My One Hundred Adventures (5 page)

My mother seems outwardly calm at dinner. She does everything the same, puts dishes on the table and talks to us as normal and looks out in her usual stillness at the waves. When Horace comes barking over and races around under the picnic table begging food, she just picks him up and holds him on her lap, stroking him gently and suggesting that he won't much like what we're eating, otherwise we'd share, until Mrs. Spinnaker comes and roughly grabs him out of her hands. Then instead of striding purposefully off as usual, Mrs. Spinnaker turns and eyes my mother speculatively and says, “I hear you're going to do a reading at the library tonight. That's you, isn't it, Felicia Fielding? I saw your name inked over someone else's on the library poster.” It always seems strange to hear my mother's whole name. The name on her books.

“Yes,” says my mother.

“Humph,” says Mrs. Spinnaker. “Taken up a little writing, have you? Well, we all have our hobbies. I do crosswords.”

It's hard to know how to respond to this. She's got that poor dog like a football under her arm and it looks to me as if she's crushing him but he has a resigned expression on his face as if he's used to it and knows if he keeps quiet he will eventually be set down.

“Here, let me get you one of my books,” says my mother, slipping out from the picnic table and going into the house, but Mrs. Spinnaker ambles back to her cottage, talking to Horace all the way.

My mother doesn't come back out with the poetry book and when Ginny and I go inside is washing the dishes. “I saw her leaving from the kitchen window,” she says in explanation, shaking her head and smiling. “I wonder if she is coming to the reading.”

“Do you want her to?” I ask.

“I don't like anyone I know to be there,” says my mother.

“Except us children, right?” I say.

“Especially not anyone who knows me well. But, of course, H.K. will already be there so you children may as well be too.”

I wait for her to explain what she means but she doesn't, she just goes on dreamily washing pans and gazing out at the wish-wash swish-swash of the waves. I wonder if she has lost track of her hands in the dishwater and thinks they are swimming in their own frothy sea but Ginny has another idea. She pulls me into my bedroom and whispers, “What does she mean H.K. knew her
well
? What does a woman mean when she says a man knew her
well
? It means he was her boyfriend, right?”

“Oh!” I say, and suddenly remember to tell her about the clothes hanger man.

“Are you sure she used the words ‘your father'?” Ginny asks when I'm done.

“How could I have misunderstood? I was standing right next to her.”

“She didn't say Oh, what a bother? Or Well, yes, but I'd rather? Or Yes, so I gather?”

I scan back but I cannot think. Too much has happened since then.

“And how could H.K. have been a boyfriend without you seeing him around? Did you ever see
any
men around?”

“No,” I say.

“And yet there must have been.”

“Stop it!” I say, and am surprised by the vehemence in my voice.

So is Ginny. “Well, anyhow, I think you heard wrong about this clothes hanger man. If your mother were to tell you, she would never say it so casually.”

But it is exactly the type of thing my mother would do. I know Ginny doesn't understand. No one really understands a family but the people in it and even they each understand it differently.

My mother calls that it is time to leave. Only when we arrive at the library does she begin to look nervous. One hand shakes slightly as she picks up a flyer about the reading. It talks mainly about H.K. and his workshops at colleges and his grants and awards. My mother has won a Pulitzer but it doesn't mention this. Only that she is replacing the third poet, who couldn't come.

“Why don't they mention your Pulitzer?” I ask.

“Maybe because it was so long ago,” says my mother. “Maybe because it makes them angry that I usually say no to readings. They think I'm snotty, maybe. It doesn't matter, Jane.” She leaves us to sit at the front.

Ginny and I have Maya and Hershel and Max in the back and things are about to start. My mother has put a stack of picture books by them and seated us where they can play on the floor with the tiny toy trucks she brought for Hershel and Max. Maya has her paper dolls. I think the trucks are a mistake. Max and Hershel like to make vroom vroom sounds when the trucks go. I tell them they will have to stop that when the readings begin but I know they will forget. I keep looking for Mrs. Gourd but she isn't there.

I am beginning to think it will all be okay after all, when Ginny leaps up. She points out the big picture windows that form one wall of the library. “There she is!” she croaks hoarsely in my ear, and goes racing outside, where Mrs. Gourd, surrounded by little Gourds and holding the baby carrier, is talking to an assistant librarian on the front steps. Through the window I see Ginny pretending to kneel and tie her shoe. Then the assistant librarian goes inside and Ginny grabs Mrs. Gourd and begins talking to her. I am amazed at how bold Ginny can be with grown-ups. I am relieved that she might talk Mrs. Gourd out of suing.

I keep staring at them out the window although Mrs. Stewart has gone to the front of the room.

“Welcome to a very special evening at the library,” she begins.

“Vroom vroom,” goes Max.

Mrs. Stewart looks around, trying to figure out where that sound is coming from.

“I'd like to welcome all of you and especially our honored poets, who—”

“Vroom,” goes Hershel.

“Shhh,” I say.

Mrs. Stewart looks at me and frowns. I look at Max and frown. Max starts to crawl toward the window. I get down and crawl after him, trying to hide behind chairs so Mrs. Gourd, if she glances inside, won't see me.

Mrs. Gourd has her hands on her hips and looks angry but I think she may be one of those people who always looks angry. Ginny is gesticulating and the Gourd children are racing wildly over the steps and we can hear them and the baby crying.

“Marian, can you please go outside and see what is going on,” says Mrs. Stewart, sending the assistant librarian into the fray. “As I was saying, it's a great pleasure to have a poet like H. K. Thomson here with us tonight.” But many heads are still turned toward the steps, where the assistant librarian is talking to Mrs. Gourd.

Ginny races back in and plops herself next to me. I don't dare say anything. Mrs. Stewart is staring at the two of us as if we will be ejected any minute. But, then, oh thank heavens, Mrs. Gourd leaves. I see her snap something at the Gourd children, who immediately stop running around and follow her down the steps.

“Well, let us delay no longer. I'm so pleased to introduce tonight a poet all of you know. She graces many of our town's events and gives generously of her time—please welcome Cassandra Lark.”

There is some mild applause. Max and Hershel are still whispering “Vroom” but fortunately Cassandra Lark takes the podium with such drama, so many swishy black layers and beads, and she shouts her poetry so loudly that it commands our attention again.

When she is finished and while everyone is applauding, Ginny tells me what has happened. She has told Mrs. Gourd that we will meet her in the parking lot by the beach tomorrow morning to make an offer. Ginny doesn't let Mrs. Gourd know that my mother won't be there. Also, the assistant librarian has told Mrs. Gourd that it might not be a good idea to bring a crying baby and all the little Gourds to a poetry reading.

“This is fortunate because she seemed pretty determined to talk to your mother,” says Ginny. “But by tomorrow, we will have a plan.”

Then Mrs. Stewart introduces my mother. My mother's voice is calm and quiet and when she starts reading, her nervous face gives way to one that is full of wonder for the things she has written about. She does not punch her words like Cassandra Lark or look as if she is listening to her voice more than reading to us. The words roll. She looks plain in a way that is beautiful. The way Shaker furniture is beautiful.

I do not listen to any poetry. I keep going through the events of the day over and over. I just want to go home and go to bed now that the adrenaline has stopped coursing through me, but H. K. Thomson takes an entire hour. Finally it is over and the librarian thanks the poets but she is looking only at H. K. Thomson and then she talks about upcoming library business and everyone convenes for cake and coffee.

Ginny doesn't want any cake. She says she will go home and try to figure out what to say to Mrs. Gourd in the morning and I walk her down the library steps, making plans for her to knock on my window at dawn.

I go back inside to find my mother. I realize I have left Maya and Hershel and Max and I was supposed to be watching them. I look worriedly for them now but they are fine. They are gathered around the refreshment table, where they are messily eating cake. As long as there is cake on the table they will be happily occupied. Chocolate frosting is smeared all over Hershel's face. I bend over to pick up their toys and put them back in the plastic bag. At that moment I spy my mother, who is talking to H. K. Thomson. He is listening to her but looking at Max and Hershel and Maya with horror. I know they are messy but horror seems like an extreme reaction.

H.K.'s sister, Caroline, is sitting alone in a folding chair among a sea of empty chairs, glaring at my mother. Maybe she wants to get home and thinks my mother is delaying H.K. My mother keeps talking and H.K. is looking ill. Maybe he has eaten too much cake.

I go over to get my mother. I am exhausted by everything and full of dread. I stand by her and grab her sweater and she reaches down and takes my hand without looking at me.

“Anyhow, I thought perhaps you should know. I wouldn't have said anything if you hadn't made that remark about how adorable the children were.”

“This is quite a shock, Felicity. But don't worry, I will do the right thing.”

“Don't be silly, Henry. There's no need to do anything at all.”

“We must talk about this some more. Let's do lunch.”

My mother laughs and then looks at his face and sees he is serious. “Well, of course, if that's what you'd like. Certainly. I'd be happy to have lunch sometime. Now I really must get home. Hershel is going to get chocolate on everything before long and Delores has had quite enough of us, I can see.”

She means Mrs. Stewart, who is shooing Max and Maya and Hershel in the direction of the door while trying to keep their sticky fingers off her.

My mother and I hurry Hershel and Maya and Max the rest of the way out of the building. My mother thanks the librarian, who just nods curtly and runs off toward H.K.

We reach the beach. The wind picks up and I take off my shoes. The sand is comfortingly cool on my hot feet. I run down the beach for the wind in my face and my hair. I feel the way the birds must when they are blown about on its currents. When I run back to my mother I am better even though I know it is only temporary.

My mother laughs at me but doesn't say much. She laughs easily and at nothing now that the reading is over. We all walk looking out to sea. It is crashing in the evening light, great splashing white horses running over the sand.

“What were you and H. K. Thomson talking about?” I ask.

“He told me he hadn't read any of my books. He said he's sorry but he will try to get around to it sometime,” says my mother, and then erupts in peals of laughter. It falls across the summer twilight like bells.

And suddenly I think of the Christmas Eve when my mother and I were to help Nellie Phipps ring our church's bells at exactly midnight. Nellie watched the time but suddenly the bells of the other church in town, St. Matthew's, started pealing and she grabbed the ropes frantically. She mustn't be late, she said, charged with this sacred duty. She rang so hard and so fast to catch up that her efforts didn't seem humanly possible and my mother and I watched her in awe, not even touching the ropes. “God help me. God help me,” Nellie said, and it looked as if her prayers were answered because she no longer needed us. When we had practiced earlier in the day it had taken three of us on a rope. Now she was pulling both ropes herself. My mother put a hand on my shoulder as if protecting me from something that could not be explained.

I remind my mother of this. How maybe it was an indication of Nellie's mysticism.

“What I always wondered was why it never occurred to her that St. Matthew's was simply ringing their bells too early,” says my mother.

Now within the roar of the surf and the roar of the wind we are surrounded by something so sonorous it presses out all thought. Even this new idea about Nellie. It is like being within the sound of the bells again. How do people live who do not live by the sea? How do people live without this sonorous presence? Then we are at the house and my feet feel the welcoming painted wood floors of the porch and I know the sonorous thing is in our porch floors too. My feet reach for it.