The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (8 page)

“I'll go along, ma'am, and see that she behaves,” said Addie, making a show of ushering me out the door. Aunt Margaret nodded, pleased, I'm sure, to be addressed as the lady of the house. I looked at Addie appreciatively, for I understood her intent. I would be punished less severely in her presence.

She held my elbow gently as we walked down the stairs, tipped her head slightly toward mine, and whispered in my ear. “Maybe, lass, you'll be tellin' me what 'twas you were actually doin',” she said, not unkindly, concern warming her words.

The library door was open and Uncle Victor saw us coming. He made quite a show of pulling himself upright. My eyes widened at the sight of his bruised and battered face. His nose had a large bump about halfway down, looking as though one of those marbles I'd lied about had been jammed up there beneath his skin. The area around his eye was swollen an angry red with the promise that by tomorrow it would turn black and blue.

“You are dismissed, miss,” he said to Addie, the iciness in his voice sending a shiver along my spine.

“I thought I would stay, sir,” she said evenly, “in order that I might help in maintaining the
discipline of my young charge here.”

“I
said
, you are dismissed!”

Addie gave my arm a little squeeze, and I watched her mouth pull into a straight line. “But, sir—”

“Out!” he yelled, the snaky veins in the side of his head throbbing.

Addie nodded and slid silently out the door.

“Close it!” he bellowed. I watched Addie take a deep breath and gently shut the door.

Uncle Victor walked toward me. Though not a big man, he was taller than me, and he leaned over so that his bruised face was just inches from my own.

“This,” he said, pointing to his face, “this is your doing! You and that miserable dog of yours.”

“No!” I began. “No, you don't underst—”

“Silence!”

I not only heard the word, but felt the force of his breath explode against my face. I backed up, my mouth dry, hands shaking.

“I have a good mind to have the beast drowned, as he should have been in the first place!”

I thought, at that point, that my legs might give way, that I might actually pass out. Would the water swallow up everyone and everything I loved? Mother, Father, Mr. Pugsley? I pushed back the
sorrow that rose up in me like a squall.

“No,” I pleaded, “it wasn't Mr. Pugsley's fault.”

“Shut up,” he snarled. “You, missy, are not going to make a fool of me! And we won't be spoiling you rotten like those putting-on-airs parents of yours were so fond of doing! Oh no! There'll be no more of that, I can assure you. A little liar, you are, an ill-bred little ruffian.”

“You're right, Uncle Victor,” I said, almost choking on the words, furious that he'd insulted my wonderful parents, but I pressed on.

“I did lie. I wasn't out there doing my chores. You were right. I was playing marbles, is what I was doing.”

I thrust a handful of the clear aqua and agate marbles under his nose. “See! I was using these. I dropped one on the path and when I went to pick it up I stumbled. That's how I got dirty and scratched.”

The words poured out, one lie after the next. “And then … and then.... out here on the steps I dropped one, and, and … you stepped on it, I'm sure of it. That's how you tripped. I am so, so sorry,” I lied, allowing the tears of fear and anger I felt at the prospect of losing Mr. Pugsley to slip down my cheeks.

“I never wanted to see you get hurt,” I sobbed,
channeling my frustration into my role as penitent. “I'm
very
sorry. Please, please don't punish the dog. It wasn't his fault!”

I covered my face with my hands and chanced a glance through the tangle of hair and dirty fingers. Uncle Victor stared at me with an odd mix of anger and satisfaction—satisfaction, I'm sure, in thinking that he'd broken my spirit.

He pulled the thin smile that spread across his lips into a grimace and lifted my chin so that I was once again eye to eye, nose to nose with him.

“Listen to me, missy,” he said. “There'll be no more lying. There'll be no more dillydallying out there near the shore. No more of your shenanigans.”

“But Mr. Pugsley …”

“I'll let you keep the dog—for
now
,” he emphasized. “But the
next
time you disobey me, or dishonor me with a lie, the beast goes; do you understand that?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding, “yes, I understand.” Relief almost bowled me over.

He took a step back from me and pointed his finger in my face.

“You, young lady—although you don't deserve that title—will
not
be allowed outdoors.”

I gasped.

“But …,” I struggled, “but what about …”

My distress seemed to make him more adamant. “You are not to venture outside without my ex
press
permission, do you understand that?”

I nodded, knowing I had no choice.

“Then we understand each other,” he said. “I spare the dog, for the moment, and you answer to me. I would say that, under the circumstances, that is quite generous on my part. Now, go upstairs, missy, and do not come down until tomorrow. You will do without your dinner. Do you understand?”

I nodded again.

“Now go,” he said, with a flick of his hand. “Out of my sight!”

I turned and left the room, walking silently past Addie and Aunt Margaret, stationed outside the door.

As I crossed the threshold into my room, I knew I had indeed crossed another line—and had come to a curiously exhilarating, yet frightening, realization.

In order to find Aunt Pru, rescue our home, and protect my loyal Mr. Pugsley, I would consciously and determinedly disobey—and yes—even lie to Uncle Victor when circumstances required it, as I suspected they most certainly would.

I offered a silent apology to Mother and Father—after all, they hadn't raised me to be dishonest or disobedient. This I followed with a vow to do whatever I had to do, hoping, believing, that Mother and Father would understand.

T
he very next day I stood before my bedroom window, staring toward the shore. I'd already spent some time playing Father's flute. The notes of the chantey were now confidently beneath my fingers, the tone pure and clear. There were times, however, when the instrument seemed to play of its own accord, ornamenting and embellishing the simple tunes I was capable of—or perhaps it was my imagination working overtime, bored as I was as a prisoner in my own house. I laid my precious flute down on the windowsill and gazed longingly outside.

There had to be a way to earn Uncle Victor's confidence, or at least a way to convince him to allow me out of doors. I ran down a list of tedious outdoor chores that might sound virtuous to him—weeding the garden, picking rose hips out along the shore. I even thought of suggesting clamming, for I knew he loved to slurp raw clams from the half shell. The problem with that notion was that I hadn't the faintest idea of how to collect clams—I knew it involved digging in the mud, but beyond that, I hadn't a clue.

While muddling through these schemes, I caught a glimpse of a most amazing sight down on the bumpy old shore road—a wide dirt path, really, that was the only link between our small peninsula and the village. A squarish wagon, drawn by a swaybacked old brown horse, made its way lazily along, raising a cloud of dust beneath its large spoked wheels. The wagon itself was painted black, the letters RFD emblazoned on the side in fancy red-and-gold script.

My heart thumped wildly. I had heard Father speak of his efforts to bring the mail wagon—the Rural Free Delivery—to our home and to the other remote homes along the shore, for up until that time, receiving mail required a trip into the village to the postal office. The carefully constructed
wooden mailbox Father made had stood at the edge of our property along the shore road for perhaps a year awaiting the promised Rural Free Delivery. But the mail wagon had never come—at least not until now. At this very moment, I surmised, the postman might be carrying a letter from Aunt Prudence—a letter he would place in our mailbox! There was a small red-hinged flag on the side of the box that remained inconspicuously tucked in place. But when the postman placed mail in the box, he would lift the flag—a signal that mail had arrived. And I further surmised that Uncle Victor would notice that flag in an instant and be upon the box, the letter, and the key to my freedom in the blink of an eye. I had to get to the box before he noticed—I
had
to!

My first thought was to tiptoe down the staircase and out the front door. But there was no way to know whether Uncle Victor was sitting in the front parlor, in view of the door; in the library, which was set off to the side; or even on the front porch. I would just have to take a chance.

As I stepped toward my bedroom door, a curious dizzy feeling came over me. The door seemed to spin before my eyes, and to my great dismay, despite all of my pulling and yanking, the door would not budge! The glass knob slipped in
my sweaty palms, and the door seemed to actually swell up stubbornly in its frame. I furiously twisted, jiggled, and tugged at the crystal knob, but the door remained resolutely shut.

A faint tinkling noise over near the window interrupted my efforts. I turned to face the sound and found another of those swirling, glittering clouds floating about my bedroom window. I stood staring as the mist seeped between the window and the ledge, and watched the window slide effortlessly open. Father's flute slowly floated on the mist and began to play, coaxing me, calling me, as though played by an invisible Pied Piper.

Mesmerized, I stepped forward. The flute dipped and bobbed in encouragement, the tune increasing in tempo. The instrument tipped and pointed toward the window. I followed, staring out through the wavy glass pane.

The mail wagon was rounding the bend toward Father's mailbox. To my chagrin, the postman began ringing a bell to herald the arrival of the much-awaited RFD service. As if in response, Father's ship's bell clanged as well. It would only be a matter of time before Uncle Victor went to investigate the cacophony.

There was a knock on my door, followed by Addie's voice.

“Here you go, darlin',” she called. “I've got yer breakfast tray ready for ye.”

I rushed to the door and pressed my lips against the keyhole.

“Addie,” I whispered, the desperation somehow carrying my hushed voice out to her. “Addie, be very quiet! Don't say anything that will arouse their attention!”

I was met with silence.

“Addie!” I said, as loud as I dared. “Addie?”

“Yes, Lucy,” she whispered, the touch of her Irish brogue returning as it did whenever she was upset or riled up, “I hear ye. What are ye all worked up about, child? Stop tinkerin' with that flute, and explain yourself!”

I peered through the keyhole at her neat blue skirts. This calmed me somewhat.

“Addie, I can't explain just now.” I glanced back toward the window. The cloud of mist was swirling furiously around and over the windowsill. The flute tootled and trilled excitedly. “Just listen to me. I need you to keep Uncle Victor and Aunt Margaret busy for the next few minutes.”

“But what d'ye mean, Lucy? I—”

I sighed impatiently, the sound of the mail-wagon bell growing more insistent.

“Addie, you must trust me! I'll explain it all to
you later, you have my word. But right now it could be a matter of life and death....” I gulped at my own exaggeration, although it did indeed feel that important. “You just need to keep them distracted for a few minutes!”

I could almost see Addie on the other side of the door gripping the breakfast tray, glancing nervously down the stairs, biting her bottom lip.

“But, Lucy,” she began, “I don't know....”

“Just think of
something
!” I whispered. “Anything at all.
Please!
” If I could have opened the door and given her a shake, I would have.

There was a pause before I heard the crash of the tray on the stairs and Addie's voice calling out.

“Oh my stars! Oh good heavens! Mrs. Simmons, would ye look at what I've done now!” she shouted. I heard the scrambling of feet on the stairs, a confused jumble of angry voices.

I didn't wait an instant before dashing to the window. The misty vapor cascaded over the ledge and illuminated the side of the house below.

Of course! I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it! Beneath my window hung one of Father's large, sturdy nets, which was once strung between the masts of his great ship. This was another of Father's keepsakes from his sailing days, another bit of seafaring memorabilia that graced our home. The
expanse of thick rope and fat knots had created a grid of footholds for Father's crewmen to scramble across. In the decade since Father left the high seas, the net had served as a curious kind of trellis, with wisteria, rather than sailors' feet, creeping up knot by knot toward the sky.