Yours Until Morning Page 12

  11

  Moths beat against the window screen. Claire tried to sleep, but the sound of her parents arguing in the kitchen made the blood pound in her ears. She could tell they were trying to keep their voices low, but her mother’s angry whispers, and her father’s low grumbles floated up the back staircase. She tried to distract herself by counting down the remaining days of summer, forming a pyramid of digits in her mind and then watching them tumble down one by one in a rapid cascade. The summer was going fast. Only twenty-one more days till Labor Day and then school would start. The heat would subside and the first cooler days of fall would arrive, before the biting winter cold descended over the town, sealing it off from the rest of the world. Just when they were starting to be friends, Paul would go home to New York and then off to his fancy boarding school in New Hampshire. She supposed they could write each other letters after he was gone, but it wouldn’t be the same.

  His mother didn’t let him out much, but after that first time, when they had gone to the beach looking for rocks and shells after the storm, the two of them took to sitting on the front porch of Stone cottage nearly every day, out of the heat of the sun, where they played Parcheesi and Monopoly and Slap Jack and Gin rummy. They worked puzzles together and solved math problems in the brightly colored and expensive workbooks that appeared from the inside of the house in a steady stream. Paul was teaching her Morse code and together they were learning the Greek alphabet, all gleaned from Paul’s embossed set of encyclopedias. They never ventured inside the house together. Paul said he didn’t want to disturb his mother, who apparently spent a lot of time lying down on the day bed in the living room with a cool cloth over her eyes.

  The arguing continued in the kitchen. Ice cubes rattled in a glass, a chair was pulled back sharply from the table. Claire tried solving math problems in her head to drown out the noise, but after a few minutes she couldn’t stand it any longer so she crept out of bed and tip-toed out of the room and over to the top of the stairs, holding her breath, avoiding the places in the hall where the boards creaked so she wouldn’t wake Evie, or alert her parents to her presence. She crouched in the darkness and hugged her knees under the thin nightgown.

  “I just don’t want them over here,” June was saying.

  “It’s only a backyard barbecue,” John said. “And it would be rude not to invite them. Emerson’s the best assistant I’ve ever had. You should see the way the man works with wood.”

  “I don’t care how he works with wood. What will the neighbors think? Have you thought about what the Hutchinsons will say?”

  “I don’t give two cents about what the Hutchinsons say.” John’s voice was low and tight. “They’re not friends of ours, they don’t live here. In three weeks they’ll pack up their things and go back to their fancy home in Manhattan and we’ll never see them again.”

  “Well, then, what will everyone else think?” June sputtered. “It hasn’t been easy for me all these years. It’s different for you. People like you. They’ve accepted you. But I’m still seen as an outsider. I don’t have that many friends as it is. I can’t afford to be shunned by the whole town.”

  “I think you’re overreacting. Nobody cares about what we do as much as you seem to think. I like Emerson and he’s going to bring his wife. You may surprise yourself. Maybe you’ll like them. I had no idea, June, that you were so prejudiced.”

  “I’m not prejudiced. I’m not and you know it. I just don’t want any trouble. Look at all the trouble being stirred up down South with the marching and those freedom rides. Everything was fine until people started getting all worked up. I’m all for equality, but not if people are going to get hurt.”

  “They’re not stirring up trouble,” John said. “They’re demanding their rights. And it’s about time too. I don’t want to hear another word about it. I’ve invited them for next Sunday and they’re coming. And you will be gracious and welcoming to them like anyone else.”

  John mounted the stairs and Claire scooted back to her room. Her father’s tread was heavy on the floor boards, his breathing fast and ragged. Her nightgown flashed behind her like a ghost, and she slipped into her room just as he rounded the landing. She could hear his breath rattling in his throat. She couldn’t remember her father ever being this angry. The bitter tone of her parents’ voices made Claire’s heart contract in fear. They hadn’t been getting along lately. It was impossible to ignore. Her mother was frequently absent, both physically and mentally, away from the house for hours in the afternoons and when she was home, she retreated into dreamy silences. At dinner she was distracted and impatient, looking cross at her husband and children for the smallest reason, dribbled milk, spilled peas. The last time she seemed happy to be with her family was the day they all went out on the boat together, but already that seemed like a lifetime ago. She disappeared in the afternoons for walks or to do shopping, leaving Ben at home with Evie and Claire, something she’d never done before. She hummed a lot as gazed off into the middle distance, as if she were carrying on a parallel life.

  When Claire saw her mother looking that way she felt a flicker of panic, as if she was preparing to leave them like Jenny Carson’s mother had done two years ago. Nobody ever talked about it. Only Mr. Carson still went around with a gray face and sad eyes, aged overnight by his wife’s sudden departure. If it happened to the Carson family, it could happen to them. If only she hadn’t gotten sick, if only Ben didn’t fuss all the time. Maybe then her mother would love them again.

  Claire could hear her mother moving about in the kitchen, the sound of running water, and then her feet on the stairs. Soon her mother would be asleep, the whole house would be sleeping, the entire town and then the world and finally the universe would be hushed in slumber while Claire held her breath in her bed, trying to keep the earth in orbit by the sheer force of her will. If she stopped concentrating the earth would spin off into the blackness forever. She knew Paul would scoff at this idea if she told him. He knew all about the forces that bound the planets to their orbits, as if attached to the sun by an invisible rope. It had nothing to do with magic or wishful thinking.

  All week, a strained silence hung over the house. When they found themselves in the same room, Claire’s parents treated each other with exaggerated politeness. They said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to each other and ‘pass the salt’, in careful, measured voices. Her father spent more time at the boatyard than ever, leaving the house before dawn and coming home just in time for supper, only to go back again afterward to work late into the night. Her mother went out in the evenings – to walk, she said – leaving the house with nothing in her hands but a pack of cigarettes and a tube of lipstick. Claire didn’t know what she did on these walks, but whatever it was it seemed to improve her mood. When she came back home, her eyes were bright, her skin flushed. She would laugh easily and speak in a teasing voice. For a few minutes, the tension in the house would lift, but then as the evening wore on and everyone got ready for bed, the problems would begin again.

  “Something’s going on,” Claire whispered to Evie as they lay in bed, waiting for sleep to claim them. The room smelled of Evie’s talcum powder, Spring Garden, which she’d taken to dusting herself with after her bath.

  “What do you mean?” Evie’s voice was halting, as if she were testing the sound of it in the dark.

  “I don’t know. Mom’s been acting weird, don’t you think? Mooning about, disappearing in the afternoon and at night. And she’s always angry at Daddy.”

  “It’s just the heat,” Evie said in her grown up voice. “Mom says everyone’s on edge because there hasn’t been any rain. Except for that one storm back in July. All the farmers are worried about their corn.”

  Claire was silent. Her mother wasn’t a farmer. She didn’t care one way or the other about the state of the corn. Something else was going on.

  “Are you ever going to tell me who that boy is that you like?”

  “Maybe.” Evie turned over on her side
. “Go to sleep.”

  Sunday arrived, warm and muggy. By mid-morning the cicadas buzzed high in the trees, a dry electric sound that shattered the stillness. The leaves on the old oak hung like tattered newsprint. Claire’s mother had been up since dawn getting the house ready for the guests, making potato salad and coleslaw, peach cobbler and pitchers of iced tea. A lot of people had been invited, all the neighbors and her father’s friends from the boatyard and O’Malley’s bar. The guests were due to arrive at noon and as the hour approached Claire could see her mother becoming wound tighter and tighter until she thought she’d spin off into space like a top. Claire knew she was waiting for her father’s assistant to arrive with his wife. She knew that’s what they’d been quarreling about all week. All that anger and excitement because her father’s assistant was colored and her mother didn’t want him to come to their house as a guest at the party. Claire didn’t know any colored people to speak to. There were a few living in Lockport down on the other side of the fish cannery. They worked there or on the docks, but she rarely saw them in town. She didn’t know where they bought their groceries or did their shopping or went to church.

  Claire watched the guests from the kitchen doorway. Almost everyone had arrived, even all three of the Sanders boys with their hair slicked down with Brylcreem, and Claire still hadn’t seen her father’s assistant. Maybe they weren’t coming after all and everything would be all right. Her mother and father would make up and they would go on as they always had.

  And then she did see them, off in the distance, walking slowly down the lane, Emerson Wheeler in front, his wife just behind him, carrying a basket covered with a red-checkered cloth. Mr. Wheeler wore chino pants, a green seersucker jacket and a skinny black tie. His wife walked delicately in the packed sand, nimble as a fawn, probably worried about her high heels. Her pale yellow dress stood out stiffly from the crinoline underneath, and the neckline, embroidered with daisies, lay flat against her dark skin. Her hair was pulled back tightly into a low bun and pearl drop earrings hung from her ears. Claire thought she was beautiful.

  John was the first to greet them.

  “Emerson! You made it.” He shook his hand and turned to Mrs. Wheeler. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your husband’s the best carpenter I’ve ever seen.”

  His voice rang out over the crowd of guests. A hush had fallen as the others noticed the Wheelers standing there.

  But John went on talking as if he hadn’t noticed. “June! Come meet the Wheelers.”

  June had been stirring the punch bowl, busying herself with the food spread out on the tables set up for the party, but she set down the ladle with elaborate care and walked over to her husband.

  “Emerson, this is my wife, June, and this is Mrs. Wheeler.”

  “Oh, please call me Delia. This looks like a lovely party. Thank you for having us.”

  My mother reached out to shake both their hands and as she did so a strained expression crossed her face.

  “I brought you some buttermilk biscuits,” Delia said. “It’s an old recipe of my mother’s.”

  “Thank you,” June said, reaching out for the basket. There was an awkward silence. “They look delicious. I’ll just take these on over to the table.” She turned and hurried away.

  “Let me introduce you around,” John said. He steered Emerson by the elbow and began to introduce him and his wife to the other guests. There were a few murmurs and shuffling of feet. One woman looked pained when she realized she was expected to shake Mrs. Wheeler’s hand.

  Finally, Emma Sanders took hold of the situation. She pushed her way through the crowd and made straight for Delia. “I’m Emma Sanders,” she said, grabbing Delia by the hand and pumping it up and down. “If that isn’t the most gorgeous shade of yellow. Did you buy your dress here or over on the island?”

  Delia smiled nervously, her fingers fluttering at the neckline. “I made it myself. From a fabric remnant I got over in Vineyard Haven.”

  “Well, you certainly have a talent,” Emma said. “I do a bit of dressmaking myself, but your embroidery! Far fancier than anything I could ever do.” She took Delia’s arm. “I want you to try my potato salad. You’d better grab some before it’s all gone. I’m famous around here for my potato salad.”

  For the time being, it seemed that the ice was broken. Mrs. Sanders had taken charge and no one dared to cross her. Her voice was kind, but firm, ringing out over the group.

  June came out of the house, carrying a platter of fried chicken, and the guests moved toward the tables. John went back to the barbecue to check on the hamburgers. June had not wanted to serve anything but chicken because of the expense, but John had insisted. This was tradition, something they did every year towards the end of the summer, and he would not waver. They would worry how to pay for it later. Besides nearly everyone had brought something with them. Jell-O salads, corn-on-the-cob, and all kinds of cakes and pies. So it wasn’t as if they had to foot the entire bill.

  Claire was waiting for the Hutchinsons to arrive so at least she’d have Paul to hang around with, but they still hadn’t come, and now she began to feel that they wouldn’t come at all. Stone cottage looked shut up as if nobody was home. She sat down on the back porch and watched the guests. Evie had gotten all dressed up for the party, wearing the peach sun dress and her hair coiled into a French twist. Her mouth and cheeks were overly pink and Claire was sure that she had dabbed lipstick on her lips and blush on her face and she wondered how long it would be before her mother noticed and marched her into the house to wipe it off. Claire hadn’t put any special care into her appearance at all. She had dressed for the party in a pair of old shorts and a white blouse, sneakers and socks. She didn’t see the point of getting dressed up, not when it was just the same old people she saw all the time. There had been a showdown with her mother earlier in the day about her clothes, but this time Claire had won.

  After a while Emma detached herself from the Wheelers and they stood by themselves on the edge of the crowd, balancing soggy plates of barbecued chicken and coleslaw. Nobody went over to talk to them and Claire felt sorry for them. Now that they were here she didn’t see why her mother didn’t want them coming to the party. With her cinnamon skin and large doe eyes, Mrs. Wheeler added a touch of glamour to the proceedings. Her delicate collarbones swooped like bird’s wings above the neckline of her dress. The pearl drop earrings swung prettily in her ears, catching the light.

  Claire put down her paper plate and jumped up from the steps. She skirted the crowd of people, all laughing and gesturing, the men slapping their thighs and telling jokes, the women commenting on the food, and walked toward the Wheelers.

  “Hi, I’m Claire.” She stuck out her hand toward Mrs. Wheeler as she’d been taught when greeting people. Emerson laughed as he shook her hand. “It’s nice to see you again, Miss Claire. Delia, this is Miss Claire I told you about. Her father’s always going on about what a bright girl she is.”

  “He does?” Claire frowned skeptically, not sure whether or not she was being made fun of, and then addressed Mrs. Wheeler. “Do you have any kids?”

  Delia smiled. “Two little ones. A boy and a girl. My mother’s watching them now.”

  Claire’s face fell. “I was hoping they’d be more my age. There isn’t anyone for me to play with this summer, except the boy next door and he’s not allowed out much. Our regular neighbors couldn’t come because their mother had a burst appendix.”

  “What about your sister?” Emerson said. “You’ve got a twin, right?”

  “Oh, Evie. That’s her over there. We’re the same age, but lately she thinks she’s a grown up.”

  Delia laughed. She had perfect white teeth, but when she laughed she covered her mouth with her hand as if to hide them. “Don’t worry, your time will come.”

  Claire studied her face. She liked the way her laugh sounded, like water running in a stream. She liked her velvety voice and merry eyes. She and Emerson looked at each other and smiled as
if they shared a secret.

  Suddenly June was at Claire’s side, pulling on her elbow.

  “Claire, I need you to help me with something.” She gave the Wheeler’s a nervous smile and dragged Claire away.

  “Ow! You’re hurting me.” Claire wrenched her arm free and rubbed the spot where her mother had pinched her.

  “Come over here and help me a minute,” June said. “I need you to take a plastic garbage bag and go around and pick up the dirty plates.”

  Claire frowned. “You don’t need me to help. You just don’t want me talking to them. I heard you and Daddy fighting.”

  “Don’t be silly,” June said. “Now be a big girl and help me out. I can’t do everything myself and your father’s too busy talking to his friends.”

  Claire knew when she was being manipulated, but she took a plastic garbage bag from the kitchen and did as she was told, going around the backyard to pick up the dirty paper plates, flimsy now with chicken and hamburger grease and mayonnaise soaked through. Still nobody else went over to talk to the Wheelers and Claire felt ashamed.

  When she was finished collecting the plates, she sat down again on the back porch. Evie flitted among the guests, smiling and dimpling at them, covering her mouth with her hand when she laughed, smoothing back her hair. All of a sudden Claire felt dizzy from the heat and as she watched Evie charm her parents’ friends, her vision and the guests fell away. Then she saw Evie sailing away on a yacht, a yellow long scarf wrapped around her neck and trailing in the breeze, a handsome man at her side. She waved her arm languidly as the boat moved away from shore, heading off to unknown horizons. Maybe she was having a seizure, or perhaps it was just a daydream, but the image was so clear that Claire pinched herself hard on the arm.