Summer of the War (7 page)

July smothered us. It was hot every day, and at night the bedroom curtains never stirred. Emily, Nancy, and Polo spent nights in the upstairs sleeping porch. Tommy slept in the porch downstairs. Carrie tossed restlessly in her bed.

Our days were back to normal: early-morning dips in the lake, rebuilding the log cribs, reading in the afternoon, going along with Nancy's schemes. As she usually did every summer after the first excitement of planting some flowers, Emily forgot about the garden. Without saying a word to anyone, Carrie took over. We all saw she was trying to make up for the damage she had done with the bleach. She was in the garden every afternoon on her knees, doing Emily's job for her, pulling out weeds around the marigolds and lavender plants. The lavender plants were thriving in the poor soil, spreading out into a small hedge.

Carrie never went swimming or helped with the stones. If she wasn't sitting on the dock, her arms around her knees, staring out at the water, she kept to her room, reading her magazines, writing letters, lounging on her bed complaining about the heat. She might as well have been in some apartment in the middle of a city instead of on an island.

At first I hadn't paid any attention to the letters to her father. She wrote them in French and left them lying on the dresser. I was sure that when I had said I didn't speak French, she had understood that to mean that I didn't know French. My curiosity got the better of me. I didn't exactly read the letters. I walked by the dresser as if the letters weren't someone I planned to meet, but just ran into. Certain phrases caught my eye.
“Je suis une prisonniere,”
I'm a prisoner. “
La cuisine est piteuse,”
the food is pitiful. That wasn't a big shock. Carrie had let us know how she felt about being with us and eating our pitiful food. Of course I looked to see what she thought of everyone. Grandfather was
l'ancien
, the old one. Nancy was
l'amusette
, a toy. Ned was
très agréable
, very agreeable. I was
une solitaire
, a hermit, a recluse, or it could mean a lonely person, which wasn't far off the mark. I had lost Ned, and Carrie didn't seem to want to have anything to do with me.

Some things in the letters were sad. Carrie begged her father to let her come to London. She wrote that she would take care of him and would keep him from
le péril
, danger, and
les bombes
, the bombs.
Grandmère
, she said, had told her she was like her mother.
“Est-ce que c'est vrai?”
she asked her father. Is it true? My conscience got the better of me and I stopped reading the letters. Carrie's letters to her father were the only way she could have a private conversation with him. I knew I would hate to have her listening in to what I said to my father in confidence. Anyhow, I didn't see what I could do about what I discovered.

In the evenings Carrie went sailing with Ned. The rest of us, after our recorder session, played cards or listened to the war news. In the Soviet Union six thousand German and Russian tanks were battling one another. The war had found its way across the ocean and even onto our island. Only the week before, the Birch Bay weekly newspaper had had an article about a local soldier who had been killed. Carrie said Ned was still planning to join up in the spring. I hated hearing about Ned's plans from Carrie when it should have been me out there who Ned was confiding in.

One evening, watching Carrie head for the dock and Ned's sailboat, Grandma asked me, “Why don't you go with them?”

I shook my head. “I'm in the middle of an exciting chapter.” I grabbed a book from a pile on a chair and headed for the porch.

Grandma followed me. “Belle, you haven't been your usual cheerful self. Is something wrong?”

I shook my head.

“Are you getting along with Carrie?”

I shrugged.

“Carrie's life has been so different from the life that we lead here. Changing has been a hard adjustment for her.”

“She's changing
us
. We're the ones who are different since she came. She's just the same.”

Grandma gave me one of her thoughtful looks. “Maybe we're too isolated here on the island, Belle. Maybe it's not a bad thing to learn to live with people who are a bit different than we are.”

Though our routines were the same, there were changes. Grandpa seemed bewildered by all the small rebellions that were going on: Emily's staying in bed in the morning, Nancy skipping our recorder practice, Tommy's growing stubbornness, and my sulks. I don't think Grandpa connected the changes with Carrie. I think he believed we were all getting up on the wrong side of the bed or had come down with some temporary mind flu from which we would soon recover. Grandpa believed in things being neat and tidy, and if they weren't, you just waited ten minutes and everything would get back to normal because that's the way the world was meant to be—orderly.

Grandma was different. She wasn't seeing Carrie at all. She was seeing someone else who wasn't here. She was seeing Aunt Julia. In Grandma's eyes, with
Carrie there, Grandma had her daughter back, so Carrie could do no wrong.

Our friends on the other islands hadn't met Carrie. We hadn't made our usual weekly trip to the Lodge for dinner because Grandma believed it was better for Carrie to get used to us before she had to meet all the other families. Finally Grandpa announced that we would have dinner on Big Island.

Carrie perked right up. She ran up the stairs to our bedroom and began pulling dresses out of the closet. I watched for a few minutes. “Dinners at the Lodge are really informal,” I said. “No one dresses up.”

“I don't suppose they'll refuse to feed me if I wear something decent. What is there about these islands that makes everyone want to look grubby?”

I headed for the channel with a bar of Ivory soap. By the time I got back to our room, Carrie was all dressed. I had to admit that with every hair of her pageboy in place and a white lace blouse and flowered cotton skirt, she looked terrific, like something right out of
Mademoiselle
. I slipped on the only dress I had packed, a faded cotton one with a torn pocket and an ink stain. I guess I was in a growing phase, because the dress was suddenly too short for me.

Carrie gave me an amused look. “You looked great in that yellow dress of mine. You're welcome to wear it.”

I longed to put on her dress, but I was too proud—
or too stubborn. I shook my head, tucked my wet hair behind my ears, and rubbing away the sand between my toes, got into my worn sandals. When I caught a glimpse in the mirror of the two of us side by side, I had to admit that I took some sick satisfaction in my pathetic appearance, as if points were given out for looking grubby.

“I don't understand,” Carrie said, “why I'm supposed to let your family keep giving me everything like I was Little Orphan Annie and no one will let me give anything back.”

“Sold,” I said. “Hand me the yellow dress.” When I stole a look in the mirror, I looked like I belonged with Carrie, not like her sister sitting home among the ashes. In the reflection Carrie and I both had big smiles on our faces.

The runabout couldn't hold the whole family, so Grandpa ran his Chris-Craft out of the boathouse. It was one of the early models from the twenties. No one was allowed to take it out except Grandpa, and he almost hated to get it wet.

It was only a short ride to Big Island and the Lodge. The Lodge was where all the island people who owned cottages on the islands got together. There were tennis courts and even a croquet lawn. There were swings and slides for the little kids, who played outside with their nursemaids and ate at a separate little kids' table. Before the war put a stop to it, there were dances with a real orchestra.

The clubhouse itself was a big old wooden building with a wide porch and a dock large enough to accommodate several boats. It was furnished with old-fashioned comfortable sofas and chairs with sagging seats. If you reached under one of the cushions, along with a lot of crumbs you'd probably find someone's sunglasses and a grocery list. The little kids always looked for pennies. Magazines like
Vogue
and
Yachting
, most of them a couple of years old, were strewn on the tables. On cool nights there was a fire in the big stone fireplace. On this warm night the windows were all open, and a channel breeze fluttered the curtains.

A couple dozen resorters were gathered for dinner. We knew all of them, though there were guests we hadn't met before. The Adamses, an elderly couple, were there with their houseful of grandchildren, who burst into the clubhouse like a bunch of puppies let out of a kennel. Everyone was happy to see the Wallaces back. There had been a rumor over the winter that Mrs. Wallace was in the hospital with something serious. The Nelsons were there from Chicago with their son, Brad, who was standing a little apart looking like he wanted to be a million miles away. He was movie-star handsome and knew it. For as long as I could remember, he'd always turned up with something he ought not to have, like cigarettes when he was twelve, and once at a Fourth of July celebration a really dangerous firecracker.

My sisters and brother gravitated toward friends their ages. Grandma was taking Carrie around introducing her to everyone. I tracked down Marcia Adams, one of the Adamses' grandchildren.

Marcia was shorter than I was, with clipped black curly hair and green eyes that didn't miss anything. She was as good as a newspaper. “Betty Hurd is getting married. Wait until you see the lucky man. He looks like his suit is three sizes too small for him and his eyes bulge. Jimmy flunked sixth grade, sixth grade! The Fraziers had a big fight. You could hear them clear out in the channel. The club's having chicken again tonight, and apple pie with ice cream. What happened to Emily's hair? Is that blonde who looks like a magazine cover your cousin?”

“Yes.” Carrie was talking with Brad Nelson.

“I heard Brad was thrown out of his high school for drinking,” Marcia whispered.

I stole a glance in their direction. Carrie and Brad were standing close to each other. They would look in the direction of someone, lean toward each other, whisper something, and laugh.

Grandma noticed it too. As we sat down for dinner, she turned to Carrie. “You and the Nelson boy seemed to be getting along.”

“He asked me to come over to their cottage. I guess he can't come to see us. Maybe he can't use their boat.”

Grandpa looked up from cutting up Nancy's
chicken for her. “Probably not Mr. Nelson's boat. Mr. Nelson has one of the first Chris-Craft they made, a 1924 model. It's older than mine. Mr. Nelson and I have spent a lot of summers together restoring our boats.”

“Why would someone spend so much time on an old boat?” Carrie asked.

Grandpa looked as startled as if Carrie had asked why the sun shone. “Why would someone want an old painting by Rembrandt? Those boats are masterpieces.”

“So that's why Brad has no boat to use.”

“No.” Grandpa frowned. “They also have a runabout like ours. I think it has something to do with where he goes with a boat.”

“Belle could take me over to see him,” Carrie said.

“I'm afraid that boy has been in some trouble,” Grandpa said. “Let's give him a little time to get back on the proper track. Anyhow, in my day girls didn't go running after boys.”

Carrie looked hurt, and Grandma quickly said, “I don't know about that, Everett. I had my eye on you long before you noticed me.”

There was a lot of laughter, and nothing more was said about Carrie visiting the Nelsons. Dinner was nearly over. Nancy was fighting off Tommy's fork. He was snatching pieces of her apple pie. Grandma was using a napkin and ice water to rub away a gravy stain on Emily's dress. Marcia was signaling to me across
the dining room to see her after dinner was over.

Grandpa didn't have a lot of patience for sitting around chatting. He was always impatient to get back to the island. As soon as we finished dessert, Grandpa and Grandma began saying their good-byes. Carrie and Brad walked out on the dock, talking to each other. I hurried to find Marcia.

“Guess what?” she asked. “I overheard your glamorous cousin and Brad Nelson talking about going to the Shanty.”

There was no time for questions. Grandpa was calling me. I was sure Marcia was mistaken. Brad must have been telling some wild story about the Shanty—and there were lots of such stories. The Shanty was an all-night bar about five miles east of Birch Bay on the water, a place where loggers and fishermen and their dates hung out. On weekends there was a local band and dancing. I couldn't believe that Brad would ever set foot in a place like that, and anyhow, he couldn't take out a boat, so there would be no way to get there.

On the way back to the island Tommy begged Grandpa to slow down so he could see an osprey's nest. The nest, on the top of a tall pine tree, looked like someone had thrown together a pile of sticks. The huge brown-and-white bird peered down at us but never moved from its nest.

Tommy was excited. “They've got two fledglings,” he said.

“What do you think of that, Caroline?” Grandpa asked.

“Amazing,” Carrie said, but even though she was looking right at the nest, I don't think she saw it.

The next day a miracle occurred. Carrie was out of bed and in her bathing suit, her hair pinned up, ready to jump into the lake with the rest of us. She was in and out of the water in a minute. “Felt great,” she called over her shoulder, running back to the house. After lunch she said, “I'll go with you, Belle, when you go over to Birch Bay.”

Grandma said, “While you're there, girls, why don't you stop by the Norkins' and get us some lettuce and spinach if it hasn't bolted. Be sure not to use up any more gas in the boat than you absolutely need. Our coupons are nearly gone for this month.”

In the past I'd had to remind Carrie to cast off the aft line, but this afternoon she moved quickly, tossing the line into the runabout. “I've been such a drag,” she said. “I really want to learn how to do all the things you do, Belle. I'd love to learn how to run the boat.”

Before I thought how rude it would sound, I said, “Grandpa would never let you.”

Carrie flushed. “I'm older than you and I'm not exactly stupid. I don't know why I shouldn't be able to learn.”

“It's just that I've been around boats all my life,” I said, trying to sound a little more polite. “I didn't mean you couldn't learn.”

“Never mind,” Carrie said. “I don't know why I even try. You'll never let me be a part of this family.”

I felt guilty. She had jumped into the water in the morning with the rest of us. “We're going to Birch Bay this afternoon. Maybe on the way home,” I said, half hoping she would have forgotten by then. As we passed the other islands, Carrie asked, “Where's the Nelsons' place?”

“Over there,” I said, pointing to a large gray cottage. Carrie stared at it but didn't say anything.

On the mainland Carrie offered to get the mail while I picked up the coffee Mr. Brock had been keeping for us under the counter. Coffee was nearly impossible to get during the war, but Mr. Brock and Grandpa were old friends. Carrie had a letter to mail, and I assumed it was to her father. She was waiting for me when I came out of the store. At the Norkins' farm we found Ned changing a tire on his dad's truck.

“No way are we going to be able to get new tires until the war is over,” he said. “I'll just have to keep patching them.” He smiled at both of us, but he
couldn't take his eyes off Carrie. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Just stuff to graze on,” I said. I filled one bag with lettuce and another with spinach.

Carrie was looking over the plants for sale, paying no attention to Ned. “What's this plant with all the tiny white flowers? It's so airy and delicate.”

Ned walked over to her. “That's a great description. It's baby's breath.” He waited a minute. “I'll be over to take you sailing tonight, Carrie.”

Carrie glanced at him as if she had never seen him before. “I've got stuff to do tonight,” she said.

I knew that she didn't have anything to do and that she was just putting Ned off, but Ned had no clue.

He asked, “Well, let's do it tomorrow night.”

“Sorry,” she said, and nothing more.

I cringed as I watched Ned realize she was telling him she didn't want to see him, tonight or tomorrow night or ever. Now that she had met Brad, she didn't care about Ned. Brad was more exciting, more big city. Ned was just a small-town boy who sold vegetables and moved luggage.

Bewildered, he turned to me like you reach for a life preserver. “Belle?”

“Sure. Come by after supper.” I know I should have resented being his second choice, but he looked so devastated. I think at that moment I was angrier at Carrie for what she was doing to Ned than for all the
trouble she was causing our family.

Carrie scooped up a couple of pots of baby's breath, paid Ned as if he were some shopkeeper she had never seen before, and headed for town.

As we climbed into the runabout, Carrie watched me cast off the mooring lines. As soon as we were clear of the dock, she asked again, “Why can't I try driving or running the boat or whatever you call it?”

Ever since we had left the island that afternoon, there had been something in the back of my head, something that had been trying to escape like one of those laboratory rats that keep running back and forth in a maze hunting for a way out. I knew what it was now. Carrie wanted to take the runabout to Brad Nelson's cottage. She wanted him to take her to the Shanty. She wanted excitement. I knew perfectly well that Grandpa would have a fit if Carrie took the runabout. I told myself that at last he and Grandma would see Carrie for what she was, a selfish, spoiled creature. He'd send her away and our family could go back to being what we were before Carrie came and ruined everything.

I moved over to make room for Carrie. “Okay, you take the controls. The first thing you have to do is start the blower to get rid of gas fumes. That's crucial. Wait a couple of minutes. Turn it off and start the ignition.” As we swung out into the channel, there was a flush of excitement on Carrie's face.

Alarmed, I shouted, “Not so fast. And watch out.
You have to stay inside the buoys, or you'll run the boat over a boulder or get hung up on the shoals.” I saw that Carrie, in her excitement at handling the boat, wasn't paying attention to what I was saying. “Carrie, listen, this is important. You have to keep inside the buoys. Remember to keep the red buoys on your left. Then when you're heading into the harbor at Birch Bay, they'll be on your right.”

“What about at night?”

“Well, in the summer it's light until nearly eleven. Anyhow, we're never out that late.”

“But if you were?”

Of course I knew what she was thinking. I should have stopped the whole plan right then and there. I only said, “People around here just know the channel, even in the dark.”

When we were in sight of the cottage, I pushed her aside and took over the controls.

“Grandpa might see us,” I warned.

Carrie moved over, but the look of excitement stayed.

For the next few days things were quiet. Carrie went back to sleeping in mornings. Nancy was busy building furniture for her dolls out of twigs. Tommy had discovered an indigo bunting nest. Emily was as excited as Tommy. “It's the most gorgeous shade of blue,” she said. “There's blue inside the blue.”

On Sunday Grandpa built a bonfire on the beach to fix his specialty, planked whitefish. He had learned
how to do it from an Indian he had known when he and Grandma had first come to the islands. He got out his oak board, smoky smelling and singed and brown from past fires. He laid fillets of the whitefish he had caught that afternoon on the plank. Bacon slices went over the fillets. Grandpa tapped nails through the slices and the fillets. On the beach he built a fire in front of a large boulder that he used to prop up the board. The heat from the fire cooked the whitefish while the fat from the bacon basted it.

It took about an hour to cook, and while we waited, growing hungrier and hungrier, Grandpa told us the latest war news.

Discussions about the war made Carrie restless. “Why do people have to talk about the war all the time?” she asked. I knew she was thinking about her father. In the last few days Germany had increased its bombing of England. There were more casualties. A couple of nights ago, when we had all gathered around the radio to hear the news from England, Carrie had hurried out of the room.

Seeing how Carrie had been affected by the broadcast, Grandma had said, “Everett, maybe we ought to give up listening to the war news.”

Grandpa had frowned. “Of course we can't give up listening. There's a war on. It's our duty to know what's going on. We may be on an island, but our men are out there giving their lives; the least we can do is be aware of their sacrifices.” But after that
Grandpa waited until we were all in bed to listen to the war news. I could hear the radio crackling, the volume turned low, as it whispered softly to Grandpa.

Now Grandpa said, “You're right, Caroline—there must be something more cheerful to talk about. Tommy, why don't you tell us about the whistling swans you saw this morning?”

Tommy was eager to describe waking up to strange
woo hoo
sounds. “I could hear them a long time before they settled down on the channel. There must have been a dozen of them.” Whistling swans were rare; you only saw them migrating through, and all day Tommy had gone around with a small smile on his face as if he had been let in on a wonderful secret.

Grandma told a story about black swans. “All the black swans in England are owned by the king. There is a man who works for the crown whose job it is to travel the rivers and count the black swans.”

“Do you have to be English to do that?” Tommy asked. We could all see he would love the job.

Emily described a strange duck she had seen. “Its face was painted white and black in a funny pattern, like a clown.”

“Wood duck,” Tommy said. Carrie appeared to be listening to us, but you could see her mind was on something else. I wondered if it might be her father. I missed my own dad a lot, but I heard from him every week and I knew he was safe in an office only a few hours away from us.

When the whitefish was done, Grandpa divided it up and presented a portion to each of us with a flourish.

“It's very good,” Carrie told Grandpa when she tasted the whitefish, but that wasn't compliment enough for Grandpa, who was used to raves for his planked whitefish. He covered his disappointment, but we could see his feelings were hurt.

Carrie saw it too. Later that night when we were getting ready for bed, she said, “I guess I should have said more about Grandpa's whitefish. I was thinking of something else.”

“Your dad?” I asked.

Carrie was silent for a moment and then said, “Yes, I was thinking of Papa.”