That Camden Summer

by LaVyrle Spencer

  He was drinking from a silver punch cup when their eyes collided across the room. He raised his cup and she flashed him a dismissing smile, then avoided him while everybody else in the place was being introduced. Elfred was a respected businessman; his peers were all there: Jay Tunstill from the bank, Hamlin Young from Boynton’s, plus many more, along with their wives. The women tended to offer sterile hellos and back off immediately after being introduced to Roberta. The men held her hand too long and ogled her when they thought she or their wives were not looking. Elfred touched her every chance he got, always on the waist or back, always under the guise of being the polite host, whether Grace was near or not.

  By nine o’clock Roberta was ready to take a hatchet to his elbow. That’s when the music started and Farley came up behind her in the conservatory beside an enormous potted palm.

  ‘‘I’m not going to let you get by without speaking to me.’’

  She glanced at him coolly. ‘‘Hello, Gabriel.’’

  ‘‘You look very nice this evening.’’

  ‘‘Thank you. So do you.’’ He’d had a haircut and was wearing a black suit and white shirt and tie. His freshly shaved face was lightly burnished from outdoor work. Though his eyebrows would never lie neatly, their unruliness added to his appeal. He was, in fact, a sturdy, handsome man.

  ‘‘Are you still mad at me?’’

  ‘‘Yes. Are you still doing the work in my house?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘I thought so. Thank you for leveling the piano.’’

  ‘‘You’re welcome.’’

  ‘‘And for fixing my bedroom door so it’ll close.’’

  ‘‘That’s so it’ll work the next time you want to slam it in my face.’’

  ‘‘You deserved it. You made me very mad that day.’’

  ‘‘Well, I’ll be finishing up Monday, then I’ll be out of your hair for good.’’

  ‘‘Ah,’’ she said, and took a sip of punch. ‘‘Well, be sure you leave the keys to my new back door.’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’

  She glanced over the crowd. ‘‘I thought maybe your mother would be here. I wanted to meet her.’’

  ‘‘I told you, she and the Spears are not particular friends.’’

  ‘‘Oh yes, that’s right. I thought maybe she avoided coming because of her objections to me.’’

  He refused to comment.

  ‘‘I hear our girls are putting on Hiawatha on Sunday afternoon,’’ she remarked.

  ‘‘So Isobel tells me.’’

  ‘‘I also hear you bit her head off and told her you always go to your mother’s on Sunday afternoon.’’

  ‘‘Damn that Isobel. Does she have to tell you everything?’’

  ‘‘I found it very amusing. But then I’m sure you hear things about me that I’d rather you didn’t hear.’’

  ‘‘I’ve heard a few. Roberta, I was wondering . . . could I walk you home?’’

  ‘‘No, you can’t, Gabriel. I drove my car.’’

  ‘‘Then, could I drive you home? Because I walked.’’

  ‘‘Why on earth would you want to drive me home?’’

  He tried to hold his exasperation in check but could not. ‘‘Honest to God, Roberta, sometimes I really don’t know why! Do you know what an exasperating woman you are?’’

  If she hadn’t laughed, they might have been all right. But his honesty brought an unexpected outburst that could be heard above the pianist, who was playing a Strauss waltz. Several people turned around to look.

  ‘‘Oh, all right then,’’ Roberta conceded. ‘‘What the heck.’’

  When the party ended she expected him to slip up to her car secretly after she was safely inside it. Instead, he fell in beside her in the vestibule and took her elbow as she was thanking Grace and Elfred.

  ‘‘Maybe I should see that you get home safely, Birdy,’’ Elfred offered.

  ‘‘I’m seeing Roberta home, Elfred. No need for you to worry about her.’’ At least a half dozen people overheard and saw Elfred’s gaze drop to Gabe’s hand as it commandeered Roberta’s elbow.

  On their way down the walk she said, ‘‘Hadn’t you better watch yourself? Your mother will hear about it on the party line.’’

  ‘‘Roberta,’’ he said pleasantly, ‘‘will you please shut up about my mother?’’

  She smiled and followed orders.

  He cranked her car and drove it without any complaints from her. He’d expected the moment he made a move toward it she’d say, I can do it myself, Gabriel! It pleased him that she let him do something for her, for once.

  When they reached her house he shut off the motor and walked her to the porch.

  ‘‘I think we threw Elfred a curveball, leaving together,’’ Gabe remarked.

  ‘‘I wanted to throw him a lot more than a curveball all night long.’’

  ‘‘He does like to let his hands linger on you, doesn’t he?’’

  ‘‘Invites me to his house, then paws me in front of his wife. I could have clipped him.’’

  ‘‘Why didn’t you?’’

  ‘‘Next time, maybe. Thank you for rescuing me.’’

  ‘‘You’re welcome.’’

  ‘‘So I take it you’re not coming to see the play tomorrow.’’

  ‘‘Oh, of course I’m coming. How could I not when they’ve been carrying on like some fancy Shakespearean repertoire company? Besides, if I didn’t, I’d look like a degenerate next to you.’’

  His irony put a smile on her face.

  ‘‘Well, I’ll see you then,’’ she said as they reached the steps. He stopped and let her ascend them alone. Where he stood, moonlight shone; where she moved, shadows obscured. The screen door spring sang in the dark. ‘‘I like my new screen door,’’ she said, letting it rest against her rump while looking back at him. ‘‘Thanks for getting it.’’

  ‘‘You’re welcome.’’

  ‘‘And for bringing me home.’’

  He should have turned and left. She should have gone directly inside. Instead he remained, washed by milky night light, looking up at her dim form above him with the white edge of the screen door slicing down her shoulder. A moment of motionlessness passed before she said, ‘‘Do we know what we’re doing, Gabriel?’’

  Her near frankness took him by surprise, but he stood relaxed, in place. ‘‘I don’t think so, Roberta,’’ he replied.

  There was no question they were thinking about kissing. The setting and situation were classic—a shadowed porch, moonlight white on the lawn, the smell of spring lilacs blossoming somewhere nearby, the streetlamps of the town circling the harbor below, a man and woman in party finery having made up after an argument. But the idea was folly. Too much had been said. Claims had been made that warned them any intimacy would be capricious at best, misguided at worst. If they gave in to their whim they would undoubtedly regret it later.

  So they said good night and she closed the new screen door between them.

  They were perhaps a little too proper with each other the next day when he came to her house to watch the play. Anyone who knew them could have sensed undercurrents. But the only ones who’d ever seen them together for any length of time were the girls, and they were too busy to notice. The closest Roberta and Gabriel came to each other was at either end of the piano when she asked if he’d help them move it across the front room to the open door so that it could be heard from the yard.

  The production was poorly attended. Elfred and Grace found it beneath their dignity to sit on the grass of Roberta’s front yard and watch their daughters cavort in Indian costumes. Sophie, their maid, came in their place. Myra had begged off with a headache, and Isobel’s grandmother, while inquisitive enough to poke her nose into Roberta’s house when Roberta was absent, withheld her presence on the off chance it might have been misconstrued as a nod of acceptance for the divorced woman.

  But one set of parents came—the DuMosses, whom Roberta suspected wanted
to check out the place where their daughter was spending a lot of time, and judge it for themselves. They were polite but reserved, and brought their own blanket to sit on.

  Some of the kids from school came as well, including the boys who had given Roberta the fish. And— surprisingly—Rebecca’s and Susan’s English teachers, Mrs. Roberson and Miss Werm.

  The girls had been truly inventive, having set some stanzas to music and constructed their version of a birch-bark canoe to act as a stage prop while Marcelyn recited, ‘‘Give me of your bark, O Birch-Tree!’’ They had made a shroud of black with a yellow beak for Trudy’s head, and turned it around to reveal red on the opposite side while she recited the part about how the woodpecker’s head got red. Each of them had chosen a section of the legend to recite in costume: about what makes the shadows on the moon, and why the rainbow has colors, and why birds sing. Rebecca, wearing the moccasins enchanted, whose stride measured a mile, recited the stanza about Hiawatha’s wooing of Minnehaha. It began:

  ‘‘As unto the bow the cord is,

  So unto the man is woman;

  Though she bends him, she obeys him,

  Though she draws him, yet she follows;

  Useless each without the other!’’

  Roberta, sitting on the grass with her legs outstretched and crossed, leaned back on her hands and moved her lips silently with the familiar words. She felt Gabriel’s regard like one feels sunlight, a concentrated power focused in her direction, and when she turned her head, he was studying her in somber reflection, as if unable to help himself.

  Bow and cord, man and woman.

  It was a peculiar moment, endowed not with enchantment but with the realization that resistance existed on both their parts; further, that the need for resistance had developed somewhere along the line, and it in itself was a threat. How very ironic that they had stated their stands—he still loving his wife, she soured on men by the one she’d had—yet they felt their attraction for each other working on them insidiously, complicated by so many things: her divorced status, the town’s view of her, his mother’s admonitions, their children’s thriving friendship, their own friendship and vulnerability to gossip, the fact that two of their children’s teachers could be watching them at this very moment.

  Hoping their exchange of glances had not been observed, they returned their attention to the porch where the production continued.

  ‘‘Though she bends him she obeys him

  Though she draws him, yet she

  follows . . .’’

  Old Longfellow knew about men and women in this state.

  ‘‘Useless each without the other.’’

  But I am not useless without Gabriel Farley, Roberta thought. I’ve proven that. I’ve made the difficult move here from Boston and I can raise my girls, provide for them, love them enough for two and be happy doing it. I have a house, a motorcar and a job that gives me security and dignity. Why would I want to jeopardize any of that by succumbing to any paltry attraction I might feel toward the man?

  Neither did Gabe feel useless without Roberta. He too had a daughter he loved, a fine, clean, spotless house where everything ran smoothly (unlike hers), family who helped him out and cared for him, a thriving trade and the respect of the town. Why would he want to risk any of that by taking up with this divorced woman?

  When the play ended, they remained polite but distant, applauding with the others, visiting with the teachers, gathering compliments on their daughters.

  But while Roberta hugged hers unreservedly, Gabriel gave Isobel little more than an awkward pat on the back, and Roberta wondered if he was even capable of showing affection.

  When her guests dispersed, Roberta bid him a goodbye kept intentionally impersonal, certainly far less enthusiastic than the one she bid Isobel. Isobel got the customary hug, smile and loving send-off that meant Come back anytime.

  On Monday afternoon Gabriel was already finished and loaded up and cranking his engine when Roberta brought her car careening to a halt behind his truck.

  ‘‘Gabriel! Wait!’’

  He let his hand fall from the crank and strolled forward to meet her.

  ‘‘Something wrong?’’

  ‘‘No. I just promised I’d give you that inoculation, that’s all. I knew this was your last day, so I finished up early and hurried home. Come on in the house and I’ll take care of it for you.’’

  ‘‘Oh, you didn’t have to bother.’’

  ‘‘It’s no bother. Come on in.’’

  He had little choice but to follow her or look like a fraidy-cat.

  ‘‘This going to hurt?’’ he asked, growing tense inside.

  ‘‘Mmm . . . a little. But it’s so important. If we inoculate enough people we can lick diphtheria. Everyone counts. Next week I’ll be driving over to Northport to start on the schools over there.’’

  She led him straight to the kitchen and ordered, ‘‘Roll up your shirtsleeve.’’

  She left him standing while she washed her hands and swabbed his arm with alcohol, then got out her equipment. ‘‘Look away if it bothers you.’’ But he could not. What she was holding looked like a damned knitting needle, and the idea of having it jammed into his hide made Gabe blanch even before she gripped his arm to draw the skin tight. At the last moment she looked up and saw how pale he was. ‘‘Don’t look,’’ she said quietly. He turned away and closed his eyes. When the needle pierced his skin he flinched and whispered, ‘‘ Sonofabitch.’’

  ‘‘You all right?’’

  He sucked air through his clamped teeth and nodded.

  ‘‘I’ve never heard you swear before.’’

  ‘‘That hurts.’’

  ‘‘It will for a while, and tomorrow you may run a little fe—’’ She looked up. His eyes were closed and he was weaving.

  ‘‘Sit down, Gabriel,’’ she ordered, guiding him backward to a chair.

  ‘‘I’m sorry . . . I . . .’’ He couldn’t finish. Everything was going white and distant.

  ‘‘Spread your knees and put your head down.’’ She put her hand on the back of his head and forced it down, her hand remaining on his thick sandy hair and the coarse-grained skin of his neck. It felt cool and clammy. She stroked it once, twice. ‘‘Better now?’’

  He nodded silently, his head still hanging.

  She could see he wasn’t.

  ‘‘I’ll get a cool cloth. Stay there.’’

  He was still curled over like a vulture when she returned with the cloth. ‘‘Here . . . put this on your face. It’ll help.’’

  He took it in both palms and buried his face in it, bracing on his splayed knees.

  ‘‘Take big, deep breaths,’’ she said. ‘‘It’ll pass.’’

  While he followed orders she watched the rise and fall of his shoulder blades inside a tightly stretched red plaid shirt. She did what she would have done for any woozy child in school, put her hand there and lightly rubbed, making small, comforting circles on Gabriel Farley’s muscular back.

  Slowly Gabriel’s light-headedness faded and he became aware of her rhythmic stroking. It had been a long, long time since any human being had comforted him in any way. Human affection had been snuffed out of his life with Caroline’s death. His muzziness disappeared but he remained doubled forward, enjoying the feel of her gentle distraction, rocking slightly with each circle as her fingertips rode the valley between his shoulder blades. It was late afternoon, the sun streaming in the window and the call of gulls wafting in from outside. He’d spent some nice hours with her here inside her kitchen, where things were familiar. Outside somebody was mowing a lawn, the sound scissored through the house along with the green scent of clipped grass. And being touched, soothed was something he hadn’t realized he’d missed.

  ‘‘That feels good,’’ he mumbled into the cloth.

  So she rubbed him some more, watching him rock on the chair, so relaxed he’d given up all form of resistance.

  After a while she bent forward at the
waist to peer at his right ear and jaw. ‘‘You’re not falling asleep, are you, Gabriel?’’

  ‘‘Hmm.’’

  ‘‘Feel better now?’’

  ‘‘Mm-hmm.’’

  As her hand slid away from his shoulder he lifted his head. His face was damp from the cloth, hair pushed up and darker above his forehead where it, too, had gotten damp. His eyes were unguarded and steady on her. When he handed her the cloth his fingers closed over her hand and pulled.

  ‘‘Gabriel, I don’t think—’’

  ‘‘Don’t say anything,’’ he said, and toppled her onto his lap.

  ‘‘Stop it, Gabriel.’’

  ‘‘You mean that?’’

  ‘‘Yes. I’m not starting anything with you.’’

  ‘‘I’m not starting anything with you either. I’ve just been thinking about kissing you, that’s all. I got the idea you’d been thinking about it too.’’

  ‘‘It’s a stupid idea.’’

  ‘‘You talk too much, you know that?’’

  When he kissed her she stopped resisting. His skin was cool, still damp, rough around his lips from the day’s growth of whiskers. His tongue was warm and the slightest bit timid. She had fallen with one arm folded against his chest, the other free to roam. It did nothing of the sort but lay against his shirtfront inertly while at her back he still held the damp cloth. But he took his time, and grew surprisingly facile as the seconds stretched on. She opened her eyes once to see if his were closed. They were, and the glimpse of his eye-

  lashes at close range brought an unbidden skitter along her limbs. It had been years since she’d kissed a man— the slobbering pleas of her husband had grown unpalatable years before their divorce—and she certainly wasn’t going to let herself be unduly swayed by the first, thus becoming what all divorce

  és were rumored to be. So she let him do the work and remained merely amenable. By the time she sat up the wet cloth had wilted a circle of starch on the back of her white apron.