Strawberries in the Sea (25 page)

He was so eager that she pretended she hadn't already seen it. She put her arm through his. “I'm dying to.”

“Lucy's been in to see it about every day, and I'm almost as bad,” Jude said, as they turned off Main Street onto a quieter sidewalk. “When I think of him running around wild as a bobcat kitten, and then I see something like this. . . . Well, of course we've known for a long time that Edwin was all right. Better than all right, really. I mean, the boy's smart. He's
gifted
.” Jude stopped and took off his glasses to wipe them. “Darn heat, steams 'em all up.” But she saw his wet eyes before he put his glasses back on. “When you remember him way back then, and you walk into that million-dollar museum and see a painting signed Edwin Webster—well—even without winning a prize it's something great—” Jude ran out of words, but only until they were standing in front of the painting. She'd never heard him talk so fast, he was like a boy in his excitement. She was glad she'd come earlier by herself; now she could answer him, say
yes, yes
to everything he pointed out, smile or marvel with him, touch his arm in sympathy when he had to wipe his glasses again.

Yesterday she had been in some queer way disturbed by her image, and had had that sensation of escaping from the frame as if through a door left open by mistake. Today she saw the portrait differently. It was like, yet not like; a separate being with a separate life. All her worries, shames, and humiliations retained their inviolable privacy because the one who suffered them didn't exist for anyone else; the rest saw only what their own eyes let them see, a surface Rosa, a paper doll. Even Edwin saw her simply as a good model and a cousin whom he liked or even loved. Beyond that he could not go, any more than she could go past his façade.

No, what you have is your own, she thought. Good or bad. And if it isn't written on your face, nobody knows about it.

Jude was saying something. He seemed pleased that she'd been so absorbed by the picture that she hadn't heard him. “I said Edwin's only been in to see how they hung it, and never since, except when they gave him the check. He says he's too busy putting the finishing touches on the house.”

“Are they happy with it? The people, I mean.”

“Lucy and I drove around there one day, and the woman happened to be there. They've moved in by now, I guess. . . . She praised him to the skies, says he's a genius.” Jude tried to deprecate, but one side of his mouth kept trying to curl. “She didn't know about this.” He motioned to the picture. “So of course Lucy had to tell her all about it, and she said she'd come to see it.” He gave up hiding his smile. “Edwin's funny. He never came near the whole time, he acted as if he didn't know us. He didn't need to stand over the painters
that
close. . . . She wanted to give us cold drinks, tea, or whatever, she couldn't have been nicer, but I figured Edwin would be a lot happier if we left. Not ashamed of us or anything,” he explained, “but I think it was all this gushing, you might call it, going on between his mother and Mrs. Parnell.”

“Probably,” Rosa agreed vaguely.

S
he turned down an invitation to supper at the Websters', saying she wanted to get back to cleaning. This time she spent the rest of the afternoon out in the barn, trying to decide about one thing and another. She didn't accomplish much, but at least she was out of reach of the telephone, and could hardly hear car or boat engines. This saved her from anticipating Con's arrival either by land or water. She knew it was unlikely, but she would be looking for him just the same.

In the morning she went back to the attic, then to the fishhouse in the afternoon. Thus she used up the time, which on the island hadn't needed to be used up; it devoured itself. Sometimes the telephone caught her, other old friends besides Leona invited her to a meal, but she always had a good excuse and managed to sound so blithely busy that nobody could suspect her of hiding away. The truth was, she shrank from hearing talk of Con, and somebody would want to tell her, as Leona did each time they talked, how foolish Con was, how bad Phyllis looked, how everyone had laughed when Rosa took the boat, and how the men had plagued Con about it at the shore until he walked away in a rage.

They would tell her these things to comfort her and assure her of their loyalty; and she could not explain to them that it was no comfort at all, it only made her sorry for him and ashamed of her own vindictiveness.

Leona, being just next door, could trail her to attic, barn loft, or fishhouse, but she couldn't stay for long at a time. Usually a child came looking for her, or she had to transport five or six to a picnic. Once when she started in on Con with the usual gusto, Rosa said patiently, “Listen, Leona, I don't hate Con. I want things to work out for him, otherwise it's such a god-awful waste, what we've all been through, don't you see? It won't make me a bit happier if he has a hard time.”

“It would make me real happy,” said Leona. “But you're good-hearted, Rosa.”

“And don't call me good-hearted. That's what they always say about a whore. Heart of gold. Because she can't say no to anybody, and that's why she's a whore.”

“And because she likes it,” said Leona. “At least anyone that
I
ever knew liked it, in spite of all this high-flown talk about loving their fathers too much or hating them, I can't remember which.”

“How many have you known?” Rosa asked with interest. “Besides the amateurs we all know, right here in town?”

“Let me tell you, Maida Peal's no amateur!” They were off on a spirited conversation which took them far from Con.

Saturday morning she slept late because the morning was dark and rainy. She went to work in the attic again, and the water beat on the roof and splashed and gurgled in gutters and drain pipes, bounced off the glittering green leaves of the maples into which the attic windows looked. Going through old letters and photographs took her well into the afternoon, when she went downstairs to eat. Then she lay on her bed for a while, reading a book she'd brought from the attic. When she had finished it, she began looking over her clothes to decide what she would wear to court. She was pleased with the way she was managing; it wasn't going to be bad after all. To think she'd hunched desolately on that log in Barque Cove, when it was as simple as this.

The telephone rang. That would be Leona, hoping to take her by surprise.
The beans are ready to come out of the oven, and I'll bet you haven't had a blueberry pie yet this year
. She dropped a dress on the bed and ran to the kitchen and picked up the telephone.

“You don't have to tell me,” she said. “I've been reading your mind. Do you have brown bread or johnny cake?” There was a silence at the other end. She laughed. “Hey, did I stun you with that?”

“Rosie,” said Con. “You sound like a million dollars! God, it's wonderful to hear you laugh again.”

She stood like a statue, wanting to hang up yet unable to make her hand and arm obey.

“Look, can I come over and talk to you?” Con asked. “I'd like to apologize for the way I acted out there, and—oh hell, I'm not going to say it over the telephone. . . . Well?”

“I'm sorry,” she said formally. “You must have the wrong number.” She hung up, and still stood there, listening to his voice in her ears. After a moment the telephone rang again. She didn't touch it, but watched it with a mild wariness, as if it were a dog she didn't quite trust though it was behind a fence. It kept on ringing and finally she lifted it gently off the hook and laid it on the counter. She went back to her room and started to paw over the dresses strewn on the bed, but she didn't see what she touched. She found herself squeezing a sweater as if she were trying to kill it, and she flung it from her and squeezed her fingers together instead, fingers locked and aching with the pressure.

Little sounds rose in her throat but she tried to keep them down, knowing that to hear her own whimpers would be degrading. Almost as bad as hearing his voice; no, what was worst of all was that she wanted him to come. After everything, she wanted to see him come in the door, she would take any crumb of him that she could get.

She knew what he still wanted of her. “You could cut a man's throat, Conall Fleming,” she said to him now, “and then say to him, ‘No hard feelings? Promise me there's no hard feelings.' And hate him for being too busy bleeding to death to forgive you.”

Raymie Pierce, Leona's oldest, took the turn into the driveway with a smoking screech of rubber, and bounded into the house with a speed that should have scorched his sneakers. “Marm says the beans are ready to come out of the oven, so come on.”

“And she's got blueberry pie,” said Rosa.

“How'd you know? She's been trying to get you on the telephone.” He pointed. “You know you're off the hook?”

“Just how do you mean that, Raymie?” Rosa asked, replacing the telephone. Raymie guffawed.

“That's pretty good! You will be off the hook, won't you?”

“Everybody will be. Wait till I get something on my feet.”

She went to her room and he shouted after her, “Rosie, want to try my electric guitar? I just got it today. I've been all summer earning it.” He went into an unintelligible list of components, which required no answer from her. When she returned to the kitchen he hadn't stopped talking. His bony young face radiated generous pleasure. “I thought of you right off, Rosie. You've never played an electric guitar, so here's your chance.”

She'd never wanted to; she hated electric guitars. She said, “I'd love it, Raymie, if we can keep the sound down. Us old folks have mighty delicate ears.” Hers still held the echoes of a voice. An evening in a house full of boys, dogs, drums, and an electric guitar might just possibly kill the echoes.

“Who's old?” Raymie was saying gallantly, holding the door of his 1950 Dodge for her. “When I get going to the Grange Hall dances I'll take you any time.” He was very earnest about it. His Adam's apple move up and down.

“Thank you, Raymie,” she said.

Leona and one of the dogs walked home with her toward midnight. Behind them a Pierce Saturday night was still going strong. It was audible even when the thick warm fog that had followed the rain blotted out the last trace of the lighted windows.

“My head's squeezing in and out like an accordion,” said Leona, “but they'll all be grown up and out of the house too soon as it is. In a year or so we'll have to let Raymie go to the Saturday night dances.”

“But you'll still have five at home, and by the time the youngest leaves the nest you'll be baby-sitting with Raymie's kids, Grammie.”

“Not
this
Grammie, or Grampie either. We're planning to take in some dances ourselves.” She sounded not complacent but comfortable. Rosa didn't envy her; it wasn't comfort she wanted at her age, at least not that sort. What she envied was Leona's bone-knowledge that she and Everett had always been in love. Having to get married at sixteen was exactly what they had wanted.

She had left the house locked in case Con took it upon himself to come in and wait for her. If he did, what would he tell Phyllis afterward? Was he already lying to her? No, he might really love her and the unborn child, and be tender with her when she felt sick. If he didn't tell her he wanted to talk with Rosa, it would be only to spare her feelings, if she felt ugly with her pregnancy, and oversensitive.

He wasn't in the driveway, of course. When she was still awake after one, she knew she was waiting for him to call again. She adjusted the bell to its softest and draped the whole instrument in a heavy blanket, then shut her bedroom door and watched the Late Late Movie.

One advantage of a thickly shrouded telephone was that it didn't wake her at four or so when someone called a friend to tell him it was a fine day to go deep-sea fishing. When she did rouse herself, a bediamonded world flashed and sparkled in sunlight, and an unharmonious chorus of engines almost drowned out the birds. There was no Sunday lobstering in summer, but the pleasure boats were starting out early, outboards speeding among the moorings talking a chance on not being identified by the harbormaster, deep-throated cabin cruisers warming up, sailing craft chugging out of the harbor under auxiliary power.

She had nothing overboard that she could row, and she didn't want to; she was homesick for Bennett's Island on such a fine morning, she wished it had kept on raining or stayed foggy. She was deeply depressed, dreading tomorrow. And what was the matter with Edwin that he hadn't gotten in touch with her? Never mind if she hadn't been to Jude's yet; if Edwin was such a good friend you'd think he'd be around to give her some moral support.

She worked up such a good head of indignation that when he walked in to the kitchen she gave him a hostile stare and almost said, “And
another
thing—”

He looked as if he knew it and was trying not to laugh. He leaned over her where she sat at the table, tilted up her face, and kissed her. Then he felt the coffee pot, got a mug from the cupboard and filled it, and sat down across from her.

“Good morning, Dapper Dan,” she said, trying to hold onto her rotten mood. He lifted the mug as if in a toast, and drank. “I've been twice to see the painting,” she said stiffly. “I like it.”

He pulled out his note pad and wrote, “There must be something wrong with it then. People always hate their portraits.”

“I didn't think it was supposed to be a portrait of me. It's a girl and a guitar, and spruces, and sunset.”

He nodded approvingly and wrote, “Arrangement in opposing forms, tones, and textures. What are you doing today besides gaining back all the weight you've lost? Go get dressed.”

“Why?” She sat defiantly heavier in her chair.