Lucy Page 4

  “WATCH THE TREE ROOTS. They bump up and we wouldn’t want you to trip, Reverend and Mrs. Snow. Elmer, you and Petey go easy with that trunk. It ain’t a cah of bugs.”

  “Ayuh, don’t worry none, Elva.”

  “Bugs?” Lucy asked as they followed Elva Perry through the woodland path.

  “Ha! Forgot myself, de-ah. Bugs is just a local name for lobstah.”

  Does no one ever pronounce the letter r in New England? Lucy thought. But she had never been happier. The woodland path had begun to thread its way through the pines and spruce closer to the sea. She could hear the crush of the waves. Scraps of fog hung in the branches like vaporous scarves of chiffon.

  “She be comin’ in thick as mud, ain’t she?” Elmer called back. “Won’t be able to see the cove by the time we get to the cottage.”

  But I can smell it, Lucy thought. I can feel it. There was a tang in the air as the salt mingled with the piney scent of the woods.

  Lucy glanced at Marjorie. She could see her bottom lip quivering. “It’s all right, Mother. It’s all so lovely after the city and the smell of fumes and all.”

  “But so rustic and rather remote.”

  “Remote?”

  “How long have we been walking?”

  “Not five minutes, Mother. Even less from the churchyard to here. It’s so beautiful. I can’t wait to do some watercolor and ink drawings of all this.”

  “You paint, de-ah?” Elva Perry asked.

  “A bit.” In truth Lucy had thought a lot about painting the sea ever since she had seen the exhibit at the natural history museum. She marveled at the colors the museum scene painters had come up with, and was anxious to see how the sea might be colored by the sky, the light of sun on water. If the day was cloudy, would the sea turn gray?

  “Oh, she’s quite accomplished, our Lucy,” the Reverend Snow said, smiling.

  “You know, we got one of the country’s greatest painters who comes here most every summer,” Elva said.

  “Who might that be?” Marjorie Snow asked.

  “Stannish Whitman Wheeler.”

  “Stannish Whitman Wheeler!” the two elder Snows exclaimed.

  “I can’t believe it!” Marjorie gasped.

  “Oh, yes. He comes to paint all the rich people’s portraits — Astors, Rockefellers, Bellamys, Benedicts, Hawleys. You name it.”

  “He painted Bishop Vanderwaker,” Marjorie said.

  “Indeed he did!” Elva said. “Loveliest man who ever walked the earth.” She then inhaled sharply. “Oh, de-ah! What a thing for me to say. Guess he isn’t doing much walking now that he lost that leg.”

  “Yes, so sad,” Marjorie chirped. Although these were kind words, the alacrity of her response undercut any true compassion. “Now, tell me, Mrs. Perry, how far to the Quoddy Tennis and Bathing Club that we passed?”

  “Maybe ten minutes.”

  “Don’t worry, Mother,” Lucy said as Marjorie grimaced. “Nothing can be so far. We’re on an island. And they said there is a buckboard and one of the church deacon’s servants will drive us anywhere we want to go.”

  “Yes, that’s nice.” Marjorie was silent for a few seconds. “I — I —” she stammered.

  “What, Mother?”

  Marjorie dropped her voice a bit. “I just wonder if we mightn’t have done better to take rooms at that hotel, the St. Sauveur, we passed on the main avenue? They say a very smart set goes there.”

  “My dear,” the reverend interrupted. “Firstly, they do not call the streets here avenues, they are just streets or roads. And secondly, it is customary for the minister of a church to live in the rectory, not a hotel.” Just as he spoke the word hotel, a stone cottage appeared behind a scrim of blue spruce trees. Its foundation was buried in thickets of ferns, and ivy scrambled up its granite walls. The shutters were painted a dark bluish green to match the spruce.

  “Now come round for the real view,” Elva Perry said. “Won’t have you going in through the kitchen door.”

  As they rounded the house, the damp east wind smacked them in the face. “Look to the north quick before it gets swallowed by the fog. That be Mount Abenaki — said to be the first place that the sun strikes on the continent!”

  Lucy stood on the porch of the little stone house. She heard her father say, “How fascinating.” It was the same empty tone he used when he baptized a rather unattractive baby and said “how handsome” for boys or “how engaging” for girls.

  “I guess you’d say I’m a bit pahshul myself. Me being part Indian, you know.”

  “Excuse me?” Marjorie nearly yelped.

  “Ayuh — most of us round here have a bit of Indian blood — Scots and Irish, ’course them folk come down from Nova Scotia, but Indian Penobscot, Passamaquoddy, or Abenaki, most of us have a bit of that.” Elva wove her long hands through the tendrils of fog swirling about them. “We mix it all up here.”

  Lucy saw her mother blanch, becoming as white as the fog. Elva continued, “Over at the Mount Desert Canoe Club, they always got a few Indians to show summer folk how to paddle a canoe.”

  The luminous seascape with the Inuit skimming across the water flashed through Lucy’s mind’s eye. “Oh, Mother, I’d much rather take canoe lessons than tennis lessons.”

  “Absolutely not!” Then under her breath, Lucy heard her mother mutter something about how Indians certainly would not be teaching tennis.

  Elva Perry took out a key, unlatched the door, and held it wide open so Elmer and Petey could carry in the trunk.

  “We’ll get the rest of the baggage in a jiff,” Elmer said as the Reverend Snow and his wife followed them in. However, Lucy lingered on the porch and looked out toward the sea.

  “You still out here, hey? Can’t see much now with the fog rolling in,” Elmer said.

  “Where are we on the island exactly?”

  “This here is round the bend from where the Prouty came in. You’re on a southwest corner. Just above Otter Creek.”

  “Do people go swimming out there?” She nodded toward the ocean. Although it was cloaked in thick fog, she could hear the waves.

  Petey laughed. “You mean out there in the ocean?”

  “Yes, where else?”

  “Water’s awfully cold, and there are some wicked big currents. Not really safe. Kids swim off the town wharf all the time, and it’s nice going swimming in the ponds, but no. No one goes swimming out there.”

  But Lucy was sure they were wrong. When she had come on deck on the Prouty, she had felt a presence in the water just before dawn, so close by it was as if she could have leaned over the rail and touched it. Someone had been swimming just beneath the surface, and at one point, she thought she caught a shimmering form, but then it had vanished, leaving Lucy with an emptiness that ached deep within her.

  “Lucy! Where are you?” her father called out.

  “I’m coming!” She walked through the door. It was a charming parlor. Elva Perry was explaining the intricacies of the wood-burning stove that heated the downstairs. “And I got some chowdah heating up on the cookstove. You only need this heat stove when it’s foggy like this morning. Takes the damp out of things, but you can shut it down if the sun comes out. Easy as pie really, but I’ll be coming down every day and can help you out.” Then she tapped her head as if to remind herself of something. “Oh, yes. There’s the rat poisoning up there on the top shelf in the kitchen.”

  “Rats! There are rats?” Marjorie Snow’s eyes seemed to bulge out from their sockets.

  “No, de-ah. Not bad as that. But red squirrels sometimes get into the walls from the outside. If you hear any scurrying around, just tell me. No need to fool with it yourself. I felt it was safest to put it on that high shelf. I wasn’t sure if you had youngsters who might get into it. Best it be out of reach.”

  “That was very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Perry,” the Reverend Snow said.

  “Yes, well, one can’t be too careful. If you need anything, just holler. No telephones down here. Ver
y few on the island to tell you the truth. Just in the grand cottages.”

  “Hardly a grand cottage here,” Marjorie said through clenched teeth. “No electricity. No phone. And the threat of invading squirrels. All quite rustic.”

  “Oh, that’s the way Bishop Vanderwaker wanted it. He loved this place, so when the Peabodys offered to install modern conveniences, he said no, absolutely not! He always quoted Matthew, chapter nineteen.”

  “Ah!” the Reverend Snow exclaimed softly. “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.”

  “Yes, sir. He is a plain man. We miss him.”

  “I can assure you we need no embellishments. This cottage is perfect the way it is. We are honored to be here and will try and follow in the distinguished steps of our esteemed predecessor, Bishop Vanderwaker.”

  Lucy could tell her father was set on delivering a sermon, so she was thankful for the arrival of Elmer and Petey with the last of the trunks.

  “Now there’s a real steep path,” Elmer said as he put down the trunk. “It winds down from the cottage here to the sea. But it’s slippery and dangerous and not much of a beach. If it’s a beach you want, go down to the Quoddy Tennis and Bathing Club. That’s the best place.”

  “Oh, yes. That’s what we’ll do,” Marjorie said enthusiastically. “I bought Lucy a very fine bathing costume.”

  It was the ugliest thing she had ever seen. Lucy shuddered as she thought about the horrible mustard-colored yellow canvas skirt, which hung just below her knees and under which she was to wear thick black stockings.

  “You know,” Elva said. “A lot of the women are wearing the new style with bloomers under the skirts, or just plain trousers with a blouse.”

  Marjorie squared her shoulders. “Mrs. Simpson, our seamstress, assured me that the canvas or wool dress style was most appropriate.”

  “Yes, they still wear them, too. But hardly anyone gets into the seawater. Wicked cold, you know. They go in the club pool. Oh my goodness, time’s gotten away from me. I’m due at the Hawleys.”

  “The Hawleys!” Marjorie exclaimed. “The Boston Hawleys?”

  “Only ones I know. They be coming in next week, and I always go and help with the airing out of Gladrock.”

  “Gladrock?”

  “Their cottage. Probably the prettiest on all of Mount Desert. Which reminds me.” Elva Perry wheeled about and looked straight at Lucy. “They got a maid over there and if she ain’t the spittin’ image of you, de-ah! Same red hair, perhaps a shade or two darker. You could be sisters.”

  Marjorie gave a shrill little laugh. A muscle near her left eye flinched. It was an odd little tic that afflicted her occasionally.

  “Really?” Lucy said. “Well, I hope I have occasion to meet her sometime.”

  “She’s a serving girl, dear,” Marjorie said. Her pulpy face settled into an expression of mild consternation. Lucy had seen that expression before, but as she looked at her mother and then slid her eyes toward her father, she was suddenly struck by the gulf between her parents and herself. Had she really never noticed this before? It was as if coming to this place, this edge by the sea, had revealed that of which she had only the dimmest intimations previously. It should have been a frightening thought. But, to her surprise, more than anxiety she felt an intense, almost joyful anticipation.

  MARJORIE SNOW’S GRUMPINESS continued into the evening as she complained that no one would ever find them “out here deep in the woods, deep in the fog.” Lucy’s father, however, seemed quite content and was focused on his sermons, somewhat distractedly trying to placate his wife with what Lucy thought of as pablum phrases, the soft cereal food for infants. For indeed Marjorie could become quite infantile when she was bored or crossed. “My dear, there is no one here yet. Fear not. They will come. We shall be sought out. Lucy shall be able to wear her tea dancing gowns and her bathing costume.”

  Lucy shut her eyes at the thought of the hideous bathing costume. I’ll swim in a tea gown before I wear that freakish thing, she thought to herself.

  Her father began to yawn, then her mother as well. Her father yawned again. “I declare,” he said, “I believe the sea is having a soporific effect on us all.”

  Lucy pretended to yawn, though she was quite wide awake. Let them all go to bed….

  Her parents’ room was in the back of the cottage on the first floor, while the room she had chosen was in the front on the second floor, with a window that looked straight out to sea. Lucy could not believe how bright the stars were, for the fog that had wrapped the cottage tightly for most of the day had vanished. Each pane in the window framed a half dozen silvery dots. As a seemingly endless procession of stars clambered over the horizon to the east, each pane of glass became a fragment of a puzzle. Lucy was now trying to assemble them in her mind into the constellations she had read about. Until now, her study of astronomy had all been book learning. There were no stars in Manhattan as far as she could tell. The night was too crowded with city lights and tall buildings and plumes of smoke belched from factories and furnaces. But here by the sea, the stars cut the night sharply, as if the sky and all of its constellations swooped down to touch the Earth and the sea. Darkness, Lucy realized, was the wellspring of beauty. And she could not help but wonder what beauty lay beneath the dark surface of the water for it, too, must hold unimagined treasures.

  Her parents were surely asleep now. She lifted the covers from her bed and wrapped herself in a shawl, ignoring her high button shoes and her stockings draped over the chair. If the path was slippery, she’d rather be in her bare feet than those brand-new shoes with slick, unscuffed soles.

  She crept down the stairs. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness and in no time she was picking her way down the path. The tide was out and she was able to jump down from a ledge just a few feet above the beach shingled with rocks. The damp stones felt wonderful under her feet and she noticed that she hardly limped. Could the salt water somehow have a therapeutic effect? She felt the tendons in her ankle relax, and her foot seemed to come unbound. The sensation was so startling that she pulled up the hem of her dress and looked down. It was the same foot and yet it did not seem to turn inward nearly as much. She walked on until she saw a cleft in the rocks. A deeper darkness appeared to yawn into the night. She followed a rivulet of water that plowed a narrow path toward the cleft.

  It’s a cave! she thought. A real cave like in Treasure Island, which she had read at least half a dozen times. Or Mammoth Cave in Kentucky, which she had read about in the Harper’s Weekly and had been dying to visit and to explore its limestone maze of tunnels. When she had suggested that they might visit this place, her mother had shrieked “Kentucky!” as if Lucy had suggested a trip to the moon, or perhaps Africa or the Orient.

  But this was a real cave and Lucy was walking into it evenly, steadily, with no limp whatsoever. There was an almost imperceptible change in her vision, as if, within her eye, there was another that could penetrate the shadows of the cave. She could see with amazing clarity in this darkness that swirled with salty vapors from the sea.

  Slabs of pink granite sloped gently from the cave walls to where the water would flow in at high tide. She could see a line on a broad slant of rock where the tide had stopped. But then she spied something else and gasped. Three wooden pegs, tree branches really, were jammed into cracks in the rocks. Hanging from two of the branches were some girls’ garments. Someone had been in this cave. She looked around cautiously. The beckoning darkness had felt so welcoming with her first steps into the cave, but now she was not so sure. What if she had accidentally intruded into the secret hideout of two close friends? They surely wouldn’t be happy to find the summer pastor’s daughter poking around. An overwhelming sense of loneliness suddenly swept over her. She didn’t want to be excluded, not here. Not in this cave. In New York she didn’t mind if girls like Elsie Ogmont or Lenora Drexel or Denise De Becque thought her odd, but here it mattered.
That was the most peculiar thing of all. This was not a Fifth Avenue drawing room; this was a granite cave with a beautiful filigree of moss climbing its walls as lovely as any lace. Yet now it mattered more than ever to her that she might be thought of as peculiar. She had never felt more desolate in her life.

  She came closer to the branches where a camisole hung. It was similar to the one she was wearing but almost in tatters. On the branch next to it was a petticoat in equal disrepair. There was also a velvet ribbon faded and stiff with salt, and tied to one end of it was a strangely beautiful shell, the likes of which she had never seen. It looked a bit like a scallop shell, but it was quite flat and the ribs were deeply indented. She could not resist touching it. She looked over her shoulder as if to confirm that she was alone and no one was coming. She reached out her hand slowly and noticed that her fingers were trembling.

  She removed the shell and its ribbon from the branch to examine it more carefully. She gasped as she saw a strand of red hair twined through the indented ribs. Someone had worn this as a comb in her hair! She could not resist trying it in her own and loosed her hair from the night knot she always twisted it into when she went to bed. Then she ran the comb through and felt the points of the teeth scrape against her scalp. She closed her eyes. In that instant, she knew that the shell came from a place so deep that no human would ever go there. Whoever it was who had retrieved this lovely shell would be very different from those fashionable young ladies who had looked down their long patrician noses at her.

  She fixed the comb so that the hair on one side was pulled back behind one ear. She only wished there was a mirror so she could see her reflection. This was a style her mother would have disapproved of as being too sophisticated, or perhaps “tartish.” It occurred to her that with the rising water she might have the perfect mirror — a liquid mirror.

  She walked toward the entrance of the cave in order to have the benefit of the moonlight. The water at the entrance was much higher than before. She crouched down at the edge and peered at the surface. Her face loomed up trembling on the soft undulations of the water. The reflection of stars quivered around the reflection of her face. She didn’t look too sophisticated or tartish at all. Just over the crown of her head the silvery orb of the moon wobbled. Everything seemed so fragile in the liquid mirror, as if it were just a dream — a dream within a dream. Was this really happening? She touched the scallop shell again and pressed it hard into her scalp so she could feel the teeth — anything to make this moment feel real.