The Callender Papers (5 page)

He bowed his head to me, formally. “Do you feel settled?”

For some reason, I could not lie to him, not even for the sake of politeness. Neither, for the sake of politeness, could I tell him the precise truth. “More so than at first. I feel settled enough to write, of course.”

“I am flattered to hear it.” He did not sound flattered. “Perhaps then you might like to visit our church, which lies over the bridge.”

I agreed to that and we parted. We made no plans for meeting again. His discourtesy neither surprised nor dismayed me. I could certainly make my way back to the house on my own, and I assumed it was his intention that I do so. His displeasure in my company didn't concern me, except to raise the question of why he had bothered to summon me there at all. The papers had rested ignored for years, there was no urgency to sort and catalogue them. I wondered if he had some other purpose for me—what it might be I could not guess. He was a man who kept his own counsel. I crossed the bridge, heading toward the
steeple visible nearby through treetops. A boy was fishing off the bank on the far side of the bridge. I ignored him, as he did me.

The church was a square, forbidding building. The big wooden doors were opened, but I was not tempted inside. It was too dark, too empty. Instead, I walked behind it to a graveyard.

A graveyard can be a pleasant place. I do not believe in ghosts, so there is nothing to fear from the dead. The tombstones tell of other lives, now ended. It doesn't matter that some are poor and some rich, that some graves are marked by simple crosses while others have marble statuary. Such equality seems a useful lesson to learn, in this world.

The Marlborough graveyard was small, modest compared to St. Auburn Cemetery near Boston. But it was beautiful, with tall oak trees and delicate dogwoods scattered among the stones. The mountains seemed somehow to be guarding it. I thought to myself as I walked through it that it would be a good place to lie for all of time. The Callender area was separated from the rest of the cemetery by a wrought iron fence, but the gate was open so I went in. Only two graves occupied the large area, leaving room for many more. Both tombstones were unadorned marble, both
apparently cut by the same craftsman. Josiah Callender had died on May 9, 1884; his daughter Irene on May 15 of the same year. Beneath the name Irene Callender Thiel was inscribed the message, “beloved wife of Daniel Thiel, beloved mother.”

I returned to the village, walking slowly, thinking of the letter I would write to Aunt Constance that evening, wondering where old Enoch Callender was buried. As I approached the bridge, I saw that the boy was still there. His birch rod arced over the water, and he was standing. I had arrived just as he was about to catch a fish. I stayed to watch. I'd never seen a fish caught in this fashion before. The rod dipped, and then he pulled back on it, gently and slowly, backing awkwardly up the bank. This operation he repeated several times, until he reached out and pulled in the line itself, letting the rod fall onto the ground beside him. In doing this, he stepped rapidly down the bank and then quite into the water. He pulled hand over hand on the line. He was rewarded when he reached the end and held up a shining silver fish, which flipped desperately as he held it out of the water. He stepped back onto the shore and hit the fish sharply on the head, using a stone the size of a mans fist.

After that blow, the fish lay still. Then the boy
worked the hook out of its mouth, laid his rod on the grassy bank and turned to grin at me. “My first today. My first for three days. How do you like that?”

He had a round face and a large smile. He wore overalls, a plain shirt, no shoes, and his arms and face were browned. His hair was yellow, bleached almost white. He stepped up to the road, wiped his right hand on the overalls and held it out to me. “I'm Oliver McWilliams. You're staying with old Dan Thiel, but I don't know your name.”

“Jean Wainwright,” I shook his hand. “How do you do, Oliver.”

He grimaced. “Don't call me that. Call me Mac. Everybody does. I don't know what my parents were thinking of to name me Oliver. They say it has dignity and I'll be grateful for it later, but I don't believe that for a minute. The fights I have had about it.”

“With your parents? Why should you fight with your parents about a name?”

“No, with fellows. I'm a student at the Phillips Academy at Exeter, and with a name like Oliver you can get in a lot of fights there, let me tell you. I would have liked something simple, like John or Samuel, something more peaceful.
Your
parents certainly knew what they were doing.”

“Thank you,” I said. I had little experience in conversing with boys, so I couldn't be sure that he meant to compliment me, but I decided that the wisest course was to act as if he were.

“What kind of fish is that?” I asked.

“Don't you know? A trout. I'll have it for supper tonight, and another if I can catch it. Would you like to try?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “But I would like to watch. If I may.”

“Sure, have a seat. That's strange though.”

“Why?”

“Most girls wouldn't want to watch a fellow fish.”

“Why not?”

“Who knows? Probably the same reason why most fellows wouldn't care to watch a girl sew a seam.”

“Have you ever seen someone sew a seam?”

“Sure, my mother.”

“I've never seen anyone fish before, not like this.” I sat down and watched while he impaled a worm on the hook and tossed the line into the river. He bent to pick up the rod, and then sat down himself, below me and to the left, toward the bridge. “The trout stay near the shade under the bridge,” he explained.

“I've seen fishing boats,” I said, so that I wouldn't
seem entirely ignorant, “and men fishing from the bridges into the Charles River.”

“Where's that?”

“Where I live, in Cambridge. That's near Boston.”

“I know.”

It was odd, speaking to the back of his head.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Are you related to Mr. Thiel?”

“No, I'm working for him.”

He turned his head and stared at me. “Working for him? Doing what? How old are you?”

“Twelve. Well . . . almost thirteen.”

“I'm almost fourteen,” Mac said. He looked cross. “My father won't let me work. I'd like to get a job on a farm. I'm strong enough. But my father says we don't need the money and there are people who do. Besides, I'm supposed to catch up on my geometry and Latin this summer. I'm behind in them. They're awfully complicated things, geometry and Latin.”

I just nodded my head. I had studied both and understood the difficulties.

“What work do you do up there?” he asked.

“I'm cataloging some papers,” I told him, making it sound as important as I could. “Family papers,” I added.

“Does he pay you?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you need the money. Are your parents . . .” He looked for a word. “. . . needy?”

“I'm an orphan. I live with my aunt.”

“That's all right then,” he said.

I wanted him to know that it was not need but my own ability that earned me the job. “My aunt is headmistress of a school in Cambridge. A school for girls. Mr. Thiel wrote her and asked if she knew anybody who could do the work.”

“What happened to your parents?” he asked.

“I don't know,” I replied.

“How can you not know?” he asked, then he turned red under his tan and quickly changed the subject. “My father is the doctor here. We came up from New Haven. We've only lived here five years.”

“He's not Dr. Carter, is he?” I remembered how Mrs. Bywall had spoken of the doctor.

“That old horse doctor? Not a chance. Father practices
medicine
. Carter—well, he didn't. We came here just after he died. Father bought his practice.”

“I've heard something about Dr. Carter from Mrs. Bywall the housekeeper.”

“She was in prison.”

“I know.”

“What's she like? Does she talk about jail? Nobody ever sees her. People still sometimes talk about her, but nobody talks
to
her. Although they seem to feel sorry for her. The parents say she's not fit company for children.”

“Do your parents say that?”

“Not in so many words. They don't agree, but they don't disagree either. Aah, it's a small town, Marlborough. People here don't have much to talk about so they talk too much about things that they don't know about. And the Callenders—well, they keep their distance up on the hill. Maybe if they didn't, people wouldn't talk. But then they'd just find someone else to talk about—maybe even
me
—so I shouldn't complain. But it's interesting how they feel about strangers. Old Dan Thiel is a local man. They don't say much about him. But they don't think much good of him.”

I wanted to ask this boy what they did say, but I didn't want to gossip. Also, I didn't know whether he could be trusted to tell the truth. I missed Aunt Constance's advice. I knew that she would have let me know whether or not Mac was a boy I could ask questions of. Perhaps I could write to ask whether she
thought he was. But what could she tell from just my descriptions?

“You must be smart to have work like that,” Mac said. “I've seen you, you know.”

“Seen me?” This alarmed me, because I'd never seen him before. “Where?”

“I can track like an Indian,” he said. “I've followed you.”

“I don't believe it,” I said.

“You wouldn't hear a bear coming after you.” He laughed. “Your favorite spot is the waterfall,” he added to prove his point.

I was speechless. He had been spying on me and I hadn't known. I felt my face grow hot. And I was angry. “What a low and sneaky thing to do.”

“I've told you, haven't I?” The back of his neck, however, grew red.

“It's still sneaky.” I thought for a minute. “I know Latin,” I announced.

“And geometry too, I guess,” he said sarcastically.

“I've begun geometry. I can translate Caesar.”

“Hogwash.” He stared at the water. He jiggled his rod.

“Suit yourself,” I said and stood up. “But I could probably help you study.” I don't know why I
added that; just for extra meanness I'm afraid.

“I don't need any help,” he answered, his back still to me. Then he turned around again and smiled at me, with his mouth and eyes. “That's a lie. I'm hopeless at it. And it
was
sneaky. Next time I'll tell you, if I'm there. All you do is read or moon around anyway. Once”—he grinned—“you were dancing.”

I didn't know how to react. It was horrid to think you were alone and to find out that you weren't. “Why shouldn't I dance?” I demanded.

“No reason. It wasn't too bad, for a dance.”

I said nothing.

He shrugged. “But listen, there's something else. I think somebody else was there too. Watching you.”

He did not seem to be teasing; his face was serious. Somebody else there? Did he mean to frighten me with tales of ghosts? “I don't believe in spirits,” I said.

“No, not that bosh. Across the brook, behind the trees, I thought I saw—something. Somebody. Who didn't want to be seen and was pretty good himself at tracking. If there
was
anybody there.”

“Why should anybody spy on me?”

“It could be another boy, like me. But nobody goes near the Callender property. At least, nobody I
know of, and I think I'd know. There's a shallow ford above the falls so I went to look. I saw a footprint, a boot footprint. Well, it might have been my imagination, it might not have been a footprint. That's pretty rocky ground there. It was just a couple of days ago, it was just a shadow moving. Father says my imagination runs away with me. He says I'm not a reliable witness.”

“How can I learn to tell if people are spying?”

“Oh, I could teach you.”

At that moment, Mr. Thiel returned. Mac put down his rod and scrambled up the bank to shake his hand. “How are you, sir?”

“I'm well,” Mr. Thiel replied.

Mac grinned at him, undaunted by his forbidding expression. “Father will be pleased. He says the highest tribute a doctor can receive is a six-month period with only childbeds to attend, and the odd broken arm.”

“So you've met Jean,” Mr. Thiel said.

“Yes.”

“How do you like her?”

They spoke as if I were not there.

“She seems all right. She's probably smart.”

“That's why she's here. You might come visit her
some day, if you like. She has no other company.”

Mac nodded warily. “I might.”

“Of an afternoon. We work in the mornings.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jean, we should return now.” Mr. Thiel finally looked at me. I started walking back, without waiting for him. He caught up with me easily and said, “It's good you met him.”

I didn't answer. I would decide that for myself.

“You might enjoy some youthful companionship,” he said.

Finally I spoke. “He seems to be one of the few people around here who will speak with you, so I guess you would approve of him.” I was silent all the rest of the way to the house.

By the time we reached the house I was thoroughly ashamed of myself. The long, silent walk had given me more than enough time to swallow my anger and recall my manners. What of it if Mr. Thiel had been ungracious? That did not excuse my own rudeness. As I tidied myself for dinner, I determined to make my apology. Aunt Constance had taught me that unpleasant tasks must be got out of the way briskly. That was her word,
briskly,
and I liked it because it sounded like a new broom, energetically sweeping away.