The Body in the Birches (6 page)

She finished her list and dried the pots and pans from breakfast that were in the dish drainer, hanging each on the pegboard that covered a good part of one wall. Years ago a tidy person had
outlined the various kitchenwares with a bright blue marker to indicate where they should go, and no one had ever changed it. No changes. That's what was so special about The Birches. That there had been so few, if any, changes. Sophie knew if she left a sweater or a book one summer, it would be there when she returned—possibly in the same spot. Just like the scrapbook with the ferns she had pressed and labeled as a child and the ones her mother, Simon, and Sylvia had made—Priscilla many years earlier, too. Along with family photo albums, they were all stacked on the bottom shelf of the big bookcase in the living room. Some of the books' pages were crumbling—as were the ferns and other flora—but no one had thrown them away. At least not yet.

This was all so terribly hard, she thought. Why
couldn't
they simply share the house? Allot times, if that became a problem? Draw straws to choose dates? She turned toward the people still sitting at the kitchen table.

“Does anyone need anything from the market? I'm going into Granville for a few things.”

“I don't suppose they have quinoa and flaxseed,” Sylvia said, walking back into the room. “Rory, I know how much you like the kale salad I make with it. I picked up some kale yesterday from that man who has the little stand across the Reach next to that Mexican restaurant place.”

“I'm not sure they have things like that at the market,” Sophie said. “But if they haven't left yet, you could go back and ask those going to Blue Hill to stop at the natural foods co-op. And if the farm stand has strawberries out, could you ask them to pick up a few cartons of those, too? They can't miss it. You're right, Sylvia, it's just past El El Frijoles.” She smiled. “I'm such a dunce. It took a couple of seasons before I realized what the name meant and got the joke!”

“Glad you reminded me. I love that place!” Rory said. “Skip the salad, Ma, I'm going to head over there and get some of those
crab quesadillas for my lunch. I'll bring some back for you, too, sis, unless you're doing the vegan thing again, and in that case I'll score you their black bean dish. Anyone else?”

Sylvia looked daggers at Sophie. As if Rory's defection was Sophie's fault and Sophie's alone.

Autumn had not said a word, her nose buried in an oversize coffee cup that said
JAVA HOUND
on it. The Birches had what seemed like hundreds of mugs and cups like these. Another instance of what came in never going out. Sophie had used one this morning with the 1950s Tony the Tiger logo. Might be worth checking some of these out on eBay. She caught herself. That is, whoever inherited could.

Autumn had ditched her Raggedy Ann tights and the rest of the outfit for a more conventional summer outfit—cutoffs and flip-flops with a muslin-print long-sleeved shirt that was obviously vintage, something from a flea market. Her hair was long and she'd clipped it up on top of her head like a Gibson Girl. She was one of the most beautiful women Sophie had ever seen, and as usual, she felt as plain as a mud fence next to her. And there were those blue eyes, too. Like big blue marbles or some sort of poetic sapphire orbs. Sophie was sure there had been any number of comparisons from the men her cousin attracted.

Autumn stood up, went over to the sink, turned on a faucet, and rinsed the cup out, handing it to Sophie to dry.

“Thanks, not this time,” she answered. “I won't be here for lunch.”

“But you'll be back by two?” Her mother's anxiety was not hard to miss. Her voice had gone up an octave and it had already been shrill talking to Rory.

Autumn just looked at her and slipped out the back door without another word.

“Where can she be going? She doesn't have a car!” Sylvia placed a hand on Rory's arm, as if to keep
him
anchored.

Sophie decided it was time to take off herself, after she checked on Bev. She glanced back into the room as she left. Uncle Paul was rubbing his forehead with one finger. A simple gesture, but what was it conveying? Annoyance, forbearance, remembrance? He had been sitting at the table with his coffee beside him and this week's
Ellsworth American
spread out in front of him. Sophie hadn't seen him turn a single page.

Tom called as he was boarding the small commuter plane in Bar Harbor and again when he landed. In between Faith went about the mundanities of everyday life. She did a wash, planned supper, and after the second call set out for the market in Granville to pick up chicken and a few other supplies for the Fourth. That was the thing about news like this. You had to keep on with whatever you had to do, but everything you did took on a surreal air. Standing by the case in the meat department, debating how much white meat versus dark meat to buy, most of her mind was on Marian and the rest of the Fairchilds.

Tom's sibs, and definitely Dick, were all grown-ups—well, maybe not Craig—but Marian was the most grown-up of them all. Faith thought of her mother-in-law as that “central cedar pole” in the Frost poem “The Silken Tent,” with her husband and children, the guy wires about her. Faith had long recognized that Marian's solo travels were a respite from this role. What Faith was recognizing now, and recognizing acutely, was what a weakening—or, horrible to even consider, the removal—of this support would mean for the family.

“Hi.” A voice to her left penetrated her thoughts. “Are you okay?”

Faith grabbed a package and put it in her cart. “Sorry, just a little distracted.”

The young woman looked familiar. Faith quickly subtracted a few years from the pretty face and realized who it was.

“You're Sophie, aren't you? From The Birches? You babysat for my children many summers ago.”

“Yes! It doesn't seem that long, but that's what summers here are like—one blends into another. How are you, Mrs. Fairchild?”

In Faith's experience when people asked you this question it was almost always better to say “fine” unless you really wanted them to know, so that's what she replied. And when she asked Sophie in turn, the young woman said the same thing.

And yet, looking each other in the eye, they each immediately knew the other was lying.

For Sophie, one sign was the fact that Mrs. Fairchild had put a family-size package of those red hot dogs, endemic to Maine, in her cart when it was well known that she was a respected caterer and food lover—the hot dogs falling into the comestible category only because they were eaten in a bun. Even more telling was her furrowed face and eyes that threatened to overflow.

Looking at Sophie's expression, Faith thought her former babysitter was bearing the cares of the world on her smooth shoulders, exposed by the bright yellow sundress she was wearing. Knowing what was going on at The Birches, Faith wasn't surprised.

“Is your mother here? And do call me Faith.”

Sophie shook her head. “She's in Greece. I'm representing her. What I mean is I'm—”

Faith interrupted her. “We're staying next door at The Pines with Ursula, so we've heard about the conclave.” She tried for a smile.

Now Sophie smiled back in a similar fashion and sighed. “I suppose I should tell Uncle Paul to send white smoke up the chimney when he's made his choice. But I'm so glad you're next door. You'll be at the picnic tomorrow, I hope. I'd love to see Benny and Amy—right? They must be so big!”

“Very big, especially Ben—no more ‘Benny'—and yes, ‘Amy.' We're looking forward to the picnic. That's why I'm getting all
this chicken.” She looked in her cart and gave a little start. “Oh dear. What is that doing in there?” She put the package of franks back and began selecting the chicken. She was going to get up early and bake it in the oven with her own barbecue sauce, basting it frequently, refrigerate, and then bring it to room temperature, since it would both save time and not heat up the kitchen later. Tomorrow was supposed to be worse than today.

The Point would hear soon enough, so she added, “My husband, Tom, won't be with us. His mother has had a heart attack, and he's on his way to Massachusetts.”

“I'm so sorry! Is there anything I can do? I know there are plenty of people at The Pines, but if you want me to help with the kids—if you need to go down yourself, I'd be happy to look after them.”

Faith impulsively gave Sophie a hug.

“You are a dear. I always knew that, and I may take you up on the offer, but for now I'm staying here. Ben is working at the Lodge, The Laughing Gull Lodge. He's very proud—it's his first real job. His shift as a dishwasher starts this afternoon. The novelty will wear off soon, I expect. And Amy is in day camp three days a week. She's looking for babysitting or mother's helper-type jobs herself.”

“Well, if anyone needs a ride—Ben surely isn't old enough to drive yet is he?—call me. My cell doesn't work anywhere on the island except on the side facing the Swans Island cell towers, but The Birches has advanced into the twenty-first century with a message machine and Wi-Fi. I'll give you my e-mail.”

As she scribbled it down on the back of one of her old business cards, Sophie thought Amy wasn't the only one looking for work. Thanks to her uncle's need for Internet access, she'd been checking her e-mail since she arrived, and there hadn't been a response to any of her recent interview requests, nor a reply, except in the negative, for any of the jobs where she'd gotten a foot in the door. She kept telling herself that it was because of the holiday. People
started it early. She'd told Forbes that she was casting her net wide, but the net seemed to be rather frayed so far.

Faith turned the card over.

“Very impressive. My sister, Hope Sibley Lewis, has done business with your firm.”

Sophie's face reddened. “I'm not actually there anymore. I'm—what do they say in the theater—‘resting.' And I've met your sister. She was a guest speaker at a seminar I took in law school. Everyone agreed she was the high point of the term.”

“If you decide to break your siesta, I'm sure she would be glad to talk to you,” Faith offered. Hope did things like this. But why would Sophie have left a plum job? For a moment Faith was distracted from her worries. Could the young woman have been fired? But for what reason? Maybe Hope would know.

Or was it something else completely?

If Sophie had expected they would have to wait to start the meeting for people to finish lunch or straggle in, she would have been wrong. Two o'clock found all concerned in the living room, ears and eyes wide open, mouths shut—for now.

All concerned. Which was whom? Slipping into a chair, she saw that Will Tarkington was ensconced in one that he'd pulled away from the window and back into the shadows under the stairs. Again she wondered whether Aunt Priscilla had counted her husband's relatives as eligible to inherit.

Bev was also in the room, sitting in a straight-backed chair near the kitchen door. She'd placed a large tray on a table with iced tea, lemonade, glasses, and a basket filled with the kind of cookies she'd always kept the household supplied with—old-fashioned favorites like hermits, oatmeal raisin, peanut butter, and plenty of chocolate chip.

People were chatting, but Sophie knew they were just killing time. Rory and Forbes were drinking beer, Rory a Sam Adams
from the bottle, Forbes something imported in one of the German ceramic steins he kept in the freezer.

Paul stood up, and the room went silent. Sophie wished her mother were here, wished she herself weren't.

“I know you all loved Priscilla and I know you all love this place. Priscilla knew it, too. She was not one for drama and she tried every which way to figure out what to do with The Birches without causing it. Whether she succeeded depends on you. She left this letter, which I'll read. The envelope is unopened, but I know what it says.” He slit the flap open. “Here goes:

               
“‘My dears
,

               
“‘I wish I were in the room with you right now, the living room would be best I told Paul, and I'm sure Bev, my treasure, has supplied you with wonderful things to eat and drink. Every season at The Birches is special to me, but the days around Independence Day are filled with my most golden memories, so that's why I have selected this time for you to gather. It may be because it stretches the furthest back to my very first recollection of Sanpere. And every year after was the same. My grandfather would rouse us early, it almost seemed as if it was still night to me when I was a very young child. He'd read the Declaration of Independence facing us from atop one of the big granite rocks on the beach as the dawn rose behind him. He had a beautiful voice. I can hear it still. We sang a few patriotic songs, including the national anthem, and afterward there was a race back to the house for blueberry pancakes. I came in first the year I was twelve! Then into town for the parade and back again for the big clambake here on the Point. You'll be doing many of these same things tomorrow
.

               
“‘I know I'm going on and on, but my love for The Birches is what has made it so hard to decide what to do, and so hard to leave this earth, although maybe I am one with
the Transcendentalists' Over-Soul now, which always struck me as a place that might be hovering over Penobscot Bay. Grandfather was a great admirer of Emerson, so it could be true. But no more digressions, I promise
.

               
“‘First of all, many years ago—and Paul supported me in this—I decided the property could not be shared or divided. That has already been written into my will, as has his life tenancy. Nor can The Birches be sold unless there are no surviving Proctor descendants, an event I sorely hope will never occur.'”