At the Water's Edge (10 page)

“I've half a mind to call the warden for that!” Anna shouted after me.

I turned the lock on the inside of my room and leaned against the door, hyperventilating. My heart was racing so hard I thought I might actually keel over. If I did, it would not be the first time.

The first time had been when I was having lunch at the Acorn Club with my mother-in-law and five of her friends, including Mrs. Pew.

My marriage was not quite four months old, at a time when I still deluded myself that my mother-in-law's gift of the hair comb indicated that she might eventually come to accept me, perhaps even grow fond of me. The ladies were discussing the despicable attack on Pearl Harbor, and saying that despite previous reservations, they now
agreed wholeheartedly with the President's decision to become involved. I mentioned the sinking of the
Athenia
and suggested that we might have gotten involved then, given the number of Americans on board. My remark was met with silence.

After a long, pregnant pause, my mother-in-law said, “You are, of course, entitled to your opinion, dear. Although I, personally, wouldn't
dream
of second-guessing the President.” She clapped her bejeweled hand to her bosom, letting her eyes flutter as she warbled the word “dream.”

As the telltale heat rose in my cheeks, she continued, praising the club for reducing its seven-course luncheon to five in the name of the war effort. She encouraged the other ladies to chip in, telling them that she, herself, had instructed the kitchen staff to donate cans, as well as whatever pots and pans they weren't using regularly. There was a flurry of regret from all of them that they couldn't do more, especially from such a distance, followed by a discussion of the surprising results of Ellis's attempts to enlist.

“A complete shock, I can tell you,” said my mother-in-law. “Imagine, all these years, and we had no clue. I suppose it explains why he's crashed so many cars—he can't tell if the light is red or green. He's terribly upset, but there's nothing to be done. Whitney, of course, is beside himself.”

There were murmurs of sympathy for both Ellis and the Colonel before Mrs. Pew leaned in conspiratorially to say, “Of course, there are those who
arranged
to be turned down.”

“Do you mean…?” said another in hushed tones. Instead of filling in the blank, she let her eyes flit across the room to where Hank's mother was having lunch with her own friends.

Mrs. Pew blinked heavily to confirm. The other ladies went wide-eyed, the thrill of their double-cross palpable.

“Absolutely shameful. Flat-footed, indeed.”

“Nothing a pair of good boots wouldn't fix.”

“That one's been trouble from the word go,” said my mother-in-law. “It's somewhere in the blood, even if his mother
is
a Wanamaker.”
She lowered her voice even further. “I wish Ellis would keep his distance, but of course he's never paid attention to a word I say.”

I was staring at the shrimp and avocado on the fine china in front of me when it hit me that she had almost certainly said those very same things of me, to these very women, perhaps at this very table.

The hair comb hadn't been a peace offering. I had no idea what it signified, or why they had invited me to lunch, but by then I was entirely sure there was a motive.

I remember staring at the glass bowl of salad dressing, the flute of champagne with lines of bubbles rising from tiny, random geysers on the sides. I remember realizing that I had gone still for so long they were looking at me, and that I should pick up my fork, but could not, because I knew I would drop it. Someone addressed me, but it was impossible to hear over the buzzing in my ears. Then I couldn't catch my breath. I wasn't aware of sliding from my chair, but was certainly aware of being the center of attention while lying on the carpet looking up at a circle of concerned faces. And who could forget the embarrassing ride in the ambulance, its siren blaring?

A number of consultations followed, culminating in a visit by a doctor brought in from New York, who took my pulse, listened to my heart, and asked me extensive questions about my family.

“I see, I see,” he kept saying, studying me over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses.

Eventually, he folded the glasses and slid them into his breast pocket. Then he informed me—right in front of Ellis and his mother—that I suffered from a nervous ailment. He prescribed nerve pills, and said I was to avoid excitement at all costs.

My mother-in-law gasped.

“Does this mean she can't…? Does this mean there will never be…?”

The doctor watched as she turned various shades of red.

“Ahh,” he said, figuring it out. “No. She can tolerate a reasonable amount of marital relations. It's more a matter of avoiding mental
excitement. Such a condition is not unexpected, given the maternal history.”

He packed his bag and put on his hat.

“Wait!” said my mother-in-law, leaping to her feet. She glanced at me, prone in the bed. “When you say this is not unexpected, do you mean such conditions run in families?”

After a slight pause, the doctor said, “Not always. Remember that each generation is diluted, and any children of this marriage will have only one grandparent who was, well, how shall I put this? Not quite our kind.”

Edith Stone Hyde let out a cry and sank back into her chair.

My nervous ailment immediately became a heart ailment, and although I rarely felt grateful to my mother-in-law, I did admire how quickly she'd taken it upon herself to rediagnose me—particularly as it maintained at least the illusion of distance between me and my own mother.

My mother was a famous beauty, with sea-green eyes, a button nose, and Cupid's bow lips that parted over teeth like pearls. In some women, perfect features do not add up to an exquisite whole, but in my mother the sum effect was so stunning that when she married my father, a Proper Philadelphian, society seemed willing to overlook that her father was an entrepreneur who dabbled in burlesque (revised for historical purposes as vaudeville) and married one of its stars, and that her grandfather was a rumored robber baron with connections to Tammany Hall. Her family had a fortune; his family had a name. The arrangement was not all that unusual.

I was aware from my earliest memory that my mother was miserable, although the sheer magnitude and artistry of it took years to sink in. It ran through her like rot.

To the outside world, she presented meekness and long-suffering, subtly conveying that my father was a tyrant and I—well, I was defiant at best, and quite possibly criminally malicious, a situation she
found even more heartbreaking than my father's cruelty. She was incredibly nuanced—all it took was a sigh, a slight misting of the eye, or an almost imperceptible pause for everyone to understand the depth of her anguish and how nobly she bore it.

She was excellent at reading a room, and when the atmosphere was not right for garnering sympathy, she was witty and engaging, the center of attention, but never in an obvious way. She'd run a finger up and down the stem of her wineglass slowly, repeatedly, or cross her legs and move her foot in deliberate circles, drawing attention to her exquisitely turned ankle. It was impossible to look away. She entranced men and women alike.

At home, she sulked with extravagance, and I learned early that silence was anything but peaceful. She was always upset about some slight, real or imagined, and more than capable of creating a full-blown crisis out of thin air.

I tried to go unnoticed, but inevitably we came together over the dinner table. I never knew if her displeasure was going to be directed at my father or me. When I was the offender, dinner passed with icy silences and withering looks. I rarely knew what I'd done wrong, but even if I did, I wouldn't have dared mount a defense. Instead, I shrank into myself. On those nights, I got to eat, although she scrutinized every morsel that went into my mouth, as well as how it got there.

On the nights my father was in her crosshairs, the choreography was very different. Her contemptuous looks and snide remarks progressed to masterfully crafted barbs, which he would ignore until they ripened into cutting sarcasm, which he would also ignore. She would then, her eyes brimming with tears, wonder aloud why we both delighted in torturing her so, at which point my father would say something precise and lethal, usually to the effect that no one was forcing her to stay—she needn't feel obliged on his account—and she would flee the table weeping.

My father would continue to eat as though nothing had happened, so it fell to me to fix things. I'd abandon my food and trudge upstairs to her locked bedroom, my dread increasing with every step. It always
took some negotiating, but eventually she'd let me in and I'd sit on the bed as she regaled me with the ways her life was a wasteland. My father was capriciously cruel and incapable of empathy, she'd tell me. She would have left him years ago, except that he'd sworn she'd never see me again, had even threatened to have her committed to an insane asylum, and did I know what happened in such places? She'd given up every chance of happiness for my sake, out of pure maternal love, although I was clearly ungrateful. But she supposed she had herself to blame for that. I took after my father. I could hardly be blamed for my miserable genes, and since I was there anyway, would I be a dear and fetch her a pill?

Twenty minutes after running away from Anna and the drawer porridge, my heart showed no signs of slowing down.

I was slumped against the back of my door, still gasping for air. My hands and feet tingled, the edges of my vision sparkled.

I hated that I'd been prescribed nerve pills—hated that anyone had seen any kind of parallel between my mother and me—and although it filled me with self-loathing, I found myself crawling to my luggage and digging through it, throwing dresses, slips, scarves, and even shoes over my shoulder in my search for the brown glass bottle that I knew held relief.

I found the pills and swallowed one, swigging water straight from the pitcher to get it down. I lay on the bed and waited. After a few minutes, a comforting fog began to settle over me, and I understood, in a way that frightened me, why Ellis and my mother were so fond of them.

I sat up and looked around me. My room was a mess. I'd been living out of my luggage since our arrival, taking for granted that at some point my hanging things would magically be hung, the rest folded neatly in drawers, and my empty trunks and suitcases stored. I realized quite suddenly that this was not going to happen.

After I put everything away, I made my bed, although it was painfully
clear that it was an amateur effort. I tugged the corners and patted the surface, but my adjustments only succeeded in pulling it further askew. I decided to quit before completely unmaking it again.

I had run out of things to do. I had some crossword puzzles, a murder mystery, and a handful of books about the monster that Ellis had instructed me to read, but reading was out of the question—not because of dizziness this time, but because my brain was dulled.

I walked to the window and looked out.

The sky was bright, although a solid cloud the color of graphite loomed in the distance. The row houses across the street were a combination of white stucco and pink limestone, with wide brick chimneys. Beyond the houses were hills dotted with sheep, and fields defined by rows of trees. In the far distance were even higher hills, uniformly brown where they weren't forested, their peaks obscured by cloud.

The cold was insidious, and eventually I pulled a quilt from my badly made bed and draped it around my shoulders. I settled into the chair.

Perhaps Anna had misunderstood. Perhaps Ellis and Hank had just gone on a day trip. Perhaps they were finding a new hotel.

I heard footsteps in the hallway, and from the sound of doors opening and shutting and water running at the end of the hall, I gathered Anna was making up the other rooms. A few minutes after she went back downstairs I heard—and felt—a door close. I went to the window and watched her ride down the street on a dark bicycle with a big wicker basket, her coattails billowing behind her.

I
found myself gripping the windowsill, light-headed and weak. The feeling came over me without warning—my brow was suddenly pricked by sweat, and I realized I was going to either faint or be sick. At first I thought it was a reaction to the pill, then recognized it as hunger. The showdown with Old Donnie the night before had left me unable to do anything but pick at my dinner, and other than the egg and few slices of potato Anna had given me the previous day, I'd eaten virtually nothing since we'd left the States.

I'd felt this way before, in my early teen years, and knew that if I didn't eat something very soon I'd collapse. Because there wasn't even anyone around to find me, I had no choice but to go to the kitchen and scrounge. I would find the drawer porridge and take just a small slice, the slice intended for my breakfast, to mitigate my crime as much as possible.

Halfway down the stairs, I was hit by the aroma of roasting meat. It smelled so good my mouth watered, and it almost brought me to tears—Anna had made it very clear what my diet would consist of until I produced a ration book.

The front room was empty, so I slipped behind the bar. I was pretty
sure I was alone in the building but paused at the doorway anyway, listening for signs of life. I heard nothing and went through.

The kitchen was larger than I expected, as well as bright. The walls were whitewashed, and the doors and window trim were cornflower blue. Copper pots, pans, and ladles hung from hooks over a sturdy table in the center of the room. A large black stove emanated a gorgeous amount of heat, as well as the heavenly aroma. There was a pantry on one side of the room, and in the opposite wall—quite literally—was a bed. It was completely recessed, with paneled wooden doors that slid on a track. They were currently open, showing bedclothes much more neatly arranged than my own. I supposed it was where Mr. Ross slept.

I marveled at the contents of the pantry—jar upon jar of preserved red cabbage, pickled beetroot, gherkins, marmalade, loganberry preserves, Oxo cubes, Polo and Worcestershire sauces, baskets of onions, turnips, and potatoes, enormous earthenware jugs of vinegar with spouts, canisters labeled
TEA, RAISINS, and SUGAR
—it went on and on, and I could see even more behind the glass doors of cupboards.

It was the basket of apples I couldn't resist. A bushel basket, full to overflowing. Most of the apples were individually wrapped in newspaper, but a few lay exposed on top, shiny, round, and beautiful. I felt like Snow White, or maybe even Eve; but all thoughts of virtue and drawer porridge fell away when I laid eyes on that fruit.

I was in the act of lifting one to my lips when a female voice spoke from behind me.

“Find what you're looking for?”

I jumped and spun around, simultaneously dropping my hand and curling my wrist, hiding the apple behind my thigh.

Meg was standing just inside the back door, wearing a thick olive-colored coat and matching cap. She had a cardboard box labeled
ANTI-GAS RESPIRATOR
slung over her shoulder by a length of string, which she set on a chair by the door. She put her hands on her hips and looked at me.

“Can I help you with something?”

“No, thank you. I was just…”

I swallowed hard and clutched the apple.

Her eyes ran down the length of my arm. Then she looked me in the face. After a pause of three or four beats she turned around and took off her coat, laying it over the back of the chair. “When you have a minute, Angus wants me to show you the Anderson shelter.”

She removed her cap and fiddled with her hairpins, keeping her back to me. I realized she was giving me time to either pocket or return the apple.

I leaned into the pantry and placed it gently on top of the others. “Shall I get my coat?”

“You can if you want, but I'm not taking mine. We won't be but a minute,” she said. “He just wants you to know where it is so you can find it in the dark. The Blackout, you know. Can't even use a torch to cross the yard. Although to be fair, using a torch during an air raid would probably not be the very best idea.”

Despite the pill, my heart tripped.

The Anderson shelter was out back, beyond a large vegetable garden. Except for a few rows of sturdy cabbages and chard, the garden was covered in straw.

The shelter looked like an enormous discarded tin can, half-swallowed in dirt and sporting a thin layer of anemic sod. Moss clung to the sides, and a thick piece of burlap hung over the opening.

“So here it is,” said Meg, lifting the flap. “You can go in if you like, but there's not much to see. Just remember there are a couple of steps down and two bunks at the back. We've got torches and bedding, in case we have to spend the night. Keep your coat and shoes handy. Bedding or not, you'll be wanting them. I've got a siren suit myself. You pull it on over everything, zip it up, and off you go. Have you got any clothing coupons left?”

I shook my head wordlessly.

“Well, never mind. I can get my hands on a pattern if you want to make one, although you'd have to come up with the material.”

Although it was just past four, the sky had turned the jeweled blue of twilight, and I shivered in a sudden gust of wind.

“That's that then,” said Meg. “Let's get inside.”

She headed back, walking quickly. I broke into a jog to catch up.

“Make sure you come down for dinner tonight,” she said. “We've a lovely haunch.”

“I can't have any,” I said, utterly miserable. “I haven't got a ration book.”

“You needn't worry. It's venison.”

“Venison isn't rationed?” Hope sprang up like a bird taking flight.

“They can't ration what they don't know about,” Meg said, “and Angus isn't one to let people starve.”

“You don't mean he poached it?” I was aghast the second the words rolled off my tongue.

“I said no such thing,” Meg said emphatically. “But even if he did—which I did not imply in any way—the taking of a deer is a righteous theft. He used to be the gamekeeper at Craig Gairbh, you know.”

“Why did he leave?”

“He joined up. And of course, by the time he came back, the old laird had offered up the house and grounds to the military for the duration of the war. His son was killed, and the laird thought that was the least he could do, since he was too old to fight himself. He was a real warrior himself, back in the day. So for the moment, there's no need for a gamekeeper. At any rate, the only difference between then and now is the title.”

“Was he the gamekeeper in 'thirty-four?” I asked.

She glanced over her shoulder and cocked an eyebrow. “That he was.”

Which meant he had been there for all of the Colonel's shenanigans, and making it all the more remarkable that he was letting me stay.

When we reached the building, Meg held the door open and let me go in first.

“It wasn't my idea,” I said weakly. “I mean, the name thing.”

“Oh, aye,” Meg replied, nodding. “From what I gather, your husband doesn't consult you about a number of things. I don't suppose you'll help with the Blackout curtains, will you? Only it's getting dark already and I haven't even started the neeps and tatties.”

“Sure,” I said. Although I was taken aback, it didn't even occur to me to say no.

“Make sure they're nice and tight. Even a sliver of light will get us a fine. Or bombed.” She glanced at my face and laughed. “It's just gallows humor.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, turning to leave.

“Wait a minute.”

She went to the pantry and came back, lifting my right hand and planting an apple in it.

I stared at it, nearly speechless with gratitude. “Thank you.”

She picked up my other hand and inspected my nails. “You look like you've been lifting tatties. I'll fix that for you tomorrow. ‘Beauty is your Duty,' you know. Keep the fellows' spirits up. And what's going on under that scarf of yours, anyway?”

“Nothing good,” I said, clutching the apple so tightly I pierced its skin. “Maybe you could show me how to set my hair with rags sometime.”

“Certainly. If you can stand sleeping on them, you can use my rollers.” She looked at me critically and nodded. “You have a natural head for victory curls. Go on then—I have to finish up dinner, as well as make myself presentable.”

I ate the apple down to a tiny nubbin, leaving the stem and seeds hanging by a fibrous ribbon of core, but it didn't make so much as a dent in my hunger. I hated the idea of going down to dinner on my own, but since Ellis and Hank had left me no choice, I did.

The barstools and tables were taken up by the same men as the night before (with the notable exception of Old Donnie), but this time none of them paid any attention when I joined Conall by the fire. Almost immediately, Meg set an enormous plate of food in front of me.

The venison roast was well done, brown through and through, and served with rowanberry jelly and an ample heap of mashed potatoes and turnips.

I was dizzy with food-lust. I glanced around to make sure there was still no one looking, then ate. It was a struggle to keep to a civilized speed.

The dog, who was once again lying between the end of the couch and the fire, watched with intense interest until I scraped the plate clean, then heaved a disappointed sigh. I'd wanted to slip him a couple of tiny bits while I was eating, but Mr. Ross was behind the bar and occasionally glanced over. He did not strike me as the type to spoil a dog, and I was trying to be unobtrusive. I didn't want to do anything to make him change his mind about letting me stay.

When Meg came for my plate, she brought a glass of beer, telling me it would “build my blood.” I'd never had beer before—our crowd considered it lowbrow—and I sipped it with apprehension. It was not unpleasant, and contributed to the warm glow I felt from finally having a full stomach.

It was the only thing I felt warm about. Every time the door opened, I couldn't help looking, hoping it was Ellis and Hank, but it never was, and I began to accept that they really had left me without two nickels to rub together, no ration book, and no explanation.

I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but since I was alone, I couldn't help overhearing bits and pieces of conversation.

The young men who occupied the tables belonged to a military lumberjack unit, the Canadian Forestry Corps, which had been deployed to supply the British army's endless need for wood, and Meg—who,
in the name of duty, had donned a swing skirt, painted her lips red, and once again drawn lines up the backs of her legs—worked with them during the day. The local men were older, several of them bearing obvious scars and injuries, presumably from the Great War. They sat on stools at the bar chatting with each other and paying no attention whatsoever to either the Canadian lumberjacks or me.

At ten minutes to nine, Meg turned on the wireless to let the tubes warm up. When the chimes of Big Ben announced the nightly broadcast, everyone fell silent.

The Red Army was advancing in south Poland despite intense fighting and were now only fifty-five miles from German soil. In one battle alone, they had killed more than three thousand German soldiers and destroyed forty-one of their tanks. In Budapest, during three days of fighting, they had captured 360 blocks of buildings and taken forty-seven hundred prisoners. On all fronts, 147 German tanks had been destroyed and sixty of their planes shot down. And in four days Franklin D. Roosevelt would be sworn into office for the fourth time.

Despite undisputed progress on the Front, my satiated contentment collapsed into unfathomable depression.

In Philadelphia, the war had seemed a million miles away. It was certainly discussed and debated, but it was essentially an academic exercise, conducted over cocktails, or lunch at the club. It felt like theoretical men fighting a theoretical war, and after Ellis was excluded from service we avoided the topic altogether out of concern for his feelings.

Experiencing the U-boat attack and witnessing the terrible injuries of the men who'd been pulled from the sea's flaming surface had thoroughly shredded any sense of detachment I might have had, but I was still having trouble comprehending the notion of three thousand dead in a single afternoon—and that was just enemy soldiers. I'd heard of death counts at least that large many times over during the course of the war, but until that moment, while sitting in a room full of uniformed men and aged veterans, I don't think I truly understood the human toll.

In bed, with my hair in Meg's rollers and my face slathered in cold cream, I had a sudden longing for Ellis, which was utterly ludicrous given that he was directly responsible for my current dilemma. Then I realized that homesickness was the real culprit. The mention of President Roosevelt had set it off.

I wanted to be in my bedroom in Philadelphia, before New Year's Eve, before any of this. I wanted to be safe, even if it meant enduring countless more years of Edith Stone Hyde.

Instead, I was alone in a building full of strangers in a foreign country—during a war, no less. If I disappeared, I doubted anyone would notice, never mind care. At home, at least my mother-in-law would notice if I disappeared—she might rejoice, but she'd notice.

I thought of Violet, and wondered if she hated me before realizing that yes, of course she hated me. All she'd know was that I'd been brought along and she'd been left behind. I wondered what she'd think if she knew I'd trade places with her in an instant.

It then dawned on me that if Hank really hadn't told Violet about our so-called adventure, the only person on earth who knew where we were was Freddie. When Ellis's parents eventually investigated, they'd see that Ellis had emptied his bank account and that we'd left most of our belongings in storage at the hotel, but then the trail would grow cold.