The Dawning of the Day (41 page)

He canted an eyebrow. “I know how to cure that. What you need is a man.”

“
Steve
!”

“What are you blushing for?”

“I'm not blushing!” But she could feel it; the heat rushed over her and she was released from the day's tensions by an emotion as pure and single as rain. “How long ago was it you said good night? Now I'll say it. Good night, darling.”

“Good night, darling.” He almost whispered it; he had changed in an instant to a somber tenderness.

He had been gone only a few minutes, and she was settling down to work, when someone slammed the door at the foot of the stairs, and she heard Gregg yell, “What you doin' out there, you omidon?” There was no answer; the visitor came noisily up the stairs, hammered at the door, and came in without waiting to be told. It was Young Charles. He didn't take his cap off but pushed it back, and sprawled familiarly into a chair.

“Well,” said Philippa in mild disapproval. He took out his cigarettes and put one in his mouth without looking away from her; his face was flushed to a warm red-brown. With his dark curly forelock and black brows, he was almost theatrically handsome tonight.

“Well what?” he asked. There was a sickish scent of gin around him.

“That's for you to answer,” she said, going back to Jamie Sorensen's composition on
Heidi
.

“Do you think I'm drunk?” he demanded. She didn't look up from the paper.

“I didn't say that.”

“But you think it, don't you? Well, I am. I've been drunk before, too.”

“I'm sure you have,” she said politely. “Where's Fort tonight?”

“The sneaky louse!” He tucked his match with delicate caution into the cuff of his boot. “I don't mean Fort's a louse. But his father is.”

“He seems like just a nervous little man to me,” said Philippa mildly.

“
I
know what he's up to.” He stabbed a finger at her, and his eyes grew glistening. “Fort hasn't been to haul since that day on the beach. I don't know what he's doing, but he doesn't go to haul. And
I
know why.”

“Why?” she asked. It seemed to be demanded of her, but Charles shook his head, smiling shrewdly.

“I don't tell everything I know. It don't run out of me like gruel out of a goose.”

“You're wise.”

“I never tell anything,” said Charles, “till it suits my purpose. Then I let fly with facts. You got to have facts. I've got enough facts in my noggin to patch hell a mile. . . . What did Rob have to stay after school for? He was s'posed to bait up for me.”

Philippa put down her red pencil and sat back in her chair. “It wasn't anything bad, Charles. They were plaguing Kathie.”

“Oh.” He frowned, rubbed his hand over the deep furrows in his forehead, and yawned with convulsive suddenness. “Ayeh. Guess it was about Terence. Mark put the wood to her about him. If she gets caught talking with him, she gets sent back to the main so fast she'll never know she was ever on the island.”

So that was it!
I'm Terence's only friend
, Kathie had said. Philippa kept down her anger at the way children must be swept helplessly along in the wake of their parents' stupid involvements. “Is that because the Campions don't sell to Mark any more?” she asked.

“Not exactly. Terence still sells to him. It's turning old Asanath sick to have a Campion boat go up alongside a Bennett car, but Terence still holds on.” Charles yawned again. “No, Mark's just sore at all the Campions, and Terence is one of 'em. So he clamps down on Kathie, and she stays away from Terence.” Charles teetered back and forth. The heat from the stove was making him sleepy, and his words grew more blurred as his lids grew heavier. “God, I got to get out of here! But I can't go home like this. Jo will wring my neck. Guess I'll have to go up in the hayloft.” He gave her a drowsy, sweet-tempered grin. “Be something, now, if I passed out in here and you had to keep me all night.”

“I don't imagine you've had enough to pass out,” said Philippa. “But you'd better go anyway. I have a lot to do this evening.”

“If
Steve
came up here three sheets to the wind, you'd let
him
stay, wouldn't ye?” he asked craftily.

“I wouldn't let anyone stay.” She got up and went to stand by the door, taking her flashlight from the shelf. “I'll light you down the stairs, Charles.”

“'Course
I'm
not good enough, being just a young squirt. I'm not all used up and wore out with life, I never had another woman to—” He yawned tremendously, and then stared at her as vacantly as a sleepy baby. “What was I saying?”

“Good night,” said Philippa.

“Oh.” He came to the door, eddying out toward the table like a skiff swung by the wind. She held the light on the steps, and he began a cautious descent. Halfway down he made an attempt to snap his fingers, but failed. He turned and gazed up with blind, luminous eyes into the light.

“I know what I was saying. You're not so smart. I know what I was saying. And I'll tell you the rest of it.”

Philippa lowered the flashlight. It was useless to warn him about Gregg. She sighed and said, “Yes, Charles.”

“You can have Steve. That's it. I don't care, because I don't even
want
you. I did, till I found out the facts. You know what I said about facts.” He pressed his hands flat against the wall behind him and spoke with quiet drama. “A man's friend means more to him than his woman. A man's
friend
. And that's a fact.”

“It certainly is,” said Philippa. He should have been funny, balancing on the stairs like a tight-wire walker while he pontificated. But he wasn't. She watched him with tenderness. “You've hit upon a great truth, Charles.”

“Of course it's a great truth!” His passionate nod almost threw him down the stairs. “So that's why I don't want you.” He went down the rest of the way in a headlong rush, and opened the door. The night cold came blowing in as he raised his arm toward her in a sweeping salute. “Farewell!”

He stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him with a shuddering crash. “Thunderation!” Gregg shouted.

T
he next day, just before the afternoon session was to begin, a rock came through an upper pane of the middle window on the side of the schoolhouse away from the marsh. Up till the moment when the crash and the shower of glass occurred, there had been a healthy uproar around the schoolhouse. The day was free enough of wind for the children to play outside, the sun was warm in the lee, and the earth had thawed overnight to a deceptive, springlike juiciness. Philippa had seen Kathie perched immobile on the big boulder outside the windows facing the marsh, and the boys were nowhere near her. Peggy Campion had come along the lane in her new bright-red topper and tartan skirt, and would now be waiting aloofly at the corner of the building for the bell to ring. Rue crouched at the foot of Kathie's boulder, sitting on her heels with her back against the warm slant of rock and holding Daniel between her knees. As far as Philippa could see in her carefully nonchalant errands near the windows, the three girls were not in contact with each other or with the rowdy sounds at the front of the building.

Then the rock came through the window on the other side, and the shouting stopped with an appalling finality. It was like the end of all sound. Philippa went slowly to pick up the rock. It had landed on Rue Webster's desk, scarring it, and bounced into the aisle. It was a rough oval of quartz, about the size of a goose egg. She weighed it in her hand. Then she went out onto the doorstep.

She looked into all the faces, from Daniel's to Kathie's. Edwin stood out by the flagpole, with one arm around it. His wild tearfulness showed in the meager pale face framed by the overlarge cap and the unnecessary earflaps.

Philippa held up the rock. “Who threw this?” she asked.

Faith kept buttoning and unbuttoning her coat. Frances Percy moved her feet in a soggy place, making a rhythmic squelching sound. No one spoke. Rue, holding Daniel by the hand, edged toward Edwin at the flagpole.

“I think it's only fair that you should speak up,” Philippa said reasonably, “whoever you are. I know you didn't intend to break the window, but there'll have to be a new pane put in. And we don't want rocks thrown anyway. If that had hit a person instead of a window, someone could have been hurt very badly, even killed.”

They gazed at her solemnly, the older ones because it was the proper mood for the occasion, the younger ones awed. Rue stood by Edwin; she had a look of ancient resignation.

It was Edwin who had thrown the rock. Philippa knew she must have realized it all along. Last year, when Edwin was disturbed, he threw rocks. She beckoned to him and went back inside. In a few moments he came in with Rue. He stood before her, his lower lip under his teeth. He showed a rigid avoidance of the broken pane and the glass strewn on the floor.

“He doesn't know why he threw the rock,” Rue said. “He hasn't thrown any for a long time, Mis' Marshall.”

“What was going on outside just before it happened?”

“I don't know. I was out by the big rock with Dan'l.” She held the little boy in front of her by the shoulders. “I could hear them racing around and shouting. I don't think that had anything to do with it.” Her amber eyes worried patiently. “I guess it was something else.”

“Rue,” Philippa began tentatively. “Is anything wrong at home that could upset him?” She smiled at Edwin and motioned him to sit down. “Is your mother sick?” she asked Rue. “I stopped by there yesterday, and no one answered.”

“No, she's not sick,” Rue's voice dropped to an almost inaudible tone. “But my father almost is. Yesterday somebody hauled all his traps. He says it's a warning. He says next time they'll cut them all off. Mrs. Marshall, he can't lose them. They're all he's got.”

She felt rage like nausea. It was hard not to show it. “I know, Rue. It's a terrible situation. And something will have to be done. But can you make it clear to Edwin that he mustn't throw rocks here? He could go down on the beach and throw them into the water.”

“He won't do it any more. He's about scared out of his head because he broke the window. I'll tell my father, and he'll put some new glass in.” She pressed Daniel close against her legs. “I guess it was because Edwin saw them all shouting and acting crazy, and the way he felt inside—well, I
know
how he feels, but I can't explain it.”

“You do very well, Rue.” She heard Rob stamping in the entry, and then the bell began to ring for the afternoon session. Rue started to take off Daniel's new snowsuit, the precious outfit that had been a sign of the Websters' new grip on life. Edwin, seeing her, kicked off his boots. The other children came in.

As soon as school was out and she was walking home, her mind swung to Jude Webster. As she came across the marsh, she saw him through the open door of his workshop, a patient harassed man at a workbench. She wondered if he had told anyone about his traps and decided not; last night Steve had said with casual optimism that perhaps the tangle was beginning to loosen and slacken off.

She wanted to go and speak to him, but she didn't know what to say. It was like Edwin's deafness; she couldn't violate Rue's confidence. Besides, theoretically, what happened to his traps or anyone's was none of her business. But she would go up to the Webster house after supper when there would be someone to open the door for her; Lucy Webster was to be thanked for her geranium in spite of herself.

The beach was deserted today, except for Jude in his shop. The other men were making a long day of it out to haul. But Jude was afraid to go. She walked on quickly.

The weathered gray bulk of the Binnacle lay before her like a refuge. There seemed to be no one about this afternoon; nothing moved but a few leisurely gulls. Children were playing somewhere out of sight; she could hear them. She was unprepared for Viola Goward, who came along the path by the well at a smart pace.

Before she reached the corner of the house, Viola hailed her. Her voice rang through the moist, mild stillness. Philippa stood still and watched Viola come toward her. Her tweed coat was open and she wore no hat; her hair had rusty glints in the sun. Her dry skin showed its pale freckles and fine tissue of creases more distinctly than usual.

“It's as hot as love in summertime,” she exclaimed. “Good pneumonia weather!”

“It's nice,” Philippa said. “It's a bonus, to shorten the winter.”

“Well, there's all ways of looking at things.” There was faint contempt in the swing of her head. “Like all the ways different people could look at a young man coming drunk out of a woman's house.”

Philippa felt a prickling along her backbone. She continued to gaze at Viola with a polite, quizzical expression.

Viola said, “There's some who'd say, ‘Too bad he's been up there bothering her, I hope she didn't try to be polite to him.' And there's others who know he wouldn't take himself where he wasn't wanted.”

Charles declaiming all the way down the stairs in a voice that would have carried through the door for anyone who cared to stop and listen; Charles standing on the doorstep and shouting, “Farewell.” Viola couldn't have made out all the words, Philippa thought, or else she'd have known he was renouncing me. She smiled, made weightless and exhilarated by anger. It was a splendid sensation; she chose her words with a lofty disregard for the consequences, cherishing each syllable.

“I take it you were passing by last night, and you stopped to listen. You know, there are some people who would hesitate to give such a picture of themselves. And there are some who are so anxious to spatter filth they don't care how much blows back into their own faces. They can reek with it, but they don't care, or they don't know. Which is it with you, Mrs. Goward?”