That Camden Summer

by LaVyrle Spencer

  ‘‘No, Mother, I came here hoping to do that.’’

  ‘‘Well, I’m not the one you hurt! You should see your sister. She’s been crying for three days!’’

  ‘‘Over what?’’

  ‘‘Over what!’’ Myra’s eyes bulged as she seated herself erect as an eagle on the farthest chair from Roberta. ‘‘How dare you come here and say a thing like that. May God forgive you for what you’ve done to your sister.’’

  ‘‘What have I done to my sister?’’

  ‘‘Made a fool of her before this whole town, that’s what!’’

  ‘‘Would you like to hear my side of it, Mother? Just this once? Because I think you should. I think you should hear my side of what that bunch of wizened old biddies is gossiping about at the Benevolent Society!’’ As she spoke her voice grew stronger and her head jutted forward. ‘‘I think we should finally air what we both have known about Grace and Elfred, and their miserable marriage’’—she rapped the tabletop—‘‘and Elfred’s philandering . . . and how you’ve refused to acknowledge it for what? Ten years? Twelve? As long as they’ve been married?’’ Her knuckles kept hitting the tabletop as she made each point. ‘‘And I think we should talk about why. Today. Here. Now. Get it all out in the open because I can’t live this way anymore, wondering why you dislike me so much!’’

  Myra’s mouth snapped shut. Her eyes receded.

  ‘‘Don’t be foolish. I don’t dislike you.’’

  ‘‘No? Well, you could have fooled me!’’

  ‘‘I’m your mother, for heaven’s sake,’’ Myra said, as if that explained everything.

  ‘‘Mothers stand behind their children. You never did, not for as long as I can remember. It was always Grace, Grace, Grace! I couldn’t please you if I had married the King of Siam! So why not?’’

  ‘‘Roberta, you’re overwrought.’’ Myra popped to her feet.

  ‘‘Y’ damned right I am! Sit down, Mother! You’re not running away from this.’’

  Myra sat. Roberta composed herself and lowered her voice to a more reasonable level.

  ‘‘When I was in seventh grade I won a poetry award, and they were giving me a certificate at school, but you didn’t come to watch me get it. Do you remember why?’’ Myra sat wide-eyed and silent, as if watching a cobra. ‘‘Because Gracie got sick, that’s why. Poor little Gracie had one of her ten colds a year, or an earache, or something else equally as unimportant. You could have left her with Daddy, but you didn’t. You stayed home and took care of Gracie and let me receive my award without either of my parents in the audience. When I got home I ran in to give you my certificate and do you know what you did with it?’’ Myra didn’t, of course. ‘‘I asked you where it was a day or two later, and you said, ‘Oh, it must have gotten burned up with some newspapers.’ And I went to my room and bawled my eyes out.

  ‘‘But I learned something from that experience. I learned not to depend on my mother loving me or supporting me, because you never did. Whatever I achieved, or wanted to do, you denigrated in one way or another, did you know that? When I graduated with honors you thought I should have stayed and worked in the mill. When I said I was going to move to Boston you said, ‘You’ll be sorry.’ When I said I was getting married you said, ‘Is he rich?’ When Grace said she was getting married you bragged to the whole town about how handsome Elfred was, and how successful he was going to be someday. I wrote and asked you to come when I had my babies—well, the first two, anyway. After that I learned not to ask because you weren’t going to come anyway. Of course you never came. As my children grew up and I wrote to tell you about their accomplishments you never failed to write back praising whatever Grace’s kids were doing at the moment. When George began his affairs and I needed someone so badly, what did you offer then? Nothing. Not to come to me or comfort me in any way. That was probably when Grace had her shingles and you had to go over there and cook for them. And when I finally couldn’t put up with any more of George’s women, or with his fleecing me for every penny he could get, I got rid of him the only way I knew how, but—what else would you do, Mother?—you blamed me for the divorce. You actually blamed me!

  ‘‘And now!’’ Roberta rose and bent over the table as her ire elevated. ‘‘Now that gang of know-it-all old hypocrites you have tea with has decided I’m not a fit mother and they’re talking about going to the authorities to try to get my children taken away from me. And if you’re a part of it, Mother, you’d better hear the whole story first!’’

  Myra gasped. ‘‘How could you believe—’’

  ‘‘I could believe it because you’ve never once in your life spoken up for me. They say I’ve been having an affair with Gabriel. I’m not. They say I’m having another one with Elfred. I’m not. But let me tell you about your precious Elfred. From the time I set foot in this town, he’s been trying. After all, I’m just a loose divorced woman, right? I must be easy prey for a slick, handsome devil like him, right? After all, he’s seduced woman after woman while his wife was right in the room—the whole town jokes about it, but Grace pretends it isn’t happening. That’s why she gets the shingles, Mother! Because her husband has promiscuous affairs with anyone he can, only this woman’’— Roberta tapped her chest—‘‘wouldn’t fall for it. This woman’’—Roberta’s voice began losing its fight and she sank back onto her chair—‘‘this woman said no, and slapped him, and forbid him in her house . . . until . . .’’ With her forearms flat, Roberta gripped the sides of the table. ‘‘Until three days ago when my car ran out of gas out in the country on Hope Road, and Elfred came along and found me.’’ Very softly, she asked, ‘‘And what do you suppose he did, Mother?’’

  Myra had drawn back hard against the rungs of her chair and covered her mouth with four fingers.

  A beat of intense silence passed before Roberta said, ‘‘He raped me.’’

  Behind her hand Myra whispered, ‘‘Oh no.’’

  ‘‘That’s why Gabriel beat him up, and that’s why Grace has been hiding, and that’s why my car was seen at Gabriel’s house late that night—he was doing what my mother should have done, taking care of me, holding me while I cried, letting me take a bath at his place and calming my fears. But I couldn’t come to you—isn’t that sad, Mother? I couldn’t come to you because you’d have blamed me, just as you always have. You’d have said surely I must have done something to tempt Elfred. You’re probably thinking it now, aren’t you?’’

  Behind her hand, Myra quivered.

  ‘‘Well, I didn’t. And because I didn’t, he gave me this.’’ Roberta tipped back her head. ‘‘It’s a cigar burn. It’s how he made me stop fighting.’’

  Tears had actually formed in Myra’s eyes as Roberta leveled her chin and sat back tiredly in her chair. Her emotional weariness equaled that of the night she was raped, combining as it did a fresh recollection of the assault with the confrontation she’d undertaken here today. Myra, however, kept her reactions under tight rein, sealing herself off in a peculiar trancelike fashion, showing little more than the glitter of tears in her eyes.

  Studying her, letting her own weariness show, Roberta said quietly, ‘‘Now I have to know, Mother. Are you one of the Benevolent Society who wants to see my children taken away from me?’’

  It took Myra a long time to gather her equilibrium and whisper, ‘‘No. I didn’t know a thing about it till now.’’

  Roberta breathed a hidden sigh. ‘‘Well, that’s one good thing anyway.’’ She waited for her mother to express anguish or concern about her condition, the way Gabe had, but Myra was too steeped in her selfishness to go that far. She sat instead, gazing through her tears at a spot to the left of Roberta’s shoulder, perhaps mourning the end of her delusions about Elfred and Grace.

  ‘‘Maybe I did favor Grace,’’ she said to the window frame. ‘‘Yes, I . . . I suppose I did. But there was a reason.’’ She paused, still without meeting Roberta’s eyes.

  ‘‘Well, tell me,’’ Roberta said imp
atiently. ‘‘I’m waiting.’’

  Myra collected herself dramatically, heaving an overburdened sigh and letting her jowls and shoulders sag while dropping her eyes to her joined hands. ‘‘I was raised in a very strict household—church every Sunday, reciting the Commandments every night at bedtime on our knees. There was no swearing there, no laughter, very little fun. Fun was godlessness, work would get you closer to heaven, they preached, and I believed them. It was a somber upbringing, but I loved them, my mother and father. They had come over from Denmark and used to tell us about the land there, and about our grandparents.

  ‘‘At any rate, they arranged a marriage for me to a rather somber young man named Carl Halburton. There wasn’t much to our courtship, no . . . well, you know . . . none of the silliness and mooning you’d associate with it today. But we married and he was a good man. Never very outgoing or warm, but a hard worker and a good provider. When Grace was born he was very proud.

  ‘‘But I had never . . . Carl and I . . . we . . . it wasn’t . . .’’ Myra looked down at her fingers, which worked a tabletop doily as if crumbling dough. She cleared her throat and began again. ‘‘Well, let me tell it this way. . . . A train spur came through town, and a crew came to lay it. They ran those tracks right behind our backyard, and this one particular young fellow used to see me out there hanging clothes, and he’d wave to me, and once he came over and asked if he could get a drink from the pump in our yard. And then he started coming to visit with me even after the crew moved up the line. He was a very handsome, smiling fellow, always full of mischief and jokes, very different from Carl. He made me laugh . . . and he told me I was pretty.’’

  The room had grown still. Not even Myra’s fingers worked the doily any longer.

  Roberta knew, even before the story continued.

  ‘‘What was his name, Mother?’’

  Dreamily, Myra answered, ‘‘His name was Robert Coyle.’’

  ‘‘He was my father, wasn’t he?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  It was a peculiar moment in which to feel close to her mother, that moment in which Roberta was told she’d been lied to her whole life long. Yet she had never seen softness in Myra before. It smoothed her wrinkled brow and relaxed her aging eyes, making Roberta wonder what her mother would have been like if Robert Coyle had stayed.

  ‘‘He left, of course, with the railroad crew. And Carl knew right away that the baby wasn’t his. He and I didn’t . . . well, you know. Not often. And then, after Robert left, not at all. Not ever again. Carl treated me politely, like a guest in his house. And when you were born, he announced that your name was to be Roberta, as a constant reminder of the sin I’d committed with another man. It didn’t take me long to realize what a good man I had in Carl Halburton—steady, dependable, somebody I loved . . . but by then it was too late. He went on shunning me till his dying day.

  ‘‘Grace was his. You weren’t. He never let me forget it, so I suppose I wanted to pass down some of my regret to you.’’

  Though Roberta waited, no apologies accompanied Myra’s soul baring.

  ‘‘But, Mother . . . I was still yours.’’

  Myra shifted in her chair, pressed the wrinkled doily to the tabletop and said, ‘‘Yes . . . well . . . it was hard.’’

  There was little dignity in begging for crumbs at this point, and Myra might have mellowed enough to tell the story, but it seemed she was not going to confess any love for her daughter or apologize for withholding it. What was done was done.

  Roberta sat back and glanced around the room as if coming awake from a seánce. ‘‘Well, you taught me one thing, Mother.’’

  ‘‘What’s that?’’

  ‘‘Never to cheat my own children on love.’’

  Myra turned pink at the cheek and her mouth got stubborn. ‘‘I tried very hard with you, Roberta, but you were always so headstrong . . . and different. Whatever I told you to do, you did the opposite. That’s not easy on a mother, you know.’’

  Some people can never admit they’re wrong, Roberta realized, and her mother was one of them. She continued to be so concerned with herself that she was blind to her faults.

  ‘‘Does Grace know all this?’’

  ‘‘No. I never told her.’’

  ‘‘You wouldn’t have told me either if I hadn’t insisted.’’

  ‘‘No . . . I suppose not.’’

  ‘‘So what about this Benevolent Society taking my children—you say you don’t know anything about it?’’

  ‘‘No! Nothing!’’

  ‘‘Who’s the head of it?’’

  ‘‘Oh, Roberta, you aren’t going to go kicking up a fuss over there, are you?’’

  ‘‘Mother, listen to yourself! These are my children I’m fighting for. If you won’t tell me, I’ll find out somewhere else.’’

  ‘‘Oh, very well, it’s Wanda Libardi, but she’s a friend of mine, so don’t go accusing her of instigating anything that isn’t true.’’

  It was typical of Myra that she would be more concerned about her friends’ hurt feelings than the welfare of her own grandchildren and daughter, but by now Roberta had become inured to her callousness. Why, she hadn’t offered a single word of commiseration about the rape or the burn, no expression of horror, no word of blame for Elfred. It was as if after those few meager tears she had blocked it out of her mind. Was she actually going to pretend she’d never been told?

  ‘‘Mother, you do believe me about the rape, don’t you?’’

  ‘‘Oh, please, Roberta.’’

  ‘‘Why would I make up such a story? And where do you think I got the burn if I was lying?’’

  ‘‘You and Grace are both my daughters . . . what do you expect me to do?’’

  Open your arms and close them around me.

  In reality, such a response would have been so out of character it would have been difficult to accept. Never having been shown physical affection by her mother, Roberta realized she really didn’t want it now. She’d had Gabriel when she needed comfort most. And the children, especially Rebecca. They would continue to be her emotional mainstay.

  ‘‘Nothing,’’ Roberta finally answered, accepting within herself that she truly meant it. She expected nothing from her mother and she got nothing. But she meant what she’d said earlier, that she had learned a valuable lesson from Myra’s coldness, and it had stood her in good stead through sixteen years of being a mother herself. Her children would never want for affection, attention and approval, not so long as she drew breath.

  Surprisingly, now that Roberta had expunged her anger, she felt more amicable toward Myra.

  ‘‘I really mean that, Mother. I don’t expect anything from you. I just needed to get my feelings out. I guess if you continue being good to Grace, she needs it more than I do anyway. I got rid of my unfaithful husband, and I’m secure within myself. She still has both of those problems to work out yet. Well, listen . . .’’ Roberta pushed back from the table and rose. ‘‘I’d better get going. I took time off work to come up here and talk to you, and I’ll have to make it up. I’m the only public nurse working this area.’’

  Myra looked relieved that the visit was over. She rose, too, keeping to the far side of the table. ‘‘Are you mad at me for telling you about your father?’’

  ‘‘No. It doesn’t change what I felt for Carl. He’ll always be the Daddy I remember, and if he wasn’t an affectionate father, he made sure we had what we needed. That was enough.’’

  ‘‘Well, that’s’’—Myra gestured vaguely—‘‘that’s good then.’’

  An awkward silence fell. Roberta couldn’t wait to get away and end it. At thirty-six years old she had done a lot of growing up today, and it felt good to have it behind her.

  She could not take the time to go up and accost Wanda Libardi about whatever the Benevolent Society had in its craw. She had work to do and ground to cover, miles to drive and cases to visit.

  And so much to think about.

&
nbsp; Her girls. Gabriel. Gabriel’s recalcitrant family. The frightening possibility of pregnancy. What the town was saying about her. What Grace was saying to Elfred. How Elfred was explaining his battered face. Elfred’s girls and what they might have heard about their father. Whether or not to marry Gabriel. Whose house they’d live in. How they’d get along, being such opposites. The Benevolent Society. Elizabeth DuMoss tipping them off. Gabe and Isobel coming over for supper tonight. The instructions she had given Susan and Lydia about when to put the meat loaf to cook. Rebecca and the Ogier boy who’d gone out sailing this afternoon. How wonderful Gabriel’s kisses had felt. How ironic it was that she and Rebecca were embarking on new relationships at almost the same time. The fact that she’d better have a talk with Rebecca about that.

  She was late getting home, and the others were already there when she arrived. Gabe’s truck was parked on the boulevard, and a new swing hung on the front porch; Susan, Lydia and Isobel were crowded on it. Rebecca and Ethan Ogier were petting a strange cat that had wandered into the yard, and Gabriel was sitting on the front step reading a newspaper.

  He put it down and got up as she slammed the door of her Ford, and he walked across the yard to meet her. A fine and unexpected leap lifted her heart at his approach. He was freshly bathed and combed, dressed in ordinary khaki pants and a white shirt that his new laundress must have starched and ironed. It had fold lines and a place for a collar, but none was buttoned on. The evening was warm and his sleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing his tanned forearms. As he moved toward her he wore a relaxed smile, and she thought how odd it must look to her neighbors to see the man waiting while the woman came home from work. But waiting he was, with all their children lounging on the porch beside him, continuing their preoccupations with an acceptance that granted her absolute freedom to walk toward him with a smile of anticipation on her tired face.