Fortune's Rocks

by Anita Shreve

  “No.”

  “Did anyone else besides you and Mrs. Haskell see Olympia Biddeford and Dr. John Haskell together that night?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Mr. Cote, is it not a fact that Catherine Haskell did not just happen to look into the telescope the night of the dinner dance, but rather was invited to do so by you?”

  “Certainly not, sir.”

  “You who had been watching the couple all night and knew they had gone into the chapel?”

  “No, Mr. Tucker.”

  “And had, in fact, adjusted the telescope so that it was pointed directly into a window of the chapel?”

  “No, Mr. Tucker, most certainly not! And I resent your scurrilous suggestion!”

  “Your Honor, I have no further questions for this witness.”

  “Very well, Mr. Cote, you may step down.”

  “But, Your Honor, I should like to respond to the completely unfounded insinuation of Mr. Tucker.”

  “I am sure you would. You may step down now.”

  “Very well, but I do not like what has been said here.”

  “No, I am sure you do not. Since it is so late in the afternoon, we will recess for the day and, if this dreadful weather permits, go to our homes. Mr. Sears, you have other witnesses?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, tomorrow I shall have Mrs. Bolduc to the stand.”

  “Very good. Now let us retire to our dinners.”

  SHE FIGHTS her way through the slush, the skirt of her suit saturated with dirty snow, as she walks from the hotel to the courtroom, a distance of only three blocks. The sun is up, high and strong, and she can smell spring in the air — spring, which is only twenty-two days away now. Perhaps she will survive the winter after all. She has a sudden and intense desire to return to the cottage at Fortune’s Rocks, for by today, the snow will be melting on the front lawn, and quite possibly there will be some green beneath, new growth.

  Olympia and her father dined at the Ely Falls Hotel last night and again this morning, the dining room shabby but their affection for each other not; and it was a joy to both of them to once again speak of the world outside Fortune’s Rocks. He said that he was most eager to know what she thought of Roosevelt and the controversy in the Philippines, and she teased him about finally installing a telephone. He confessed he had purchased a phonograph machine as well, and he rather thought that it was a French recording of the cellist Pablo Casals that had finally made Mother nearly well.

  “Father, you should return home,” Olympia said when they were sitting in the library of the hotel after breakfast with their coffee. “I appreciate your having come, more than I can say, but Mother needs you more.”

  “But do you not want support at the trial?”

  “I shall manage with Payson Tucker. He is good support. And thank you for taking care of his fees. I promise I shall come to visit as soon as this is over.”

  And I shall bring the boy, she thought privately.

  “Very well,” her father said, “but only on the condition that you allow me to send Charles Knowlton over to the cottage to see what it requires by way of further repairs. If you are going to continue to live there, Olympia, certain aspects of the house must be altered. I do not know how you have survived the winter.”

  “Actually, I have moved into the kitchen,” Olympia said, and her father laughed at this idea. And Olympia thought that if such a thing were possible, her father had grown younger in the twenty-four hours he had been in Ely Falls. Indeed, he seemed almost to be in high spirits when he left her for the train.

  But the infection of high spirits begins to dissipate as Olympia nears the courthouse, for she has an increasing dread of reentering the hearing chamber. It is a dark, claustrophobic room, too small for such grand passions, for such need, for such antipathy. And she has as well a sour taste in her mouth from having had to reveal thoughts and feelings that one should never have to speak of in public. As strongly as she wants to win her suit, she is not without sympathy for Albertine Bolduc, who will have to take the stand today and will have to answer many of the same questions Olympia did yesterday.

  But dread is quickly replaced with bewilderment as Olympia rounds the corner to the entrance to the courthouse. For arrayed all along the stone steps are many persons, some with hastily hand-lettered signs. LA SURVIVANCE! she sees scrawled on a board. JE ME SOUVIENS! she sees scrawled on another. A man, hanging over the stone balustrade, catches sight of her as she stands frozen at the corner. “Ici la jeune fille!” he yells to the crowd. Frightened, Olympia watches as the throng moves quickly toward her, carrying their placards with them. Before she can think what to do, she is surrounded by men who are shouting rude questions and remarks at her: “Ou est le docteur?” “Miss Biddeford, why are you suing for custody?”“Ou est la justice?” A sign is thrust in front of her face, and she puts her hands up to ward it off. She feels then a strong tug on her arm, which she resists frantically until she hears the familiar voice of Payson Tucker and looks up to see his spindly figure towering above the others.

  “Leave her alone,” he commands in a surprisingly deep voice. “Let us pass.”

  He takes hold of Olympia’s arm and walks her through the crowd, which parts under his direction. He runs her up the steps and through the courthouse doors, which are opened for them only. He ushers her quickly into an anteroom.

  “Are you hurt?” he asks at once.

  “No,” she says, though she is badly shaken. “I do not think so. But I do not understand.”

  “It is a disaster,” Tucker says, looking for an electric light switch and, failing to find one, drawing back the dusty drapes at the window. “A disaster.” He opens his briefcase. “Have you seen the newspapers?”

  “No,” she says, but already she feels a foreboding.

  “Take a look at these.”

  There are two newspapers, the Ely Falls Sentinel, with which she is familiar, and L’Avenir, a French-language paper she has occasionally seen on newsstands but has never picked up. BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER OF BOSTON BRAHMIN SEEKS CUSTODY OF FRANCO CHILD, reads the headline of the English paper. FORTUNE’S ROCKS SCANDAL, shouts the Franco paper, Olympia translating, with a subheading: THE BREAK-UP OF A FRANCO FAMILY. The editors of both newspapers have commissioned drawings of Olympia. The portrait in the Ely Falls Sentinel is in an oval, much like a cameo, and it shows the young but serious face of a pretty woman who resembles more than anything else a Gibson girl. The drawing that accompanies the story in L’Avenir, however, shows a woman in a low-necked dress that reveals a great deal of bosom. The woman’s lips are parted, and hair wisps float around her face. Neither picture looks much like Olympia.

  “Oh,” Olympia says, sitting down.

  “This is precisely what I did not want to have happen,” Tucker says, picking up one of the papers and slapping it with the back of his fingers. “The city is polarizing. The Francos are passionate about their own community and now will rally around the Bolducs. And the Yankees, threatened by la Survivance, will demonstrate the worst sort of prejudice, as only they are capable of. This has been simmering for years, it is always there, and occasionally there is an event, like this suit, that brings it to the fore. This is Sears’s doing, I know it is. He has nothing to lose from this, and everything to gain. Indeed, I suspect that is why he has taken the case. For the publicity. He certainly is not in it for the fees.”

  But Olympia has another thought, one she voices to Tucker. “To me, this gesture has the imprint of Zachariah Cote all about it,” she says. “This is how he would repay you for having shredded him on the stand yesterday.”

  Tucker looks at Olympia and then seems to see her face for the first time.

  “Miss Biddeford,” he says, putting the paper down. “Here I have been ranting on about class warfare, when, of course, the hurt is to you.”

  “You tried to warn me about this,” she says.

  “Yes, but a warning is nothing compared to the shock of the reality. I know tha
t.”

  Tucker removes the newspapers from the table and puts them in his case. “Are you sure you wish to continue with this case?” he asks. “It is not too late to withdraw your petition.”

  “I am glad my father was not here to see this,” Olympia says, standing and walking to the window. “What is this la Survivance?” she asks, looking down at the crowd. “I know it means survival, but in this context?”

  “It is the rallying cry of the Franco-American community. To keep their culture and their language pure and uncorrupted by the influence of the Yankees. An effort, I might add, that history has shown to be doomed to failure, which I think makes the Francos all the more determined. Of course, you and I know that this suit is not about class or culture, but they will have it differently.”

  “Are you sure?” she asks. “Are you so sure this is not about class or culture?”

  “I have not thought so,” Tucker says. “But it shall become so now.”

  • • •

  In the small hearing chamber, the sounds of the growing crowd outside can be heard through the sole, shrouded window. Albertine looks frightened and clutches the hand of her husband. Judge Littlefield enters the chamber, and even he, Olympia notes, appears to be somewhat rattled.

  “I had hoped to handle this affair privately behind closed doors,” Littlefield says at once when he is seated, “which is where it should remain. But occasionally, through no fault of the court, a legal affair is made public, and that public determines it has need to be witness to the facts of the case. This private dispute has found its way into the newspapers, and I hope I shall never discover that any of the parties present in this room has been responsible for this breach of confidentiality.” Littlefield glares pointedly at Sears, who, in turn, looks startled and bares his palms, as if to say: It was not I.

  “When a case has been made public,” Littlefield continues, “and the public decides it is being denied access to it, it is possible that one or both parties may be injured. Therefore, it is with great reluctance and after much deliberation that I have made the decision to sit in public. We shall now adjourn to a larger chamber, and as I do not wish to expose any of us to personal injury from the crowd that has gathered outside, I shall ask the bailiff to escort you through the entrance behind me. The public shall be let into the chamber through another entrance. Bailiff?”

  Tucker waits for Sears to show Albertine and Telesphore Bolduc through the door behind the judge before he leads Olympia to this exit. Taking her arm, they pass through the door into what seems like a dark warren of tiny chambers, and Olympia thinks of lambs being led to the slaughter. Because the way is murky and labyrinthine, Olympia instinctively draws closer to Tucker. For part of the way, there are no lights at all, and he puts his arm around her shoulder to guide her. It is odd to feel a man’s protective touch again. When they approach the entry to the assigned hearing room, Olympia can hear shouts of encouragement to Albertine and Telesphore. Tucker takes her hand.

  “Mr. Tucker, I am more than a little apprehensive,” she says, looking down at their clasped hands.

  “Miss Biddeford,” he says, “there is something I should like to say to you.”

  In the twilight of the chambers, all that she can see is the suggestion of a face, his eyes.

  “I know that this is a dreadful moment,” he says.

  “Mr. Tucker,” she says.

  “It is only that I wish to say how much I have admired your courage and that I have hope that one day we shall have occasion to be friends and not merely colleagues.”

  Olympia withdraws her hand. “You have picked an exceedingly odd time to announce your admiration,” she says.

  “Yes. Indeed. I have. But is there ever an opportune time and place for such pronouncements?”

  “No, perhaps not.”

  Olympia considers Tucker. “I should not like to quash hope in any person, having much need of it myself,” she says carefully. “And I should particularly not want to disappoint you, since I am already more grateful to you than I can say. But I cannot offer any person more than I can give.”

  “I understand.”

  “Please call me Olympia. It is absurd of us to stand on ceremony when we are surrounded by too much pomp and protocol already.”

  “Thank you, Olympia,” he says.

  “My God, Tucker,” says Judge Littlefield, emerging from the gloom and startling them both. “If I discover that it was Sears who has caused this pandemonium, I shall have him disbarred. Tell me it was not you.”

  “No, sir,” says Tucker, more than slightly flustered to have been overheard in his private petition. “There is no advantage to me in having the courtroom packed with members of the Franco community.”

  “No, quite.”

  “And if I may say so, sir,” Tucker adds, “one cannot be certain that it was Sears either.”

  “No, perhaps not. But who then?”

  “A disgruntled witness perhaps?” Tucker suggests, looking at Olympia as he does so.

  “Let me think on that,” Littlefield says. “And tell your father that he still owes me a barrel of apples.”

  “Sir?”

  “An old bet, Mr. Tucker. An old bet.”

  Littlefield advances toward the door and holds it open for them.

  “This could be a circus,” Tucker says quietly to Olympia as he shepherds her toward the entryway. “And it almost certainly will be painful. From the sound of it, I think there are rather more Franco supporters than Yankee in there. Think only about your cause and remember, it is not the public who is making the decision.”

  “No, I should hope not,” says Littlefield.

  Inside the larger hearing room, it is as Tucker has forewarned: He and Olympia enter the chamber to a chorus of shouts of “La Survivance!” Olympia is aware only of scores of men in gray workshirts and cloth caps calling out and raising their fists. Why are these men not at work? she wonders. Judge Littlefield, by design, enters immediately after them and swiftly takes up the gavel. He pounds sharply and impatiently upon the table before him.

  “Let you make no mistake about these proceedings,” he begins, addressing the crowd. “Such outbursts will not be tolerated in this courtroom, and anyone who so much as utters a word will be thrown out forthwith. Mr. Sears, let us proceed with dispatch.” And whether it is the tension of the proceedings or his refusal to believe that anyone but Sears could be responsible for the mayhem, Littlefield is harsher in his command to Sears than he might be.

  “Counsel for the respondents calls Albertine Bolduc to the stand.”

  To a hum of muffled murmurs, and a severe look from Littlefield, which momentarily silences the crowd, Albertine Bolduc walks to the witness box and steps inside. It is immediately obvious to Olympia that the woman is terrified, for her hands tremble visibly. She has on the same suit and blouse as she did the day before, and she has fashioned her hair, once again, into a high pompadour with fringe at the front.

  “Your Honor,” says Mr. Sears, himself dressed in a pinstriped frock coat of dark navy, the diamonds on his fingers sparkling in the electric lights, “I wish to enter into the case several exhibits.”

  “Yes, Mr. Sears, go ahead.”

  The chamber is large, with many rows of benches and even a gallery, which appears to be packed. On the walls are portraits of grave men with somber expressions.

  “I have here a document issued by the Orphanage of Saint Andre and another by the state of New Hampshire,” says Sears. “I also have several photographs.”

  “Let these documents and photographs be marked as exhibits by the clerk of the court,” Littlefield requests.

  Sears lets the documents be recorded and then takes them back. Holding them close to his breast, as if they were near and dear to him, he approaches Albertine Bolduc in the witness box.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Bolduc.”

  “Good morning.”

  “I have some documents here that I should like you to take a look at and iden
tify for me.”

  Sears shows her the first one, placing it in her trembling hand. “Can you tell the court what this is?”

  “Yes,” she says, her voice barely audible. “Is certificate of guardian from orphanage.”

  “And this one?”

  “Is certificate from state to being foster,” she says haltingly.

  Sears takes the two papers from her and hands them to Judge Littlefield.

  “And, Mrs. Bolduc, can you identify these two photographs?”

  “Yes,” she says. “This one? Is of my little Pierre and me when he is five months. And this one here, this is Pierre in wagon with chicken. He is one year.”

  “Who took these photographs?”

  “Is overseer in the mill who is being friend to me and Telesphore.”

  “Thank you,” says Sears quickly, delivering the photographs to the judge, who studies them for a moment. Oddly, Sears seems abrupt with Albertine on the stand, perhaps uneasy with her obvious lack of education, a fact seemingly heightened by her broken English.

  “Your Honor,” says Tucker, “may we see these photographs?”

  “Yes. Clerk, give these documents and photographs to counsel for the relator.”

  And Olympia will later think: There are some moments in life for which there can be no preparation.

  The first photograph shows a seated woman holding aloft an infant in a long white dress. The woman’s arms are hidden inside the dress. Her face is wrinkled into a broad smile, a pretty smile, over even white teeth. She has on a blouse with a wide white collar and cuffs, and a skirt of a darker shade. The baby has what looks to be a necklace around his neck and tiny kid booties upon his feet. The baby, looking toward the camera, as the mother is, is also smiling broadly, a wide toothless grin. One can almost hear the baby’s laugh. The mother, though grinning, is looking at the photographer with sly delight, as if to say, What do you think of my marvelous treasure?

  In the second photograph, a boy is reaching forward to try to touch a large rooster that has been harnessed to a tiny wooden wagon in which the boy is seated. Around them are long grasses and leaves, suggesting a rural setting.