Storm Tide (38 page)

Joanna remembered to smile and say “So long,” and then she turned toward the beach, passing the gully-hole that hadn't yet been filled in by the sea.

But her feet walked of their own accord and knowledge, because her brain was busy with something else. Jud had deliberately told her to mind her own business; that was what it had amounted to. He'd laughed, and he'd patted her arm, but all the time he'd been telling her she had no right to ask questions, that what he and Nils talked about was no concern of hers.
No concern of hers
—and it was about the Island! Of course it was about the Island—Jud and Nils had no other common ground but the Island and their life there. But she, Joanna, was to—what was it Marion had said?
To keep her nose to home
.

She walked faster. Jud, that stubby, round, ribald little man, daring to tell
her
what not to think about! She knew the truth of course. Jud was old-fashioned, he wanted all women to be like Marion, absorbed in cooking and children and grandchildren and cleaning house and making quilts; he wanted to be Lord and Master, to keep his wife in ignorance of the world, so that he could enlighten her and see her hanging on his words whenever he spoke. And he still saw Joanna as the little kid in pigtails and overalls who hung around the beach waiting for a chance to row somebody's punt.

I shouldn't blame Jud
, she thought,
because he's ignorant
.

She had to slow down on the slope, she had been walking so fast. A pearly-lavender light tinted the sky above Schoolhouse Cove and in the east; the little wisps of cloud were purple, edged with rose, and the cove lay in comparative peace, sheltered from the wind. In the west, a tawny glow beyond the trees marked the sunset. The air was cold, but exquisitely clear, and scented with the clean breath of the Island.

Involuntarily Joanna sighed, and with that long sigh some small measure of peace came to her. She began to walk again, toward the house.

T
IME MOVED.
I
T WENT SLOWLY,
but it moved. Nils didn't come on the next boatday, Friday, but Joanna wrote him a note, to tell him the trap-stuff had been divided up, and everybody was working very hard at patching old pots and building new ones; they were getting out to haul, too, and making a good dollar from the handful of traps that were still good. Owen and Stevie took turns hauling his string and bringing her the money. She was putting it back in the money box.

Late Friday afternoon Mark brought Joey and Ellen from Brigport, and another weekend began.

“Week after next is Thanksgiving week!” Ellen chanted, arriving in the kitchen with the impermanent air of a song sparrow lighting on a wild pear bush.

“You don't say so,” Joanna said, busy at the dresser with supper. “Come on in, Mark.”

“Can't stay—just thought I'd see the kid up from the shore, it was pretty dark.” Mark stood briefly in the entry and then went out again; it was because Owen was in the sitting room.

Ellen took off her things and hung them on their hook. She looked around the kitchen, she walked softly to the door of the sitting room and looked in at Owen and Stevie. Then she came back to Joanna.

“Didn't Nils come home?” she asked. “I thought sure he'd come today.”

“He can't come till his engine's ready,” Joanna said quickly. “Will you set the table, Ellen? You're just in time.”

Sighing, Ellen put on her clean, ruffled apron and began to lay the knives and forks on the bright-flowered cloth under the lamp. “Golly, looks as if they'll never get it done!” she said. “But it ought to be fixed by
Thanksgiving
, don't you think so, Mother?”

“You miss him, don't you, Ellen?” Joanna didn't look at her daughter as she spoke.

“Don't you miss him, too? And I wanted him to see my spelling papers.” Ellen put the plates around; her small face was sober and intent. “Nils never says much. But he leaves an awful big place when he's gone.”

It was like a conspiracy, Joanna thought. You'd almost believe nobody ever went to the mainland and stayed a week or so, the way they all talked about Nils. She was getting sick of it; the big spoon mixing the griddlecake batter slipped and clattered against the side of the bowl, and it was all she could do not to throw the spoon as far as it would go.
I'm too nervous
, she thought.
I ought to do something
. . .
have a change
. . .

“Cranberry sauce on the table, Ellen,” she said aloud. “Maple syrup — here, I'll get it down for you.” She spoke, she made the familiar motions, but her mind went on its independent way. It was always trotting along by itself, lately, like a dog out for a walk alone, getting into all sorts of odd corners—some of them not very satisfactory . . . . If Nils stayed away another week everybody would think it was queer; they'd know it couldn't take that long to get the valves ground . . . . The pup out by itself discovered with a thrill of pleasure a new scent. . . . She'd write to him by the next boat and tell him that if he was about ready to come home she'd go over on the
Aurora B
. and make the trip back with him. She could do some shopping for Christmas, and see a movie. The change would be good for her. And she'd be making a gesture that Nils must recognize.

All at once she felt calm and assured again. The independent dog trotted home, obedient to the leash. Joanna poured creamy batter on the griddle and smiled, sparkling-eyed, into Ellen's lifted, questioning face.

“Hungry, dear?”

“Y-yes . . . . Nils lies griddlecakes too.”

This time Joanna didn't feel like throwing the spoon. Her smile deepened. She flipped the cakes gently, already golden brown on one side, and said, “We'll have them again, as soon as he comes home. And it won't be long, Ellen.”

Life became, all at once, a routine. Joanna hadn't noticed it before. The week was divided into neat little sections. Tuesdays and Fridays were boatdays; also, on Friday, Ellen came home—if the weather permitted—and went back late Sunday afternoon or early Monday morning. You lived from one event to the next. With winter coming, so that you couldn't spend every possible daytime hour outdoors, and with the strangeness of Nils' absence, these days stood out as sharply as though they'd been marked on the calendar with black pencil.

Sending Ellen off with Stevie early on the cold bright Monday morning, the awareness of Tuesday haunted Joanna. On Tuesday, if the
Aurora B
. didn't break down or a gale blow up, Nils might be home, and then everybody would stop asking her what was keeping him over there on the mainland. But he might not come at all, and that was why she had given Ellen the letter to mail when she walked past the store on her way to Mrs. Robey's.

“Did you tell Nils I had a lot of papers to show him?” Ellen asked.

“Of course I told him that, and then I told him I might go over next weekend and come home with him.” She kissed Ellen's upturned face, framed in the blue hood. “Be sure and have some more good spelling papers to show him.”

“Oh, I will!” said Ellen joyfully. To her, it was as good as done; Nils would be home for Thanksgiving, and that was final. She went out of the house happily, running ahead of Stevie to see if Joey was ready to go with them.

Stevie waited for a moment after she was gone. Owen had already started out to haul. “Jo,” he said hesitantly. “You sure Nils is coming home, then?”

“If I have to escort him home in person—” she began gaily.

“Well, it'll be swell to see him. I miss the guy.” He smiled at her, and put on his heavy plaid cap and went out. For a moment the memory of his smile stayed with Joanna. Stevie had such a nice smile, gentle and easy, like Stevie himself. He was tender-hearted, he'd always been quick to pity—
Pity
. Was it that, in his smile? Almost as if he thought it was no use for her to look for Nils, or write to him . . . .

She shook her head violently, to clear it. It was another sign of nerves, when she began imagining things, reading pity into Stevie's voice and smile, giving even the slightest attention to the idea that Nils wouldn't respond to her note. Of course he would answer, by the very next boat, and tell her to come; and that would end all the chatter. At least it would shut Owen up. And as for pity—well, Stevie knew better than that. She'd never needed pity yet, and this certainly was no occasion for it.

With the housework done, her time was her own. The boys had a long hauling day ahead of them, taking care of their own gear and Nils' too, and they wouldn't be home for dinner. She ought to make some Thanksgiving and Christmas plans; if she went to Limerock next weekend she should have a list. . . . She sat down with paper and pencil, and managed to get her ideas into rough order.

In the afternoon she dressed in heavy slacks, warm sweater and trench coat, tied a kerchief under her chin, and went out for a walk. The day was one of those which seem powdered with diamond dust. Everything sparkled; in the places where the sun had just reached the melting frost glittered, and the choppy sea splintered the sun glare into dancing bits of light. Down at the harbor, the boats were beginning to return from hauling. Caleb's boat was just leaving the car as she walked out to the end of the wharf.

Jud's “Office” these cold days was in the end of the boatshop, where he had built so many boats for the Island. Now the long shed was used for storage, except for the comer where Jud had his little pot-bellied stove, his desk where he kept his books, his window where he could look over the harbor and see the boats coming in.

Now he came puffing up the ladder from the car and grinned at Joanna, his round face looking rounder still in a deerstalker cap, earlaps, and a scarf. “Hi, Joanny. Now don't you laugh at my outfit. Marion, she makes me wear this sissy muffler so's I won't get a kink in my neck and groan all night. . . . Come on in and set awhile.”

She followed him into the shed and sat down on a box, stretching her feet toward the stove. Jud fussed around with his books, writing down his last purchase with a forlorn stub of a pencil.

“I'll make you a present of a good pencil, Jud,” Joanna said idly.

“Hell, this one'll work till it's gone,” Jud assured her. “Spit on the lead and she writes just as black as when she was new. . . . If that Caleb had all the traps he started out with this fall, he'd be a rich man, b'God.”

“What are lobsters now?”

“Gone up to fifty. Fellers could make good money out of half a dozen pots right now.” Judd whistled under his breath and looked out the window. “Time for Toby Merrill to be comin' along. Merrills don't have no use for the Fowlers, neither do the Bradfords. Always come here, since I started buyin'.”

He did a little dance-step and Joanna smiled. “You like this job, don't you, Jud?”

“Best one I ever had. I'm too old to climb around buildin' boats, and I never did care much for haulin' pots in the winter. But this is fine. Kind of a sociable business, too. . . . Here comes Rich Bradford.”

He hurried out, and Joanna followed him. As she stood on the wharf watching the Brigport boat cut across the dancing chop in the harbor and head for the car, she remembered how she'd always loved to be around the wharf when the boats came in She was small, then, and someone was always sending her home. She'd promised herself that when she grew up she'd stay at the wharf as long as she wanted to. . . . And here she was. No one was sending her home.

The boat slid gently alongside the car and was made fast; the Brigport man, oilskins over his heavy clothes, nodded at Joanna and lifted his lobster tubs over the side to the float. Jud put them on the scales, one tub at a time, and grinned at Bradford. “You're do in' all right, son.”

“I guessed about three hundred pounds,” Bradford said.

“You guessed just about right.” Jud weighed back the empty tubs and nodded. “Little less. Two hundred and ninety-five pounds. That make you feel bad, son?”

“Not very,” the other man said dryly. Judd wrote out his slip and gave it to him, then reached into his pocket for the money. It was a familiar proceeding. When she was ten, Joanna had watched Pete Grant produce similar rolls of bills—no wonder she'd thought him the richest man in the world, till she had grown up and realized the ins and outs of lobstering.

“One hundred and fifty-three dollars,” Jud declaimed solemnly, laying the last bill across Bradford's calloused palm. “And forty cents.” He counted out the change meticulously, and then beamed as Bradford tucked the money away in his billfold.

“Thanks, Jud.”

“Don't thank me, thank God for this weather . . . and salt that money away, son—hard days a-comin'.”

The Brigport man's lean Yankee face split in a grin. Joanna went back into the boatshop, and put another stick of wood in the stove. She stood there warming her hands, figuring in her mind, wondering if Judd's arithmetic was as faulty as it seemed. Two hundred and ninety-five pounds at fifty cents a pound . . . Jud had done something wrong somewhere, and had apparently cheated himself out of three dollars or more.

The Brigport boat's engine roared as it backed out from the wharf and swung around. Then Jud was coming in, stamping his feet, clapping his hands together. “Wow! Them lobsters are mighty frigid critters to handle on a day like this! You poked up the fire, Joanna? Good girl!” He went to his desk and picked up the stub of pencil again.

“Rich Bradford,” he spelled aloud. “Two hundred and ninety­five pounds. Paid out one hundred 'n'—”

“Jud,” Joanna said swiftly behind him. “Jud, don't think I'm interfering, or anything, but are you sure you figured that out right? Aren't you cheating yourself?”

“Nope,” said Jud briskly. “See, I give them Brigport fellers two cents over the price, for comin' here.” He went on writing. Joanna stood behind him, still holding her hands out automatically toward the stove, and looking at his broad back, bent over the desk.
So you pay Brigport two cents over the price you pay here
, she thought.
I suppose they need it, and we don't
.