Deep Sea (10 page)

Miss Björk asks Stephie to drop by the staff room at lunchtime. She tells her the relief committee has agreed to pay her expenses for two more years, though a lower sum per year.

“It will cover your room and board,” she says, “but you’ll have to earn your own pocket money, I’m afraid. If you like, I can try to find you someone to tutor next fall. I’m sure you could give some junior secondary girls private lessons in math—and why not German as well?” She gives Stephie a proud smile. “I’m so happy for you,” she says. “And I’m glad we’ll be spending the summer together, too.”

“Aren’t you meeting Vera tonight?” May asks her after they’ve had dinner, done the dishes, and finished their homework. “It’s Wednesday.”

“No” is all Stephie says.

May looks as if she expects an explanation, but when none is forthcoming, she changes the subject.

After May leaves for her youth group meeting, Stephie collects what’s left of her outfit from the previous Saturday. Vera’s dress and bra, the torn silk stockings, and the pumps that have lost a heel. She finds some brown paper and makes a parcel.

Tomorrow, when Vera has her afternoon off, she plans to take the things with her to school. After school, she’ll ring the doorbell of Vera’s employers and say she has a package for Vera. If there’s no one home, she’ll just hang the package on the door handle.

The problem is getting her own things back. She needs them, especially the shoes. She’s been walking
around in boots for four days now. They’re hot and heavy, and she notices people staring.

She doesn’t know how she’s ever going to get them.

Stephie doesn’t have to ring Vera’s doorbell after all. As she’s leaving school the next day, she notices Vera’s head of red hair outside the gate. She’s standing there with a brown paper parcel almost identical to the one Stephie is carrying.

“Stephie!” she calls, waving.

Stephie walks over to her, feeling stiff and awkward.

“You never came to the café last night,” Vera says reproachfully. “I waited for hours.”

Stephie’s anger boils up inside. “Did you really expect me to come?” she hisses. “After what happened on Saturday? Here, take your things. The stockings are ruined. The shoes, too.”

She presses her package into Vera’s arms, grabbing her own belongings.

Vera looks embarrassed. “I’m really sorry,” she says. “I hope you know I didn’t plan for that to happen. Come on, won’t you just listen to me a little? Please?”

“No,” Stephie says.

“Please,” Vera repeats. “Stephie? Don’t do this to me. You’re … you’re my only real friend.”

Stephie looks at Vera. Her green eyes are brimming with tears.

“All right, then. But I only have a little while.”

They walk to the lily pond. Stephie thinks they must look quite strange. Two girls, each with a brown paper parcel in her arms.

“I never thought … that Bengt … Well, he’s always been so polite and well behaved. I thought the two of you would sit out on the porch and flirt, maybe share a kiss or two. Or take a walk in the moonlight. I really never imagined he’d go after you like that.”

“He told me girls who go off with boys late at night only have themselves to blame,” Stephie says, her voice raspy, as if she can hardly get the words out.

Vera sighs. “He must be more of an idiot than I realized.”

“And what about you?”

Vera stands stock-still. “What do you mean by that?”

“Don’t you think we could hear what you and Rikard were doing inside?”

“Stephie,” says Vera, “I …”

“Is that what you always do? Jump right into bed with whatever boy you meet out dancing?”

“What kind of girl do you think I am?” Vera asks indignantly. “Of course not. That was the first time.”

Stephie is confused. There’s something she doesn’t understand. Something’s not right.

“Are you in love with Rikard?”

“Of course I am,” Vera replies.

She looks at Stephie. Her green eyes are pleading. “Don’t you believe me? Stephie?”

It’s impossible to be mad at Vera. As with so many times before, Stephie’s anger vanishes like smoke. Putting her parcel under her right arm, she takes Vera’s left arm in hers.

“Sorry about your stockings,” she says.

“That’s all right,” says Vera. “Rota’s going to be closing for the season soon, and there won’t be any more dancing for a while.”

“Well, you can count on one thing,” Stephie adds. “I’m never going there with you again.”

On the doormat at May’s, Stephie finds a card waiting for her.

A few words in the middle of the card have been crossed out in heavy black ink—not the blue ink of Papa’s pen. Someone else must have crossed them out.
Why?
Stephie wonders. What did he write that Stephie
isn’t supposed to read? Only thirty words and somebody’s stolen three of them. Those words were hers and Papa’s.

Because she’s so angry about the stolen words, it takes her a while to absorb the rest of the text. When she does, she feels even angrier, and sad, too. Poor Mamma. She’d been so looking forward to singing Queen of the Night. How disappointed she must have been.

Someone Stephie has never met and whose face she has never seen wields power over Mamma and Papa. He can keep Mamma from singing and Papa from writing whatever he wants to. He wields power over Stephie, too, since her life is connected to theirs.

She hates that nameless, faceless man she’ll never meet.

If only the war would end!

O
n Saturday evening, Stephie and May take a blanket, a thermos of coffee, and a few sweet rolls outside. Britten watches them longingly, but they don’t invite her to come along. They want to be alone to talk.

They go up to the top of the hill, where Sandarna is situated and find a crevice in the cliffside to keep them out of the wind. They spread out the blanket. Behind them are the frames of what will be more new apartment buildings. The streets up there are all named after the islands in the archipelago. There’s one with the name of Stephie’s island.

The river gleams in the evening sun. Below the steep slope, they can see the sheds and warehouses in the harbor. On the other side of the river are cranes and docks
at the shipyard where May’s father works. Seagulls and terns circle overhead. Near where they are sitting, a sloe bush is in bloom, a sea of creamy white blossoms.

May removes the cork from the thermos and pours two mugs of coffee.

“It’s a beautiful evening,” she says.

“Mmm,” Stephie agrees.

“Want a roll?”

“Yes, please.”

“Stephie?”

“What?”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but if there’s something on your mind … you know I’d never say a peep to anybody.”

May’s eyes look serious and steady. Yes, Stephie knows she can trust May.

“Last Saturday wasn’t much fun,” she begins. “At first, hardly anyone asked me to dance. Then Vera brought over two boys she knew. One of them was called Bengt.”

Telling the story makes her feel so foolish. Falling for a pair of gray eyes and a strong arm. But May doesn’t laugh; she just listens quietly.

Now Stephie’s telling about the porch. The settee. Bengt’s hands on her.

“But where was Vera?” asks May. “And that other boy?”

The creaking from inside the cabin. She can’t tell May about that.

“They’d gone for a walk,” Stephie fibs. “In the moonlight.”

“So what did you do?”

“I ran away.”

She doesn’t tell May about what Bengt shouted after her, either. It hurts too much to say aloud.

“You did the right thing,” May tells her, her eyes welling up with tears behind her glasses. Stephie wonders whether anyone has ever tried to kiss May.

A couple of days later, the next card arrives. This one is from Mamma.

I write once a week
.

That was what Nellie said. But she was lying.

Doesn’t she realize how worried Mamma and Papa must be when they don’t hear from her?
Doesn’t she understand how important the girls’ letters are to them?

She’s got to talk to Nellie. She needs to do it right
away. This can’t wait until the semester is over, though Stephie hadn’t planned to go back to the island until then. She’ll go on Sunday.

Stephie takes an early-morning boat on Sunday. It’s only eight o’clock, but she can feel in the air that it’s going to be a hot day. The boat is full of noisy young people and families with picnic baskets, on their way to a day’s outing on one of the islands.