That Camden Summer Page 19

  ‘‘Then just when dreams are turning fey

  They slip and fall and turn to day.’’

  He appreciated her silently for a while before speaking. ‘‘You’re really something, Roberta, you know that?’’

  ‘‘And you think you’re not?’’

  ‘‘Not like that, no. I’ve never been good with words. My brother just said the other day that I don’t talk much.’’

  ‘‘You do around me.’’

  ‘‘Around you I seem to. Maybe because there’s always so much talking in your house that a person feels like he’s got to do some of it himself or get lost in the woodwork.’’

  She laughed, then picked up a stick and poked the fire.

  ‘‘Did you and your wife talk a lot?’’

  ‘‘Not a lot, no. We could be quiet together and still feel comfortable.’’

  ‘‘That’s nice. When my husband and I were quiet together it was because we had grown to such a state of disrespect that we had nothing to say anymore.’’

  ‘‘The more you tell me about your marriage, the worse it sounds.’’

  ‘‘And the more you tell me about yours, the better it sounds, which is quite an eye-opener for me, because I never knew anyone who had a happy marriage. I thought they were all lessons in tolerance.’’

  ‘‘No, you’re wrong there. Not all.’’

  ‘‘All of them I ever witnessed. Take my parents, for instance. He was at the tavern more often than she wanted him to be, so she bellyached constantly; then when he was home she harped at him to fix this, mend that, but when he did, it was never good enough for her. She criticized everything he did, until I could understand why he liked it better at the tavern. I guess that’s why I started escaping into my literature and music, so I could shut out their arguing.’’

  He took time to mull over his own parents’ relationship. ‘‘My parents got along pretty well. Sometimes her gossip aggravated him, but so did his pipe smoking. She said it clouded up her windows. He had a tendency to be lazy and she had a tendency to rush through everything, but, I don’t know—they seemed to work things out.’’

  Roberta said, ‘‘I think those who work things out are rarer than those who don’t. I had a friend in Boston named Irene. She and her husband were really crazy about each other. But jealous! Heavenly days, they could get into fights about total strangers they passed on the street. If one of them returned a hello, the other one accused him of flirting, and the fight was on. If she went to the market for a loaf of bread, she had to account for every single minute she was away, and even then he accused her of ridiculous dalliances. So even though they loved each other, it never seemed enough. Why, it got to the point where they couldn’t even be civil to their own friends, then after every fight Irene would come and cry on my shoulder. I used to do my best to comfort her until one day she accused me of making eyes at her husband. That ended our friendship, and I felt very bad about it.

  ‘‘Then, of course, there are Elfred and Grace. That marriage is a farce if I ever saw one.’’

  ‘‘I’d have to agree with you there.’’

  They pondered the Spears for a while, Gabriel now poking the fire along with Roberta. Some sparks rose as he inquired, ‘‘Elfred been around bothering you anymore?’’

  ‘‘Not since the day you scared him off.’’

  ‘‘Well, I’m glad about that. I have to admit, I got a little hot under the collar that day.’’

  ‘‘Oh?’’

  ‘‘Elfred thinks he’s God’s gift to women, and until then I’d always laughed about it. But I didn’t think it was funny that day.’’

  Side by side, with their ankles crossed, they turned to study each other. They stopped poking the fire and let the tips of their sticks burn. The moon had risen and spread a gold-beaten path across the water. The buried kelp was beginning to give off an herbal aroma that contrasted with the rather musty one lifting from the warmed tarp. The soft slap of the waves lifted from the edge of the water, and in the unseen distance one of the girls shrieked, followed by a chorus of muffled laughter.

  Finally Roberta asked quietly, ‘‘So how is it, being back here where you used to bring Caroline?’’

  ‘‘Not as bad as I thought it would be. Quite enjoyable, actually.’’

  ‘‘Once before you mentioned a day you thought was going to be bad for you. April eighteenth.’’

  ‘‘Oh, that.’’

  ‘‘Am I treading on hallowed ground?’’

  ‘‘Surprisingly, no. A month ago you would have been, but—I don’t know—maybe I’m healing at last.’’

  ‘‘So what did you do on April eighteenth this year?’’

  ‘‘Fed her roses for her, same as I do every year. They climb on a pergola outside the kitchen door that I have to walk under every time I go into the house.’’

  ‘‘Does Isobel do it with you?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Because she doesn’t want to or because you never asked her to?’’

  ‘‘When I feed the roses is always my special time with Caroline. I . . . well, I talk to her then.’’

  He was studying the fire. She was studying him. ‘‘Be careful, Gabriel.’’

  He looked over. ‘‘Of what?’’

  ‘‘Shutting out your daughter too long.’’

  He bristled. ‘‘I haven’t shut out my daughter.’’

  ‘‘She talks at our house. She tells us things.’’

  ‘‘Like what? If she said I shut her out, it’s not true.’’

  Roberta could tell this was testy ground. ‘‘I’m not saying you do it consciously.’’

  ‘‘If it wasn’t for Isobel, I’d have lost my mind when Caroline died!’’

  ‘‘Have you ever told her that?’’

  ‘‘I don’t have to tell her. She knows.’’

  ‘‘Funny, she thinks she’s in your way sometimes.’’

  ‘‘In my way?’’

  Roberta tossed her stick into the fire, brushed off her hands and hugged her knees. ‘‘Affection is a curious commodity. It opens mouths almost as easily as it opens hearts.’’

  ‘‘But why would she think she’s in my way?’’

  ‘‘You never hug her, Gabriel. You never touch her. I’ve watched you and I can see that you don’t know how. I imagine when Caroline was alive she did that for both of you. That’s often how it is, the mother does the overt loving. But you’re her only parent now, and she needs to know you love her.’’

  Gabe said nothing. He stared into Roberta’s firelit eyes for some moments, and she could see his jaw was clamped hard. ‘‘Showing it is hard for some people,’’ she told him. ‘‘If you don’t know how, watch me.’’ He turned away so she could no longer read his face. ‘‘It’s the little things that count, Gabriel. We say ‘I love you’ in a thousand ways; some have words and some don’t— touches, smiles, maybe a little warning, like ‘Keep warm.’ ‘Keep dry.’ ‘Watch your head!’ ‘Your dress is pretty.’ ‘Is that a new hair ribbon? It matches your eyes.’ ‘I’d love to come watch you put on Hiawatha.’ ‘Why don’t we walk outside and pick some of Mother’s roses together?’ Have you ever done that with her?’’

  She was in too deep to withdraw now. There were things on her mind that she simply had to say, on Isobel’s behalf.

  ‘‘She’s told me that she’s not allowed to touch her mother’s dresses, and that the couple times when she has, she’s been severely scolded. Perhaps you should let her someday. What would you have felt like if you’d been told you could not touch any of Caroline’s things after she died? You would have been so hurt, Gabriel.’’

  He spoke at last, and she could hear his banked anger. ‘‘I didn’t want her getting into them with her friends, and youknowhowdestructive childrencan be.’’

  ‘‘She’s never had friends, Gabriel. She told us so. Not until my girls came along, because you always expected her to fill in for her mother on housekeeping duties, do her homework, meet respons
ibilities first and foremost. I’ve always thought quite the opposite. Teach children enough to get them by so they can fend for themselves when necessary, but give them their freedom. After all, they’ll be adults just like that!’’—Roberta snapped her fingers—‘‘And then they’ll have families of their own and all the responsibilities that go along with them. When they’re children, let them be children. And that’s what Isobel is at our house. That’s why she likes it so much over there.’’

  He faced her abruptly and argued with some ferocity, ‘‘But it was hard after Caroline died! You don’t know how hard!’’

  ‘‘No, I don’t. I can’t know, because losing my husband was totally different than losing your wife. But I can imagine. And I can see you suffering still, and that tellsmea lot. What I’m asking you to understand is that it was equally hard for Isobel, and you never shared that with her. You handled your grief separately from hers, and by doing so, you made her believe she was in your way. You’re angry withmefor being so blunt, I can tell.’’

  ‘‘Y’ damned right I am. You’re accusing me of a lot of things here that I don’t think I deserve.’’

  ‘‘I’m not accusing you.’’

  ‘‘The hell you’re not!’’ He leaped to his feet. ‘‘You’re telling me I haven’t been a good father to Isobel, and just who appointed you judge!’’

  ‘‘I never said that.’’

  ‘‘You’ve said plenty! Behind my back at your house— you just admitted it! What do you do, Roberta? Take a break from being my daughter’s best friend to point out how her father suffers by comparison?’’

  ‘‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Gabriel.’’

  ‘‘Oh, now I’m ridiculous, am I? Well, maybe I have been, for letting her hang around there too much.’’

  ‘‘Look what we found!’’ The girls were back, bearing a good-sized starfish. Isobel said, ‘‘We’re going to boil it and keep it and maybe at Christmas if we painted it gold we could use it on the tree somehow.’’

  ‘‘Not now, girls!’’ he snapped. ‘‘Roberta and I are talking about something important.’’

  Roberta ignored him and reached out a hand. ‘‘A starfish . . . here, let me see.’’ Then she examined the specimen and said, ‘‘Oh, it’s a beauty.’’

  Gabriel declared, ‘‘You’re not bringing that thing into our house, Isobel! It’ll start stinking before you ever get around to boiling it, and besides, we have a star for the top of the tree, so go throw it back.’’

  Isobel looked nonplussed. ‘‘What’s wrong, Daddy?’’

  What could he reply? He was being a boor and he knew it.

  Roberta stepped in. ‘‘I think our food is done. Let’s uncover it, girls.’’

  ‘‘I’ll uncover it!’’ he snapped.

  Their outing was thoroughly ruined. Though jerky conversations were attempted while they ate, none were between Roberta and Gabriel. It was nearly ten o’clock when they repacked the hamper. He shoveled sand into the fire pit and Roberta sent the girls on to the car with the bushel baskets and clam rake. She watched him ramming the shovel into the sand and tossing some on the smaller fire with pent-up anger in every beat. Finally the coals disappeared and left them in moonlight. He threw two more shovelfuls and they listened to the lonely sound of the metal biting the sand.

  Finally, she simply had to speak.

  ‘‘You’re really mad at me. I mean, really.’’

  He leaned over to whisk something up off the sand, something unnecessary, she thought, to escape facing her. ‘‘Yes, I am, Roberta.’’

  ‘‘Gabriel, listen to me. It’s all right if you’re mad at me. Just . . . just don’t take it out on Isobel, okay?’’

  ‘‘Why should I take it out on Isobel! Jesus, Roberta, you think I’m some kind of a brute!’’

  ‘‘I do not. But sometimes when you’re mad at me you get really grouchy with her. Just remember, this was me talking tonight, so if you want to take it out on somebody, do it on me because she doesn’t deserve it.’’

  Suddenly he turned on her and jabbed a finger northward. ‘‘You know, things ran pretty smoothly at my house before you came to town! I took care of my daughter and we got along fine! So don’t think that you’re the final word on how to raise children, because I was doing all right! And maybe you’d better take a look at that junk hole you live in and see if your own mothering could use a little improvement! While you’re out running all over the county inoculating kids against diseases, your own are liable to catch ten others from the unsanitary conditions in your own damned house! And for God’s sake, why don’t you ever iron your dresses!’’

  By the time he finished he was shouting.

  In the following silence they glared each other down and felt their blood race. Then he spun and strode across the flats, gripping the shovel handle like a javelin.

  She planted her feet wide and yelled after him, ‘‘You damned bullheaded, closed-minded, jackassed plebeian dunce!’’ then kicked a spray of sand out of her path before heading after him.

  When she reached him he was cranking the car as if he wanted to lift it and drag it home.

  ‘‘I’ll do it myself!’’ she insisted, knocking him aside. ‘‘Give me that!’’

  ‘‘Gladly,’’ he shot back, and stormed around to the passenger side and got in, leaving her to struggle not only with the crank, but with the carbide headlights as well.

  After starting the drip, lighting the crystals and closing the lenses she finally climbed in behind the wheel.

  It irritated him that he didn’t have his own truck to drive and had to allow himself to be hauled around by her! She was too damned independent for her own good, and it was the last straw that tonight of all nights she was driving him! Furthermore, he didn’t know what plebeian meant.

  In the backseat the girls sat motionless, wary. No singing now, no chatter. Roberta put the car in gear and it jerked violently as she shifted. When it was rolling smoothly a timid voice from the rear asked, ‘‘What’s wrong?’’

  They answered simultaneously.

  Gabriel: ‘‘Nothing.’’

  Roberta: ‘‘We had a fight.’’

  ‘‘About what?’’ Rebecca asked.

  Gabriel: ‘‘Nothing.’’

  Roberta: ‘‘About what kind of parents we are.’’

  He warned, ‘‘Roberta . . . ’’

  ‘‘Oh, that’s so typical!’’ she shouted. ‘‘Hide everything as if they have no right to know!’’

  ‘‘Roberta, I’ll take this up with you privately, if at all!’’

  ‘‘If at all . . . Ha!’’ She threw back her head. ‘‘I doubt that you’ll get a chance, Farley.’’

  Rebecca had more courage than the others. ‘‘What does that mean,’’ she asked, ‘‘what kind of parents you are? You’re both good parents, aren’t you?’’

  ‘‘It seems that Mr. Farley thinks—’’

  ‘‘Roberta, shut up!’’

  ‘‘I don’t shut up around my kids, Farley!’’ she yelled. ‘‘That’s why my family works! So don’t tell me to shut up! You shut up! You’re so good at it anyway, it should come naturally! Shut up all your feelings, and all your wife’s old dresses, and the truth about what your mother and the respectable citizens of Camden think of Roberta Jewett and her girls! Well, we’re just as good as anybody in this town, and you can go back and tell them that for me!’’

  Gabriel clammed up and glared outside at the roadside weeds flashing green in the carbide lights. A night creature with amber eyes disappeared into the ditch. Houses hunkered like sleeping elephants behind dark overgrown front-yard trees.

  The backseat passengers rode silently.

  Roberta took a curve too fast and brought Farley’s back away from the seat.

  ‘‘Slow down,’’ he ordered.

  Go to hell, she thought, and continued at the same breakneck pace. Into Camden they rumbled, over the streetcar tracks, past the mill and up the hill to Alden Street.

&nbs
p; Nobody spoke as she stopped the car, catapulting them all forward in their seats. She set the various levers, got out and stopped the carbide drip. In grim silence they all started dividing property. He took the clamming equipment to his truck, but Isobel hovered behind, quite near tears.

  ‘‘Thanks for the picnic,’’ she told Roberta timidly, then whispered, ‘‘Aren’t you and my dad going to talk to each other anymore?’’

  Though Gabriel had the power to rouse her temper, Isobel’s vulnerability did quite the opposite. She touched Isobel’s jaw. ‘‘I don’t think so, honey.’’

  ‘‘But’’—Isobel glanced at her father, who was lighting his headlamps—‘‘can I still be your friend?’’

  Roberta dropped the hamper and took Isobel in her arms. ‘‘Oh, of course you can, sweetheart. We’ll always be your friends.’’ Isobel clung and tears stung Roberta’s eyes. Against the top of the girl’s head she said, ‘‘I’m sorry we made tonight end badly after it started out so fine.’’

  From his truck Gabriel ordered sternly, ‘‘Isobel, come on, we’ve got to go.’’

  Isobel drew back reluctantly. Rebecca, Susan and Lydia hovered nearby.

  ‘‘Good night,’’ Isobel said to them, then added with a note of pleading, ‘‘Can we do something tomorrow?’’

  ‘‘Sure . . .’’ Lydia and Susan responded lamely, uncertain of what the adults would have them say.

  Gabriel’s engine fired, and above its loud belching he shouted, ‘‘Isobel, come on!’’ His truck door slammed.

  ‘‘ ’Bye,’’ she whispered, and Roberta heard tears in her voice.

  Her own three said good-bye, and Roberta carried the hamper to the house while Farley chugged away, leaving the girls watching after him like a trio of birds just out of the nest but not yet ready to fly.

  Eleven

  Roberta and Gabriel had spent too much time together to shrug off their fight as if it didn’t matter. It was an ending, and endings hurt. This kind did. Neither of them deluded themselves about how close they had come to a romantic connection. The truth was, they had grown to like each other, to enjoy each other’s company, and the temptation to extend that friendship into some sort of light physical attachment had certainly been glimmering in their minds ever since the kiss. Roberta thought of it that way: as light physical attachment. Gabriel—he admitted after their falling-out—had occasionally imagined them as lovers, then cast aside the idea only to have it resurface with fair regularity. The point was moot now. Their friendship had ended on a note of bitterness that carried through the days that followed. Whenever they recalled that night of the clambake, each of them thought how nice and workable their lives had been before they met. Then they grew agitated, remembering the unfair criticism they had suffered at the hands of the other.