The Sisters from Hardscrabble Bay (22 page)

She looks like a potato, Idella thought. And the nose on her looked like one of them knobs you find on the potato that sets out growing in its own direction altogether.

But she had gone to some trouble with her appearance. She had on a nice white blouse with a lace collar that was freshly starched, anyone could see that. And she had a large oval cameo brooch right at the center of her collar, with an ivory profile, a profile that clearly did not belong to her.

“Mother, this here is Idella Hillock. That I told you about. Brought her up here to meet you.” Eddie had his hat in his hand and was talking kind of formal.

“My, my, what a nice surprise.” Mrs. Jensen cocked her head and smiled. “Kind of tall, ain’t you?”

“Oh, just a little.” Idella regretted that little bit of heel on her new shoes.

“Eddie, take her right on into the parlor.”

Eddie led the way into the kitchen and through the dining room—the table was all set—and into the parlor. Mrs. Jensen hobbled along from behind with her cane, making a slow
clump-tap, clump-tap.

“Where’s Dad?” Eddie asked.

“He’s gone back down to the store. We need a new piece of meat.”

“We don’t need an old piece, Ma.” Eddie winked at Idella.

“You quit being fresh, Eddie. I sent him back down to Foley’s. Too grizzly, it was. I told him to take it back. I wouldn’t serve it to a dog. All over grizzly. I don’t know what kind of cow that piece could have come from, but it was not a clean animal. It was not any kind of quality animal.” Mrs. Jensen’s breath came in spurts. “They gyp you down there at Foley’s. They’ll gyp you every time.” She stopped and leaned on her cane. Eddie and Idella stopped, too, and waited for her to resume motion. “He’ll be along any minute, and then I’ll get things to cooking. He’s too trusting, Jens is. He’ll take whatever they give him and not see he’s getting gypped.”

“My, what a lovely room,” Idella said as they entered the parlor. “What lovely white curtains. So fresh and stiff.”

Mrs. Jensen, having reached the doorway to the parlor, smiled broadly. “Oh, well. Yes. Fresh curtains. They make a difference in a room.”

“I should say.” Idella smiled at Eddie.

“Now, Eddie, you help Idella get seated good there on the couch. You sit down and rest for a few minutes, Idella. Eddie has a few things to do out in the garden and with the chickens.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “Eddie, you come help me now.”

She turned and waddled back toward the kitchen.

“Eddie, what do I do?” Idella whispered as he started out behind his mother.

“Hold your horses while I pick the strawberries and feed the damn chickens.” He bent over and gave her a kiss. “Think about that while you wait.” He brushed his hand against her breast. “And this.” He already acted like he had a right to her breasts, and Idella didn’t mind. It seemed natural. And thrilling.

“Eddie! I need you!” Mrs. Jensen called from the kitchen. “Eddie!”

“Jesus!” he muttered.

 

Idella had been sitting alone in the parlor for an awful long time. This room was so stuffy and stiff and unused-feeling. Mrs. Jensen must keep it special for when company comes, like a basket of fruit all wrapped in cellophane.

Every surface had a knickknack on it with a doily underneath. Idella was not fond of knickknacks. They were so useless—glass dogs and figurines sitting around on shelves, needing to be dusted all the time. What good were they?

This was a nice big old house, though, so much nicer than what she’d grown up in. Eddie had no earthly idea of how poor they were up there in Canada. Hardscrabble. Maine seemed so friendly and civilized compared to it. Lots of big old shade trees and lawns, and flowers in the gardens along with the vegetables.

Growing up, they’d just had wildflowers. No one planted fancy flowers. The wildflowers never lasted in the house, but she and Avis kept picking them anyway and sticking them into the canning jar they used as a vase. The flowers would wizen up even before they could sit down to supper. They were such wild things, they weren’t meant to be brought indoors.

That’s what the men were like, too, crude men who were not brought up right. Not the farmers who lived there and had families and such. They were nice enough men. It was the strays Dad hired, who showed up sudden and left that way. They didn’t even belong in a house.

Eddie was more gentlemanly. He was fresh sometimes—but a fun kind of fresh, not scary. He had those blue, blue eyes and that dark, dark hair. Idella’s eyes and hair were brown as a plowed field. They were not her best features.

The front door opened and closed. Someone walked through the porch. “Jessie, here is your new piece of meat.” That must be Mr. Jensen. He had a soft voice with a foreign accent. Eddie had said his father was from Denmark.

“That’s too small! There won’t be enough! There won’t be half enough!” Mrs. Jensen’s voice came out in bursts. “Why so small? Where’s your head?”

“Now, my dear, that meat is more than the one I returned. I paid for the five more ounces.”

“You paid too much!”

“Now, Jessie. Don’t go on so.”

Idella was amazed. No way would Dad have ever stood there and listened to the likes of Eddie’s mother telling him to go back down to the store and get a better piece of meat. My God, my God.

“That girl will be saying things. She’ll tell people I can’t cook a decent meal.”

Idella was glued to the couch, listening intently.

“It does you no good to upset yourself.” Then his voice got too low to hear the words. She could only make out murmurs and little squeals of response, like from a . . . well, like from a pig, really.

The back door banged and brought the voices to a halt, as though a radio had been turned off.

“Scrape your feet, Eddie. Don’t go walking that mud through my house.”

Eddie’s footsteps did not pause till he reached Idella. He was suddenly standing in the doorframe. “How you holding up?”

“Getting sort of antsy.”

“Antsy, eh? Ants in your pants?” He smiled that smile of his that went from one ear to the other. “I brought you something.” He reached down and took her hand and placed a large red strawberry into it. “I picked you the prettiest one. Take a bite.”

“Oh, Eddie. It’s got the weight of a plum to it.” Idella held the dark red berry carefully by the stem and used her other hand like a saucer. She bent over and took a cautious bite. The sweet juice oozed and dribbled as soon as her teeth broke its surface.

“Now I’ll have some.” Eddie leaned over her and took the strawberry into his mouth and bit it off. She was left holding the little green cap. A stir went through her when he got so close—his mouth, those blue eyes.

“Ripe one, ain’t it? And sweet.” He leaned over her, bent down lower, and kissed her. One thumb was under her chin, pushing her head up toward him. His mouth tasted of the berry juice. It was a slow, delicious kiss.

He pulled her up to standing. When he did, the last bit of stem and berry fell from her fingertips onto the couch. A dark red smudge was left, unmistakable.

“Oh, Eddie, look!” She tried to dab at it with the hem of her dress.

“Leave it,” Eddie said. “She’ll never even notice.”

She’ll see it, all right, Idella thought as Eddie led her into the kitchen. She’ll see it and she’ll smell it.

“Oh, here they are, here they are.” Mr. and Mrs. Jensen stood together beside the stove. “Jens, this is Eddie’s friend, Miss Hillock.”

“How do you do, Miss Hillock? So pleased to meet you.” Eddie’s father walked over to Idella and reached out his hand. He had a sweet, shy smile. He was tall and thin, with a cap on his head like workingmen wore, and trousers with suspenders. He had a dark mustache combed so nice, and light blue eyes. Even in his working clothes, there was a bit of style to him. He seemed, somehow, a gentleman.

“Jens, take your hat off.” Mrs. Jensen had an apron tied around her waist. She was all smiles. “Now, Idella, can I make a glass of lemonade to refresh you?”

“Why, yes, thank you.”

Mrs. Jensen already had her hands on a glass juicer. “We got real nice lemons here. We got them special.” Her smile made her nose protrude even more. A bowl on the counter had four or five large yellow lemons. She set about slicing them in two. “Now, where did a name like that come from? Not from around here.”

“Hillock?”

“No. Idella.”

“It is an old-fashioned name, I guess.” Idella watched Mrs. Jensen cut three lemons down the middle and twist them over the cut-glass juicer. “My father said it must have come from a book my mother was reading. She loved to read. He didn’t have much to do with the naming of us, is my understanding. I have heard of a few Idellas up in Canada. I saw one once on a grave in the little cemetery where my mother is buried.”

“You come from up in Canada?” Idella could see that large seeds were floating on top of the pooled yellow juice. The juicer was pretty full up.

“Yes. New Brunswick.”

“Is your father still living?”

“Oh, yes. Very much so. He’s still on the farm.”

“But your mother passed on?”

“When I was seven.”

“Was it sudden?” Mrs. Jensen stopped squeezing.

“Yes. In childbirth.”

“It wasn’t you, was it?”

“Pardon me?”

“That she was having. When she died?”

“No. I was seven.”

“Oh, yes.”

“It was my sister Emma. It was a great shock to all of us.”

“Oh, my. Oh, my. To think of it.” Mrs. Jensen shook her head in a distracted manner and poured every drop of the juice, three lemons’ worth by Idella’s count, into a tall glass. Then she took a spoon, with no sugar on it, and stood stirring and stirring, staring down into the glass as if in a trance. “Nothing worse than the death of a parent to a child,” she finally said. “Unless it be the child dying and the poor parent left.” She looked up at Idella, so sad, and handed over the glass of straight-up juice.

Two large seeds floated to the top. Idella took a sip. Her eyes watered immediately. “Delicious.”

“My Albert!” Startled, Idella looked up. Mrs. Jensen was crying. Just like that. “I only had him for one month, Idella. One month.”

“Christ. Here we go,” Eddie muttered from behind them. He was leaning against the porch doorway.

“Now, Jessie.” Mr. Jensen walked over and put his arm around her shoulders.

“Little Albert! Belly button never did heal proper. He died from it.” Mrs. Jensen was all crumpled up on herself, sobbing. Mr. Jensen offered her a handkerchief. “It was nothing I did. Everyone said it was nothing I did.”

“Oh, I’m sure not, Mrs. Jensen.” Idella turned to Eddie. He would not look up.

The whole kitchen was filled with the sounds of Mrs. Jensen’s whimpers. Idella stood mute and watched the lemon seeds floating on her drink.

Finally Mrs. Jensen pulled away from Mr. Jensen and blew her nose. She took off her glasses, all fogged up from crying, and wiped them on her apron. When she put them back to rights, she looked at Idella and smiled the most pathetic little smile. “Is your lemonade all right?”

Idella smiled brightly. “What a nice big kitchen!”

“It’s old. Too old.” As though jump-started by the change of subject, Mrs. Jensen set about peeling potatoes in the sink. “Just look at that stove,” she said, pointing with a potato at the large black stove in the middle of the kitchen. “Burn myself on it getting them lids off. I can hardly lift them.”

“Yes, they look heavy.” Idella nodded.

“Will you look at how this kitchen floor sags. I’ve tried to get Jens to fix it. Said he would but didn’t. I’ve heard that before. It’s like walking down Fletcher’s Hill to go from one side of the kitchen to the other. I’ll drop right over one of these days and roll.” She kept peeling and peeling.

“Well, people get so busy.” Idella nodded at Mr. Jensen.

“Oh, he’s busy, all right. Always out there doing something. He gives more care to those cows and horses than he does to me. Tends them animals like as if they were babies.”

“You need me to pick something, Ma? For the supper? In the garden?” Eddie was restless.

“We’ll be needing peas. I was waiting to get Jens to pick them so they’ll be fresh off the vine, and he took too long with the meat. Always takes twice as long to do something as I would if I could. You like strawberry shortcake, Idella?”

“Oh, yes. Very much.”

“It’s Eddie’s favorite. He eats and eats when it comes to my shortcake. I always make him an extra. Eddie’s extra. You love my shortcake, don’t you, Eddie?” Mrs. Jensen stopped carving the potato and looked at him over the top of her glasses.

“I’ll go pick the peas.” Eddie gave Idella a quick glance and started through the back room that led out to the garden.

“Take something to put them in!” Mrs. Jensen called after him. The screen door banged in reply.

“Eddie told me what a good cook you are, Mrs. Jensen. I look forward to your supper.” This was not exactly true. Eddie had told her that his mother’s cooking was spotty. What Idella looked forward to was the meal being over.

“I do try to lay out a nice meal for company.”

“I’d be glad to help you in some way.”

“I won’t hear of it. You are the guest. You cook for a living, my goodness’ sakes. You enjoy your lemonade. Oh! I have to start the biscuits! I’m behind on the biscuits! Jens! Now, where’s my butter?”

In a waddling frenzy, Mrs. Jensen set about to make biscuits. She got out a large breadboard and took a bowl from the cupboard and a sifter from below. Mr. Jensen placed the butter next to her and then stepped back out of her working area. The potatoes, Idella couldn’t help but notice, were left half done. Some were lying whole on the counter by the sink. Some, with the daylights peeled right out of them, were left sitting in a pot of water. They looked more whittled than peeled. For a flick of a second, Idella’s eyes met Mr. Jensen’s. And in that flick she knew that they both had decided not to mention the word “potatoes.”