Authors: Noelle Carle
Aubrey’s answer was
an exaggerated shrug, while he smiled at Cleo mischievously. “Come on,” she
teased, “everyone is invited. Everyone else is going,” she said, emphasizing everyone
but pleading with Aubrey with her liquid gleaming eyes.
Ivy and Isabella both
turned around with their eyes wide and questioning, and Sam and Alison joined
Cleo and Aubrey on the road. “Us too?” the twins asked, at the same time that
Sam declared, “I’m not.”
Reg Eliot turned and
gazed back at Sam and the others. They exchanged a long look, which ended with
Reg’s words, “We’re all going. You too, Aubrey. Now let’s get home and get
cleaned up.” He directed Aubrey to go back and row the dory across the cove to
their wharf. Cleo looked sideways at her father and skipped after Aubrey,
riding with him in the dory.
Sam stopped walking,
his cheeks flushing and his eyes on the ground. Alison moved closer, reaching
for his hand. It was warm and hard, with calloused palms and strong fingers.
Looking at his hand now, as she held it, Alison realized again that he was a
grown man, and it had happened while she’d been all unaware.
He squeezed briefly,
gazing at her searchingly. “You’ll be there?”
She nodded.
He gave a brief nod,
gave her an unconvincing smile, then turned to catch up with his family.
Almost everyone was
there at the festivities. Young girls made banners which read “Bon Voyage, to
Our Heroes”. Alvie Cooper gazed long at the banner when he arrived, then
muttered to everyone he spoke to, “What makes ‘em heroes? They ain’t done
nothin’ yet!” The banners were festooned with flags and streamers, which
flapped lazily in the sea breeze. The three Kens, who had always done it, had
been preparing for the clambake all afternoon. Everyone brought blankets and
baskets of food to spread out on the long tables brought down from the church
hall. Pastor Whiting spoke such an eloquent prayer for the boys who were going
off to fight that Tim’s mother, Gladys, started crying. Vernon took one look at
her and said dryly, “Well, woman, they ain’t leaving till the mornin’. Let’s
eat!” The supper commenced and was consumed by all – some of whom would be
remembering the soldiers every day and other who were just there for a good
meal. Twilight settled upon them while they feasted. Fingers of fog drifted
in as the air cooled, and Alvie Cooper reluctantly left the picnic to set the
light, as he always said, over the water. As soon as the food was cleared away,
they lit three large fires along the shore and gathered in different groups of
families and friends to sing, mesmerized by the fire, the plum colored sunset
and the gentle waves just touching the shore. They sang into the night, with
comfortable pauses and whispered conversations.
Sam was sitting with
his family, who were positioned next to the Grangers. His father held
Caroline, who was asleep. Clustered around him were the twins, and Richard and
Peter, drowsy and yawning after a long day and all the excitement. Esther sat
by herself, disappointed that Remick had refused to come. William and Henry
stood by the bonfire with their friends, feeding the flames, surging from fire
to fire like a school of fish easily diverted. Cleo was nowhere in sight. Sam
last recalled seeing her helping Aubrey Newell carry a table back up the path
to the church. He was restless. The singing was nice but it reminded him of
his mother. Alison was next to him, her hand in his, their shoulders
touching. He whispered to her, “Meet me over by the public,” and started to
rise.
Just then they
heard the noise of running and Cleo came thrashing up to their blanket, out of
breath. She plopped down beside Esther, who asked her what was wrong. Her
face stiff in the firelight, Cleo just shook her head, trying to slow her
breathing. Her hair was askew, and her hands, as she reached to smooth it,
were shaking. Esther grabbed one of Cleo’s hands and asked more insistently,
“What happened?”
Cleo sniffed and
shrugged. “I thought I saw a bear.”
“Where’s Aubrey? I
thought you were with Aubrey,” Esther said. Cleo only shrugged and shook her
head.
Sam rolled his eyes
and stood up. He moved back away from the light of the bonfire and made his
way over the rocks to the public wharf. The lobster platform next to the dock
where they weighed and cased their haul hardly moved with the gentle motion of
the water; boats at their moorings waited quietly for the morning and the work
that would come with it. Life, Sam realized, would continue on as it always
had, even if he wasn’t here. Classes at school would go till summer, lobster
and cod would be caught and sold, mothers would cook meals and fathers and
children would eat them. The tide would go in and out, twice a day, without him
here. Sam was beginning to understand the blessing of this good simple life
and how much he’d miss it, and how much he wanted nothing more than to live
it. He sat down on the end of the wharf. The moon was rising, muffled in the
light fog. The stars that shone were familiar friends overhead. Many nights he
would slip out of the noisy house to lie on the grass and gaze into the night
sky.
He felt Alison’s
footsteps vibrating the wharf as she came near. She settled beside him without
speaking.
“You know I’ve never
been further away than Bath,” he said.
“Me neither.”
“I’ve never even been
on a train!” he laughed shortly. “I’ll probably get on the wrong one and end
up in Canada!”
Alison said nothing,
but he felt her eyes on him.
“In geography class in school
I’d look at all those maps, all those different countries and think they can’t
be real, because I’ve never seen them. I believe there really is a place
called Africa or Australia, or Iceland, or France. But this is the only place
I know for sure.”
Alison moved beside
him. “Sam,” she said quietly. “I’m so afraid for you. But it will be over
quickly now, won’t it? “
Sam grunted and
muttered, “Hope so.”
“Well,” Alison said
slowly but confidently, “I’m going to hold you here in my heart, and in my
mind. I’m going to think of you being safe and well and whole. I’m going to
try not to be afraid.”
Sam sighed. “I think
it will take more than that. Things happen to people…things you don’t plan on.
Look at your brother.”
She nodded but
thought he couldn’t see her, so she reached for his hand and held it firmly.
He looked at her
finally, sensing the sweet outline of her face rather than actually seeing it
in the scanty light of the moon. “Alison, I’m afraid…” he hesitated, and then
continued as she squeezed his hand. “I’m afraid I’ve started something that I
can’t finish. We don’t know if I’ll even come back. I hate to think of you
hurting for me. I don’t think I should have said what I did that other night.”
She looked away, out
at the water. Then in a low voice she questioned, “Was it true, what you
said?”
He couldn’t deny it,
couldn’t even stop from smiling, so he answered, “Yes.”
“Well, what I said
was true too. I’m not afraid of that, or of the wait.” She said it firmly, in
a most Alison-like way, so that he let go of her hand and passed his arm around
her shoulders. Their lips met in a gentle agreement that soon changed to a
kind of hunger that frightened them. Footsteps sounded across the other end
of the wharf, but no one approached.
They drew apart
shakily. “Someone’s here,” Sam remarked, not really caring.
Alison leaned onto
his shoulder and they whispered promises and dreams to each other as the night
deepened around them. And when the fog horn sounded a melancholy cry and the
light on Old Bald Head swung out over the water, Alison began crying. Sam held
her close, despising the war.
Chapter Seven
Their Way of Life and Obedience
Aunt Pearl was giving
Davey a haircut on the back porch, which looked out on a large field in which
the Gilman’s were mowing some early hay. Heat pressed down on the land like a
wool blanket, making the leaves on the trees droop like wet rags.
Remick sat motionless
in a rocking chair, a glass of water gripped in his hand. Davey wriggled and
cringed as Aunt Pearl snipped at the hair on the back of his neck.
“Why do I hafta get a
haircut? There’s no school in summer,” he whined.
“Can’t have you
looking like a sheep, no matter what time of year it is,” she replied mildly.
The clank of the
mower sounded across the field, baby robins in the bush by the porch squawked
insistently and Davey moaned.
Alison stepped out
onto the porch, wiping her hands on a towel. “The bread’s all set,” she said,
wiping her brow with the towel. “Wish we didn’t have to cook in this heat.”
Aunt Pearl shot her a
glance, shrugged and continued cutting. Drops of sweat trickled out from under
her hairline and her nostrils flared as she sniffed, but she loved summer. The
family knew that Aunt Pearl carried a melancholy during the cold months, which
was unexplainable but very real. In the summer she thawed; the warmth seeming
to ease the coldness that gripped her spirit all winter.
Alison sat in a chair
next to her brother on the porch, lifting her bare feet to the railing and
raising her cotton skirt to cool her legs. Remick suddenly jumped to his feet,
spilling his water, and he raced down the steps and across their yard.
“Hey!” Alison
exclaimed, watching him scramble over the fence and lope across the field, where
she saw now that someone had fallen. She surged out of her seat to follow him,
yelling back to Davey, “Better get Father!”
She saw as she looked
back that Aunt Pearl whisked off the towel she had put around Davey’s shoulders
as Davey hopped down from the stool with a grin. Going barefoot since school
let out had hardened her feet, but the stubbled hay field proved painful. By
the time she hobbled up to the scene, they had lifted Chester Gilman onto the
hay piled up on the wagon. His father William was waving his hat over Chester
frantically, while Roy, his uncle, was inexplicably pulling off Chester’s
boots. Remick was feeling his pulse in his neck. Alison looked at Chester’s
alarming color and felt his skin, which was hot and dry. She met Remick’s eyes
as he crisply stated, “It looks like heat exhaustion. Have you got any water,
Bill?”
Owen, who was driving
the horses, jumped down from the wagon seat and ran around with a covered glass
bottle that had about two inches of warm water in it.
Alison shook her
head. “It’s not enough.” She climbed up onto the wagon and said, “Take us
over as far as the fence. We can lift him over it and take him into the
house. We can get him some water there.” She held out her hand to Remick who
also climbed up. “I think our father is at home, right in his office,” she
said to Bill who scrambled up to the seat beside Owen while Roy returned to the
horses that were pulling the mower, gazing after them as they moved away with a
mournful look.
She glanced over to
the fence where Pearl was waiting, her hand shading her eyes. Remick lifted
himself to his knees and shouted to her, “Get some of that lemonade you made.
He needs fluids.”
Aunt Pearl’s friend,
Lorelei Anders had given her four lemons she got while visiting her daughter in
Florida, who had a lemon tree in her own back yard. Lorelei had carried a bag
of them on the train all the way home, fearing to fall asleep lest someone
steal them. Pearl took her lemons that morning, squeezed them dry and mixed in
some carefully horded sugar. She set it in the icebox to chill for their
supper, with dire warnings to anyone who dared touch it before then.
They carried Chester
into the kitchen from the back porch, laying him on the divan there. Doctor
Granger was in his office and came quickly into the kitchen, followed by Davey
who collapsed with an excited huff into a chair, watching curiously as they
administered the lemonade. Chester spluttered and coughed, then moaned. Bill
Gilman moaned too, and staggered to another kitchen chair. He fanned his own
face with his hat.
“May I get you some
water, Mr. Gilman?” Alison offered.
The husky farmer
ignored her offer, his gaze absorbed with his son’s form. Ever since he got
the concussion playing at the old fort, Chester had seemed weak and sickly.
They almost lost him twice since then; once to pneumonia and again a couple of
years previous to scarlet fever. Since then he’d appeared to outgrow his
weakness, to thrive and grow, ill health a thing of the past. Bill knocked on
wood and said his prayers and protected Chester as well as he knew how, but he
had cringed with dread when his wife had said a few weeks before that she was
kind of glad Chester was sickly so he wasn’t required to go fight in France if
the war carried on too long. Now this. He watched the doctor work over his
son, regret written all over his face that his wife had made such a statement.