The Village by the Sea (10 page)

Emma thought the sign itself was a sign that they had finished their village.

Bertie sharpened a twig on a stone and threaded it through the balsa wood and stuck it in the sand in front of their inn.

“Is it really done, do you think?” she asked Emma wistfully.

“Just in time,” said Emma. “But look. Some of the stones in the library have slipped. We can fix that and check on every cottage and the doctor's office and the temple. Everything.”

They spent an hour or so doing what was unnecessary, for the village was, they agreed, now as perfect as it could be.

Wind had shifted sand; some of the hedges were down, twigs fallen on paths. The village had taken on a weathered look, that of an old, old place which no highway would ever lead to, which you might only discover if you were riding a horse one afternoon by the sea. You would give the horse its head; it would wander over the crest of a low hill and, looking down, you would see the village in the sleepy, sun-dazed quietness.

That was what Emma was thinking in a dreaming way. As if Bertie had sensed what was in Emma's mind, she said, “We should have built more stables for horses.”

“You have to stop somewhere,” Emma replied. “We'd end up trying to build the world.”

“We did,” Bertie declared. “Granny wants to see it. But her sciatica is so bad, she really can't come down the stairs. I told her I'd take some pictures with her camera.”

The hearings Aunt Bea had been watching weren't on television that day. She was in her usual chair at the table. She was wearing a somber gray dress whose skirt reached her ankles. Around her neck was a necklace of small luminous blue stones which she twisted and curled about her fingers.

“We've finished our village by the sea,” Emma said as Uncle Crispin set before her a plate of lettuce and slices of avocado for her lunch.

“Whatever you've made—it isn't by the sea,” Aunt Bea said sharply. “It's by the bay.”

“I'm eager to see it,” Uncle Crispin said quickly. “Bea, let me fix you something. Soup? A sandwich?”

“I have no appetite today,” Aunt Bea said, tightening the necklace around her throat.

“But you'll come down to see the village?” he asked. “It would do you good.”

“It wouldn't do me a bit of good,” Aunt Bea said, looking up at her poster. She let go of the blue stones and smiled to herself. “I can see all the beach I need to ever see in my Monet. I haven't time for such excursions.”

She shook her head slowly as if everything was too much for her. She's telling herself a story, Emma thought, all about what she has to put up with, she and Monet.

Uncle Crispin sighed. “We'll go down, Emma, as soon as you're finished. We can do the dishes later.”

“Don't expect me to clean up after you,” Aunt Bea said shrilly.

“No one expects any such thing,” retorted Uncle Crispin.

After they left the house and were going down the stairs, Emma felt for a moment transparent with happiness, as though it were a light shining through her.

Even though she would have to part from Bertie, she was going home tomorrow. The days which had, at first, seemed to stretch before her like a road with no end, had gone so fast she had been taken by surprise when she realized her time by the bay was just about over.

Bertie was down below, running back and forth near the water. When she saw them, she shouted, “Good!”

The three of them stood together by the stone wall around the village.

“What a piece of work!” exclaimed Uncle Crispin. “It could be a little corner by the sea in Dorset or Cornwall in England. Look at the gardens! You two are wonders!” He stooped down. “What a lovely place to live!”

Emma and Bertie smiled at each other.

“Have you named it?” Uncle Crispin asked, standing up. He was peering at the forest. Emma felt a start of fear. She didn't want him to see the deer.

“Look at the library,” she suggested hurriedly, “the one with brown stones. No, we haven't named it yet.”

“Just the sort of library where one would like to spend a drowsy afternoon,” Uncle Crispin said. “Well—it is the most extraordinary thing you've done.… I thought it would be like a large sand castle. I had no idea it was such a serious project.”

After he had gone back to the house, Bertie took a number of pictures of the village. “When I see you back in the city in September, I'll give you copies of whatever turns out right,” she promised.

“If a teacher asks us to write a composition about what we did this summer—” Emma began.

“—we can do an illustrated one,” Bertie said.

“Let's take a walk,” Emma said. They lingered, though, by the village, looking at their work. Emma felt a little sad. “It was doing it that was so great,” she said. They started off.

“It was all I thought about,” Bertie said. “I think I even dreamed about it every night.”

“I'm glad my aunt didn't see it,” Emma said. “She would have told us it wasn't up to Paris or London—or even Albany.”

The large raft was now anchored a hundred yards or so out on the bay.

“Look!” said Bertie. “There's the family that rents the house next to Granny's.” Emma saw at least five children paddling in the little waves. Two grownups were opening a huge yellow beach umbrella.

“The summer has begun,” commented Bertie. “Pretty soon, the beach will be filled with people.”

“How long will our village last?” wondered Emma.

“Who knows? The main thing is—we made it,” responded Bertie.

They walked for a long time until they could no longer see the stairs that led up the cliff to their houses. The cliff fell away. A ridge of low-lying dunes took its place. On the other side of them was a large pond upon which three swans floated like meringues.

“It's beautiful,” Emma commented. “I'm glad I got to see this part of the beach.”

“We ought to name the village,” Bertie said. “Yeah, it is pretty here. Those swans come back to the pond every year, I've heard.”

“How about
Swan Haven
?” Emma suggested.

“Why not
Deer Haven
?” Bertie asked. “We really do have a deer in the forest—not a swan. It's more true.”

Emma hesitated. But after all, only she and Bertie would know the name of their village. “Okay,” she agreed.

Before supper Emma packed her suitcase and her shopping bag. She glanced at her diary before she dropped it on top of the puzzles she hadn't done, the books she hadn't read. She ought to write something down, but it seemed impossible. How could she write about the eagerness with which she raced down the stairs to the beach every morning? How could she describe the moment when Bertie handed her the balsa wood sign? Perhaps there are no words for what is perfect, she thought. Even counting the summers with her father and mother at the place in upstate New York, she couldn't think of anything in her life that had held such delight as those hours with Bertie. Nothing Aunt Bea had said had touched them.

Aunt Bea was almost silent at supper. Uncle Crispin had broiled a steak and made rather lumpy mashed potatoes.

“Quite like nursery potatoes,” he remarked. “We used to count the lumps. Whoever had the most got an extra share of pudding.”

“Who is
we
?” asked Aunt Bea gruffly.

“Oh—a friend who might be visiting. Bea, I do wish you'd look at what these children made. It is simply magical!”

Aunt Bea stared down at her plate.

“They even built a library and a Greek temple!” he went on.

Aunt Bea rose abruptly and padded out to the kitchen in her beaded white moccasins. Soon, Emma heard the kettle boiling, and Aunt Bea appeared a moment later with a cup of tea. As she sat down, she said, “Crispin, I think I should like to go to Provence in the fall. I'm tired of this meager beach, those hordes who come out here every year.”

“If we can manage it, Bea,” Uncle Crispin said. “Travel is so expensive.”

“Don't look to me for that problem,” Aunt Bea said angrily. “I have nothing … nothing.”

She glared at Emma as though everything was her fault. She drank from her cup, her eyes still on Emma, but the glow of anger in her eyes died away. When she put down the cup, she muttered, “Oh I know we can't go.… It was just a thought.”

After supper and the dishes, Emma went to the living room. Aunt Bea was on the sofa in front of the television set.

“Shall I watch a movie with you?” Emma asked timidly. It was her last evening, after all.

“Who said I was going to watch a movie?” asked her aunt. She suddenly snatched up the channel changer and hit the button so quickly, a blur of stations floated by.

Emma sat down next to her.

“Ah,” sighed Aunt Bea, dropping the changer on the sofa between them. Emma watched as people speaking with English accents moved around a large kitchen. “That's the cook, Mrs. Bridges,” announced Aunt Bea more to the room than to Emma. “This is the second time I've watched this series. I adore it. Crispin? If you don't get a haircut soon, you'll look exactly like Mrs. Bridges.”

“Oh, dear,” Uncle Crispin said from his table. “If I could only cook as well as she does!”

Aunt Bea laughed loudly. “It's all a joke,” she said. “They give her a bowl and a whisk and she turns out a seven-course dinner for the king of England. If you were like me, you'd see that everything is a joke.”

Emma got up then and said good night without looking at her aunt or her uncle. As she went up to her room, she thought of how glad she was that she was leaving.

The moon's rays made her room so light, Emma didn't turn on the lamp. She knelt by the window, her elbows on the sill. A breeze was stirring the trees. The balsa sign that read
Lodgings
would be waving like a small banner. A night traveler would see it by the light of the moon and be comforted. She imagined herself walking down the main street toward the starfish. Which house would be hers? She chose the one made of sand dollars. Way out on the bay, she saw a tiny light. Someone must be night fishing. She would miss the water, its smell, the whisper of waves.

When she finally got into bed, she fell asleep at once.

Emma sat straight up in her bed. What had she heard? A soft shushing sound as though heavy cloth were being dragged along the hall. Then she realized it must be Aunt Bea in her moccasins. She held her breath, and in that instant, the sound faded away. She turned on the lamp. She felt she'd slept ten hours but the alarm clock showed it was only three a.m. She tried to read but couldn't concentrate. She began to feel sleepy; the book slipped from the bed and hit the floor with a thud. Her eyes flew open. She sat straight up. There was a gasping, rasping noise just outside her door. It passed in a few seconds. The silence returned.

Now she was fully awake. On a sudden impulse, she got up, pulled on her jeans over her pajamas and shoved her feet into sandals. She would take a look at the village by night. She would know it in all its hours. As she went through the small foyer, she took the flashlight from the shelf.

From the porch, the dark waters of the bay glinted as though pricked by starlight. The islands were invisible, and the bay seemed to flow into the sky itself. Emma took the stairs slowly, feeling the tickle of the long sea grass against her ankles.

The sand was cold. She turned on the flashlight and looked down.

The village was wrecked. Stones and shells, seaweed and glass, all that had made the abodes, the temple, the library, the school, were scattered about, and hillocks of sand covered paths and gardens. She bent to pick up the starfish compass, ripped in half. Near where the doctor's house had been was the plastic deer. Two large stones lay close by, one of the deer's legs crushed between them. She knelt, holding herself up with one hand. With the other, she shone the flashlight close to the sand. She saw several tiny beads, blue and white and red. The throbbing of her heart sounded like a great alarm gong that should wake up all people who lived along the cliff. She grabbed the beads and waved her hand to shake away the sand that clung to them. She turned off the flashlight and stood in the dark, looking up at the sky. The blackness was like a substance she was swallowing.

It seemed only a moment later that she found herself on the long porch among the rocking chairs that huddled there like old, old people. Through the window, she saw a ray of light on the dining table. She went inside. Uncle Crispin stood in the kitchen doorway holding a cup of tea.

“Emma?” he questioned.

She began to cry. She put the flashlight on the table and held one hand against her mouth. In the other, she felt the hard little beads.

“Why, Emma!” he said in alarm.

She looked at him and opened her fist. He peered down at the beads, his face uncomprehending. She couldn't speak yet. She looked around the dining room, into its shadowed corners. She was looking for something; she didn't know what it was. Then her glance rested on the Monet poster.

“Emma—tell me!” Uncle Crispin said urgently.

“She smashed our village,” Emma sobbed. “It looks bombed. There's nothing left.…”

“She?”

But he knew who
she
was. Emma could tell by the way his eyes narrowed, his mouth shut tight. He looked grim.

“Show me the beads,” he said. She held out her hand. He touched them one by one. Suddenly, she snatched her hand away, shook it so the beads dropped onto the floor. She went quickly to the poster, her hands raised to rip it from the wall.

“Emma! No!” he ordered her.

The desire to destroy it was so strong she thought she could feel it tearing in her hands.

“Don't touch it,” he said. “I don't care about the poster. I care about you.”

She turned back to him.

He had put the cup of tea down and drawn out a chair. “Sit here,” he said.