That Camden Summer

by LaVyrle Spencer

  ‘‘Time to go to work, eh?’’

  ‘‘Got to earn a living for my girls.’’

  ‘‘Well, you’ve certainly got a beautiful morning for it.’’

  ‘‘Yes, isn’t it? And I thought all Mainers claimed they never have spring.’’

  ‘‘Proves we’re wrong. Saw a couple leaves sprouting on my wife’s roses.’’

  ‘‘She was a gardener, was she?’’

  ‘‘Yes, she was.’’

  ‘‘I have a black thumb myself. The thing that grows best for me is weeds.’’

  ‘‘She could make anything grow. Her gardens were her pride and joy.’’

  ‘‘You still keep them?’’

  ‘‘No, only the roses. The rest is gone.’’

  A lull fell, tinged by a degree of pensiveness that put the smallest damper on the fine spring morning. To dispel it Roberta summoned a more cheerful note. ‘‘Well!’’ She bent back to scan the decorative spandrel around the porch. ‘‘The paint is going to work wonders, isn’t it?’’

  His gaze followed hers. ‘‘It’ll look like a new place in no time.’’

  ‘‘The girls will be glad to get you off their porch.’’

  ‘‘ Their porch,’’ he repeated, chuckling soundlessly.

  ‘‘They’ve staked their claim to it. The moment the paint dries their play goes into production. Seems we’re all going to get invited to the premiere performance.’’

  ‘‘All? Who’s all?’’

  ‘‘All us parents. You, me, Elfred and Grace. I believe they’ve put Lydia in charge of ticket sales.’’

  ‘‘You mean we’re going to get charged?’’

  ‘‘That’s right. You mustn’t let on that I’ve told you though. I think it was supposed to be a surprise.’’

  ‘‘I won’t say anything.’’

  They were back on comfortable footing and would have enjoyed chatting some more, but the paint was drying on his brush.

  ‘‘Well, I’d better get going . . .’’ Roberta began buttoning her duster. ‘‘. . . let you get back to work.’’

  ‘‘Good luck,’’ he called as she headed down the steps.

  ‘‘Thanks.’’

  He stood watching till she was halfway across the lawn, then called, ‘‘You know how to put that top down?’’

  Walking backward, she answered, ‘‘I think I can figure it out.’’

  ‘‘Be glad to give you a hand.’’

  She swung about and continued toward the car. ‘‘Thank you, Mr. Farley, but I’ll do just fine.’’

  He dipped his brush and went back to work, but when her back was turned, he watched her open the car door and reach inside to loosen the bonnet spokes and collapse it like the hood of a baby carriage. Then she went up front, cranked the motor and brushed off her palms. She got in, put on the goggles and waved. ‘‘See you later! Happy painting!’’—and off she went.

  Watching her drive away, he mentally shook his head, but an undeniable seed of admiration had taken root in Gabe Farley. He wondered, as the Model T disappeared up the street, if Caroline would have managed as handily if he had been the one to die first.

  Eight

  The regional office of public nursing for the state of Maine was located in Rockland, seven miles south of Camden. There Roberta took her orders from a sweetfaced woman named Eleanor Balfour, who issued her white uniforms and caps, medical supplies, gave her assignments for the coming week and advised her she would need to get a telephone wire into her home for which the state would pay. ‘‘A telephone wire?’’ Roberta’s face lit with surprise.

  ‘‘It’ll simplify your getting assignments and ordering supplies. Occasionally emergencies arise, as well.’’

  ‘‘And the state will pay?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’ At Roberta’s continued amazement, Miss Balfour smiled indulgently. ‘‘It’s one of these new contraptions that we’re all getting used to. If you object to people all over town knowing about your private affairs, don’t speak of them on the telephone.’’

  ‘‘No, I won’t.’’

  ‘‘A reminder about our service,’’ Miss Balfour continued. ‘‘It’s as much teaching as it is nursing—in homes, in the schools, wherever you go, be prepared to preach cleanliness and hygiene. Keep your eye out for possible contaminated water supplies, any signs of communicable diseases, especially diphtheria, measles and scarlet fever. Quarantine when necessary, and enlighten whenever possible.’’ She pushed back her chair. ‘‘As you know, Mrs. Jewett, a major portion of our fight is against ignorance. And . . .’’ she added with a smile, ‘‘. . . muddy roads in the spring.’’

  ‘‘Up in the mountains, I suppose they are,’’ Roberta commented as the two women rose.

  ‘‘They don’t call us nurses on horseback for nothing.’’

  ‘‘I won’t be on horseback, Miss Balfour. I own my own motorcar.’’

  ‘‘You do! Why, how excellent!’’

  ‘‘So far it is, and quite exciting.’’

  ‘‘And you’ve mastered driving it?’’

  ‘‘If not mastered, at least minored.’’

  Miss Balfour laughed. ‘‘Well, good luck, Mrs. Jewett.’’

  She found herself excited and needing someone with whom to share her exhilaration. Quite naturally, she hurried home to Gabe, little realizing how much she was looking forward to telling him her news.

  ‘‘Hey, Mr. Farley, I got my first assignment!’’ Roberta crowed as she barreled across the yard.

  Gabe came down off his ladder and stood at the bottom, wiping his hands on a rag.

  ‘‘Which is . . .’’

  ‘‘Inoculating schoolchildren against diphtheria. I’ll start right here in Camden, and get to as many as I can before schools close for the summer.’’

  ‘‘Jabbing children in the arm with those horse needles. They won’t be too happy to see you comin’.’’

  ‘‘Might save their lives though.’’

  ‘‘Ayup.’’

  ‘‘Have you ever been inoculated, Mr. Farley?’’

  ‘‘Nope.’’

  ‘‘I’ll do that for you, if you like.’’

  ‘‘Oh, you’d relish the idea of jabbing me and making me howl, wouldn’t you?’’

  Though Roberta was certainly not the coy type, she wasn’t above a little teasing. ‘‘Do you howl, Mr. Farley?’’ she said with a glint of mischief.

  He angled her a glance with some mischief of his own. ‘‘Been known to. Can’t say I like pain much.’’

  ‘‘Oh, come on. You’ve probably hit yourself with a hammer that hurt more than this little shot will.’’

  Suddenly, down below, the mill whistle blasted. Situated as the house was, just above the stack, it was close enough that glasses tinkled together whenever the steam whistle sounded. Roberta covered her ears during the deafening bellow, and Farley winced. When it finally ended, their ears kept jangling.

  ‘‘Phew, that thing is loud,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Can hear it for five minutes after it’s done blowing.’’

  ‘‘Well, it’s noon,’’ she remarked needlessly. ‘‘I’m hungry. Have you eaten your dinner yet?’’

  ‘‘Nope. Still in the truck.’’

  ‘‘I’ll make us some coffee if you want to come in and eat with me.’’

  ‘‘Sounds like a good idea. I’m ready to take a break.’’

  Ten minutes later they sat in her kitchen at a scarred wooden table. She was eating cold meat and cottage cheese while he worked on two hefty sandwiches. The room was far from neat, but he could see she had scrubbed it down and washed the windows. He could also see that her possessions were very meager.

  ‘‘Guess what,’’ she said. ‘‘The state of Maine is going to pay for a telephone wire for me.’’

  ‘‘You don’t say.’’ He smiled, his cheek bulging with a bite of sandwich.

  ‘‘So I can get my assignments and order supplies from Rockland.’’

  ‘‘W
ell, congratulations.’’

  ‘‘I think I’m pretty smart, getting a telephone.’’

  He reached for his coffee cup. ‘‘Just watch what you say on it.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘Party lines.’’

  ‘‘Oh, yes, that’s right.’’

  ‘‘My mother likes to listen in on them.’’

  ‘‘Lots of gossip in this town, I take it.’’

  ‘‘Ayup.’’

  They ate awhile, then she asked, ‘‘So what does your mother hear about me on her party line?’’

  ‘‘Mostly that you’re divorced.’’

  ‘‘Mm . . .’’ She picked up two of his sandwich crumbs and ate them. ‘‘. . . that’s pretty sordid, isn’t it?’’

  It took some time for his grin to grow. Then he drawled, ‘‘Yes, ma’am, it is.’’

  She sat back comfortably, enjoying him. ‘‘So tell me, what is your mother like?’’

  ‘‘My mother?’’ He thought awhile. ‘‘Oh, she’s a nice woman. She does a lot for Isobel and me. She’s a widow, has been for a long time, so washing our clothes and filling our cookie jar gives her something to do.’’

  ‘‘Does she know my mother?’’

  ‘‘I believe she does, yes.’’

  ‘‘But they’re not friends?’’

  ‘‘Not exactly. Why?’’

  ‘‘Because my mother’s not a nice woman like yours, I don’t think.’’

  He rested his elbows on the table and hooked a finger through his cup handle, remembering the one time he’d seen the mother and daughter together. ‘‘I could tell that day when she came over here that you two don’t get along so well.’’

  ‘‘We never did, actually. That’s pretty much why I left Camden.’’

  ‘‘How old were you then?’’

  ‘‘Eighteen. It was right after I graduated from high school. She wanted me to go to work in that infernal mill, and I absolutely refused. She thought I’d just settle down right here and wait on her, do everything she wanted, just like Grace. But my grandmother had died and left Grace and me each a small inheritance. Grace gave hers to Elfred to buy his first piece of property and start his business. I took mine and went away to college, which upset my mother a lot. She thought I should have done what Grace did, and of course she never stops reminding me how Grace stood behind her husband when he needed her to, and look what happened. . . .’’ Roberta mimicked her mother. ‘‘Elfred is one of the wealthiest men in town, and he’s so good to Grace and the children. Why, look at that house he keeps them in!’’

  She dropped the theatrics and continued. ‘‘I, on the other hand, with my college education and my worldly ways, have disgraced myself by throwing off a husband and returning to Camden with little more than the clothes on my back and this rickety furniture, thereby becoming an embarrassment to my mother. She fails to see that if I hadn’t pursued my nursing career, my children would have starved. Their father would have seen to that.’’

  ‘‘He wasn’t from Camden?’’

  ‘‘No. He was from Boston . . . from everywhere, really, wherever there was a roving card game, or a new get-rich-quick scheme, or a woman who’d come running when he’d crook his finger at her. He came home often enough to get me in a family way three times and to put the pinch on me for another stake . . . and another, and another, until I’d finally had enough. The last time he came I told him he was free to live with any woman he wanted. All he had to do was sign the divorce agreement. He refused, so I bribed him by offering him one last stake. Do you know how much it was?’’

  She met Gabriel’s eyes while he sat quietly, attentive.

  ‘‘Twenty-five dollars,’’ she said sadly. ‘‘He got rid of a wife and three daughters for a measly twenty-five dollars.’’

  He noted the hurt in her eyes, a pulling at the outer corners and a dying of animation. She looked away, staring off toward a window. The room grew very quiet. Roberta sipped her coffee but Gabe forgot his. All his attention was riveted on the woman whose face had suddenly lost its toughness. It lasted only seconds before her gaze returned to Gabe.

  ‘‘And you know what?’’ In place of the hurt a touch of pride lit her eyes. ‘‘I’ve never been happier in my life. I don’t have much, but I don’t need much. And I certainly don’t need a husband, nor do I want one. I’m rid of him, and my girls are thriving here. I may have a tarnished reputation, but I can say to hell with the rest of the world, because I know the truth. I survived with George, little more. What kept me going were my children, and they are what will continue to keep me going.’’

  She got up and refilled their cups. His eyes followed her all the way to the stove and back. When she resumed her chair their eyes locked but neither of them said a word for a long stretch. Then, still without speaking, he pushed his stack of cookies toward her.

  Silently she accepted one and for a while they sat eating, dipping the cookies in their coffee, thinking back over all she’d said, getting used to the idea of their becoming confidants, which they hadn’t expected. This frank exchange was novel for them both, and they wondered if it was wise to push it further.

  Finally, he asked, ‘‘Why did you marry him, then?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. He was pretty . . . and he was a charmer. Boy-oh-boy, was he a charmer. He talked a fancy game, and I fell for it, just like a dozen other women after me. Even my mother. I brought him here a couple of times right after we were married, and he kissed her hand and raved about her cooking and told her what a handsome woman she was. Well, she ate it up with a spoon’’—a faraway look came into Roberta’s eyes—‘‘and blamed me for my marriage failing.’’

  It was rare for Roberta to let her vulnerabilities show. Gabriel guessed as much and once again said nothing, only waited for her to go on. Soon she did, as if unable to staunch the flow now that it had begun.

  ‘‘I stopped coming back when George’s escapades began. I didn’t want to answer questions about why he wasn’t with me. But after I got divorced, I thought I owed it to my girls to give them a chance to know their grandmother. And Grace and Elfred and the girls, too . . .’’ She smiled wryly at Gabe. ‘‘Though now I include Elfred with some grave misgivings.’’

  He returned her smile and she glanced away. Suddenly the spell seemed to have broken.

  ‘‘Goodness, but I’ve bent your ear,’’ she said.

  ‘‘I don’t mind.’’

  ‘‘You’re a very good listener.’’

  ‘‘Am I? The truth is a man gets a little starved for adult conversation when he’s living with a fourteenyearold.’’

  ‘‘I know what you mean. Though there’s never a lack of commotion around here, a lot of it is exactly that— commotion. It is pleasant, talking this way.’’

  ‘‘So, go on,’’ he said, settling back, crossing his arms and stretching out his crossed ankles beneath the table.

  ‘‘Oh no, now it’s your turn. What about your wife?’’

  ‘‘My wife?’’

  ‘‘Or don’t you talk about her?’’

  He assessed Roberta as if deciding whether or not to answer, then replied, ‘‘Not much, no.’’

  ‘‘Why not?’’

  ‘‘Well . . .’’ He thought awhile.

  ‘‘Keeping her memory sacred?’’

  His brow furrowed as he searched her for sarcasm. Finding none, he relented. ‘‘Maybe. Ayup . . . maybe.’’

  She could see he would take some drawing out. He seemed to be a man who kept his own counsel.

  ‘‘Your marriage was a lot different than mine,’’ she prompted.

  ‘‘Oh, yes . . .’’ He reached for a saltshaker and absently toyed with it. ‘‘As night and day.’’ He sat ruminating for so long that she wished he had a crank, like her Model T, so she could get him started. When she’d all but given up hope of him speaking he pressed the bottom of the saltshaker against the table and said, ‘‘She was pretty ’bout perfect. I, ah . . .’’ He c
leared his throat and sat up a little straighter, keeping his eyes on the shaker. ‘‘I knew I wanted to marry her from the time we were . . . oh, fourteen, fifteen, maybe. Seems like I always knew. She was kind, and gentle, and pretty as a rosebud. Me . . . I was . . .’’ He chuckled and shook his head. ‘‘Well, hell, you know . . . I was this big rawboned thing with these big rough hands, and I thought no girl as pretty as Caroline would ever give me a tumble. And to top it off, I was a carpenter’s son, and bound to be a carpenter myself. What could I give her? Why, when she said she’d marry me I was so . . . so . . .’’ He couldn’t seem to come up with the word, but she waited, just as he had during her story. ‘‘I thought I was the luckiest man since the birth of time. And we had a mighty good life together. Bought that little house on Belmont Street, and she fixed it up like a dollhouse, and every day when I’d come home there she’d be with that smile, and supper hot on the stove and flowers around the house. Then Isobel came along, and Caroline wanted more babies, but . . . well, none came. Me, I was pretty grateful, because I didn’t like what she had to go through to get Isobel. She had a pretty hard time of it. She was . . . well, she was a petite woman.’’ He cleared his throat. ‘‘Anyway . . . Isobel came, and we had seven years after that before this one day—it was April, seven years ago next Tuesday, April eighteenth—she was getting into a buggy, going to ride out and enjoy the afternoon, she said, because it was one of those rare spring days when the sun was out and it was nice and warm, and she thought she’d take a picnic hamper up toward Hosmer Pond and see if the wake-robins were blooming yet. But she stopped downtown for something and just as she was getting back in the carriage the mill whistle blew and scared the horse.’’ He paused, swallowed. ‘‘It reared . . . and . . .’’

  His story faded into silence as Roberta glanced at the telltale shine in his eyes and he stared out the window. Her throat had closed and her heart tumbled along like a stone in the rapids. Time passed in her dreary, cluttered kitchen, the sunlight doing its best to spread cheer from outside. He stared, and she waited.

  When he finally spoke, his broken voice said as much as his words. ‘‘It’s hard to lose somebody when you aren’t done with them yet.’’