Melody

  wondering," I said quickly, so I could hold on to my courage, "if I could come by to see you by myself."

  "See me?" She pulled her head back. "When?"

  "As soon as possible. Tomorrow after school?"

  She looked amused by the idea and then stiffened her lips. I was sure she was going to brush me off, but she turned toward the wall and said, "I'll be in my garden tomorrow afternoon."

  "Thank you, Grandma Olivia," I said. "I'm sorry about Aunt Sara." She turned back to me and I forced a smile and hurried after everyone.

  Grandpa Samuel and the judge were standing off to the side watching the maid escort Aunt Sara to the car. The smoke from their cigars spiraled into the night.

  "Just give her some bicarbonate, Jacob," Grandpa Samuel said.

  "That's what comes of a steady diet of plain and simple food, Jacob. Take your wife out for a restaurant meal once in a while." the judge suggested with a grin.

  "Feed her poison so she gets used to it? No thank you," Uncle Jacob said.

  The judge roared. He looked at me. "Good night, Little Haille," he said. "Don't forget to practice that fiddle."

  We got into the car. Aunt Sara had her head back. The maid had given her a wet cloth to put over her forehead.

  "I'm sorry, Jacob," she said. "It just all started bubbling in my stomach."

  "Let's not talk about it, Sara. It will only make it worse." He drove home as quickly as he could.

  For the whole ride back, May sat forward holding Aunt Sara's hand and looking concerned. Cary tried signing that she would be all right, but May remained near tears until we got Aunt Sara into the house and into bed.

  Finally, my aunt's color returned and she told us she was more comfortable. She kept apologizing to Uncle Jacob, who finally said it was all right. He thought the food was too rich and admitted he had a hard time holding it down himself.

  "Get some sleep now," he declared. May kissed her mother good night and we left the bedroom.

  "I'm just going to listen to some news on the radio," Uncle Jacob told Cary. "See that your sister gets to bed."

  "Aye," Cary said. He turned to me and I helped him get May into her room and calmed enough to go to sleep. Afterward, we paused awkwardly in the hall.

  "I wonder what happened to the whale on the beach," I said.

  "Let's change and go see," he suggested.

  About ten minutes later, both of us were in jeans and sneakers.

  "Where are you going?" Uncle Jacob called from the living room.

  "To see about that beached whale," Cary said. "Be right back."

  "Make sure you are," Uncle Jacob warned.

  We hurried out of the house and over the beach. The absence of a crowd of people indicated something had occurred. When we drew nearer, we saw the whale was gone.

  "Coast guard must have come and dragged her out to sea," Cary said.

  "Think it's all right?" I gazed over the dark water.

  "Either she swam off or sank where they unhitched her," he commented with characteristic Cape Cod bluntness.

  "At least she won't be victimized by cruel people."

  "Yeah," he said. Even in the darkness, I could feel his eyes on me. "You sure look a lot like your mother in those pictures."

  "Thank you," I muttered, looking down at the sand. Then I took a deep breath of the fresh salt air. "I guess I'll catch up on my reading for social studies," I said.

  "Catch up? I bet you mean go ahead."

  "Something like that," I confessed, and he laughed. "I'll try to see all your teachers and get them to give me your work so you don't fall behind."

  "Whatever," he said.

  We started back to the house. I walked with my arms folded over my breasts, my head down. Above us, the night sky burst with stars, but I felt afraid to look up, afraid I would be hypnotized and spend all night standing on the beach.

  "Say," Cary said, "would you. . would you like to see my model ships?"

  "Up in the attic?"

  He nodded.

  "Sure."

  When we entered the house, we heard a voice on the radio droning about sin and damnation. Both of us peeked into the living room and saw Uncle Jacob slouched down in his chair, asleep, and snoring almost as loudly as the radio. Cary put his finger on his lips and smiled. We walked up the stairway quietly and he pulled down the ladder to the attic.

  "Careful," he said as I started up after him. He reached down to help me make the last few steps.

  It was smaller than I had thought. On my earlier quick look, I hadn't seen how the roof slanted on both sides of the room. He had a table on which he worked on his model ships. The completed ships were lined up on a half dozen shelves. It looked as if he had done a hundred or so different models. To the right was a cot and on the left were boxes and sea chests.

  "Careful," he said when I stood up, "Watch your head." The roof slanted sharply, so I had to move forward to stand up straight. "This," he said, going to the shelves, "is my historical section. They go left to right chronologically. This is an Egyptian ship." He lifted it gingerly and held it in front of me. "About three thousand b.c. It has a double mast, joined at the top, from which the sails are hung."

  He put it back and lifted another.

  "This is Phoenician. They were better shipbuilders. It's called the round boat, one of the first to depend mostly on sails rather than oars, and as you can see, it has a larger cargo space."

  I saw how serious he was when he talked about his ships. His face filled with enthusiasm and brightened. His voice was full of energy and he talked so fast and so much, I was overwhelmed, but I tried to keep up.

  He went through the Greek and Roman models, showed me a Norse vessel that he said was used to invade England. He had even constructed a Chinese junk. He said that although it was still used, it lacked three components regarded as fundamental to ships: a keel and stem and stern posts. He lectured and illustrated everything on his models, but I saw that he was most proud of his sailing ships.

  "This," he said in a low, breathy voice, "is a replica of the H.M.S. Victory, the flagship of the British admiral Horatio Nelson."

  "It's beautiful, Cary."

  "Isn't it?" He beamed. He put it back carefully and lifted another. "This was Laura's favorite," he said, "the American clipper. This is a replica of the Great Republic, built in 1853. These ships set records for transatlantic crossings."

  "The parts are so tiny. How do you do it?"

  "With great patience," he said laughing. "I renamed this Laura," he said and showed me where he had carefully engraved her name on the side. He held it a moment longer and then put it back lovingly on the shelf.

  "I've got a lot more here: steamships, container ships, tankers, and of course, luxury liners. Know what this one is?" he asked, holding it up.

  "I'm not sure," I said.

  "It's the Titanic."

  I shook my head in amazement.

  "You know so much about ships, Cary. You should do better in history."

  He grimaced. "One thing has nothing to do with another."

  "Did you ever make a report on ships?"

  "Yes," he said. "I got an A but I had so many spelling and writing errors, the teacher reduced it to a C."

  He put the model back and went to the small window where he had a pair of binoculars.

  "Laura and I used to spend a lot of time right here gazing out at the ocean," he said. He handed the binoculars to me when I stepped up behind him and I looked out at the ocean. Way in the distance, I saw a small light.

  "What is that?"

  "A tanker, maybe heading for England or Ireland. We used to love to imagine where they were going or imagine ourselves on them." He smiled to himself. Then he sat on the cot. "Laura and I spent a lot of time up here. She would lie on this cot and read or study while I worked on my models." He grimaced. "Then she stopped spending time up here after she started going with Robert Royce." His face grew angry.

  "She just got interested in boys, C
ary. It wasn't weird for that to happen," I said softly.

  "Yeah, well, he wasn't the right one."

  "How can you be certain?"

  "I just am," he said. He had his eyes squinted shut as if trying to drive out some scene scorched on his brain.

  I turned to look out the window again. "Then why did you let them use your boat?" I asked with my back to him.

  "Laura was a good sailor, almost as good as I am," he said. "She wanted it."

  I turned around and looked at him.

  "I never said no to Laura," Cary said sadly. "If only I had . . just that once." He looked at the floor so I wouldn't see the tear escape from his eye.

  "I'm sorry." I was close to tears myself. I gazed at the ocean again. It could be beautiful and so deadly. "To lose her like that. It's as if she just disappeared."

  "No," he said, so softly at first I thought I imagined it. But when I turned back, he repeated it. "No. It wasn't really that way."

  "What do you mean, Cary?"

  He stared at me a moment. "I've shared this with no one, not even my parents."

  I held my breath.

  "After Laura and Robert failed to return, I borrowed a friend's boat and went looking for them. I looked every day for nearly a week, combing the beach, getting so close to the rocks at times, I nearly crashed into them myself. Then one day something caught my eye."

  "What?" I asked, my heart pounding.

  He rose and went to one of the chests. He opened it, dipped his hand into it, and came up with a pink silk scarf. "She liked wearing this around her neck when she sailed. I found it floating in the water."

  "Why didn't you show your mother?"

  "I wanted to keep the hope alive, and then I felt so guilty about not showing it, I never told. It doesn't matter any more. She's accepted the grave. Laura's gone."

  I felt the hot tears streaming down my cheeks.

  "You're the first person who I thought would understand," he said. He gazed at the scarf and then brought it to me. "I want you to have this."

  "Oh no, I couldn't."

  "Please, take it and wear it," he said. He pushed it into my hands.

  "Thank you," I said softly. "I'll take good care of it."

  "I know." He raised his head and our eyes locked. The depths of his pain made me forget my own.

  We heard Uncle Jacob coming up the stairs below. He paused at the attic stairway and then he plodded on to his bedroom and closed the door.

  "I'd better go down," I said.

  He nodded.

  "I'm going to see Grandma tomorrow," I told him. If he could trust me with his deepest secrets, I could trust him, I thought.

  "Why?"

  "To get her to tell me everything. I'm going after school."

  "Do you want me to be there too?"

  "No. I've got to speak to her myself. But thanks."

  "Remember, her bark's worse than her bite."

  "Good night, Cary. Thanks for showing me yourmodels."

  He smiled and then abruptly, awkwardly, he planted a kiss on my cheek.

  "Careful going down," he said as I lowered myself on the ladder. After I reached the bottom, I looked up at him.

  "Good night," I said.

  "Good night."

  He lifted the ladder as if he wanted to lose all contact with the world below and then he closed his attic door and shut himself up with his memories and his own voices.

  Clutching Laura's silk scarf in my hand, I went into her room and prepared for my own dreams, filled with my own memories and voices.

  We were alike, Cary and I, haunted by lies and sadness, two sailboats drifting, looking for a friendly wind.

  16

  Daddy Who?

  .

  Although Cary had been suspended from

  school, he was up and ready to escort May and me the next morning. He carried my books since he didn't have to carry any of his own. It was gray and overcast when we started out. The mist was so thick, we couldn't see very far ahead of us. It was like walking through clouds.

  "It will burn off by early afternoon," Cary promised. Despite his being punished for attacking Adam Jackson in the cafeteria and Uncle Jacob and Aunt Sara's disappointment with him, Cary was uncharacteristically animated. He talked continuously, permitting only a few seconds of silence to linger between us. It was as if he thought that silence would make us think and thought would make us sad.

  He was especially excited about his plans to build his own sailboat this summer. For now he had to use his father's.

  "I've had enough practice building the models, eh?" he said. He was thinking he might even get into the leisure boat--building business someday.

  "I can't depend on the lobster and fishing industry," he explained. "Someday I'm going to be responsible for more than just myself," he added.

  I held May's hand and listened, a small smile on my face, as I looked down and walked. Cary continued to voice his plans. He wanted a home just outside the village and he wanted a garden and, of course, his own dock. He would raise a family with at least four or five children and he would take trips to Boston and maybe even New York.

  "Provincetown is a good place to raise a family," he assured me. "It really is. I mean, it takes a lot longer for the bad stuff to get up here, and when it does, it can't hide as well as it can other places. Know what I mean?"

  I nodded, but before I could speak, he added, "I knew you would. You're so much smarter than the girls around here, and I don't mean just book smart. You have common sense."

  "Thank you," I said. He smiled, sucked in his breath, and looked at the fog. "It will clear but rain's coming later tonight. I can smell it."

  After we brought May to her school, he insisted on continuing on with me.

  "Just to be sure you're okay," he explained.

  When we arrived at school, he glared back furiously at any of the students who gazed at us with gleeful smiles on their faces. They turned away immediately and hurried into the building as if to escape freezing cold temperatures.

  "You just tell me if anyone bothers you, Melody. Don't let them torment you in any way, hear?"

  "I won't."

  "I'll be here after school to check on you."

  "But I told you I was going to see Grandma Olivia," I reminded him. His eyes grew small with worry and disappointment. ,,

  "I know, but I'll just check anyway before you go, he insisted. He gave me my books.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I'll work on the plans for my boat," he said. "My father won't let me help him with anything when I'm in trouble, as if I might contaminate him." He sounded critical of his father for the first time. "People who've done wrong bring bad luck. Well. . ." He hesitated, looking at the front entrance to the school.

  "I'll be fine, Cary. Stop your worrying." I squeezed his hand and rushed into the building. When I turned at the door, he was still standing there, looking after me.

  Most of the students kept their distance in the hallway, all gazing at me with some interest. Theresa met me at my locker.

  "How did it go for Cary at home?" she asked.

  "Not well. My uncle Jacob was very angry. Actually, he's just as angry at me."

  "It wasn't his fault or yours. You tell them that?" "Yes."

  "I like Cary," she said. "At least he doesn't put on a phony face," she added, loud enough for some of the girls to hear. Janet, Lorraine, and Betty walked by quickly, just giving me a passing glance.

  This day I concentrated only on schoolwork, even though I sensed there was a good deal of whispering and note passing going on behind me. There was just one critical moment in the cafeteria after I entered. The jabber lowered and all eyes were on me for a few seconds. Theresa came up and began talking to me. Then the din in the cafeteria rose again and everyone appeared to go back to his or her business. It left me feeling I had swallowed a spoonful of nails.

  Theresa told me that Adam Jackson had tried to recoup his reputation by telling everyone Cary's
actions just proved him right. But he stayed away from me, not even glancing in my direction. Toward the end of the school day, I had the distinct sense that everyone had grown tired and bored with this scandal. Some of the students in my classes who had often talked to me about the work did so again. I felt more relaxed and at ease moving through the corridors.

  All of Cary's teachers were glad to give me assignments for him, and every one of them said he or she felt Cary could do better if he only tried or cared. Mr. Madeo winked at me and said he was sure Cary would pass his English final if his tutor would stand by him.

  "I'll see to it she does," I told him.

  True to his word, Cary was waiting after school, his hands in his pockets, his hair over his forehead, his face drawn in a scowl, right at the entrance to the school when the bell rang ending the day.

  "Everything's fine," I told him immediately.

  "It's over, forgotten."

  "Sure."

  "It is. Here." I thrust the pages of assignments in his hands. "This is your schoolwork, Cary Logan, and I expect you will do it even though you're not attending classes."

  He gazed at the papers and then looked up at me and smiled. "You'll make me an A student yet, eh?"

  "You'll do it yourself."

  We started away and at the end of the street, we paused because I was going to walk to Grandma Olivia's.

  "It's not a short walk," he warned. "If I hadn't gotten suspended, my father would have let me use the pickup and I could have taken you, but--"

  "I know how far it is. I'll be all right. I want to do it. I have to do it," I said. He nodded and kicked a stone across the macadam.

  "You sure you don't want me along?"

  "Cary, you have to see to May," I told him.

  "She can make her way home alone if she must."

  "I once said that and you nearly bit my head off." He smiled.

  "I did. I remember. All right, go on, but don't get upset and--"

  "Mr. Worry Wart, stop it!" I ordered.

  "All right."

  I started away.

  "Her bark's worse than her bite!" he shouted after me. "So's mine," I shouted back. He watched me walk off for a while and then he went to fetch May.

  It was a long walk, and when I broke out to the main highway, it was harder, because the cars were whizzing by, some so close I felt the breeze in their wake lift my hair. Suddenly, an elderly man driving a rather beaten up light orange pickup truck stopped.