Light Over Water (7 page)

          Even as she
considered this, she sensed a change.  Stillness came over him.  She could feel
the muscles in his neck and arms gathering themselves to move.  He lifted his
head, drew his sleeve across his eyes and sighed, a long shuddering breath. 
Then his eyes met hers.  He studied her face, a sad one-sided smile lifting one
corner of his mouth.  “You are…” he started, when they both heard heavy steps
on the stairs outside.

          Alison slid off Sam’s
lap and bent to pick up the lantern.  The outer door opened with a bang and
Pastor Whiting hurried through, holding his own lantern high.  His breath came
in short puffs and he gasped with relief. 

          “Ah, I just got back
from calling on the Alleys, when I saw the bit of light flickering in the
windows.  I was afraid there was a fire starting.”

          He drew his hand
across his high forehead, and loosened his overcoat, while drawing in a
shuddering breath.  He was a round man, young for a pastor, with a dark fringe
of curly fluff circling his already bald head.  His blue eyes were always
bright, and for a man of his size he possessed an enormous energy.  He was a
methodical preacher who was somewhat stern and a bit intimidating in the
pulpit, but outside the church he showed an unusual depth of compassion and
sympathy for the struggles of mankind in general and in his flock in Little
Cove in particular. 

          “Mr. Eliot, Miss
Granger, you have taken sanctuary, it seems.”  His voice held a clear note of
disapproval until he eased closer.  Immediate concern lit his eyes as he read
the distress in their faces and discerned the signs of tears.

          Alison cleared her
throat.  “Pastor, I guess you haven’t heard what happened.”  She swallowed as
she felt Sam’s hand slide around hers.  “That Sam’s mother passed away today
and her little baby too.”  The words felt funny as she said them; grown up
words she’d heard her aunt use rather than say directly that someone died.

          A groan escaped Neal
Whiting.  He slumped into the pew ahead of them.  He sat there shaking his head
for several long moments, and when he turned to look at them, his eyes gleamed
with tears.  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Sam.  I’m going to go over to
your house.  I can take you back there now, or you’re welcome to stay here as
long as you need to.  There’s no better place to talk to God than right here.”

          “Thank you, Rev.
Whiting.  Please tell my father I’ll be along directly.  I’m going to walk
Alison home first.  As for talking to God, I don’t believe I care to do that
right now.”  Sam stood up and Alison followed, gripping the lantern.  The pastor
stood also and watched them leave, his mouth a grim line.

          The wind had softened
to a caress, but it was still cold.  They crossed the field, and then started
toward the Granger home when Alison stopped.  “I forgot.  It’s Mrs. Reid’s
lantern.  I need to take it back and the shawl and blanket too.  But…then
you’ll be cold.”

          Sam gazed at her
silently, and then replied, “We’ll be cold together.”  His voice sounded
strained and hoarse after his tears.

          When she tapped on
the schoolteacher’s door, it was pulled open after only a moment.  Mary Reid
had obviously been weeping.  She held a handkerchief to her nose and her voice
was nasal with tears, but she smiled when she saw them.  “Good.  You found him
then.  I’m so sorry, Sam love.  Your mother was my dearest friend.”  She pulled
him into an embrace which was short-lived because of Sam’s stiffness. 
Undaunted, she put one hand on his cheek and gazed at him.  With a shake of her
head she wiped her eyes with the handkerchief.

          “We just came to
return your things.  Thank you,” Alison offered as her own throat tightened
again with unshed tears.

          “Oh, no, no!  You
still need them.  In fact, let me get you a coat to put on, Sam.  My husband’s
is right here in the closet.”  When she turned her back to open the closet
door, Alison and Sam stared at each other, their eyes wide.  Mary drew out a
heavy wool jacket that she held up for Sam.  “I think it will work just fine. 
Now you tell your Da that I’ll come over in the morning to help out with the
youngsters and the arrangements.  I’m going to close the school tomorrow.”

          “Thanks, Mrs. Reid. 
I’ll bring this back tomorrow.”  Alison raised the lantern as they turned to go
back outside.

          “Hurry home now.  It
almost feels like snow again,” Mary’s voice followed them into the night.

          Alison and Sam
followed the rutted road, stepping carefully to avoid puddles that were skimmed
with ice.  Their breath came in clouds, as the air had turned frigid.  They
soon came to the three forks, where one road led past the store and post office,
down to the dock.  The second led north out of town where it eventually joined
Route One and made for Bath.  The third branch swerved left and led to the
Granger home and the farms owned by Chester Gilman’s father and his
brother-in-law, Roy Cooper.  Their farm carts churned up the mud every spring
into an almost impassable lane, so several years before they laid a series of
half-sawn logs down the length of the lane, calling it the Corduroy Road.  It
improved the problem with mud, but made it a particularly uncomfortable ride on
the wooden seat of a wagon.  The partially submerged logs were slick from the
rain, and as Alison started tripping along, Sam took her arm to steady her,
then to steer her off the logs to the edge of the road.  This brought a lump to
Alison’s throat, and tears rolled down her cheeks.  The statement he’d made
which had almost slipped past her now became appallingly clear and she felt a
double loss.  I leave in two weeks, he had said.  She pulled the shawl closer
and began to shiver all over.  It wasn’t just the chill in the air; she had
turned icy inside.

          Sam felt her
trembling.  He moved his arm across her shoulders.  “You cold?” he questioned,
but noticing her tears he hesitated.

          They stood within
sight of Alison’s house where they could see the windows glowing with yellow
light.  A stand of gray birches leaned over them; their empty branches just
tipped with red buds.

          Alison didn’t
answer.  She swiped her cheeks and looked at the ground, feeling his arm across
her shoulders.  Sam didn’t speak either, but slowly he pulled her into an
embrace.  She leaned into him, letting his arms support her.  Then softly, like
a rising breeze, he whispered, plainly and simply, “I love you, Alison.  I
think I have since I could remember.  But I have to go to this war.  I’m
sorry.”

          Alison closed her
eyes and smiled despite her tears.  Then pulling away she met his gaze.  In the
lamplight she read great anguish and slight hope.  She rose on her tiptoes,
pressed her lips timidly to his, then whispered, “I’ll be waiting right here.”

Chapter Five

Sunk and Overwhelmed

          Gladys Cooper made
the best pies in Little Cove.  She brought six for the collation after the
funeral. She began the baking on the evening she heard about Olivia Eliot’s
death.  She cried as she cut the lard into the flour, leaning her solid square
shoulders into the dough with grim purpose.  Her heart ached for all those
little lambs without a mother.  She muttered to herself about injustice and the
abundance of evil people in the world, and questioned why such a good person
had to die. 

Vernon, her
husband, kept thinking she was talking to him.  His hearing was defective and
each time he asked “What?” she roared back with great vehemence, “Nothing! I’m
not talking to you!” Then more quietly, to herself she added each time, “Idiot
man!”  She sliced the stored apples from her own trees while pondering the
inevitability of death.  She pounded the sideboard with the rolling pin as she
rolled out each circle of dough, deciding who in the village should better have
gone than Olivia. Alvie Cooper, Vernon’s cousin who cared for the lighthouse,
caught pneumonia every winter for the last thirteen years, but always pulled
through, and him almost eighty.  Aurietta Alley, by her own admission, longed
to die but somehow held on so that she was able to recite every ache and pain
at each mission meeting. 

By the time the
pies were cooked and cooling in the pantry her tears were spent although her
heart still felt like a sledgehammer in her chest.  She blamed men for the ills
of the world, and Mr. Reg Eliot for this one in particular.  He took care of
his family; he worked hard and obviously loved his wife.  Obviously loved her
too much.  If he could just have learned when enough was enough.  Everyone in
Little Cove could see how with each child Olivia Eliot got weaker, thinner, and
paler, as if they were leaching the lifeblood from her.  She loved each one as
if it were the only one, but they would be the end of her; everybody said so. 
She, Gladys, could have told Olivia what to do, how to stop it.  After her last
baby, her second girl, she told Vernon never again.  And stuck to it, whether
Vernon liked it or not.

          The funeral service
was good; almost unbearably sad.  Reverend Whiting did the best he could, but
how do you give hope to the nine little ones missing their mother, and a
grief-stricken husband?  Watching them now at the collation Gladys revised her
thoughts in her mind, for the children were not all so little.  Sam was taller
than his father, a man now, really.  Esther was herding the younger ones
together with all the instincts of a mother.  Cleo carried the baby, who looked
feverish and sleepy.

          Gladys directed now
as the food was quickly set out.  The aroma of coffee permeated the air.  The
mourners, as always, were eating heartily.  Her pies went quickly, she noted
with calm pride.  It was always so.  Rachel Alley’s gingerbread and Lorelei
Anders’ chocolate doughnuts were favorites also.  Barely anyone touched Irene
Mayhew’s lemon bars.  Everyone knew that Irene had a scalp condition and
sometimes the violent scratching took place in the kitchen.  Very few ate Mary
Reid’s scones, being too foreign a food for the average Mainer.

          There was a
disturbance, she had heard from Rachel, with Olivia’s Boston relatives who
wanted to take her body back to the family cemetery in Massachusetts.  But the
burial today took place in their own Little Cove cemetery so Reg obviously
prevailed.  Very few from Olivia’s family actually made the journey to Maine. 
Her parents and one cousin, and an elderly woman that no one could place, sat
together at a table with Reg.  He looked not only miserable but also
tongue-tied.  The children though, clustered around their relatives, chattering
in their open unselfconscious way, bringing looks both benign and bemused.

          The older children
sat together too, Gladys noted.  Aubrey Newell, who sat with her boy Tim, made
quick work of a plate load of food, came back for seconds, then returned to sit
with a quartet of girls who teased him and giggled too loud.  He enjoyed their
attention, no doubt, but his glance kept sliding across the room.  Gladys
followed that gaze to where Sam was sitting with Alison Granger, beside Esther,
who watched her younger siblings closely.  Too bad Sam had to leave so soon,
she mused.  Those two might be a good match.  They weren’t speaking but sat
watching the people in the room.  Sam studied his father for a moment, then
whispered something to Alison, who laid her hand on his arm and shook her head. 
He covered her hand with his own, then raised it to his lips and kissed it
while gazing at her intently.  It happened so quickly that Gladys wondered if
she only imagined it.

          “Did you…” she
started to question Esther, but then she spied Shirley Spencer moving a bouquet
that she herself had brought over from the sanctuary for the table.  She rushed
to intercept her, her color high and her mouth a grim slash.  Then the incident
was altogether forgotten after what happened a few moments later.

          The church hall could
barely contain the people who came to pay their respects to the Eliot family. 
Not everyone in Little Cove came to church on Sundays – the men who felt that
their wives and children should go, but they themselves were exempted; the
Catholic families; the disinterested; the disenchanted, all stayed away on
Sundays – so the little hall was usually adequate for their needs.  But on this
day it was crowded with the community.  Everyone knew Reg and loved Olivia. 
Folks put aside their religious sensitivities for funerals and weddings.  So
the whole village was filling the hall, which was an extension of the church. 
The elderly watched with a touch of awe that they were still living.  The teens
made an effort to subdue their restlessness and suffered in the tight suits and
best dresses for the sake of the Eliot’s, and for the food.  The younger
children made no such effort, and darted about until they hurt themselves or
were corralled by impatient parents.  The women made themselves useful, clearing
away empty plates, washing dishes, setting out fresh food, and keeping a
watchful eye on their youngsters.  And the men talked about fishing and
planting, the war, politics – standing with their arms crossed or holding
delicate tea cups in their rough and sometimes clumsy hands.  The Kens, as they
were known; Ken Alley and his son Ken, Jr., and their sister’s husband, Ken
Mayhew approached Reg, awkwardly expressing their condolences, and then turned
to speak with Olivia’s parents.  Big Ken Alley was then headed for the door,
when it opened from the outside.  A man in uniform paused there, his head down
as he fumbled with both his coat and the door.  The cold wind pushed through,
weaving around legs, causing everyone to turn and look.  The room grew silent
as the door slammed and the man lifted his head.  He had dark curls that were
tousled by the wind, a lanky long-boned look in spite of average height and his
vibrant blue eyes scanned the room. He was awkwardly adjusting his clothes as
he eyed everyone, the reason for his fumbling starkly clear.  The left sleeve
of his uniform was pinned up, and he reached across his body as if to feel what
was left of his arm.