‘‘Hell’s bells, what a drama it would make! We should write and perform it sometime.’’
Marcelyn was again shocked by a sixteen-year-old using the word hell, but nobody else said anything about it, so she replied, ‘‘Write it?’’
‘‘As a play.’’
‘‘You write plays?’’
‘‘We write them all the time.’’
‘‘And perform them, too?’’
‘‘Oh yes, we’re always giving some kind of performance.’’
‘‘For whom?’’
‘‘Why, for Mother, of course, and for our friends and our teachers—anyone who’ll sit still long enough to watch, actually.’’
‘‘Your mother sits and watches you put on plays?’’
‘‘Oh, most fervently. She’d stop any work to watch us do anything—act, sing, play the piano, recite poetry. Susan’s already up to grade three on the piano, and Mother has begun teaching Lydia to play the E-flat recorder. I can play quite a few instruments, and we do trios together and sometimes quartets if we can convince Mother to join us. Actually, when we give plays we perform our own opening overtures on the instruments, then quickly skip backstage and assume our roles, then come back out front to play the closing piece again. Do you never put on plays? Ever?’’ She seemed as amazed by this cultural deficit as her cousin had been at the word hell. ‘‘I guess you don’t.’’
‘‘We, ah . . . um, no. I mean, we never thought about it.’’
‘‘Do you play instruments? Any of you?’’ Becky looked from one blank face to another and thought she had never seen such an insipid group of girls in her life.
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Surely you recite, then.’’
‘‘No, not that either.’’
‘‘Well, then, what do you do for fun?’’
‘‘Well . . .’’ Marcelyn, still acting as spokesperson for her sisters, glanced at each of them, then back at her inquisitive cousin. ‘‘We stitch.’’
‘‘Stitch! I said fun!’’
‘‘And attend chautauquas.’’
‘‘Oh, how boring. I’d much rather give a chautauqua than watch one. What else?’’
‘‘Well, sometimes we go rowing.’’
‘‘Not sailing?’’
‘‘Gracious, no. Mother would never allow us to sail. It’s too dangerous.’’
‘‘So I imagine you don’t fish either.’’
‘‘Pew, no. I wouldn’t put my hand on a stinky old slimy fish. But we had a clambake once out on the beach at Sherman’s Cove.’’
‘‘Once?’’
‘‘Well, Mother didn’t like us removing our shoes and getting our hems dirty.’’
Rebecca thought that over, chewing some kedgeree, discovering it was very tasty. ‘‘My mother doesn’t care much about hems, clean or dirty. And there have been summers when we practically lived on clams and lobsters, anything we could get from the ocean free. She cares more about our minds and says that we must never squander one moment’s time at inconsequentialities that will eventually cease to matter. But the imagination, she says, is a priceless gift, and we must cultivate it and any of our natural-born abilities at every opportunity. The next time we put on a play, would you like to come and try it with us?’’
Marcelyn Melrose Spear beamed at her newfound cousin. She had inherited her mother’s plain brown hair and—from some other unfortunate progenitor—a slightly bulbous nose. But she had landed her daddy’s pretty brown eyes, complete with dark lashes and uptilted corners, and they positively gleamed as she said, ‘‘Oh, Rebecca, do you really mean it?’’
‘‘Of course I mean it, and call me Becky. For our first play we’ll do your grandmother’s story, and if you want to, you can be the one whose ear we cut off, then you can do all the screaming and writhing and cursing, and it’ll be a great opportunity to emote. Of course, we’ll have to figure out what to use for blood, and we shall have to make a wig of black rags for whoever plays the Indian woman. Maybe one of our little sisters can be the baby, do you think?’’ She quickly assessed the tenyearolds, Lydia and Corinda. ‘‘No, no, of course not, they’re too big, aren’t they? Well, we’ll work on that problem when we get to it. We could always use dolls, couldn’t we, and you younger girls can cry offstage. We must start working on the script right away!’’
Marcelyn leaned forward and whispered, ‘‘Listen, everybody. We must form a pact. Anything that’s been said this morning is not to be reported to Mother— agreed?’’ She aimed a warning gaze at Trudy and Corinda.
‘‘But she’ll ask,’’ Corinda said.
‘‘Then tell her we had a lovely chat and nothing more.’’
‘‘But Marcy . . .’’
‘‘You want to put on plays, don’t you?’’
And so, within an hour of being introduced, the two oldest cousins set the temperament of their next meeting.
Meanwhile, in the more formal dining room, the adults had finished their breakfast and were enjoying hot coffee. Elfred sat back, playing with a toothpick and sending some unsettling grins to Roberta whenever Grace wasn’t looking. Since Grace was getting down to brass tacks—which she, as the older sister, considered her beholden duty—she wasn’t looking at Elfred much.
‘‘Well, Birdy,’’ she said officiously, ‘‘I’ve been waiting for you to mention . . . it.’’
‘‘It?’’
‘‘The . . . well, you know . . .’’ Grace stirred the air as if she were folding cake batter. ‘‘The divorce,’’ she whispered.
‘‘Why are you whispering, Grace?’’
Grace’s demeanor stiffened a degree but she spoke aloud once again. ‘‘Don’t be obtuse, Roberta. Did you really do it?’’
‘‘Yes, I did it.’’
‘‘Oh, Roberta, how could you?’’
Unruffled, Roberta echoed, ‘‘Oh, Grace, how could I not? Would you care to know how many women he philandered with over the years?’’
Grace colored and whispered again. ‘‘Birdy, for heaven’s sake!’’
‘‘Just a minute—do I understand you correctly? It’s all right for him to philander, but it’s not all right for me to speak about it in polite company? Is that it?’’
‘‘I didn’t say that.’’
‘‘No, but you implied it. Obviously you disapprove of my getting a divorce. So what should I have done? Stayed with him for another seventeen years and let him chase women for weeks at a time, and gamble away what little money he made and come back to me when his funds ran dry or when his other woman got sick and tired of him and threw him out? Because that’s what he did, Grace, time and time again, until I just couldn’t tolerate it anymore. He didn’t keep my family alive, I did, and certainly he wasn’t going to make my life or my children’s lives any better, so I took the initiative. I divorced him.’’
‘‘But George was so charming.’’
Roberta scarcely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Like your own charmer, Elfred here, who’s sending flirtatious messages to me at this very moment, right across this very table? He had that sneaky, insidious way about him, adopting poses suggesting private intimacy, then stealthily straightening up just before Grace swung her glance his way. He was sitting that way now, slightly off plumb with an elbow beside his coffee cup and an index finger faintly stroking his moustache. But above and below that finger his eyes and lips were telegraphing an unmistakable invitation.
Roberta disregarded him and replied to her sister, ‘‘You barely met the man, but you’re right about that. He charmed one woman after another—thirteen of them, to the best of my knowledge.’’
‘‘Nevertheless, Mother and I are both dead set against this divorce. What will people say, Birdy?’’
‘‘I don’t give a dingleberry what they say, Grace. I had to do what was right for me and the girls, and I did it.’’
‘‘Totally disregarding conventions!’’
‘‘Yes, just like George totally disregarded conve
ntions.’’
‘‘And you really plan to take this job as the county nurse and go flitting off across the countryside?’’
‘‘I’ve already taken it. I start as soon as we’re settled.’’
‘‘And who’ll take care of your girls while you’re gone?’’
‘‘I haven’t figured that out yet, but I will.’’
‘‘Roberta, don’t be outrageous.’’
‘‘What’s so outrageous about supporting one’s children?’’
‘‘You know what I’m saying. A divorced woman going from town to town—it just isn’t done.’’
‘‘Ahh . . . I see.’’ Roberta studied her poor, deluded sister, who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—recognize that she had a husband who apparently thought all women were fair game. Most certainly he was giving that impression to Roberta, all the while he was silently mocking his wife.
Abruptly Roberta diverted the conversation to him.
‘‘Tell me, Elfred, do you share Grace’s low opinion of the state of divorce?’’
Elfred cleared his throat, straightened in his chair and busied himself refilling his coffee cup. ‘‘You must admit, Birdy, not many women do it. And it will look rather fishy, your taking a job that’ll carry you all over the countryside.’’
Grace leaned forward earnestly. ‘‘Listen to me, Birdy. Put your girls to work in the mill and you take a job there, too. That way you can be with them and with the townspeople, who won’t have as much reason to question your motives.’’
‘‘Question my motives!’’ Roberta leaped to her feet. ‘‘Good God in heaven, listen to yourself, Grace! You’re telling me I’m the one who has to vindicate myself just because I’m the female! You’ll wait till hell freezes over before you get any apologies from me! And as for putting my girls to work in the mill, not so long as I breathe air! They’re going to have every cultural advantage I can give them—music lessons, and trips to Boston to the galleries, and the time to explore nature and create anything they want to create, and to use their hands and minds. To complete their education, first of all. None of that would be possible if I put them in the mill.’’
‘‘All right . . . I’m sorry.’’ Grace pressed the air with both palms. ‘‘It was just an idea, that’s all. I merely thought that three extra wages would help, since you don’t have a husband to support you anymore. Sit down, Birdy.’’
‘‘I’m done sitting. Actually, I’m anxious to see my house, so Elfred, if you’d be so kind . . .’’
Elfred wiped his moustache on a linen napkin and rose. ‘‘Anytime you say, sister. Would you allow me to give you that tour of our house first?’’
‘‘Another time, I think. It’s been a long night and I’m anxious to get settled.’’
‘‘Very well.’’ Elfred pushed his chair beneath the table, fished for a pocket watch and flipped it open. ‘‘By now I should think the drays have arrived at your house with your things. Let’s collect your children and go.’’
At the door, when coats were donned, Grace gripped Roberta’s hands and pressed their two cheeks together. ‘‘Don’t be angry at me. I’ll come over soon and we can talk some more.’’
‘‘Yes, do that,’’ Roberta replied coolly.
‘‘And you will go see Mother right away, won’t you?’’
‘‘As soon as I have a free minute.’’ Roberta pulled free of Grace’s grip and closed her last coat button. ‘‘I imagine it’s fruitless to hope that Mother might come to see me.’’
‘‘Now, Birdy, don’t be that way. It’s a daughter’s duty, and after all, you have been away all these years. She’ll be anxious.’’
To give me another lecture about the evils of divorce, I’m sure.
‘‘Girls, say good-bye to your cousins.’’
The girls exchanged friendly good-byes.
‘‘And come over anytime,’’ Grace told the children.
In the commotion of departure, Elfred made sure his hand was hidden from view when he touched Roberta’s waist the way only a husband should touch his wife’s, with a suggestive squeeze.
Two
‘‘ Elfred, stop it!’’
She had let the girls run ahead through the rain while she and Elfred readied their umbrellas on the stoop. ‘‘I beg your pardon?’’
As innocent as if dew wouldn’t sizzle on his youknow-what!
‘‘You touch me one more time and I’ll blacken your eye.’’
‘‘Touch you? Why, sister Birdy, whatever do you mean?’’
‘‘You know perfectly well what I mean! And don’t call me sister Birdy! I’m not your sister!’’
‘‘Very well. Is Birdy all right?’’
‘‘I suppose it’ll have to be. Are we clear about where your hands belong from now on?’’
‘‘Oooh, you are a spunky one, aren’t you?’’
‘‘Just keep your hands to yourself and we’ll get along fine, Elfred.’’
Rendering a grin that would have charmed the scowl off a Quaker matron, he doffed his bowler and motioned her ahead of him down the walk. ‘‘As you wish. Shall we join the children?’’
He drove them through the rain in his shiny black touring car. In the backseat the girls were agog, testing the seat springs, exploring the vase on its bracket between the doors and asking Elfred if it had a Klaxon, and would he toot it. He did so once while Roberta kept to her corner of the front seat and looked out her window.
‘‘So, what do you think of our electrics?’’ he inquired.
‘‘Electrics?’’
‘‘The streetcars.’’
‘‘Oh. Well, they’ve certainly changed the town, haven’t they?’’
‘‘Pretty progressive for a town this size, wouldn’t you say?’’
She watched a passing streetcar as it clicked by. ‘‘Have you ridden one yet?’’
‘‘Certainly. Everybody rides the electrics. Quickest way to get over to Rockland and Warren.’’
‘‘Quicker than in your motorcar?’’
‘‘Well, I wouldn’t say that, no.’’
‘‘So many motorcars.’’ After watching one pass, she turned sharply to question her brother-in-law. ‘‘Do you like yours, Elfred?’’
‘‘I do, but some of my customers refuse to get into it. People still think the horse is more reliable.’’
‘‘Do you?’’
‘‘No.’’
She may not have approved of Elfred on a personal level, but everything Grace had ever written about the man assured Roberta he had more than a pretty head on his shoulders. ‘‘So,’’ she asked, ‘‘if you were a woman, you’d get a motorcar instead of a horse?’’
‘‘Oh, now wait a minute, Birdy, don’t tell me you’re thinking of buying a motorcar!’’
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘But you’re a woman!’’
She released a snort that told Elfred this wasn’t his subservient wife to whom he was talking.
‘‘With plans of my own.’’
‘‘Be careful, Roberta. People will talk.’’
‘‘About what? My getting a motorcar?’’
‘‘Well, you’re divorced, Birdy.’’ He had lowered his voice to an undertone. ‘‘You have to be more careful than most.’’
‘‘There’s no need to whisper, Elfred. My girls know I’m divorced, and they know the world takes a dim view of divorced women, don’t you, girls?’’
‘‘Our father was never home anyway,’’ Lydia piped up.
‘‘And when he was, all he did was take money from Mother and disappear again,’’ added Rebecca. ‘‘But the last time she refused to give him any.’’
‘‘We think it’s a good thing that she divorced him,’’ put in Susan.
Roberta might have acted the slightest bit smug as she remarked, ‘‘It’s been my experience, Elfred, that people will talk on general principles, usually because they haven’t enough in their own lives to keep them occupied. That’s the chief reason people put t
heir noses into other people’s business. Do me a favor, would you, Elfred? Take me down Main Street.’’
‘‘What for?’’
‘‘I want to see what it looks like.’’
‘‘It looks the same as always.’’
‘‘It does not. Grace has written about all kinds of changes. I want to ride its full length and see them all . . . unless, of course, you feel your reputation would be sullied by being seen with a divorced woman.’’
Her sarcasm, on the heels of Elfred’s attempted hanky-panky, was taken as a challenge.
‘‘Very well. One quick trip, then it’s back up the hill to Alden Street.’’
‘‘Very well, Elfred,’’ she said with mock servitude, and sat back to enjoy the ride through the town where she’d grown up.
Even in the rain, Camden appealed. The mountains rose behind it in gentle curves, the little village looped at their throat like a necklace. Camden’s shape was dictated by the horseshoe curve of rocky coastline that formed a calm, natural harbor made all the more calm by dozens of outlying islands that dotted Penobscot Bay and broke the backs of even the greatest storm-blown breakers threatening the Atlantic coastline.
In the years since Roberta had left, many yachting enthusiasts from the larger New England cities had discovered safe little Camden Harbor and had made it their home port. The masts of their pleasure crafts now shared moorings with Camden’s own fishing fleet, though at this time of day—midmorning—the working boats were gone, along with their owners, poles and nets, out onto the rainy water to earn a living.
‘‘In Boston,’’ Roberta said, ‘‘we lived inland. It’s good to be close to the water again. The sounds and smells are different by the water.’’