The Sisters from Hardscrabble Bay (43 page)

“Them’s the ghosts of all the lobsters he took out of season,” Uncle Ernest said, after a quiet spell. “Them little ones he should of thrown back are walking all over the building.”

“Go on!” Maisey said. “Don’t scare us.”

“Then there ought to be a big deer come loping through here anytime,” Uncle Guy said. “Remember that time Bill went to flush that buck out of the woods and one of you damn fools shot him? Them’s Bill’s words, now, not mine.”

Idella didn’t want to be reminded of that time, taking care of Dad after the accident.

“We had him strapped down on an old door to get him out of the woods,” Uncle Sam said.

“I used my good sheets to do it. Not that I minded.” Dear old Mrs. Doncaster, Idella thought, hearing her voice.

“Bill used to say he broke down your bedroom door, Elsie, and was lying between your sheets.” Everyone laughed.

“It wasn’t my bedroom door,” Mrs. Doncaster said. “But it was my good sheets.”

Uncle Sam laughed. “Bill would always fatten up a story in the telling.”

Idella fuzzed out the noise around her. She tried to think of something good Dad did for them, something kind. Oranges at Christmas. Where did he get them? He always came up with an orange for each of them at Christmas, and maybe a washcloth. And there was the time he got her a new hairbrush when she promised to let her hair grow back long. Aunt Francie had bobbed her hair and Avis’s, in an effort to make them stylish. Dad hated it. He liked long hair—like Mother’s had been. Dad had been at such a loss when Mother died. For all his faults. That poor man, left alone with three children in the house and no idea even how to do a wash.

“Best story about Bill was the time he got hauled into court for putting a potato in some little country girl’s oven.” That fool Willy Smythe had to go boom that across the church. He had to go bring that story up.

“What was it Bill said to the judge?” Uncle Guy asked.

“It was the trapdoor that got him off, the one going up into the hayloft.” Will Smythe was such a loudmouth, Idella thought. “She said he carried her up there, see, against her will.”

“Bill stood up in court, as tall as I’ve ever seen ’im.” Uncle Ernest jumped in. “And he looked right in the judge’s eye, you know—”

“I’m telling this here, Ernest,” Will Smythe cut him off. They were all over themselves to tell it. “Damned if he don’t stand up and say, ‘Your Honor, you see what a tall man I am. You understand what kind of small trapdoor she’s referring to. Do you think that I could carry that young woman up a ladder against her will and through a trapdoor and into a hayloft with a goddamned hard-on?”

“Had the judge laughing, right up there on the bench,” Uncle Sam said. “He threw the case out then and there.”

Idella hated that story. Many’s the time she’d had to sit through Dad regaling everyone with it and hear him get whoops and hollers and free drinks, for God’s sake, in the face of that poor girl’s plight—some poor French girl who used to work at the lobster factory. Idella never knew what became of that girl and her baby.

Things went on when Dad was living alone on the farm. She leaned her head back. Every piece of her was tired. The tumble of raucous, familiar voices surrounded her like she was in a dream. She imagined the quiet flickers from the candles on the coffin stand gently pressing on her closed lids like warm pats of butter.

“It’s a damn shame Bill’s missing this,” Uncle Sam said quietly, when the laughing had petered out.

That brought things to a standstill. People listened to the ice coming down.

Idella sighed. Everybody had at least one story about Dad. She had a few of her own that she would not be telling. Some stories were for keeping, hurtful ones, that she would probably never tell a soul, certainly not Edward. Good God. And there were stories Avis was keeping, but she’d never know the extent of it. She guessed she didn’t want to.

Bill Hillock was no saint, that’s for sure. He was a complicated man. He’d been so rough on Dalton. Beat the bejesus right out of him sometimes, like he was taking his anger at the whole world out on poor Dalton’s shoulders. It affected Dalton. So much drinking and wandering. Him and Avis both got that from Dad. They’d drink to please him. Everyone always wanted to please him one way or another, and take care of him. He needed more taking care of than he’d ever let on. After Mother died, Idella had tried as best she could—cooking and cleaning and sewing. Christ, she was just a kid. And he’d taken it for granted. He’d never really thanked her, or given her any affection to speak of. He’d saved that for Avis.

Who knew the extent of it? But at least Avis had Dwight now, she’d settled down somewhat. Idella couldn’t remember where they’d met. Anytime she’d seen him, he was huddled up in the corner while Avis was drinking and carrying on. But he was a sweet man, he didn’t do no harm.

Idella burrowed her hands down into her coat pockets and rubbed the silky lining around and around between her thumb and forefinger.

 

“We’re closing in on it now, Avis. Less than ten miles to Tetagouche,” Stan said.

“I’m ready to be declared dead this minute,” Dalton said.

“Wait till Della gets her hands on us,” Avis said. “You won’t know what dead is till then.”

 

“Good thing Eddie isn’t here, eh?” Emma said with her little smile, sliding in next to Idella. “He’s none too good at waiting, now, is he?”

“Oh, I’m used to putting up with him,” Idella said. “He’s no worse than the rest. At least he don’t drink to speak of.”

“We’ve all had to put up with people,” Emma said.

“And Edward’s a long sight more reliable than Dad ever was. More considerate. We had to put up with an awful lot on that farm. No life at all fit for young girls, growing up with that kind of man, and no mother. You don’t know the half of it. All I had was Avis, and that wasn’t much.”

“Well, then. I had less than no one, now, didn’t I?” Emma’s voice was steady and deliberate. “I was totally on my own. No mother, no father, no sisters nor brother to live with—to fight with, even. I only got to visit you all on the farm every now and again. You know, Dad scared me. I was scared of him. He was so gruff. I never got to see the soft side much, did I?”

“Why, Emma,” Idella whispered, taken by surprise. Emma had tears running down her cheeks. Emma never cried. She always had a little joke or a comment to make light of things.

“I always felt, you know, that he hated the sight of me—that you all did. He never said as much, mind, but I felt it. My being there reminded him, you know. Of her dying. I always felt like it was my doing. By being born. And he couldn’t get over it.”

“Why, Emma.” Idella reached over and took her hand. “We all thought you were lucky being taken in like you were by Aunt Beth and Uncle Paul. They wanted the baby so, we were told. You had a real home with two parents. Adopted, you know.”

“There are dirty, dirty secrets.” Emma wiped her cheek, not looking at Idella. “God knows we all have dirty secrets. Let’s say I was glad to leave there. Let’s say Dad will never know, whether he cared or not, he won’t know. He wasn’t so much better himself, from what I understand.”

“Lord God Almighty.” Idella stared into the flickering candles as she spoke. “What poor waifs we were. At the mercy of shameless men.”

“Sometime, someday, when we’re all drunk or sober, I don’t know which, we’ll ask Avis what she knows on the subject,” Emma said.

“I don’t think so,” Idella said. “I don’t believe I will. Some things are best left unsaid. I don’t want to know any more than I know already.”

“It’s all part of growing up, is what I was told,” Emma said. “If ever I was to protest or try to question. Anything anyone takes or wants from you without asking is all ‘part of growing up.’ ”

“What’s that noise, now?” Uncle Sam rose up and hushed the congregation of waiting mourners.

Idella lifted her head. She heard it, too.

“That’s a car horn!” Uncle Sam said.

Everyone rushed to a window, some climbing onto pews to see. Men opened the doors and went right out into the storm. Way off, Idella could see headlights winding around the turns in the road, heading toward the long stretch of Main Street. The horn was blowing without letup.

Everyone was talking at once.

“By God, it’s Bill!”

“It’s Bill Hillock! He’s riding down Main Street at midnight! Ain’t that like him? Ain’t that just the way he’d choose it?”

“By God, it’s past midnight. It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

“It’s three.”

The horn got louder. Everybody scrambled together and buttoned their coats and went running out to line the street. They were making as if for a parade in the dead of night, in an ice storm, with but one vehicle in the procession. People were shouting and cheering and clapping like it was a whole troop of soldiers returning home from the war. Someone found his way to the bell rope and started clanging in earnest. That sent roars and cheers all up and down.

Idella pulled her coat around her and stepped out onto the church steps. The storm was letting up some. Emma came and stood next to her. “The damn fools made it,” she whispered.

And here came the hearse. People slapped it and pounded on the roof as it passed by. The horn never stopped blowing the whole time. It was Avis, Idella could now see. Avis was leaned over practically on top of poor Stan, laying on that horn as if she were stuck there.

The two sisters stood watching from the church steps as the hearse pulled up in front of them and came to a halt. Everyone gathered around it as if movie stars were arriving at a premiere. First Stan’s door opened. “Somebody get me a drink.”

The other door opened, and Dalton emerged, unwinding himself with difficulty. When he got to full standing, he called out, “Bring me
two
drinks—and a cigarette!” The crowd loved it.

Finally Avis wriggled out, looking like a drowned rat. She turned to the crowd. “Bring me a whole damn
bottle
of whiskey and a
pack
of cigarettes!”

Idella watched as that Willy Smythe came and picked Avis up like she was nothing and put her up on his shoulders! Someone handed Avis a flask. Someone else passed her a lit cigarette.

“Let the funeral begin!” Uncle Sam called out.

“Hey, what about Bill! We got to get him in on this!”

Idella watched as the back of the hearse was opened, and Avis got put down, thank heaven. In this ice someone was apt to fall and break a neck. Avis would not look either sister straight in the eye.

Stan and Dalton went around to the back of the hearse. “I carried Bill this far,” Stan said. “I’ll get him into the church.”

“He ain’t been to church for a while,” Dalton said, finishing his cigarette. He threw back the drink he’d been given and leaned into the hearse to take hold of the coffin. “Neither have I.”

Men lined up in two rows, hauled out the coffin, and hoisted it onto their ready shoulders.

“Watch the ice!” the women called, parting on the church steps to let them through. “Step careful!”

Idella and Emma stood silent on the top step and watched the coffin pass into the church and down the aisle. It was all black shapes moving toward the gold flicker of the candles that lit the front of the church. Avis tentatively joined her sisters.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Emma smiled and held out her hand. “Jesus, Lord Almighty, you took your sweet time getting here.” She started to laugh.

“Come on, you damned fool,” Idella said. “Let’s proceed.”

The sisters stepped together into the church and down the aisle.

Sandwich wrappers and bags and paper cups with drops of whiskey still at the bottom were cleared away before the coffin could be put down proper. After much fiddling and prying with pocketknives, Stan got the lid open and propped up. Lanterns and candles were brought in close.

The four Hillock children were the first to gather round the coffin, now resting on its pedestal. The congregation lined up behind them, waiting to get a good look at Bill before the service began.

The four stood silently, looking down at their father as candlelight flickered eerily across his sunken features. Then Idella led them away in a dutiful line, to take their proper seats in the front row and wait for the ceremony to begin.

 

The lantern light and candles made the ceremony mysterious, Idella thought. Once there was a body in a casket laid out in the front, the solemnity of the occasion returned. Bill Hillock was dead and needed burying.

Joe Major, the minister, had gone home when he’d heard the coffin was lost. Now he’d come back from his bed, with a nice speech all prepared. And the choir, those dear old women who had waited all night long, like soldiers, sang so pure and sweet that everyone cried. Their shadows lurched around the walls when they came forward and sang. Mrs. Foster played the organ enough to get by and fill things out a little, and it was just thrilling. People Idella never would have suspected of singing knew most of the words and sang along. Uncle Ernest and Uncle Sam, especially, sang out, deep and throaty but beautiful.

Idella closed the hymnbook she’d held absently throughout the funeral and put it on the pew beside her. She’d done more watching than singing, absorbing the look of all the faces around her. They were simple faces with hard edges and lines like cracked cement across their foreheads and around their mouths and eyes. The lantern light made these crevices seem even deeper. These faces, tilted forward in song or bent down in prayer, had met storms and winds of one kind or another, head-on, all their lives. They worked fields that were best suited to brambles and wild grasses, struggling, Dad and Uncle Sam included, to unearth potatoes and carrots and turnips along with the rocks that seemed to multiply with every turn of a spade. These were the people she’d known as a little girl living up here so long ago. They hunted and fished and lived off the land and by their wits, which were more considerable and deep-rooted than their plantings, and hardier than an outsider might suspect.