“Come with me, Stella,” Aunt Mary Desborough said, and led me out of the slough, across the sand bar, and into the open sea. “But never without me, please.” When Aunt Mary Desborough talked about the ocean there was an authority in her voice which it lacked at other times; the small down-scaling of self-pity disappeared. “The tide is coming in now, and if we swim directly opposite Illyria there’s no undertow, but down by San Feliz there are eddies that have swept people out to sea. And always watch out for sharks. There haven’t been many this summer, but you can’t ever relax and forget about them. A steadily gliding triangular fin: that will be a shark. A fish that flashes is a dolphin and you need never worry then. When the dolphins are flying there won’t be a shark around. Somehow dolphins and pelicans belong to Illyria, and sharks and buzzards to—” She caught her breath.
“To what?”
“To all the hate and anger left by the war, people wanting to eat each other like sharks. I understand wanting revenge; I suppose I want it myself. But not—not burning and hanging and lynching. Please God we will never see a lynching again.”
I did not know what a lynching was. I did not understand her anguish. But she pushed it away, briskly. “Come, now, and I’ll teach you to ride in on the breakers. I can’t do it myself any more, too old, but I’ll teach you how.”
I could feel her approval, though she took care not to show it, as I learned to plunge at precisely the correct moment into a wave and ride with it into the sand bar. I laughed in exhilaration. I had never experienced anything as delightful as this. I mistimed a wave and was rolled over and over against ground shells and pebbles and sand, scrambled up and went rushing back to Aunt Mary Desborough to try again.
Then we heard Finbarr barking, and the old woman said, “That’s enough for this morning, Stella. Time for breakfast.”
I realized that I was ravenous.
The old aunts led me out of the ocean and to the right of the ramp down a tiny path, pressed in by Spanish Bayonettes, palmettos, and scrub myrtle, to the under-regions of the house. They explained that Illyria, like most houses of its period and place, was built up off the ground on columns of coquina.
“Coquina is ground shell that turns into a sort of natural cement,” Aunt Olivia told me. “I suppose it grows the way coral does. Just think Stella, all those tiny shells you see in it have been there for hundreds and hundreds of years, just waiting to be the foundation for Illyria. Building a house up this way keeps it much drier; things don’t mold as quickly. And it’s cooler.”
“And snakes, Livvy,” Aunt Mary Desborough said. “Building a house up off the ground helps keep the snakes out.”
“Don’t wander around in the undergrowth,” Aunt Olivia warned. “Clive keeps it as cleared as he can, but we do see an occasional snake. Most of them are harmless, but we saw a coral snake this spring, and Clive heard a rattler last week. And the twins—you’ll meet them—say there are some of the stinging jellyfish coming in with the high tides. When Mark brought his boat to the inlet—our brother Mark, our younger brother, Hoadley’s father—and the Captain, the twins’ father—”
“Olivia.” Aunt Mary Desborough used her warning voice.
“I’m just telling her about the poisonous jellyfish.”
“Don’t frighten her! We’ve lived in Illyria for decades and we’ve never been bitten by anything worse than a red bug.”
“We’re still not very civilized, for all Hoadley’s got his yacht basin down below San Feliz. Sounds very grand for what’s only a lagoon with an arm that lets out into the sea. But all kinds of people from Jefferson seem to be bringing boats in this summer. I think Hoadley’s got something up his sleeve.”
“The idea of a yacht basin keeps Irene happy,” Aunt Mary Desborough said. “Let’s not ask questions.”
The areas of under-Illyria between the white coquina columns were filled in with wooden latticework which had once been painted dark red but which now showed mostly sea-bleached silvery wood. Aunt Mary Desborough unhooked a latticework gate and we went into the twilight where she fumbled around until she found a hanging lamp, which she lit. The flame flared high, and the lamp swung, making great, grotesque shadows. Finbarr rushed into the darkness under the house and disappeared. The old lady turned the lamp down. In its flickering light, shadows moved back and forth over a series of wooden stalls.
“Dressing rooms,” Aunt Mary Desborough said. “Good, Honoria’s already given you this one and put towels and dry clothes out for you. This is your very own cabin now, Stella, right by Livia’s and mine. You can make you a willow cabin at our gate and call upon your soul within the house—”
“Viola. Twelfth Night. A somewhat garbled version,” Aunt Olivia said. “Point for me.”
“If you missed something as obvious as, that, you would have to worry about losing your mind.”
“I’m glad you were able to remember it.”
“What else is under here?” I asked.
“Lots of things,” Aunt Olivia said. “Honoria keeps her preserves here. She puts all kinds of things up in jars, vegetables and fruit and meat and fish. And Clive keeps his gardening tools—” Aunt Olivia put her hand up to her mouth to try to contain her laughter.
“What’s the joke, Aunt Olivia?”
“Olivia!” Aunt Mary Desborough said. “Don’t you dare.”
“But, Des, it was so funny! Clive heard somewhere that urine is good to use as fertilizer on certain kinds of plants in the spring, so he began to save his in Honoria’s empty preserving jars, and Irene—”
“Olivia!”
At that moment Finbarr came yelping out of the shadows and pressed, quivering, against Aunt Olivia, who bent down to fondle him. “What were you hunting, Finny? And did it scare you?”
Finbarr whined, leaning with all his bony weight against the old lady.
“Come on, old Finny, you’re all sandy. You can get under the pump with me.”
“Olivia, that’s not decent!”
“Egad, you have a filthy mind. At your age! Come, Finbarr.”
Glowering at each other, forgetting me, the great-aunts disappeared into two stalls where pumps raised up on wooden standards made primitive showers. Aunt Olivia, recalling first, peered over the wooden barrier. “We won’t be long, Stella. And I’m sure you dress more quickly than we do.” The smell of sulphur was strong. Aunt Olivia called, “When you want to wash your hair, Honoria has a pump on the back veranda with rain water.” She began to sing,
“Dead men’s hair
And dead men’s bones
Have no care
For sticks nor stones.
Buzzards pick
Eye sockets bare
Dead men never
Need to care.”
“Olivia! Stop that awful song!”
“Dead men make
No never-mind,
Eat no cake
Nor melon rind,
Sing no songs,
Feel no ache,
Have no heavy
Heart to break.”
Aunt Olivia’s normal speaking voice was clear and precise despite its gentle Southern rhythm, but now she was singing with a nasal drawl, more marked than Aunt Irene’s.
“Olivia! Stop it!”
“Don’t you throw water at me. You’ll get my hair wet.”
“Then stop it! You know I hate that song.”
“Scares you, doesn’t it?”
“Be quiet.”
“Timor mortis conturbat te.”
“Et tu, Olivia?”
They had been shouting over the sound of splashing water. Now they stopped and came out, not even seeing me. I went into the stall Aunt Olivia had used and began to pump sulphur water over myself, wondering why it was preferable to leaving on salt water. There was silence under Illyria except for the sound of splashing. I didn’t stay under the pump long. It was going to take time before I was used to the smell, and I didn’t feel washed. I dressed quickly and was ready before the old ladies, so
I went out into the morning sunshine to wait for them, blinking at the brightness. Despite the flickering lamp it had been dark as Hades under Illyria.
By the time we got to the dining room I was starved. Clive seated the old ladies, asked me, “Coffee or tea, Miss Stella?”
“Coffee in the morning, please. Terry converted me.”
On the sideboard was a pitcher of orange juice, moisture from the cool liquid condensing in delicate drops. There were covered silver dishes of bacon and eggs, hominy, which I had never tasted before—I had tried unsuccessfully in Oxford to find its equivalent to please Terry—fried green tomatoes. I helped myself liberally.
Finbarr whined and scratched at the screen door and Clive let him in. “How old is Finbarr?” I asked Aunt Olivia.
“Ancient. He’s even older by dog standards than I am by people, aren’t you, Finny? According to my calculations he’s a hundred and thirty-seven years old. That’s how old Ishmael was when he gave up the ghost and was gathered unto his people.”
Aunt Mary Desborough looked up from her eggs. “And they dwelt from Havilah unto Shur, that is before Egypt. Genesis, 25. Point for me.”
“Oh, daz it, Des, I really wasn’t playing then, and anyhow it’s a Shakespeare day.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“It is, too. We’ve already started with Shakespeare.”
I suggested, “Why don’t we just play quotations from anybody today so it’ll be easier for me?”
“You mean you want to play with us?” Aunt Mary Desborough asked.
“Of course I do. Do you mind? My father would have loved this game.”
Aunt Olivia’s face was radiant. “Of course she wants to play with us; didn’t I tell you she was one of us? Of course we’ll play Free Quotations today. Oh, Stella, what fun!”
“Very well, then. We’ll play Free today. But I declare Bible for tomorrow.”
“You can’t declare a day ahead. It’s against the rules.”
Before I could intervene again a tolerant voice came from the landing. “Aunties! Aunties!” and Aunt Irene, dressed in a fashionable skirt and blouse which emphasized the frumpiness of the old aunts’ clothes, came downstairs. However, Aunt Irene gave no impression of youth as she sauntered towards us; I felt a far greater chronological gap between us than I did between Aunt Olivia and me.
“Aren’t you going swimming?” Aunt Mary Desborough asked.
“Not this morning, Auntie.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t feel like it.”
“But it’s a perfect day for a swim and you always take a dip before breakfast.”
“Not today, Auntie.”
“The custom of women is upon her,” Aunt Olivia said. “And he searched, but found not the images. And Jacob was wroth.”
“Olivia!” Aunt Mary Desborough reproved.
“It’s perfectly all right,” Aunt Olivia said airily. “It’s in the Bible, and you aren’t implying there’s anything improper in the Bible, are you?”
“You are using the Bible to mention things which ought not to be mentioned.”
“If the Bible can mention them, why can’t I? Anyhow, point for me.”
“It is not. I know perfectly well where in the Bible it is. Genesis. All that nasty bit about Jacob and everybody trying to outsmart everybody else. It’s immoral.”
“Who said the Bible’s supposed to be moral? History isn’t moral. It’s—”
“Please,” Aunt Irene cut in. “Can’t we have one day without these eternal bickering games? Let’s give Stella a chance to get her bearings.”
I was eating hominy and bacon gravy with gusto. Aunt Irene helped herself to a single rasher of bacon, a scant spoonful of eggs, carried them back to the table and said, “Oh. Willy and Harry.” Her voice betrayed mild annoyance. “What do you want?” She put down her plate and went through the front room to the screen door. There stood the two little old men I had met the night before, gnome-like and rosy-cheeked, nodding and smiling. “What is it, boys?”
They mumbled something of which I could hear only “yes’m,” and “please’m,” bobbing and giggling through their words.
Aunt Irene’s voice, unlike the gentle murmurs of the old men, carried clearly. “Go round to the kitchen and Honoria and Clive will give you breakfast. Oh, boys, wait a minute! Come here.” She opened the door wide and they stepped into the living room, bowing apologetically as they crossed the threshold and followed Aunt Irene to the dining room.
“Stella, these are, uh, Willy and Harry. Boys, this is the new Mrs. Theron Renier. Now, boys, let’s show her something. What is—oh, say, one thousand four hundred and ninety-two times seven hundred and thirty-three?”
Willy and Harry looked ecstatically at the ceiling as though they were reading the answer. Then, almost in unison, Harry a fraction of a beat behind Willy, they chorused, “One million ninety-three thousand six hundred and thirty-six.”
“Good boys! At least I suppose it’s right.… Isn’t that cute, Stella, hon?” She beamed. “Run round to the back now and get some breakfast, and if you behave nicely Honoria might give you something to take home.”
The white-haired gnomes bobbed and smiled and nodded, peering at me with their bright little eyes. I felt that they were memorizing me, and corroborating for themselves the final, unalterable judgment they had made the night before.
Aunt Irene clapped her hands. “Willy! Harry!” They scuttled off. “Honestly, Stella, it’s amazing the way those idiots can do almost anything with numbers as long as it’s complicated, but they can’t make change to buy an egg.”
Aunt Olivia said, “I wish you wouldn’t call Willy and Harry idiots.”
“They are idiots.” Aunt Irene sat down at her place, lifted her coffee cup to her lips, and set it down in distaste. She rang a small silver hand bell. “Of course they’re quite harmless.” She spoke with the same casualness with which she had referred to the great-aunts as senile. “People think the twins ought to be put away, but as long as they don’t cause any trouble Hoadley doesn’t see any reason they shouldn’t go on living in their little cottage. We certainly couldn’t have them here. But I suppose we have to be responsible for them simply because their father worked for the family. Mado was like a mother to them—frankly, I think she overdid it, and they thought she really was their mother. Of course nobody expected them to live this long, idiots usually die young—”
“Ma’am?” Clive stood in the kitchen doorway.
“Oh, Clive. Willy and Harry are here and want food. And my coffee’s cold. Please take it away and bring me a fresh cup and saucer. And Clive—”
“Ma’am?”
“Did my paper come?”
“Yes’m, Miss Irene. I’ll fetch it.” He took her cup and returned to the kitchen.
“Willy and Harry must be pushing sixty. They’d know to the minute, of course. When we were little, Hoadley’s father had a lovely yacht and Willy’s and Harry’s father was captain. Of course he was only a cracker from back in the scrub, but he was a good sailor and Hoadley’s father insisted on calling him Captain, giving him biggety ideas. In the summer Cousin Mark used to come down from Charleston and anchor in the inlet, where the yacht basin is now—”
“We’ve already told her,” Aunt Mary Desborough said.
“Of course, Auntie. I should have realized. You would. Anyhow, Stella, we young people used to have glorious houseboat parties. They were all the rage, and an invitation to Cousin Mark’s yacht meant that you’d really been accepted. He was Cousin Mark to me, that is. Hoadley and I are cousins of a sort. Third cousins twice removed, I think it is. I had to have it all figured out for the Huguenot Society and the Colonial Dames. Even after we all grew up, the twins used to spend hours playing ball or catching butterflies on the beach, just like children, but they were good clammers and fishermen, and they used to wash the decks and help with the painting, so Cousin Mark encouraged them. Oh, thank you, Clive. Willy and Harry not bothering yo
u?”
“No’m.” He laid a folded paper by Aunt Irene, then went to the sideboard to pour her fresh coffee.
Aunt Irene opened the paper, turned to an inside page and read quickly, eagerly. “Oh, dear. The stars are bad for Capricorn this month. No wonder I woke up with a headache. I get this paper from Atlanta; it’s only a few days late, and they do the stars for the whole month. The Jefferson paper here yet, Clive?”
“Not yet, Miss Irene.”
“Takes almost as long for the paper to get to San Feliz from Jefferson as it does my paper from Atlanta. Oh, well, the news is all bad anyhow. When I’m at the beach I think I’m due a little peace. All I really want to see the Jefferson paper for is the obituaries, anyhow. Seems to me everybody I know is dead or dying.”
“Still eating, my dears?” It was Uncle Hoadley.
“Where have you been, Hoadley?” Aunt Irene demanded. “You’re late.”
“There was some work I had to do before breakfast. I wish I could leave problems in town for the weekend, but they follow me here.”
“You bring them,” Aunt Mary Desborough said. “And you shouldn’t. Can’t you leave all the shooting and looting and hate behind you for a few days? They say old Judge Larkin—not one of our Larkins, of course, he was from Texas—was shot last week in front of the courthouse. Oh, Hoadley, it isn’t safe anywhere any more.”
“Creation groans,” Uncle Hoadley said, smiling tiredly.
“It’s like the fall of the Roman Empire. Hoadley, you look so exhausted, can’t you get some rest?”
“That’s why I’m here, Auntie. Honoria’s cooking and your loving are an ever present help in time of trouble.”
“Remember one thing, Hoadley,” Aunt Olivia said. “You can’t stop the Roman Empire from falling all by yourself.”
“I’m really not trying to, Auntie.”
“I think, Hoadley, the trouble is that you are.”
2
After breakfast the old great-aunts retired to the small writing room which opened off the south side of the living room. Aunt Irene went upstairs to put a cool cloth on her forehead. Uncle Hoadley inconspicuously removed himself. I went out to the kitchen to get permission to explore the house before going up the beach to look for my shoes. Permission from Honoria and Clive? Yes: after all, it was Honoria’s house.
The Other Side of the Sun Page 10
