The Whiskey Sea (3 page)

“So now you’re planning my life, too.”

Bea let her hands fall to her sides. “I have dreams. I know what I want. I want you to have some plans, too, something to work toward. What, dear sister, do you want, anyway?”

“You know what I wanted! How many times do I have to say that?”

Bea’s eyes pleading, she said, “Well, the boat’s gone. Find something else to want. Otherwise, you won’t have anything to reach for.”

Frieda chuffed out a laugh. “Such flowery talk. You have promise, Bea. You have so much to offer the outside world. I’m just a regular girl trying to chip an itty-bitty pebble of my own out of a hard rock situation.”

“See? You’re flowery, too, only you’d never admit it.”

Frieda kicked at the pieces of oyster shell that littered the road. She couldn’t hold still another moment. She loved her sister, and Bea needed her. Even small slights hurt Bea deeply, so Frieda normally protected her. But not today. Her feet flying again, she yelled over her shoulder, “Leave me alone, please!”

Bea called from behind her, “Don’t be gone long. Silver will worry . . .”

Frieda ran as if she could crush the day’s revelations on the shell-strewn street. She ran until her breath was ragged and sweat swam down her spine. Finally walking to calm herself, she strode down the dock, where the sinking sun lit up the distant water with floating topaz twinkles. Clammers still in their bright-yellow oilskins were gathering for talk and drink after a day over the shoals. Some of them spoke to her, but most of them only glanced up, rheumy-eyed and weary, stooped over their catches or their boat engines, and didn’t say anything. Some looked her over like hawks eyeing their next meal. She didn’t know if they stared the same way at all young women, who were rare on the docks, or if it was because of her mother’s legacy. Their stares seemed predatory and leering—the way she imagined one would appraise a whore’s daughter who might be forced into the same business someday.

She walked past them all, feeling lost, then trudged uphill to the cemetery to sit on her mother’s grave. Some people said it was disrespectful to sit on a grave, but that was the only place Frieda could recall anything about her mother. The memory of a five-year-old is blurry, but she could dredge up a few things: her mother teaching her to make sand castles on the beach; being tucked in at night; having a cool, damp cloth placed gently on her forehead when she was sick. She remembered her mother’s caring hand and missed it, and yet she never wanted to grow up to be her mother. She had to make sure that never happened to her or Bea.

The warmth of the earth seeped into her bones. Today there was a new bunch of wildflowers on the grave of the long-dead town whore. Frieda figured Silver left them from time to time. She’d seen bunches of flowers laid out here for years. At one point she thought Bea brought the flowers, but Bea denied it.

Picking them up, she curled her legs underneath her on the grave marked with only a once-white wooden cross. These flowers were fresh, and she knew that Silver hadn’t been up here today. She lifted the flowers to her nose and took a sniff. Earth and nectar. Not salt and water.

Who else still thought of Della? Had anyone loved Della while she was of this earth? Della Hope: what a heartrending name for someone who’d had such a hopeless life. No one ever mentioned her, as if sad subjects should not be broached. People knew—everyone knew—but it was as if Della Hope had never existed and all that remained was her legacy of two leftover girls. Long ago, kids at school had stopped whispering about Frieda and Bea’s origins, and only the occasional kid had the nerve to mention it now, then quickly regretted the impulse. Frieda had made sure of that with her thorny exterior, and Bea had accomplished the same thing with her personality and likeability. The old story had passed its prime, making her mother more dead than ever.

And what of life and love after her death? Had Della risen past clouds and flocks of dewy angels into the open arms of a kind Lord in heaven? These questions never met up with answers. Instead they floated like each of her breaths—then disappeared.

Through a break in the trees, the town, the bay, and the big city beyond spread out like a map. From that vantage point they seemed vast and unknown, and yet in a strange way small, as if in miniature. Just like her own life. At times Frieda felt the massive openness of her still-unfolding life and all its possibilities, and at other times she felt trapped in a muddled cage of smallness and mediocrity. Where was her place now in this world that surrounded her, this bustling scheme of life? Confusion about the future had always haunted her, but the one thing that had felt secure was the boat. That one small possession around which to build her life as an adult. Something to hold on to; it had sustained her and given her refuge and purpose. Out on the water she could forget about her mother’s tainted past, the judgment of others, and her isolation. It didn’t matter out there; it all drifted away.

She knew that Silver hadn’t meant to hurt her. As she gazed out over the bay, the tide ebbing, her rage ebbed somewhat, too. The first time Silver had taken her fishing, she had been but a little thing, and somehow she got a fishhook caught in her hair. It had panicked her; it was as if that tiny hook and some fishing line could tie her up and trap her forever. Silver stopped what he was doing while the boat rolled on the swells, and he worked that hook out ever so gently. Frieda remembered his calming voice, his easy but sure touch, and his patience while she fidgeted and gulped in big breaths of air. How he had soothed her, talking to her in his low rumble; how his solid presence reassured that he would always take care of her.

So yes, Silver meant no harm; she knew that in his mind he was settling her down, but he had no idea how much his decision had unmoored her.

When she made her way back toward the waterside, the dying daylight sparkled on scales and tiny shells caught in fishing nets draped over skiffs for drying, but the approaching night already seemed the darkest in the world.

Silver had made his living on the water; he should’ve known. He should’ve understood that the sea had a way of evening out her rough edges and reviving her hopes and dreams. Now her sorrow was as big as this bay. And in her mind’s eye she saw pockets turned inside out and empty piggy banks. How was she going to make money? What was she going to do with her life?

Sam Hicks was already at the house. He lounged on the porch alone, sipping on iced tea out of a chipped mug, and papers sat on the rough little table between the two chairs. Frieda strode up the porch steps, and he stood to greet her.

As she glanced at the papers, her heart fell into her gut. Silver had already signed the papers to sell Hicks the boat. Her boat. Nothing she’d said had made a bit of difference. Her defiance came seething back. Defiance was an old comrade that had kept her company for many years.

“Evening, Miss Frieda,” Hicks said with a smile.

Well, well . . .
He looked as though he’d dressed up for the occasion. Instead of clamming overalls or rubber boots, he wore a pair of nice pleated slacks and a freshly ironed shirt, cuffs rolled up to his elbows. Hicks was a large man with a roundish face that made him appear little older than a teenager. He was attractive in a burly, boyish way, like someone who had grown into a man nestled away in some sleepy farm town and not in the grip of a bloodbath war. Though with clean-shaven skin and not a pockmark in evidence, he still had a bit of the soldier about him. He had combed his unremarkable brown hair away from his face with oil so it lay back in wide threads. She’d never seen him in anything other than work clothes before, but it made no difference. Everyone who lived down here lay bare. They could cover themselves in different cloth, but the fiber beneath remained the same. It was pointless to try to appear anything but salt and sea stained. She rather liked herself that way.

She was not about to feign politeness. “What’s the occasion?” she asked.

He smiled. Only a few little lines on his forehead and tiny etched curves in his cheeks were evident. He hadn’t been out on the water long enough to show it yet, and if she didn’t resent him so much for buying her boat she might have thought him comely.

“I just bought myself a boat today.” He actually looked pleased with himself. Obviously Silver had not shared her feelings about the sale with this man.

She chuffed out, “So I heard.”

She walked straight through the door into the house and let the screen door slam behind her. No matter how much they aired out the place in the summer, the small rooms held the smell of salt, damp wood, fried food, and smoke from the stove. Bea was helping Silver in the kitchen.

“Where you been?” Silver barked. “We could’ve used some assistance around here.”

Frieda stopped for a moment and watched Bea—pretty, sweet Bea, helping as always. Cutting up cooked potato, stirring a pot on the stove while Silver set the table. Bea was wearing the new sundress Silver had bought her for summer, because Bea always did as she was told. If Silver wanted Bea to wear a dress, she wore it. If Silver wanted Bea to do tricks, she would do them.

Frieda did her best to shake off her anger. There wasn’t an unkind thought or mean deed inside Bea. She was fresh, like a daisy, and she carried her sweet disposition like a bouquet of sunlight. Even teachers and church ladies called her an angel. Frieda truly loved her sister. Other than Silver, her sister was all she had.

Frieda shrugged. “It’s not my party.”

Bea interjected. “But it is. It’s for your graduation day.”

Silver said, “You go on and get yourself changed, will you? Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Let me guess: clams.”

Silver winked. “My special chowder. Coney-Island style.”

Bea glanced at Silver and then at Frieda. “You could try the dress, Frieda. I bet it looks good on you.”

Frieda strode away and entered the bedroom she’d shared with Bea ever since their mother had died. All those years back Silver had given up his room to the girls, and since then he’d slept on the divan in the living room or on the porch in the summer. For thirteen years now she and Bea had slept in the same bed, huddled together during winter nights after the fire in the woodstove had gone out, talking and giggling until one of them fell asleep. Throughout all the years she and Bea shared secrets, Frieda had never told Silver about the stray cats Bea fed or the time she and Bea had nearly drowned, floating away on a riptide before they fought their way back.

A window faced the porch, and Frieda took a peek beyond the tattered curtains, where she could see Hicks standing tall, holding his mug and staring off into the oncoming night. Beyond him lights were twinkling across the bay and down by the docks. The full moon was rising, shooting out silver rays across the rippling waters. Taking a sip of lemonade, he then set the glass down. He seemed deep in thought, probably lost in dreams that contained a white picket fence or a bedroom with windows that overlooked the bay.

Hicks wasn’t a bad man as far as she could tell. But now that he’d ruined her plans, how was she going to find a way to make things better? Silver had been making less and less money, because he could no longer stay out on the boat all day. The house needed a new roof, and the foundation was beginning to shift. They bought only the cheapest food at the grocer’s and ate clams or fish most every night. Beef and pork were luxuries, along with butter and sweets of any sort. Silver had had no business splurging on the dresses.

And what of Bea? She took to books, not the sea. She got seasick on the water, and her skin burned like parchment in the sun. She believed in castles in the sky; she dreamed of things way beyond her reach. She loved literature, poetry, art, and fashion. She could barely do ordinary chores. Her hands broke out in a rash from doing the laundry. Dust made her cough and sneeze. When she tried to cook, she usually burned the food. And she came down with bad colds and sore throats every winter. She would never survive having baby after baby in some clammer’s shack. The reality of a life like that would probably kill her.

Frieda turned around and touched the dress hanging on the wall. Silver had bought it in one of the dress shops that resold clothes donated by the summer crowds. But still, he’d paid too much, and it wasn’t even the new drop-waist style she’d seen the fancy women wearing lately. Instead it was made of cotton in a small flowery print, fitted at the waist with a cloth-covered belt. What had he been thinking?

Frieda took it down and slipped into the thing—for Bea, not for Silver. She could’ve worn her school oxfords with a pair of clean socks, but instead she stuck her feet into Silver’s old rubber sea boots, which she wore when he let her go out on the boat with him. She pulled the stained straw hat that she sported on the same occasions down low on her head.

When she walked into the living room, Silver, Bea, and Hicks were seated at the table, waiting for her. She stomped in and plunked herself down in the only empty chair. Silver looked up, and she could tell he appreciated her giving in about the dress and also disapproved of her ruining the effect with the boots and hat. Silver and Bea took what appeared to be a knowing glance at one another, while Bea fidgeted with her napkin, but Hicks simply sat back and laughed aloud.

“Well, well,” said Silver as he likewise leaned back in the chair. “There’s a girl in there after all.”

Frieda grabbed her napkin, shook it open, and plopped it in her lap. “Do we have bread?”

“Right here,” Bea answered, passing the bread basket. In the center of the table sat the pot of steaming clam chowder, and Frieda reached for the ladle.

“You still look lovely, even with the unusual accessories,” Hicks said, his eyes all misty and annoying.

She didn’t respond. Bea started urging a pleasant conversation that wasn’t going to happen, Silver stared down into his chowder and ate slowly, as if he wanted to draw out the evening, and Hicks was clearly trying his best to charm her. He glanced from time to time at his food, but mostly he kept his focus on her. There was something strange in his eyes when he gazed at her, some kind of softness, but it was a highly focused sort of softness. She’d never seen this look before from anyone, and she had no idea what it meant.