The Dawning of the Day (35 page)

Suddenly he took the fiddle from under his chin and blinked around at the others like someone waking good-humoredly from sleep. “I'll have that cigarette now,” he said.

Steve handed it to him silently. Charles sat back in his chair, sprawling his legs before him; somewhere during the playing he had relinquished his antagonism for the time being. “You and Cynthy make a real purty pair, Fort,” he said. “Of course, if you were a singer, you'd be drier than a cork leg by now.”

“I am, bub,” Fort wheezed in suitably parched tones.

“Oh, I can take a hint,” said Philippa. “He deserves champagne, but coffee will have to do.” She pushed the teakettle forward on the stove. At the same time there was a clatter in the entry downstairs, thumpings and incoherent mutterings.

“Sounds like somebody was trying to herd an elephant upstairs,” said Fort. “Where would anybody get an elephant, this time of night?”

“It's probably one of Gregg's,” said Steve. He went across to the door and put his ear to the crack. “Or one of Syd's, gone astray,” suggested Charles.

Gregg's voice came in squealing outrage through the door. “I'm acomin' up there! Anybody makes music in this house, a-poundin' them big hummels of feet right over my bed so the plaster's comin' down like snow, I got a right to make music too!”

“Open the door, Steve,” Philippa said. “Tell him to come up.”

“He isn't waiting, he's on his way,” said Steve wryly. He opened the door and shone his flashlight down the stairs. “Come on up, Gregg.”

There were frantic scrambling sounds, and Gregg's panting. The boys leaned past Steve and urged Gregg on. “I bet you can hear this all over the island,” Fort said enthusiastically. “They'll think we're having one of those Roman debacles.”

In the beam of the flashlight, Philippa saw Gregg's red, sweat-shining face and the whites of his eyes rolled wildly toward her. He had his clarinet in his hand. Finally he reached the top step. “Now don't tell me I'm drunk!” he commanded. “I got no more rum in me than—than—”

“Than an old sponge dropped in a barrel of rum,” said Charles. “Hurray for Gregg!”

Gregg, wiping his wet face on his arm, grinned. He staggered only slightly before he reached a chair. He lifted the clarinet to his mouth at once, and his blue eyes turned toward Fort.

Fort nodded. Gregg began to play something that sounded like Mozart to Philippa, and Fort joined in. She could hardly believe it was Mozart, played in this island kitchen by a quarrelsome little man in clothes that smelled of liquor and bait, and followed with such fidelity by a boy with no education, who could not read music; but the indefinable stamp was there, a nagging familiarity, and if she shut her eyes, she could almost catch it. . . . Shouldn't the violin have been a flute . . . ? Gregg had taught Fort this part, obviously. It was exciting and incredible. It ended too soon; Gregg put down his clarinet in a gust of foolish laughter, and said, “Where's 'at coffee?”

“I'll have it ready in just a moment,” she said quickly. “Keep on playing.” She thought suddenly, If only Justin were here! She looked around quickly, as if she had said it aloud. Charles was fascinated, as lost in the moment as a child. Steve's face was calm and distant. She wondered if he had listened to such music with Vinnie.

They had no more music after the coffee. As Gregg sobered slightly, he lost his good nature and became sad. The others had been talking around the table, but Gregg's depression cast a silence on them. Fort laughed less and kept looking nervously at Gregg. Charles stared into his coffee cup. Gregg muttered to himself at intervals; all at once he reared back in his chair and stared across the kitchen into the shadows of Philippa's room.

“Is my boy in there?” he asked loudly.

“You got no boy, Gregg,” Charles said uneasily. Gregg ignored him.

“Tell him to come out,” he said, lurching to his feet and still staring at the door.

“There's no one in there,” Philippa told him kindly. “Really there isn't. Show him, Steve.”

Steve helped him to the door of the little room and flashed the light around. Gregg grabbed it from him and flashed it around again. Turning back to the others, he looked incredulous and sad.

“Where is he?” he asked faintly. “I just saw him. Standing there in the doorway, all a-grin.” He wiped his hand across his eyes and then pulled away from Steve toward the door. “I better git down below,” he muttered. “No place for me here.”

“Wait up, man,” Steve said. “I'll help you. If you fetch up with a bang at the foot of the stairs, how's the schoolma'am going to lug her wood and water over you?” He put his long arm firmly around Gregg's pudgy middle, and started down the stairs with him. Philippa held the light and watched their descent. She felt chilled and tired; Gregg's change had shattered their happy mood. She rested her head against the doorframe, and stood there even after Gregg and Steve had gone out. The cold night air scented with rockweed blew up the stairs toward her.

“I thought Gregg always saw cats when he was polluted,” Fort said in a subdued tone.

“I never knew he had a boy,” Charles answered.

When Steve came upstairs, she thought he seemed tired too. He refused more coffee and stood leaning against the dresser, smoking. He too had no answer for Gregg's strange behavior except, “He's an old man, a drunk. Maybe he had a boy once, I don't know.” Philippa wished urgently that the boys would go. As if he sensed it, Fort put his fiddle away, but Charles got up and went over to the stove. He propped one foot on the stove hearth and rested his folded arms across his knee.

“I guess this is kind of an anticlimax, after Gregg,” he began rather diffidently. “But somebody's fooling around my traps who has no business to. Some have been hauled and dumped with the doors left open; some are gone clip and clean, I can't find them at all.”

“Well.” Steve watched him through smoke. “That looks' like a fine way to spend a Saturday, messing up another man's gear. Why didn't you say something before? You mean you and Nils kept that under your bonnets all day?”

“I wanted to think about it awhile. Try to figure out what to do. But I can't figure anything.” Charles scowled. “Must be why Foss and his ocean pearl went out at the crack of dawn today. We met 'em coming home when we were on the way out.”

Philippa poured fresh coffee for herself and held the cup in both cold hands.

“I had a hundred traps set out,” Charles went on. “Half of 'em are gone. That's three hundred and fifty dollars just disappeared, and nothing but crabs and sea urchins in the rest. And Foss waved at us real cordial when he went past.”

“What does Nils say?” Steve asked.

“We were hauling together so he couldn't tell me it was all in my head. I've had him tell me my traps got drowned in deep water because I had short warps on 'em. Well, he didn't tell me anything like that today. And he had to admit it was most likely Perley, because Foss cornered him at the shore the other day and claimed I had roughed up Perley. He also had to admit Foss knew what Perley was doing, because Perley goes with him this time of year, same as I do with you or Nils, and Fort with his old man. After he admitted all that, he chewed his lip and did some plain and fancy thinking.”

“Then I suppose he said, ‘Let's go and cut off every last trap of theirs,'” said Steve.

Charles grinned. “Yeah. I had my sheath knife all ready and he said, ‘Put that away, boy. The family will set you up with some new gear if you've got nothing saved. We're not starting any lobster war.'” Charles shrugged. “I told him it was already started, but you know how he is. I suppose you think he's right.” He pulled his brows together aggressively.

“I know he's right,” said Steve. “Listen, I remember when your father had
his
knife ready, and called your grandfather soft as warm wax for not wanting a lobster war. Now we've got some sense on us along with our gray hairs. A lobster war could clean out everybody on this place as fast as a shooting war could do. No man in his right mind wants trouble in these waters.”

“Foss must be out of his, then,” said Charles.

“I admit I never thought Foss would get mixed up in anything like this. I thought he was too cautious. Well, he's safe enough. You and Nils didn't
see
anything.” Steve glanced over at Philippa. “Got some more coffee there?” As she refilled his cup, he went on talking to Charles. Fort sat by the table, his red hair coppery bright in the lamplight, staring down seriously at the pattern of the tablecloth.

“Maybe he figured it would be a good lesson for you. Teach you to mind your own business. Foss knows your family won't let you get back at him, so he feels safe with his revenge. I doubt if you lose any more traps. So just figure you had your whack at Perley and he had his whack at you and forget it.”

“Fine speech.” Charles was sarcastic. “You ought to run for Congress. Look, if I ever get out to haul without you or Nils, I'm going to get even with those two.”

“Nobody ever gets even in a lobster war,” Steve said somberly. “It might turn out that a warden will close the grounds and then none of us will tend any pots. The Campions don't want that any more than we do; they've made money since they came here, and they want to make some more. So if you just stop breathing so hard and calm down, this will fade out and be forgotten and no real harm done.”

Charles slapped his own chest. “Look,
I'm
out three hundred and fifty bucks in trap stuff and all the lobsters I lost besides! I've got something coming to
me
!”

“Sure.” Steve nodded imperturbably. “A job on the mainland. Or you can go into the Navy. You go out and touch their traps and you'll wind up pushed right out of lobstering and off the island. Your father won't fit you out with new traps forever.”

He carried his cup to the table and put cream and sugar into it. Charles said angrily, “No use talking to these Bennetts, they think they know so much. They're so scared of something happening to their island paradise anybody could spit in their faces and they wouldn't fight back! It might cost money, it might bring the warden down!”

“Charles, have some fresh coffee,” Philippa said. Her words sounded inane to her. She didn't blame him for the curt sideways look.

“No, thanks. I guess I'll go home. Been a nice evening.” He took his cap and jacket from the hook by the door. Fort got up.

“Thanks for the coffee and cake, Mis' Marshall. I hope you didn't mind Cynthy's squawks and squeaks too much.”

“Cynthy sang like a bird. I've never had a private concert in my life. I'm greatly honored.”

“By gorry, you say that nice, now.” Charles was going down the stairs and Fort called, “Hey, wait up!”

A
fter the sound of them had died away, Steve still stood by the table, stirring his coffee. He looked meditative and aloof. Philippa felt loneliness like a physical chill. Now she was out of his sphere; certainly in this affair she was an outsider, yet an outsider who had become irretrievably enmeshed in their troubles. She took a step toward him and said sharply, “Don't tell me I'm not responsible for all
this
.”

He gave her a severe, incisive glance. “Don't be a chowderhead. You're not half as important as you think you are.”

“Oh, I see,” she said distantly. She turned back to the stove and put an unnecessary piece of wood on the fire.

“I wondered when you were going to start acting like a woman in love,” Steve said.

“How is a woman in love supposed to act?” she asked without expression, gazing at the stove lifter in her hand.

“Touchy,” said Steve. He came up behind her and put his arms around her. She stood there stiffly. She thought almost with longing of the sheltered uneventful life she had led with Eric before they came to Maine. There might have been no moments of sweet and unexpected passion, but neither had there been anything like this; she felt angry, confused, and tired all at once. I should never have come here, she thought.

“I'm sorry I bit you,” Steve murmured. “But you deserved it. If you're going to be an island woman, you'll have to stop thinking everything that happens is personal.”

“I don't know if I want to be an island woman.”

Steve said evenly, “That's right. You've never told me you'd marry me.” He didn't take his arms away, his breath was warm against her ear. “Tell me now,” he said. “Let's be engaged.” His arms tightened around her waist, and gently he touched the side of her ear with his teeth.

Why can't he be bad-tempered this once? she asked herself helplessly. She knew she was going to be petty and waspish. She was dismayed, but not enough to put a stop on her tongue. The mood had been common enough with her when she was young, and she had taken a perverse satisfaction in it. She knew now it was a hunger to provoke violence, as a sort of catharsis for the stress of the moment. If Steve refused to admit there was stress, after what they had listened to tonight, he deserved to see the worst of her.

“What about the island?” she asked in a constricted voice. “What about all these troublesome things?”

“The island will take care of itself,” Steve answered. “It always has. Never mind that, now. Think of us. Look, we could have one of the Eastern End houses for the best seasons and move back to the harbor in the winters.”

“What about Vinnie?” The name crackled in the room like the sudden blaze of a match. She turned in his arms to look squarely at him. “You told me once you didn't know if she was alive or dead. How can you talk about marriage when you're not sure about her?”

He said equably, “I don't know in black and white whether she's dead or alive. But I've had a feeling for a long time that she's—well—” He took his hands from Philippa's waist and put them in his pockets. “She's been blown out like a lamp or like one of those candles she was so crazy about. She just
isn't
.”