The Fog (4 page)

Christina thought it was the ugliest kitchen she had ever seen in her life.

The Atlantic Ocean pounded outside. But even when Christina stood at the sink and drew up on her tiptoes to look out, she could not see the water.

Off the kitchen was a small, dark room, filled with old sagging furniture, the kind people left in beach houses rented out by the week. It had a small black-and-white television and a worn stack of last year’s magazines. “You children will be using this room,” said Mrs. Shevvington.

Christina waited for the others to object. She had spoken up several times; it was their turn — they were older.

But Anya merely stood with the poster of the sea in her hand as if she were glued to it. Michael was staring at his shoelaces. Benj was playing with his Swiss army knife.

Well, all right, if they wanted to be toads and get run over by a truck like Mrs. Shevvington, they could stay silent. Christina had never made a habit of staying silent. She had yelled at summer residents who dropped soda cans on the rocks and summer artists who abandoned paint tubes among the wildflowers. She had yelled at summer yachters who had the nerve to tie up at her father’s slip, so that when he came into the harbor he had no place for his own boat on his own island.

Christina was more than capable of yelling at anyone.

She turned to yell at Mrs. Shevvington.

Mrs. Shevvington’s eyes moved inside her flat head. The eyes seemed to separate from her face, like movable eyes in an oil painting. “Yes, Christina?” she said very softly. She inclined her head toward Christina, like a guillotine in slow motion.

Christina looked at Michael and Benj and Anya for support. Surely this was not how mainland people normally treated island boarders.

Mrs. Shevvington smiled at Christina. Her horrid little teeth were like kernels of corn on a shriveled ear.

The poster of the sea fell out of Anya’s hand.

“Our parents — ” Christina began, leaning over to pick up the poster. But she got no further.

Mr. Shevvington entered the room.

Christina recognized him from the orientation of the previous July. How handsome he was! What fine features he had — not squashed and rubbery like his wife’s, but sharp and defined. He wore a suit, which to Christina was very unusual. Nobody on the island ever wore one. The suit was soft gray, with the narrowest, most subtle pinstripes and in the breast pocket a dramatic red paisley silk handkerchief. Christina longed to touch the handkerchief. It was city fabric, city style.

She saw her parents suddenly as hicks, who would never own any handkerchief except Kleenex.

Christina looked into Mr. Shevvington’s eyes. They were soft and gray, as welcome as spring rain.

“Children. What a pleasure. We’ve been getting ready for you all summer.” With his fist he tilted Christina’s chin up and kissed her forehead. She felt that if she were to ask for the silk hanky he would give it to her, that he would give her anything, and therefore she could not bear to ask him for a single thing. His height was perfect, the way he loomed over her was protection, his shadow was warmth.

“Christina,” he said, “we don’t want to worry our parents, now, do we? There are going to be adjustments we’ll all have to make, learning how to live under one roof and get along.”

He said he knew he could trust Christina never to be difficult or cause scenes. He said a child who loved her parents would write only cheerful letters, make only happy phone calls, because love meant never worrying your mother and father.

His smile moved across all four of the children, binding them, requiring smiles in return, like signatures on a contract, so they could never forget, never be bad. They would always adjust.

He said, “Christina, I can see already that you’re going to be the spokeswoman of the group. I’m very impressed. A girl of your age, and already so articulate.”

She felt as warm as if she had been toasting in front of a fire. Christina resolved never to tell her parents if she had any problems. A girl who was in junior high was old enough to take care of herself and protect her parents from worry.

Mr. Shevvington laughed and turned to his wife. “Candy, we’re going to enjoy Christina, aren’t we?” he said.

Candy? Her name is Candy? Christina thought. Impossible.

“Anya,” Mr. Shevvington said now. He kissed her in just the same way, fist under Anya’s delicate chin, his lips planted on her forehead. “You are looking as beautiful as last year. We expect great things of you during your senior year, Anya.” He surveyed her with the attention of a student learning the details of a piece of art.

Anya smiled up into Mr. Shevvington’s eyes. “I won’t let you down,” she said, her voice full of emotion. “I’ll do anything you say.”

The principal smiled. It was a flat, bright smile, like the glassy sea on the day they got the posters. “I know,” he said.

The Shevvingtons are sticky, Christina thought. Like the back of a stamp. I’m afraid of them.

Mrs. Shevvington’s arm went around Christina’s shoulder, and it tightened in what might have been a hug, or the first move of a strangle.

The principal spoke to Benj, saying he knew this school year was going to be so wonderful that Benj would never want to quit. Benj looked bored, but he didn’t bother to argue, and just nodded.

Mr. Shevvington shook hands with Michael, saying that as a ninth-grader Michael was eligible for Junior Varsity and, with Michael on the teams, the school would have a splendid athletic year.

Anya turned her face toward the principal like a sunflower to the sky.

“I’m sorry I can’t have lunch with you,” Mr. Shevvington said, his handsome features drooping with distress. Anya’s face mirrored his. “But I must run back to the high school to deal with some annoying odds and ends before we open in the morning.” His face re-lit. “First day of class! You kids pretty excited?”

The boys remained bored.

Anya nodded joyfully. A puppy in a litter, thought Christina, wagging a tail for him.

“Upstairs,” said Mrs. Shevvington, steering them through the halls. Christina was slow to obey. Mrs. Shevvington pushed her. It was like being touched by a jellyfish. Flesh soft and flaccid, as if there were no bones beneath the white surface.

The Jaye brothers were already racing upstairs. “Third floor,” said Mrs. Shevvington. “Mr. Shevvington and I and the guests are on the second floor.”

The boys’ feet pounded on thick vermilion carpet up to the second floor and then sounded completely different — heavier, drummier.

There’s no carpet on our stairs, thought Christina, and it seemed a metaphor for the year to come — there would be no carpet on this year.

“Your rooms are a bit bare,” Mrs. Shevvington said. “But you may decorate any way you wish.” She stayed at the bottom while the children circled the long, climbing stairs.

At the second floor a white-banistered balcony ran all the way around the open stairs, and numbered doors opened off it. One door was open. Inside, a white nubbly rug lay beside a shiny brass bed, and a puffy pink comforter matched balloon curtains. A delicate nightstand, white with gold trim, held a tiny hobnail glass lamp and a pretty little antique clock.

Let my room be like that! Christina thought.

The gentle curve of the stairs became tighter. The carpet stopped. The stairs were plain wood, and scuffing feet had worn hollows in the treads. The banisters needed dusting; the little knobs and whorls of the posts were black with grime.

The room that Anya and Christina were to share was at the top of the stairs. The door opened right onto the stairs. Christina thought, If we miss the bathroom at night, we’ll fall all the way. Break every bone until we hit bottom.

Anya and Christina’s room had a bare wood floor, white walls, no curtains, just paper shades yellow with age. Twin beds without headboards wore plain white sheets and old mustard-colored blankets tucked in hard, like a punishment. Unmatched chests of drawers stood next to each other. Under the eaves, two closets were lit by bare bulbs on pull strings.

Christina wanted to cry.

Anya took a deep breath. “Better than where I stayed before,” she said, sliding her trunk with her knee toward the further bed.

“
Better?
” said Christina, shocked.

“I didn’t tell you on the island, because you’d have told your parents and worried them. They don’t like us here. The people in this town. They’re against us. You’ll see. That’s why we’re living with the Shevvingtons. Mr. Shevvington is so kind! He’s so thoughtful. He knew how hard it was for Michael and Benj and me last year, separated, living in ugly places with mean people because nobody else would take us. Mr. Shevvington is the only one on our side, Christina. He’s all we have.”

“Side?” Christina repeated.

“It’s them against us,” Anya said. Anya chose a chest of drawers. She opened her trunk and took out lilac-scented, flowered liner paper for the drawers. Anya was so well organized she had packed her scissors right next to it, and calmly she began cutting lengths of paper and laying them in her drawers. A faint scent of lilac filled the room.

Christina could not bear to start unpacking in this gloomy attic. She crossed the balcony to check out the boys’ room. It too was bare as bones. But the boys had had no dreams of lace and satin. They flung their stuff around, bounced on the beds, and seemed pleased. The boys’ walls were the same blackish green as the outside shutters. “My Marilyn Monroe poster will look really great up here,” Michael said to Christina. Then he shouted down the stairwell, “Can we scotch tape things right to the walls, Mrs. Shevvington?”

“Of course not,” muttered Christina. “In a house where you can’t run down the stairs and can’t enter the living room and can’t eat in the dining room, you think you’re going to be allowed to put scotch tape on walls?”

Christina leaned over the balcony rail. Mrs. Shevvington was standing at the bottom. “Certainly,” she called.

Christina went back into their bedroom.

“Here,” said Anya. “I cut you drawer liners, too.” Christina had never lined a drawer in her life. At least there was one pretty thing in here. Too bad it had to lie hidden by her clothing.

A single window filled the only dormer, making a tiny alcove. Far below, the surf boomed, and the spray tossed. Christina examined the view, down Breakneck Hill, over the rooftops, and beyond to the hills. She picked out the garage where her father’s truck and her mother’s car were locked up. “Where did you board last year, Anya?”

Anya squeezed into the dormer beside Christina. After a moment of searching she pointed to an ugly, squat building the color of fungus.

Christina shivered. “How could you stand it? Why didn’t you say how awful it was?”

Anya shrugged. “I don’t exactly live in a magnificent beach house myself, remember. And even if things are bad, you can’t tell anybody. It just worries people back on the island. They can’t do anything about it anyway.”

Christina’s parents had always been able to solve anything. But they were islanders, and still on the island. They did not wear silk paisley handkerchiefs in their suit pockets. Anya was right. Looking at the strength of the sea made Christina strong. She remembered she was granite. She thought, What’s the big deal? We can make the room pretty. And I’ll never tell the others that the Shevvingtons make me nervous, because that’s yarning, and they won’t be friends with me if I yarn.

Them against us.
What did that mean? Did it mean — could it possibly mean — that Christina would have no friends in seventh grade — no allies but Michael and Benj and Anya — no one on her side but Mr. Shevvington?

The tide continued to rise rather gently, considering its first cannonade.

“It really sounds like somebody puffing out birthday candles, doesn’t it?” Anya said. She pushed the window open. The two girls crammed themselves through the opening and leaned into the salty air. The window was tall for so small a dormer. The windowsill pressed just above Christina’s knees. If somebody wanted to shove us out the window … , Christina thought.

She suddenly wondered where the poster of the sea was. The center of her back crawled, and Christina tried to turn in the small space, thinking —

Anya grabbed her. “Look!”

It was the man (woman?) in the wet suit. Still there. Still standing on the opposite cliff of Candle Cove.

He — it — waved at the girls.

Anya waved back.

Christina could not bring herself to make a human communication with a creature so lacking in human features. It was like Mrs. Shevvington, rubbery and flattened.

Anya jerked back into the room, yanking Christina with her, knocking both their skulls against the window frame. “What’s the matter?” Christina asked. Her head hurt. She rubbed the dent.

Anya’s white finger trembled, pointing. “There’s your present from Dolly,” she whispered.

It was borne in on the next wave, riding neatly on top, its metallic bow still gleaming.

“The ocean knows where you are,” Anya said. She laughed madly. “It followed us here.”

Mrs. Shevvington called them down for lunch.

They ate in the kitchen.

Christina had been hoping for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, chicken noodle soup, and potato chips, which was her idea of the perfect noon meal. Mrs. Shevvington had made red flannel hash with poached eggs laid on top of each helping.

Christina did not know what to do. She loathed soft eggs, and the sick horrid way the yellow spurted around, like blood. She hated onions, and she especially hated beets. As for leftover corned beef, it should be fed to the sea gulls, not gagged down by human beings. “Mrs. Shevvington,” said Christina as courteously as she knew how, “may I make myself a sandwich instead?”

Mrs. Shevvington looked truly shocked, as if Christina had done something quite rude and socially unacceptable. “Christina, common courtesy requires you to eat what is put before you.”

Christina flushed.

Michael and Benj, who were of the shovel school of eating, had already begun shoveling. Michael used the side of his fork to cut his helping into squares, which he put into his mouth as if he were laying tiles. Yellow egg yolk dripped off his fork.