by Anita Shreve
“Olympia, I am so sorry.”
She shrugs, as if to say, It does not matter now. She asks him: “Do you enjoy practicing medicine in Minnesota?”
“The need is desperate.” He glances around. “Do you live here alone?”
“Yes.”
“How extraordinary.”
“Is it?”
“I think so.”
“I came in here to say I did not make the tea.”
“I am not sure I could hold a teacup steady,” he says.
“Would you like a drink of spirits? I was having one when you came.”
“Were you? How unlike you. But then how would I know what is like you now? Yes, thank you.”
She walks into the pantry and pours him a glass of the whiskey. When she returns, he is staring out the windows again. He takes the drink from her. There is within him, she thinks, some great strength that she herself does not have access to.
“I am so very sorry, Olympia. To think of your giving birth so young and losing the child in the same moment. It is more than anyone should have to bear.”
“I would not wish you to be sorry,” she says.
“I am happy simply to be in this room,” he says. “I have imagined this a thousand times.”
But even this happiness, she sees as she glances up at his eyes, must necessarily be less than it was. He has sacrificed his children. He has made them sacrifice him. What happiness can there be after such a loss?
“I did not ever stop loving you,” he says. “Not for one minute.” He takes a drink of the whiskey. “It must be said. There is joy, even now, in saying it. I would not have thought such love could be maintained over so long a time. But there it is. There is no point in saying anything but the truth,” he adds.
“I have felt relief in speaking the truth to Mr. Tucker,” she says. She wraps her arms around herself. With the sun down, the room is colder. “There is something I want you to see,” she says. “Upstairs. But wait here a minute.”
She walks into the kitchen to fetch the nightshirt. When she returns, she asks: “Will you come with me?”
He follows her into the front hallway and up the wide staircase. They move along a darkened corridor. She pauses outside a room, not her own, and opens the door. She walks to a table and turns on a lamp, revealing a child’s bed covered with a blue and white crocheted coverlet. On the floor is a navy hooked rug with a red star in its center. There is a nursery table and chairs, a wooden toy box, painted red. Blue curtains with a star pattern are at the window. From the ceiling hangs a mobile of tin stars.
“I found the furniture in the attic,” she says. “It used to be mine. I made the rug and the curtains and the mobile,” she adds, not without a note of pride. “My room is next door. I thought he would want to be close to me. I am sure he will be frightened. I am frightened.”
She walks to a tin trunk, kneels, and opens it. Inside is the boy’s wardrobe. She folds the nightshirt carefully and lays it on the top. She closes the trunk.
“I know that you will be a good mother to him,” Haskell says.
She looks up at him in the doorway.
“I shall go now,” he says.
She is not prepared for this so soon, and, in not being prepared, she resorts to manners. “You have a carriage?” she asks.
“I shall walk to Ely and take the trolley from there. The walk will do me good. Though I shall falter in the marshes.”
She stands.
“You have not said anything about how these years have been for you,” he says.
“No, I cannot.”
“Your face is exquisite. More formed. As though your character has been completed.”
“But we are all unfinished portraits,” she says.
“Will you not at least give me your hand?” he asks. “We never said a proper good-bye.”
“No, we did not. We could not.”
She walks to him in the doorway and extends her hand, which he takes. His skin is coarsened with calluses.
“We made a child together,” he says. “It hardly seems possible.”
“I have often wondered when,” she says. She glances at the room that will be her son’s. “He may be here tomorrow. To think of it.”
“Love him,” Haskell says suddenly. “For me as well.”
She squeezes Haskell’s hand with all her strength, digging her nails into his skin. The want is sharp, the sorrow too keen.
“You could have come back at any time!” she cries.
“I made myself stay away. Can you not see how far I had to go?”
“You could have kept the child!”
“No, Olympia. I could not.”
He draws her toward him, burying her face. He weeps like a child himself, hiccuping with the weeping, with no shame, with no thought of hiding this from her. She is speechless with the relief his body offers her.
He holds her head in his hands. He kisses her, and she remembers the softness of his mouth, his taste.
“I shall never believe that this is wrong,” he says.
She looks at him, having already decided. She shuts the door and leads him along the hallway and into the room with the blue forget-me-nots on the walls and the amber-beaded lamp on the scarred mahogany table, unwilling yet to take him into her own room.
“I remember this room from the night of the shipwreck,” he says, glancing around.
She walks to the narrow bed, having forgotten how to begin. “We shall have this whole night,” she says. “We shall sleep beside each other this whole night, and no one will disturb us.”
“No one,” he says. He listens, as if astonished. “What perfect quiet.” And she thinks: Where he has been has perhaps been crude and noisy.
“Have you loved another?” he asks quickly.
She shakes her head. “Have you?”
“I tried to be with other women. To lessen what we had. If I could cheapen it, I thought, then it might be bearable.”
She feels a quick stab of jealousy. Other women’s bodies.
“But I could not,” he says. “I kept seeing your face.”
He traces the outline of her mouth with his finger. “It was this that tormented me most,” he says.
He kisses her, a chaste kiss, unlike the one before.
“Do you still have the locket?” he asks.
She nods.
“Then let me see it.”
She unfastens the buttons of her dress. He leans over to turn on the lamp. She bares her chest, the locket lying just above her corset. He takes it in his fingers.
“It is evidence you truly loved me,” he says.
He lets the locket fall and traces the curve of her breasts as he did her mouth.
“I was tormented by the memory of this as well,” he says.
• • •
She does not sleep for fear of waking and finding him gone. In the middle of the night, Haskell dresses himself and walks down to the kitchen to forage for food. He comes back with bread and butter and jam and more quilts to burrow under. He undresses and climbs back into the narrow, single bed with her. Above the quilts they can see their breath. Beside them on the mahogany table, a thick wine-colored candle burns down, creating a waxen waterfall to admire.
She thinks, as he sleeps beside her: A love affair is the sum of many parts — the physical, the sense of being set apart, the jealousy, the loss. It is not a trajectory, not a straight line, but rather a deck of playing cards that has been shuffled, this thing fitting into that thing fitting into this thing.
“You cannot go away now,” she says, waking him. “I could not bear to lose you again so soon.”
• • •
“You are distracted,” Tucker says to her from across the table. “Well, of course you are.”
The walls of the restaurant are covered with red silk. On the tables are small bouquets of early daffodils. The white linens are heavy and embossed, quite the most beautiful table linens she has ever seen. The room is crowded this noontim
e, mostly with men, although there are some women in suits and toques. How is it that such a place exists in Ely Falls?
Olympia studies her plate. On it is an enormous piece of roasted beef that just moments earlier a waiter sliced for her on a silver cart at tableside. She cuts a small bite and dips it into the horseradish sauce. “I had no idea that such a place was here,” she says.
“It is the only decent restaurant in town. I eat here often.”
“Do you?”
She watches as he cuts into his beef. She guesses he has on his best coat for the judgment: a fine charcoal worsted, and with it a blue and black silk tie against a snowy shirtfront. His hair has been polished back from his head in a nearly unbroken line. Only his slight impatience with the waiter, and even perhaps with her, betrays his anxiety. Her own anxiety appears to have manifested itself as a complete lack of appetite, so that it is an effort even to chew the small piece of beef she has put into her mouth. She takes a sip of water.
“What was the bet?” she asks.
“The bet?”
“Littlefield said your father still owed him a barrel of apples.”
“My father bet Littlefield I would never go into the law. Littlefield took the bet. My father sent the apples the very next day.”
She thinks: Would it not be better to love Tucker? Was that not the way it was supposed to be?
“You understand what will happen today,” Tucker is saying. “We will walk into the chamber and sit, and Littlefield will come out, and then he will read the judgment.”
“And then it will be over.”
“And then it will be over.”
He lifts his glass of wine. “You wore that suit the night we had dinner at the Highland,” he says.
She looks down at the green velvet, scarcely knowing what she has on.
“I will give you and the boy a ride back to Fortune’s Rocks,” Tucker says.
“The boy has probably never been in a motorcar,” Olympia says. “He may be frightened.”
“It will be better in an automobile than on the trolley so late in the evening. And there may be some unpleasantness.”
He means the Francos, she thinks. “Thank you,” she says. She attempts another bite. “What I find most difficult is the absolute finality of the judgment. It seems there ought to be an easing. Not so abrupt.”
“Custody suits are always exceptionally difficult,” says Tucker. “But the courts have found over the years that a clean break is actually better for the child, particularly at this age. Most children, when they are grown, do not remember anything of when they were three.”
“Then if I win, he will not remember her.”
“Probably not.”
“It seems unduly harsh,” she says.
This morning, Olympia made Haskell leave the cottage early. She washed her hair and then cooked a meal of roasted chicken and cornbread, her own favorite meal as a child, so that she and the boy might have a supper waiting for them when they returned to Fortune’s Rocks in the evening. Lacking anyone to consult, she has read two books on maternal care and family life. She has also purchased a French grammar, which she has been reviewing daily for weeks, having had the realization that of course the boy will not speak English.
“Mr. Tucker, you have been very kind to me. I hope it shall go well today for my own sake, but also for yours.”
“You cannot eat,” he says, looking down at her plate.
“No, I cannot. I am sorry.”
“It is perfectly understandable.”
He reaches his hand across the table, and as he does so an entirely new anxiety presents itself: After the judgment is read — perhaps not today, not this afternoon, but one day soon — she will have to tell Tucker that she cannot, after all, offer him any hope.
• • •
When they reach the courthouse, it is as before, with newspaper reporters and Franco supporters standing all about the entrance. Tucker, who has left his motorcar at the restaurant and has walked Olympia to the courthouse, sees the crowd before they see him. He makes an abrupt about-face, taking Olympia with him. “I know of a side entrance,” he says. “I should like to avoid the crowd both coming and going today if I can.”
Tucker holds her elbow as he leads her into the chamber. And she is glad of his support, for when she sees Albertine in her black suit, holding a string of rosary beads, her lips silently moving and her eyes shut tight in prayer — and then Telesphore with his eyes closed and his arms crossed, himself in an attitude of either prayer or sleep — Olympia has a sudden and clear picture of just how terrible this hour will be. Tucker leads her to her seat, carefully placing himself between Olympia and Albertine.
“The judge will be here soon,” Tucker says. “In a few minutes, it will all be over.”
And indeed, as Tucker says this, the bailiff asks the court to rise and announces the judge. Levi Littlefield and Addison Sears come into the courtroom simultaneously from opposite directions, Littlefield once again entering with a great sweep of his robes, Sears running up the aisle like a boy late for class. Littlefield ignores the lawyer’s tardiness. Indeed, the judge seems somber this day, almost sad. His mouth is tightly drawn, and he does not look at either Olympia or Albertine, but only at his notes.
“I shall deliver the opinion of the court in the case of Biddeford v. Bolduc,” Littlefield says. He puts on his glasses. Olympia looks around at the dark wood paneling of the chamber, the electric lights in shaded sconces on the walls. In a moment, her future will be decided.
So this is it, she thinks.
“In this case, the writ of habeas corpus was issued at the insistence of Olympia Biddeford and directed to Albertine and Telesphore Bolduc, commanding them to have before the court the body of Pierre Francis Haskell, the infant son of the relator.”
Littlefield looks over his half glasses at the assembled in the chamber.
“The relator has argued that the infant boy was taken unlawfully from her, and by a series of unlawful actions then placed into the custody of Albertine and Telesphore Bolduc, who have raised the boy for more than three years now.”
With a sidelong glance, Olympia can see that Albertine is leaning forward, as though trying to translate Littlefield’s every word.
“Albertine and Telesphore Bolduc make return that they are possessed of the custody of the child; that, as its foster mother and father, they claim and are entitled to such custody for the proper and necessary purposes of its care and guardianship, and for no other purpose; that they have in no respect restrained said child’s liberty or detained him illegally; and that the child’s tender age does not admit of being separated from them due to the potential injury to his spiritual health.”
Littlefield takes a drink of water.
“In this sober matter thus presented to the court, we have seen that the issues of this case are far-reaching. We would, if we could, resort to legal principle; but occasionally, a case presents itself to the court for which there are no legal precedents.”
Olympia glances over at Albertine again and, as she does so, hears a slight movement at the back of the courtroom. She turns to see who has entered the chamber. Haskell sits immediately. The bailiff, noting Haskell’s physician’s satchel, must think he has been asked by Littlefield to be present in case of medical need, for he does not speak to Haskell or ask him to leave.
Tucker glances at Olympia, then turns to see what it is that has so captured her attention. He quickly turns back to Olympia. His eyes dart all about her face. He will not know Haskell by sight, but might he guess at the man’s identity from her demeanor? She watches Tucker’s expression as curiosity gives way to comprehension.
“There are two questions before the court today,” Littlefield continues. “The first is: Shall the court redress a wrong and recognize that the child was unlawfully taken from its mother? And second: To what extent is the court charged with guaranteeing the continued well-being of the child?”
Littlefield licks his fi
nger and turns a page.
“The court not only must consider the care that the boy has received from his guardians to date but also must scrutinize the community into which the child will be given up. For we are bound to recognize that the community and the environment of the home will either harm or help the child in his future life. If the court is given, no matter how briefly, the charge of ensuring the child’s welfare, it must take into consideration all future likelihoods.”
Olympia closes her eyes.
“However strong the allegations against the character of Olympia Biddeford, which in his pleadings have been made by the counsel for the respondents; however clearly the respondents have shown themselves to be careful caretakers of the infant boy; however injurious it may be to the boy to be separated from the only parents he has ever known, the court is bound to say that the respondents have failed to satisfy the court as to the future education and well-being of the boy.”
Beside her, Tucker seizes her hand. She looks at Tucker and then over at the respondents’ table. Sears sits impassively, studying the handle of his briefcase. Albertine and Telesphore appear not to understand what has been said, even though they seem to sense something amiss. Albertine looks wildly all about her.
“The court,” Littlefield continues, “however much it may be loath, in this particular instance, to do so, cannot allow a boy to remain in a household in which he may, in future, by influence of his guardians or by persons influential to the guardians, or by circumstances beyond the guardians’ control, such as poverty or undue influence of community, commit crimes against the state.”
A cry pierces the chamber. Littlefield looks up from his brief. Albertine, her hands in the air, cries,“Non! Non! Non!” Littlefield does not ask for order, as if he has realized that it is the right of the woman to disrupt the court. Albertine turns and grabs her husband’s arm.
“In addition,” Littlefield continues, “the court is bound to acknowledge that the guardians in this case, Albertine and Telesphore Bolduc, though blameless, received the child into their care as a result of an unlawful separation of the child from the natural mother. The court is therefore presented, in this case, with a dual charge: to redress the wrong that was done both to the infant child and to its natural mother, Olympia Biddeford; and to ensure the continuing nurture of this child by guaranteeing, insofar as the court or any institution can guarantee the future, its healthful security and education.”
