ‘pirates’ have?”

  Osborn went to the sideboard, poured a cup of coffee and returned to his seat. “I suspect it will be a long trial, Solange. I don’t want it to come between us.”

  She sipped her tea and stared at the fire, reeling in her emotions. A log hissed and cracked. She lifted her eyes to meet her husband’s. His brow softened and she let go a little, too. He’d worked so hard for his position and had done so on his own merits, not by climbing on the shoulders of his father. He was dedicated, talented and serious, and Solange was proud of him.

  “It’s an honor they selected you. If only it had been a different case.”

  “It’s only the law, darling. There’s no need to take it personally.”

  • • •

  Solange arranged to meet her brother, David, in town to buy a gift for their mother’s birthday. Carole had started school, and Solange devoted her free time to the charity she’d organized in her neighborhood. The work brought her to the harbor, where she sometimes met her family. But David, several years her elder, plied odd jobs on the New York side of the lake and was rarely in town, so Solange was eager to catch up with him.

  They’d agreed to meet at two at Abernathy’s department store. Solange was early, so she bought the Free Press from the news shop and found a sidewalk bench from which she could spot David approaching. Reading the paper had become a habit that at times she wished she’d never started. The more she read, the better she could discern the bias in the reporting, not just about the trial—the two long years of it—but about any topic that ventured near the divide between rich and poor, landed and lake-dwelling. Burlington was two cities, she saw now.

  She skimmed the headlines until movement down the block caught her attention. In front of city hall, two policemen confronted a man, crowding him and blocking her view. One of the policemen reached for his billy club. The man stepped to the side, dodging them. He wore a flat cap and a worn woolen coat. David.

  Solange jumped up and rushed toward them. Her brother waved a sheaf of papers in the officers’ faces. One of the officers grabbed his arm and bent it sharply against his back. David swore and lurched in an attempt to free himself. The other policeman, his face beefy and red, raised his billy club.

  “Stop!” Solange cried.

  The policeman wielding the club sized her up, his eyes taking in her tidy dress, her polished shoes. “Don’t worry about this fellow, ma’am. We’ll see to him.”

  David scowled and lifted his chin at her. He’d read the policeman’s assessment of her and what it implied, and didn’t approve. Did he think she did?

  “See to him? He’s my brother.” Her mind spun in turmoil. “Let him go.”

  The policeman shook his head, his jaw set. “I’m afraid he was loitering in a public place.”

  David spat on the ground and held the papers aloft. “I was looking over some paperwork. Since when is that against the law?”

  The policemen exchanged glances. The one holding David’s arm released him.

  “Thank you.” Solange exhaled in relief.

  David shrugged his shirt into place and wiped the sweat from his upper lip. Solange came to his side.

  The red-faced policeman pulled a ticket book from his pocket and extracted a pen from between the pages. “Seeing as this lady is here to vouch for you, we’ll let you off with a fine.”

  He scribbled a moment and tore the ticket from the pad. David snatched it from him and stormed off. Solange hurried after him.

  Over lunch, he told Solange this sort of harassment happened all the time to him, to his friends. Even their father had been roughed up a few weeks ago.

  “No one told me. Why didn’t someone tell me?”

  He examined her as if he didn’t quite recognize her. “What good would it do?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice quavered. “At least I would know. I want to know.”

  “Do you? I wonder.” David pushed his empty plate to the side and placed his forearms on the table. “Because you can’t be everywhere, swooping in to fix things like you did today.”

  She nodded, anger and shame swirling inside her. She clasped her brother’s hand. He squeezed her fingers once, lightly, and let go. Sympathy, she understood, only went so far.

  That evening after Carole had gone to sleep, Solange marched downstairs to the library. Osborn had made a habit of retreating there after supper, avoiding discussion with her, of that she was sure. Most evenings she was relieved. They had laid out their arguments repeatedly, hers becoming bolder over time, his becoming more terse. But tonight was different.

  She knocked and stepped inside before Osborn could respond. He looked up from his papers, his face ashen, his eyes rimmed in red. He raked a hand through his hair and propped his elbows on his desk. Solange hesitated—he was exhausted—but found her resolve and took the chair opposite him.

  “They fined my brother today.”

  “Who? For what?”

  “For nothing! He went to the courthouse to pick up some paperwork for his boat—new regulations, I’m sure you’ve heard—and had the gall to stand outside the building looking over the documents. The police charged him with loitering. They raised a billy club to him, Osborn.”

  He cringed. “Well, there are statutes . . .”

  “Against reading a document at midday? It’s harassment, Osborn. Surely you can admit that.”

  “Perhaps it was a mistake. The police are overworked.”

  “Perhaps they wouldn’t be if they didn’t insist on writing so many citations for nuisance crimes, and trumping up petty charges. David says it happens all the time, and I know my cousin was cited for truancy and child neglect when his son was home sick.”

  “I’m sure there’s an explanation, Solange. In any case, what do you propose I do about it?”

  She rose from her seat, her shoulders squared. “For the last two years, since this case started, the press and the police and all the rest have set out to pillory my family and everyone else who lives on the lake.”

  “So it’s my fault?” He spread his arms in a gesture of appeasement. “Please, darling. Don’t get overwrought.”

  A year ago, even months ago, she would’ve backed down. She had trusted his perspective on everything, put faith in his authority, and his decency. She had bought into the idea that because the road he walked on was smooth, his understanding was deeper than hers. But she questioned that now. Maybe his road seemed smooth because he viewed it from a great height. Did he view her the same way? She didn’t doubt he loved her, but that, she was beginning to see, was not the same as knowing her. “Am I overwrought? Or is it that I have begun to open my eyes?”

  He pointed to the papers before him. “I’m an attorney. I’m representing a client. I don’t control the press or the police.”

  “But you lay out the arguments for them. You feed the prejudice. You make the case.”

  He held her gaze. “I’m after the truth.”

  She stepped closer, placed one finger on the sleek, polished surface. “There isn’
t one truth, not when the lies have already been told. Year after year these lies have been laid down like bricks in a wall. And the wealthy folks, including you, Osborn Gifford, are standing on one side of it.”

  15

  Solange

  When Osborn’s mother heard Solange had consented to attend the mayor’s annual fall party, she sent over a demure dress and jacket ensemble, something she might have worn, in brown, no less. But Solange decided that if she was going to be dragged to a highbrow event, she would not be clothed as a mule. She’d ordered the most daring dress she could find on short notice, in emerald green velvet to set off her red hair.

  The evening of the party, Solange examined herself in the mirror. The dress was fitted, with ruching along the sides, and cut to the waist at the back. Her hair flowed in waves over her shoulders, as she refused to adopt the cropped, sleek style favored by every other woman. Her only adornment was a headband with a delicate leaf design made of silver filigree and seed pearls. Satisfied with her appearance, Solange gathered her purse and coat and emerged from her dressing room. Osborn was showing Carole, who’d just turned seven, how to fasten his cufflinks.

  Her daughter rushed toward her. “Mama, you’re so pretty!”

  She smiled and took Carole’s hands, spinning in a circle to show Osborn the back. He gasped.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s, er, stunning.” Osborn collected himself. “You are stunning, darling.”

  “Thank you, Osborn.”

  She had no patience for parties, especially ones crowded with politicians, lawyers and bankers. But Osborn’s request that she attend was not pro forma. He’d said he wanted her by his side, and she’d softened a little, nostalgic for the time when they could not breathe without each other. Tension had accumulated between them like a rubbish heap, and what joy they did share was mostly in the company of their daughter. In his entreaty, Osborn mentioned that Evelyn Taylor would be there. The mayor’s sister was broadminded, kind and fun-loving, but spent most of her time in Boston, so Solange welcomed the rare chance to see her.