Fortune's Rocks (32 page)
After a time, she puts the letter on the table. Under the sink, she finds a stiff-bristled brush. She fills a pail with soap and water and, squatting to the hearth, begins to scrub away the charcoal smudges of an earlier season’s fires. The stone has turned nearly black, and she has almost at once to fill her pail with clean water. She scrubs hard at the stains, for more and more it seems that only physical work can assuage the ache of irresolution.
But the pleasure she takes in those simple chores! Often, when Olympia is finished for the day, she will walk through the rooms of the house, admiring her work. She loves the way the banister gleams, the way the wavy glass in the vinegar-washed windows bends the horizon line, the manner in which the paint on the sills shines. Sometimes, when she has thoroughly cleaned a room, she will move its furniture. At first she merely shifts a table or a chair from one position to another within a room, but later, when she finds she minds the clutter, she begins to take those pieces that she can lift to the chapel for storage. The front room becomes, as a result, emptier and emptier, and she feels oddly better for this emptiness. She cannot move the piano, of course, nor the sofa, nor the English writing desk, but she takes away a crystal-fringed lamp, a chenille footstool, the furry skin of an animal that has functioned as a rug, a marbleized iron clock, an elaborate candelabra, side tables with their many skirts, a bamboo settee, tapestries that have hung upon the walls for years, heavy gold drapes that have shrouded the windows, a mahogany plant stand, a painted screen, an ornate gilt mirror, and various potted plants that have long since perished. She has a chair, a Windsor with a desk hidden beneath its seat, that she puts in the center of the room, so that when she sits on it, she can see straight out the windows to the ocean. And this she does often, occasionally getting up to make a pot of tea, or sometimes knitting, and only very seldom, reading. About books, she is cautious, for she does not want inadvertently to trigger an unwelcome emotion. For weeks now, she has been engaged in shoring up a foundation, in building scaffolds, and she does not wish the sturdy walls she has made to tumble down as a result of words on a page.
Most of the time, she wears simple dresses, since she is usually engaged in chores. But occasionally she will put on a pique or a taffeta that has been left behind in a wardrobe. Dressing and sitting in her Windsor chair and gazing out to sea is often occupation enough, and she now understands what is meant by a rest cure. She is certain that had her instincts not led her to this juncture in her life, she would never have recovered herself and might, over time, have developed various incapacitating nervous ailments that many women in their adult years, most noticeably her mother, seem to suffer.
At the end of each day, Olympia is usually deliciously fatigued, and it seems that she is always hungry. She eats sweet corn and blueberries and baking-powder biscuits and white cheese. She has milk from the milkman and bread from the bread wagon, and she strikes a bargain with Ezra so that once weekly he brings her lobster or other fresh fish. And it is, in fact, just on the heels of one of Ezra’s deliveries, just as she is packing fresh cod into the ice chest, that a polished black automobile rolls up to the back gate. Through the window, Olympia watches in astonishment as Rufus Philbrick emerges from the car.
She looks down at her dress — a dull calico — and fingers her hair, unwashed now for over a week. There is no time to dress properly. For the first time since she has arrived at Fortune’s Rocks, she laments the dearth of a servant to open the door.
“I hope this is not an inopportune moment to pay you a visit,” Philbrick says, removing his hat and taking her hand when she has opened the door to him.
“No, of course not,” she says, somewhat dazed by this entirely unexpected event.
She is surprised as well to see that Philbrick is considerably stouter than he was when she knew him, and she is at once reminded that he is, in addition to being a dandy, an epicure. Indeed, she sees that he needs to walk with the help of a cane and that he has on two different shoes, one quite a bit larger than the other. Perhaps he has the gout. He has shaved his whiskers, revealing pink cheeks and heavy jowls. His eyes are slightly pinkened at the rims. As she bids him enter the cottage, she looks once again at the faded calico she has on and thinks:
He must see me differently as well.
He must see me differently as well.
He follows her into the kitchen, which, though spartan, is not unwelcoming. A vase of beach roses sits at the center of the worktable, and a pot of hydrangeas is on the sill. Still slightly rattled, she cannot at first think what to do with Philbrick. Apart from Ezra and the deliverymen, she has not had a single visitor to the cottage (and they can scarcely be called visitors). But then she recovers herself and tells Philbrick that she has lemonade and scones if he would join her for an impromptu tea. And though he begs her not to go to any trouble, she can see that he regards the prospect of fresh-baked pastries as a pleasant one.
“You are looking well,” he says when they are seated in the front parlor. Philbrick has taken the Windsor chair, Olympia a lady’s rocker that she brought down from her mother’s room. The windows are open to the fine day, and there is the steady sound of the surf, only occasionally interrupted by the far-off screeches of small children on the beach.
“Thank you,” she says, offering him a glass of lemonade.
“How long have you been here?” he asks, looking around at the room. She can tell that he is mildly nonplussed by the lack of furniture.
“I was at school at the Hastings Seminary for Females in western Massachusetts last year,” she says, “but I have decided not to return. I have been here since mid-July.”
“Your mother and father are well?”
“Yes, they are. Thank you for asking. Will you have some herring-paste sandwiches?”
“Yes, I think I might.”
She sets down the plate before him. “Mr. Philbrick, how did you know that I was here?”
“Oh, my dear,” he says not unkindly. “I am afraid I have had this news from any number of people. Did you mean to keep it a secret? If so, I fear you have greatly misjudged the nature of a small community.”
She notes for the first time the remarkable costume he is wearing — a yellow and black silk vest over a pale yellow shirt, and over that a rather splendid suit of fine linen. Where does he find such clothes in New Hampshire? she wonders idly.
“No, I did not mean to keep my presence here a secret,” she says, “but neither did I intend ever to announce my residency. But I am very glad of your visit, Mr. Philbrick. I have not yet had anyone come to call.”
“Good Lord, Olympia. You have turned into a recluse. I merely wished to see if there was anything you needed. There was a time when I regarded your father as my greatest friend.”
“Thank you,” she says warmly, “but there is nothing that I need at the moment.” She looks around. “Apart from a steam-heating system.”
He seems taken aback. “You intend to remain here for the winter?”
“I may,” she says, offering him another sandwich. Philbrick, she knows, is a man of appetite.
“Whatever for?” he asks. “Winters here are wretched.”
“I am having the house prepared for winter months. And I shall shut down some rooms, of course.”
“Even so.”
Olympia nods. “I feel the need to live by myself for a time,” she says quietly.
He studies her.
“And I was once very happy here,” she adds honestly.
Philbrick sets down his glass. He folds his hands over his considerable stomach. There is a long silence between them.
“Olympia, I have great sympathy for your plight,” Philbrick says finally. “In general, I am not a judgmental person. I daresay I have some understanding of difficult love and its consequences.” He pauses for a moment, and in the pause, Olympia wonders fleetingly exactly what his understanding of difficult love is. “I have some understanding as well of what you have suffered as a result of having known love. For I have no doubt your relations with John Haskell were born of love. In retrospect, I fancy I saw it between you.”
Olympia cannot at first reply.
“A certain current in the air when you and he were in a room together,” he adds, gesturing in a descriptive manner.
Olympia longs to be able to discuss Haskell with another person. But she knows that to do so with Rufus Philbrick will be to trespass on the grounds of familiarity, to risk his perhaps already compromised opinion of her.
“Actually,” Philbrick says, reaching for another scone now that he has successfully traversed the slightly treacherous landscape of love, “I rather thought you had come here for the child.” He picks a crumb from his silk waistcoat.
And it seems to Olympia then that all the world holds its breath, that the floor itself gives way and falls a thousand feet. Later she will wonder how possibly she could have managed — apart from a momentary and perhaps too abrupt glance at Philbrick — to pretend that she had more knowledge of what he spoke than she did.
“Remarkably good institution,” Philbrick adds.
Olympia runs her tongue against the roof of her mouth, which is suddenly paper-dry. Yet she dares not raise the glass of lemonade to drink, for she is certain that Philbrick will see the tremor in her hand.
“Some of these orphanages are appalling,” Philbrick says, “but Mother Marguerite runs a tight ship, I will say that for her. The good fathers of Saint Andre are always pestering me for donations, and I suppose they finally felt it necessary to make me a member of the board.” He shrugs. “Of course, I do not mind. It is a sound organization continually in need of aid.”
Olympia nods politely. She realizes she has been holding her breath. She lets air out slowly so as not to betray herself.
She opens her mouth, but cannot speak.
Philbrick leans forward. “My dear,” he says. “You have gone pale. I should not have spoken. I should know better than to bring up painful matters. Well, I have never been one for tact. . . .” He regards her carefully. “Please forgive an old man for having no manners.”
Olympia shakes her head. “I have always admired your boldness,” she says truthfully.
Philbrick wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I shall not keep you any longer, dear Olympia. I should go before I blunder further. Please feel free to call upon me if ever you should have the need. It would give me the utmost pleasure to be of assistance to you in any way.”
He stands and Olympia stands with him.
“I fear I have greatly upset you,” Philbrick says.
“Your visit has been a delightful respite from my daily tasks,” she says quickly to deflect his suspicions. “I hope you shall come again.”
Philbrick takes a card from a leather pocket case and hands it to Olympia. “You may write to this address at any time. Please give my regards to your father and mother.”
She turns and walks to the door, knowing he is examining her as he follows.
“Thank you for the lemonade,” he says at the door, offering his hand, “and please give my compliments to the cook.”
“There is no cook,” she answers.
“My God, Olympia, you really are alone,” he says.
“Yes, and I prefer it that way.”
He steps down onto the lawn and examines her anew.
“I always thought you would have an extraordinary future,” he says.
• • •
She shuts the door behind Philbrick and waits until she hears the motor of his automobile start up. Her vision is blurry in her right eye, and a severe pain is starting in her left temple. She puts her fingers to her head, but the pain concentrates itself into a small nugget just beyond her reach.
I fancy I saw it between you,
Philbrick said
.
She feels nauseated and presses her forehead to the cool glass of the door. She has to clear her head and find her way to her bedroom.
A current in the air . . .
She turns to walk back into the house and has to put her hand out to the wall to steady herself. At the corner, she bends suddenly, fearing that she will be sick.
That you had come here for the child . . .
She wipes her face with the skirt of her dress and tries to concentrate. She has to find her bed. The pain grows hot and pushes against her skull.
Some of these orphanages are appalling. . . .
I fancy I saw it between you,
Philbrick said
.
She feels nauseated and presses her forehead to the cool glass of the door. She has to clear her head and find her way to her bedroom.
A current in the air . . .
She turns to walk back into the house and has to put her hand out to the wall to steady herself. At the corner, she bends suddenly, fearing that she will be sick.
That you had come here for the child . . .
She wipes her face with the skirt of her dress and tries to concentrate. She has to find her bed. The pain grows hot and pushes against her skull.
Some of these orphanages are appalling. . . .
Around her the hallway is spinning, and her son is in Ely Falls.
O
LYMPIA LIES
on her bed in her exceptionally clean house for days. It rains so much that the milk and the bread and the lobsters make a tidy and then a foul package outside her kitchen door. From time to time, she hears knocking, and she knows it must be Ezra. She does not want the man to have to worry about her in addition to all of his other responsibilities, but she cannot rouse herself to greet him.
LYMPIA LIES
on her bed in her exceptionally clean house for days. It rains so much that the milk and the bread and the lobsters make a tidy and then a foul package outside her kitchen door. From time to time, she hears knocking, and she knows it must be Ezra. She does not want the man to have to worry about her in addition to all of his other responsibilities, but she cannot rouse herself to greet him.
On the third or fourth day, she climbs out of bed, weak from lack of food. Her room is stale and unpleasant. She washes herself, puts on clean clothing, and brushes her hair. She opens the kitchen door, finds the foodstuffs that have been left there, and throws them out, with the exception of a loaf of stale bread, which she toasts and eats with tea. She marvels at how her father could have given her baby to the orphanage at Ely Falls and not have told her anything about it. She thinks about how he must have blanched to have seen the Fortune’s Rocks postmark on an envelope that bore her handwriting. She wonders if he is even now worrying that she might inadvertently discover the whereabouts of the boy. She imagines him pacing in the upstairs hallway.
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