Adrift (part two)

On Friday I saw I would not have to worry about Mrs. Sproule  straying.  She put on an apron after breakfast.  I had already noted a cookery book Mrs. Herman had used, laid open on the kitchen table.  Walking to Morse's store, I thought about the burden William had brought upon himself, both of ingestion and of spewing praise for two different women's housekeeping.  My smile was compromised by my discovery that the boat had shifted—been shifted—in position, though yesterday I'd seen the rain had not disturbed the sand.  Plump Amanda lent a shoulder to help me push it back in place.  I threw out the horseshoe crab shell, hoping she hadn't noticed.  I told myself it might well have been boys.

That evening when Mrs. Sproule brought out the roast, William said, "You've had great talks on painting, I've no doubt."

"Indeed," I answered, nodding to Mrs. Sproule.

William raised a finger.  "I hope you've shown him your work, Susan."

"She's taking on new subjects," I answered when she looked down.  "No artist gives his work to the world until he's mastered it."  That ended shop talk.

I bade them an early good night.  In the morning I found William packed and coated, set to leave after all.  A lovers' quarrel?  I could not tell.  Mrs. Sproule seemed anxious only that he should not have forgotten anything.  When she went upstairs one last time to check, William turned to me.

"I meant to stay longer," he said, "but I had a note from Pauline yesterday, saying she'll be home for supper tonight."  He gave a brief smile that seemed to mean, "You understand?"  What was I to understand?  That he had told the lady?  That he hadn't?

I left for my work, but it turned out that the girl could not come: the duenna had a cold.  At the post office, two more returned letters were waiting.  The first two, with crossed-out addresses and redirecting arrows, had left it possible that Mrs. Sproule had merely made mistakes in her hasty correspondence.  The front of one of the latest bore the word "Refused."  There was a printed circular, too, also for Mrs. Sproule but at my address, sent from the Back Bay Art Society.

Much needlework transpired that day and the next.  This was interspersed with periods she spent upstairs or at the shore.  I had found that the best standpoint for locating her among the rocks was the window of Mother's bedroom.  On Sunday when I went up to check, I found she had used piles of books to set up a makeshift stand on Mother's vanity.  One watercolor still dried on the block, another lay beside it, both self-portraits.  One was three quarters, the other head on.  They were at once fussy and vague, like mosaics wrought of feathers, in the fashionable style.  The subjects might have convicted her of self-admiration, but for two things.  One was the Art Society circular open on the desk advertising a contest for portraits or landscapes, with fair money prizes.  The other reason was that both works had been disfigured with slashes of black ink across the eyes.  From her scowl when she came back inside later that afternoon, her seascape must have been as little pleasing to her.

Monday morning I found the kitchen floor awash, the basin in the middle, her skirt as sopping as the apron over it.  She had evidently learned from my Saturday chores that I no longer sent the laundry out.  I advised her to hang it on the line nearer the house, where it would get more sun.  This was a lie.  I was afraid of ladies' garments being seen.

There had been no further tampering with the boat, but my work went badly.  I had been displeased the week before with every pose I'd put Amanda in.  I wanted to show sleep, but each time her image looked restless and racked with pain.  I knew why: the sleep best known to me was that of Mother's last days.  So I tried to begin with the head.  I'd never been good at women's faces, which came out looking like pumpkins or blocks of wood.  Today, the eyes were raisins in a gingerbread face.  I settled at last on my old trick of the scarf blown upward by a wind.

I had paused to give the girl a rest when I heard Timothy.

"Haven't you seen, Mandy, how he's covered up your pretty neck?  And twisted you like a cruller?

The girl rolled her eyes.  The chaperone turned away, too.  I guessed she had long ago lost hope for him.  Timothy walked to the boat, took hold of the gunwale, and tried to shake it.

"I wouldn't go to sea in that contraption, not if you paid me."  He gave the hull a kick.

"Don't be so sure he'll pay you, Miss.  He's a sharp one.  Isn't that so, Asa?  Isn't that so?"

I had not planned to look up, but he stepped nearer.  I feared he'd come so close I'd have to breathe him.

"That's so," I said.

My words succeeded; they made him stop.  They made the girl look at me, too, showing nothing but scorn.

He went on his way, but we finished early that day.  Mrs. Sproule came in early as well.  I was in the kitchen when she entered with several large squares of paper.

Seeing me, she said, "You were right.  The sea is not so easy."  She wadded up the sheets and poked them into the stove.  I gasped despite myself.  I have no teacher's bone in my body, but in that moment I'd have prevented her if I could, to tell her it was only from one's mistakes one could learn.

The next two days it rained, which was good for neither of our tempers.  When one entered a room, the other left.  She slaughtered vegetables in the kitchen.  In the parlor she read a page, turned it, then turned back.  No mail came to distract her, and she herself had only one letter to write—to William, I noted, although nothing had come from him.  On Thursday I went to bail out the boat, then found the week's first letter at the post office.  It was from William, but for me.  He had guests that weekend, he said.  He wanted me to pass on this news "to Mrs. S."

All through our silent supper I tried to bring myself to give the news, but could not.  At last, before I turned in for the night, I left a note on the kitchen table.  I did not want to see her in her apron the next morning, or eat more of her pasty biscuits.

I did not intend to breakfast that Friday, but found I was out of water in the studio.  It was not much past dawn, but one of her bags stood in the parlor.  She was making her way down the stairs with the other.  The stack of cash was gone from the tea table.  When she entered, I could tell nothing from her face.

"I can help you to the station, if you think of leaving," I said.

She put down the bag, straightened her hat.  Her coat was buttoned to the top.

"Thank you," she said.  "I won't be going to the station.  I believe there is a hotel in the town."

I had been ready to go for my own jacket; this stopped me.

"If you wish to stay on the Spit," I said, "you might as well stay here."  I still hesitated to have my family's name delivered to the gossips.

She looked a bit surprised at this.  "I've imposed on your hospitality enough, I think."

"Not at all," I said.

"You really don't mind?" she asked, with a look I had to look away from.  Was ever woman so blind, to think I wanted her for her company?  Was ever man so cowardly?

"I should at least pay you something," she said.  She lifted her purse.

"My brother took care of that," I said.

Now her face cleared, or I should say closed again.

"I see," she said.  She stood still for some moments, perhaps mentally counting those long unhoused bills.  Then she turned back to the stairs.

I did not mean to keep her forever.  But William's rent had earned her several weeks more, and in that time I hoped that a solution might present itself.  I followed her up with one of the suitcases.  It felt more funeral walk than homecoming.

The surf was still stormy that morning.  I told Amanda that I would not need her, but brought a different colored dress to try on Monday.  It was just as well she stayed behind: I found the boat cluttered with a broken lobster pot, clumps of seaweed, and the remains of some carcass a gull did not like being distracted from.  I cleaned it out, then sat breathing hard to watch the sea's breath.

The chop was what I wanted for the picture.  I wished I had my spyglass, but I didn't want to go back to the house for it.  I called up Mother's stories from her grandfather of storms at sea.  There were two things, she said, that he could never tell her: Was he scared?  What did it look like?  He always answered he was too busy to take note of either.  That was what I had set myself to do: to make the picture she'd draw back from, crying, "That's it!  There is Grandfather's sea!"

That weekend, Mrs. Sproule was busy, with needle and with brush.  On Saturday I stayed home, rinsed and hung out the yellow dress.  I saw her, walking by it, pause to finger the fabric as women will.  But when it was gone by afternoon, I knew who to blame.  All the same, I asked if she had noticed anyone—an old man perhaps—out back.  She said she hadn't.  On Sunday she went out by the front door before I could stop her.  Was I to drag her in?  She turned into the road toward town.  She was bundled up against the wind.  I tried to tell myself no one would see her face.  I saw nothing else as I read Mother's hymns.  When she returned, she looked at me and asked if anything was wrong.

"Nothing," I said.

On Monday, when I returned after another session with my sleeping beauty—the green dress had not helped appreciably—Mrs. Sproule was gone again.  Nor could I spy her on the rocks.  If she were seen in town, I said to myself, she might be anyone, from anywhere.  There was no reason for people to think that she was mine.  There was in addition the fact: she was not mine; my debt was bounded in time.  William had paid for two months.  At the end of that, she'd go.

Still, the thought of her wandering kept me awake that night.  In the morning I told her that if she needed anything in town, I would be grateful if she let me know.

She looked at me a moment, thin-lipped.  Then she said, "Thank you."  It did not leave me feeling thanked.  I was distracted all the morning.  I sent the grocer's kin home early.  As I entered the house, I was relieved to hear her at the back.  Our paths crossed in the parlor.  She was  carrying her block.  Something in the shape of what was on it made me stop her and ask to see it.

The apple tree in the back yard, some apples still hanging.  Resting against the trunk, face more wizened than any left fruit, sat no one but Timothy.

"Where did you find that model?" I demanded.  I could not keep the shaking from my voice.

She stood a little straighter.

"He came to the door, looking for you.  I was going to paint.  He saw my things and said—"

I broke her off.  "In all the world, you thought him the best choice?  You know no better way to pass your time than immortalizing him?  Couldn't you smell him?"

"What else do you propose that I do?" she asked.  We stood three feet apart in the middle of the parlor, like two cats newly met.  "No store would take my doilies.  I asked at the hotel for work.  They had nothing.  I tried the tackle shop, the public library.  I would have asked at the livery, except that they'd have laughed."  She did not mention her one success, which I would notice the next day: a card, allowed into the grocer's window, advertising lessons.  All equally laughable, supposing the devil had a sense of humor.  But I could think only of one thing.

"You introduced yourself to everyone," I said.  "And told them where you're staying."

"It's as I thought then," she said, a crack in her voice.  "I'm your prisoner.  Did you plan it with your brother?  What crime have I committed against either of you?"

I could have told her that her anger lent no grace to her features.  Her mouth grew hard, new lines were dug into her cheeks.  She was if anything taller than me, but so slight I could have lifted her out of my way; still, I was transfixed.

"What crime, tell me?" she asked again.

"Just don't let him inside the house," I said.  Then I went to my studio.

I did not go in for supper.  I had some biscuits in the studio.  In the morning I learned that Amanda was no longer free for modeling.  Timothy, town crier, had done his work.  Perhaps Miss Morse had been the first to deny her services.  They handed over the green dress.  Leaving the shop, I saw Mrs. Sproule's card, not yet disposed of.

I lugged my wooden mannequin out to the boat and arranged the dress around it.  It was far from satisfactory, but the peace, without the chatter of Miss Morse, was a balm.  I hardly painted that day and the next.  Lulled by the surf, I gave myself to dreams I'd had as a youngster, of how my painting would stop time.  The closest I had come to that feeling again was in the last few years with Mother, my brush become the foam, my stroke the light breaking at the horizon's edge.  Yet when I called myself back to myself and tried to work, the folds of Mother's dress hung from the sticks as straight and stiff as Spanish moss I'd seen dangling from trees in Florida.

The first evening I found Mrs. Sproule still at home.  Perhaps she wanted to finish her portrait, knowing no surer path to riches.  We supped without looking at each other, like animals at the trough.  I ended the next day so hopeless that I came home from working with the green dress rolled in my arms like a soiled sheet.  When I walked in, Mrs. Sproule was thudding down the stairs with both bags at once.

"I'll help you to the hotel," I said when she had reached the bottom.

She paused and looked at me, the bags still in her hands.  The weight was too much: first she sagged, then let them drop.

"I'm not going to the hotel," she said.  "I'm going to the station."  She bent to the bags.

"I can help you there, too," I said.  "I have a cart."

She straightened again.

"You are so polite," she said.

I did not know what to say, it was that clear she meant something else.

She cocked her head.  "Timothy told me what you said."

"What I said?"

"It isn't often I've heard words like that," she said, "but it was just as well to hear what you have thought of me."

"Thought of you?" I repeated.  "I've said no word of you."

She only nodded, smug and dismissive as a queen.  I looked away—and saw the blank space on the mantel.

"Where is the jade mountain?" I said when I could speak.

She looked right to the spot.  Her mouth opened in what seemed genuine surprise.

"I don't know," she said.  The regal air was gone.

I walked over to the mantel as if there'd be a thing to learn there.  I held myself against it—held myself up by it, breathing on the empty spot.  I raised one hand to touch the recumbent horse, the foal's head resting on its back.

"Did you let him inside?  Timothy.  Did you let him in?"

"I don't know where he went," she said.  "We were in the back.  When he said those things, I told him he'd have to go."

"You let him in," I said, my hand a-grip on the uncrushable horse as I turned to her.  "Didn't I tell you not to?"

"So I'm to obey you, too?" she asked.  She shook her head.

"You make free of my house, my food," I said; I don't know what I said.  But I heard her interrupt me.

"He paid you!" she cried, voice rising high.

"He couldn't pay enough for what I've had to take," I said.

"You!"  She gave a laugh.  "If all men aren't babies, I don't know—"

The horse was in my hand.  At the sound of her words, her hateful tone, it seemed to rise up of itself, my hand with it, ready to fly.  The look that came to her face stopped me.  Her eyes gaped with terror, her mouth fell open.  Then she ran back up the stairs; a door closed.  My arm stood, poised to hurl the stone.

I lowered it slowly, as if the air were itself a force to push against.  I put the jade back.  I stood a few moments, listening, not listening.  Then I put on my coat and went out.

From habit, I suppose, I went to my work station.  Someone was in the boat.  When I drew near, I saw the yellow dress, the seaweed hair above the faceless face, the body contorted in an indecent posture.  I wrenched the oar from its lock, heaved it aloft, and brought it down full on the torso.  I hefted it again to smash the head, the legs, the arms.  The wooden thing barely moved; it was my own arms that felt broken.  I dropped the oar and pulled the thing out of the boat.  A joint snagged, then gave way, landing us both on the sand.  I kicked it aside, pathetically vengeful, hurting my foot.

I felt the sky above me pounding on my back, illuminating me, lone on the beach, exposed to I don't know what eyes.  I wanted nothing but to hide.  I climbed into the bow and lay on my side, my knees drawn up, head to the stem.  I closed my eyes and waited, in that lunacy, for the ocean to take me.  I  heard it whisper up the sides, felt the surge, the first not strong enough, but the next would be, or the next.  I waited, breath held.

I may have slept; I don't know.  All I know is that after a time my neck itched with the footsteps of some flea or fly.  I lifted my hand, slapped it, and, waking, found myself where I had always been: marooned on dry land.

I sat up and looked around me at dull sand, grey rock, a woodpile intermixed with wrinkled yellow silk.  I untangled it.  It was unharmed, as miraculously as things beached on the shore sometimes can be.  A woman might still wear it.  I folded it neatly.

No one was about, the sky, too, empty and unfathomably deep.  I rose on hands and knees, then took the seat to look out seaward: roller and foam, curve and point, weight and lightness, too many shades to count, each instant a new story.  I wished I had my brush.