Yours Until Morning Page 17

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  During the long winter evenings, after we had eaten our dinner and washed the dishes, after Evie and I were in our pajamas and ready for bed, our father would come up to our room and sit in the chair by the window and tell us stories about the sea. Fantastic tales of the great explorers, who’d set sail in their wooden ships in search of the unknown, braving mythical sea monsters and their fears of falling off the end of the earth, into the darkness. His hands would make big circles in the air as he spoke about the men’s courage and their stubborn drive to chart the globe. His eyes would glint and grow melancholy in turns as he talked about the whalers of the last century, going off for months or years at a time to hunt the great beasts and bring home a cargo of whale oil, leaving their children and womenfolk to ponder the dangers they were facing, who sent up to heaven countless prayers for a safe return.

  When my father told us these stories, Evie would drift off to sleep but I would struggle to stay awake, not so much to hear the tales themselves, but for the fact that it was my own father who was telling them, balanced on the edge of a straight-back chair, his voice rising and falling in the darkened room. I listened hard to hear what he was saying. Not just about those other men, but about himself. I used to imagine I heard a whisper of regret in his voice, as if he wished he’d been born in another time, to be one of those men, heading into the unknown, not sure what would be waiting when you arrived. There was something magical and mysterious about the sea, he said. A siren call of the deep that some men found impossible to ignore, as if the sea were a beautiful woman offering tantalizing delights.

  Once he told me that his favorite thing to do was to stand on the edge of the land and face the sea, to feel the pull of the tide at his feet, and the movement of waves and water that swept all the way to the coast of Africa. He talked about sailing around the world, following, in a modern craft, the routes of the old explorers, to see with his own eyes the wonders of Tierra del Fuego and the islands of the South Seas, to sail around the Cape of Good Hope and then straight across the Indian Ocean.

  I would get out the Atlas on winter afternoons, when the skies were filled with sleet and snow, and trace with my finger the path of his stories, imagining a small boat on a dark sea, forging into the unknown, against the elements and the tides, charting a course with the help of the stars.

  For weeks the sky has been clear as glass and the stars come out at night with an intensity that makes my head spin, the moon so round and yellow it seems to have been cut out of paper and pasted up against the blackness. No man has walked on the moon yet, but I am waiting for that day, when another dark place is charted, when one more unknown corner of the universe is illuminated forever.

  15

  June swam upward through layers of sleep. Somewhere in her dreams was the sound of screeching, like the strange, insistent call of a tropical bird. With a jerk she sat up in bed to the ringing of the telephone down in the kitchen. She felt drugged with sleep, woozy with exhaustion. Her heart fluttered in her chest. “John. John? The phone. Don’t you hear it?” June reached over and jiggled his arm.

  Instantly John was awake. He bolted upright and dashed downstairs where the phone was. June lay back down under the damp sheet, imagining all sorts of terrors. Someone had died or drowned, someone’s boat was lost at sea. She could hear John’s low rumble and then the sound of the phone being put down. The house rocked slightly as he raced back upstairs taking two steps at a time.

  “The cannery’s on fire. They need a few extra hands. I’m going over there.” He was pulling on his clothes as he talked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  June sat up in bed, holding the sheet to her throat. “The fish cannery? Do you have to go? It could be dangerous.”

  He buttoned his shirt and bent to kiss her cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’ll call as soon as there’s news.”

  “Be careful.” June waited till she heard the back door close and then got up out of bed, padding across the wooden floor in her bare feet. She ducked into the alcove to check on Ben. He was fast asleep, his thumb stuck into his mouth. He’d kicked the blanket away and his toes moved rhythmically as if he were swimming against the tide. There was movement in the girls’ room.

  “Mom?” Claire was standing in the doorway. “Where’s Daddy gone?”

  “There’s a fire in town,” June said. “The canning factory. Don’t worry, go back to sleep, everything’s fine.” She ushered Claire back into her room, where Evie was sitting up in bed, her eyes large and worried in her small face.

  “Nothing to worry about. Go back to sleep,” June whispered.

  She closed the door over, leaving it open just a crack so some light could seep in from the hall. As for herself, she wasn’t tired anymore; the thought of the fire had electrified her nerves. She went down into the kitchen. It was four o’clock, the darkest time of night, but it would be light in an hour or so. June measured coffee and water into the electric percolator and plugged it in. She pulled up a chair and lit a cigarette. Her mouth felt dry and ashy. It was too early to smoke so she stubbed it out. When the coffee was ready she took her steaming cup out onto the back screened porch and curled up in one of the chairs. It was cooler here and she lifted her face, testing the air, nostrils quivering. Was that smoke she smelled? If the wind was blowing in the right direction it would carry the smoke this way. She imagined black, oily clouds billowing out over the town, covering the nearby houses with a sticky, rancid film. She fervently hoped that no one was hurt, but she couldn’t say she was sorry the cannery was burning. She’d always disliked the sight and the smell of that place, the down-trodden workers, mostly immigrant women from Portugal, with their sweat-flattened hair and muscular arms. How could the town ever attract more summer visitors with a place like that smack dab on the water, occupying some of the best beach property on this part of the coast? Richard was right, that area would be perfect for a housing development, lovely summer rentals for people from Boston, Providence, and New York. Perhaps if the cannery were a total loss, his real estate friend would be able to develop the property now.

  She opened the screen door and stepped outside, enjoying the feel of the dewy grass on her bare toes. It was dark over at Stone cottage, but of course Richard would not have received a phone call, he was just a summer resident, not someone like John who had a stake in the town’s welfare. It was quiet all around her. Too quiet. Much too early for the birds to start their dawn chatter. June walked a little way down the lane, feeling her way cautiously in the dark. In the East the edge of the sky had lightened to a pearly gray, outlining the scrubby pines and dunes the color of slate. As her eyes adjusted shapes began to take form, although everything looked a bit sinister in this half-light. She held her breath and crept past Stone cottage, picturing Richard asleep inside, lying in bed next to his wife – or did they have separate beds like she and John? He’d told her he didn’t make love to his wife anymore, that it had been months and months since they’d been intimate, but June wasn’t sure she believed him. Maybe it was only what she wanted to believe, that her body, and her body alone, could excite Richard’s desire.

  The cool air kissed her skin. Dew trembled on the grass. June walked to the end of the lane, exhilarated by her sense of daring. What if someone saw her out here in her flimsy nightie? But there was no one about. She turned her face in the direction of town, trying to catch a whiff of smoke. Something acrid was definitely in the air. It could be smoke from the cannery, but perhaps it was just the scent of summer fading. She hoped John was all right, that he wouldn’t do anything foolhardy. All she needed now was for him to play hero. He wouldn’t be able to work if he got hurt. Or worse. How would she survive as a widow? She’d be forced to work at some low-paying job, perhaps as a waitress in Dot’s Coffee Shop, standing behind the counter in an unflattering uniform, filling the coffee cups of her friends, avoiding their looks of pity. How would ever she raise the children by herself? A weight settled on her shoulders like a
stone. Her one year at Dalton Women’s College hadn’t left her with any practical skills to speak of. She’d learned to set a decent tea tray, to get out of a car gracefully without showing too much leg, and to make sparkling dinner party conversation, but that wouldn’t earn her a living.

  She leaned her bottom against the boulder that marked the entrance to the lane and crossed her arms. The cold stone seeped through her night dress and chilled her skin. It felt good to be up early like this. John always talked about how magical it was, waking up at first light, taking the boat out, watching the sun come up over the water. As if the earth were holding its breath in anticipation for whatever delights the day would bring. June had never been an early riser, but she was enjoying this brief hour of peace, before the heat and bustle of the day. There was even a tiny hint of autumn in the air, she was sure of it now, a faint breath of flowers gone to seed, of yellowing grasses, of the earth and its creatures preparing for the long, dark winter.

  In a few days in would be September, then Labor Day. The town was busily preparing for the fishing derby, the last celebration of summer. Banners had been stretched across Ocean Street and shopkeepers were setting up betting pools for customers to gamble on which boat would catch the biggest fish and win the grand prize. It was almost as big a celebration as the Fourth of July. A brass band had been hired to play down at the wharf where the townspeople would gather to watch the boats come in. Cotton candy booths hawked their sticky pink floss. The hot dog vendors ran a lively competition as to who made the best dog and served the hottest mustard. The boats would come into the harbor to much fanfare. The fish weighed, photographs taken, a winner announced. Then the summer people would pack up and return to their regular homes and the children would go back to school. It was a big year for Evie and Claire, going off on the school bus every day to Hammett Mills where the junior high was. Evie – but not Claire, not yet – would want to start wearing lipstick and stockings. Soon, June had become acutely aware, she would need a bra. Even though Claire was a late bloomer, her time, too, would come. Her breasts would swell, her hips widen, and her face would take on the petulant lines of young adolescence. And maybe, just maybe, June prayed, Claire would grow out of her illness as the doctors predicted and they could all go on as normal. But whatever happened, the fact remained that her girls were growing up and away from her. Time’s inexorable march. With the girls busy with school and activities, she would be home alone with Ben for most of the day. And then there’d be the long winter when the wind howled in the pines and sandblasted the dunes, when the house shook and drafts seeped through the floorboards. Winter storms blowing down from Canada would bury them in snow.

  The sky had grown lighter now and June began to feel exposed in her thin nightgown. She turned to go back, creeping silently along the wet grass. As she approached Stone cottage a spark of rebellion ignited in her body, an overwhelming urge to throw rocks against Richard and Tibby’ bedroom window. Or she could ring their front doorbell and run away, crouch behind the hydrangea hedge that sprawled along their front fence, while Richard stood bewildered and frowning in his bare feet and boxer shorts on the front porch. Why should he be sleeping peacefully when her heart was broken? He at least could have tried to meet her last night, left a note in the fishing hut saying that he missed her. But before she could search the ground for small stones, common sense took over. She scuttled past the house and made it safely to her back door. June looked back over her shoulder at Stone cottage, cloaked in a veil of dawn mist. Soon the sun would be up and her day would begin. She entered the silent kitchen and wiped the dew from her feet with an old rag. A quick glance at the clock told her that John had been gone two hours. She wondered what was happening at the cannery, if they’d been able to save it or if there was nothing left but charred remains of the building, pristine white fish bones glinting among the ash.

  Like an apparition, his face black with soot, John appeared at the kitchen door while she was giving the children their breakfast. They all clamored at once, demanding to be heard. A fire! Tell us! Did anyone get burned? How did it start? He was covered in sooty grime, oily smoke in his clothes and hair. John sat down heavily in a chair and held his hands up for quiet.

  “It’s gone,” John said. “Burned to the ground. The boys from the fire department did their best, but it couldn’t be saved. An inspector from Boston’s coming in the afternoon. Hank Green, the deputy fire chief, thinks it might be arson.”

  “What’s arson?” Claire asked, stirring her cereal with a spoon.

  “It’s when someone sets a fire on purpose,” John said. He rubbed his hands over his eyes. “What a mess. Nothing but cinders and ash. Only the charred remains of the fish conveyers and ice machines left standing in the rubble.”

  “Well, as long as no one was hurt,” June said, that’s the important thing. Although I can’t say I’m sorry to see the cannery go.” She handed John a glass of orange juice. “I never liked that place. Nobody got hurt, right?”

  John shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, then it’s not all that bad, is it? That place was an eyesore. And the smell! Maybe now someone will be able to build some nice summer cottages on the site.”

  “Summer cottages?” John’s stared at her with his smoke-reddened eyes till she blushed and looked away. “That cannery supported a lot of people. They’ll all be out of work now. Don’t you know what that means? Families will be ruined.” He scraped his chair back abruptly. “I’m going to take a bath to see if I can get this soot off. I’m so tired I feel like I could sleep for a week. But I’ve got to get down to the boatyard as quick as I can. Less than a week to go. If Emerson and I work like madmen, I’ll still be able to bring home that bonus.”

  His voice was dull with exhaustion. He looked at Evie and Claire who’d gone strangely quiet. “How about getting your mother to take you over to Hammett Mills for a little back-to-school shopping? I bet you need notebooks and pencils and stuff and what about new dresses for the first day?” He looked at June for confirmation.

  She busied herself with the dishes. “We’ll see,” she said, hurt that John had been so harsh with her. “I’ve got some things to do today. Now go get cleaned up,” she said, attempting a smile. “I’m getting nervous looking at you like that.”

  John doffed an imaginary hat. “Yes, ma’am.” He smiled in spite of his exhaustion and climbed the stairs.

  “Finish your breakfast, girls, and go on outside. You might as well enjoy the last days of summer while you can.” June rushed them through their meal and out the door, wanting to be alone. The presence of her family all together in the small kitchen made her feel penned in, her nervousness mounting till she felt like a feral cat, all teeth and claws and raised fur. She still wanted to get a message somehow to Richard. She had to see him, her anxiety had reached a fever pitch and she had even started biting her nails, tearing at her cuticles till they bled, an old childhood habit reemerging in her anguish. She would go upstairs and dress and then go out to the old fishing hut and leave a note.

  John had fallen asleep in the bath. He’d scrubbed the soot from his face and hands and the water was black with it. He lay back in the tub, his head rolled to the side, sound asleep. June glanced down at his naked body, half-submerged, his pale penis floating in the murky water and then she looked away. She felt disloyal to Richard. She and John hadn’t made love since the beginning of the summer, but at some point John would want to claim her body and she didn’t know how she’d be able to bear it. She was not good at pretending.

  “John.” She jostled his shoulder. “Wake up. You’ll drown.”

  He jerked upright in the tub, sloshing water onto the floor and soaking June’s robe. “I was having the most awful dream,” he said, blinking his eyes. “It was dark, I couldn’t breathe.”

  “It’s just the shock from the fire,” June said soothingly. Her heart softened. John was a good man. He tried his best, and she had a sudden, immense urge to be kinde
r to him, to treat him like a beloved hero home from the war. She handed him a towel and turned her face away as he stood up. The blackened water drained from the tub. June watched it swirl down the plug hole.

  “I’ll just take a quick bath myself and then get on with my day,” June said briskly, hoping to get back on a normal footing. There was a lot to do, too many things to organize and prepare before the girls went off to school next week. Supplies to buy, a new pair of shoes for each of them, although she hadn’t figured out yet where the money was going to come from. John was right; she ought to take them over to Hammett Mills to buy some school supplies and to take a peek at their new school. Although with John so busy trying to finish the boat, she’d never get him to drive her. She’d have to ask one of her friends to do it. Maybe Emma wouldn’t mind. If not, they’d all have to go over there on the bus.

  June scrubbed the inside of the bath and refilled it. She closed and locked the bathroom door so she could bathe in peace. With Ben in his playpen she’d have a few minutes to herself, and as long as he didn’t start fussing. She poured a small handful of lavender bath salts into the steaming water, a luxury she refused to feel guilty about. As a young girl she had loved taking baths. Her family had a big claw-foot tub in the bathroom down the hall where she would soak up to her chin in silky bubbles, planning her social schedule, tennis dates with boys, boating on the Charles. Hoping for a dinner invitation to one of the country clubs her family couldn’t afford to belong to. It had been so long ago, as if all that had happened to another person, in a different life. She stroked her skin under the water, knees, arms, belly, caressing its softness. When she stood up to dry off the skin on her fingertips was pink and wrinkled.