Allison O'Brian on Her Own

by Melody Carlson

  “Dinner’s not much tonight. Sunday nights we usually eat light,” Muriel explained as she passed her the butter.

  “No, it’s scrumptious! Much better than train food.”

  They smiled and George jabbed Muriel lightly with his elbow. “Oh, Muriel’s just the best cook in Tamaqua Point and she knows it. She’s had lots of offers for other jobs. ‘Course, she turns ‘em all down. We’re happy with Mr. O’Brian—he’s like family to us.”

  After dinner Allison begged Muriel to let her help with the dishes. Muriel made a fuss but finally gave in.

  “These are such pretty dishes,” Allison remarked as she dried a glossy blue-and-white willow plate.

  “Yes, they were your grandmother’s favorites, and over the years I’ve only broken one teacup and a fruit dish.” Allison stacked them carefully, not willing to alter that record.

  “The room I’m in upstairs is so lovely, Muriel. You mentioned it was Katy’s room, but it doesn’t look a bit babyish.”

  “Oh no, of course not. Mrs. O’Brian decorated it just shortly before she passed on.”

  Allison stacked the last bowl in the big oak cupboard and closed the door. She could tell by Muriel’s voice that Grandmother had been special to her.

  “I’ll come up with you to freshen your linens. George is fixing you a fire.” Muriel picked up some sheets and towels on their way up.

  “What’s that nice smell?” Allison asked. “This linen closet reminds me of a fresh summer’s day.”

  “Oh, it’s lavender,” Muriel explained. “Mrs. O’Brian always cut big bunches of fresh lavender from her garden in August to make sachets for the closets and drawers. Even though she’s been gone for years, it’s a habit I never grow weary of. The smell always reminds me of her.”

  Allison breathed in the fragrance. She had a strong suspicion she and Grandmother would have gotten along well.

  A small fire crackled and snapped in the little fireplace. It was framed in friendly blue-and-white tiles that reminded Allison of her grandmother’s pretty dishes. Muriel changed the sheets and freshened the towels in short time, then hesitated by the door.

  “Muriel, I know you’re probably busy, but I have so many questions. . . .”

  “I was hoping you’d ask, darling. Why don’t you unpack a bit and get comfy, and I’ll be back up later with a pot of cocoa and we can chat some.”

  Allison shook out the suits she’d worn on the train and hung them in the closet. It also smelled of lavender. As she placed some sweaters in the top drawer of the oak dresser, she discovered an envelope. It was yellowed with age, and her name, Allison Mercury O’Brian, was written in beautiful lacy handwriting that reminded her of a fancy doily. It had to be from Grandmother! Careful so as not to ruin the envelope, she opened it and slowly read.

  June 16, 1942

  Dearest sweet Allison,

  You may never read this letter, but for now I will pretend that you shall. I have never met you, my dear, and I fear I may never have the pleasure. I know you are eight years old, and I’ve been told you look a bit like your father, my dear, sweet Jamie. He loves you so. If you never hear it from anyone but me, you must know he loves you. He would be with you if it were possible, but sometimes things happen that we have no control over. I have fixed up baby Katherine’s room for you in hopes that you would be able to join us this summer, but it seems it is not to be. Please know this, dear Allison, you are loved. You are an O’Brian. And you will always have a home with us.

  Your loving grandmother,

  Mercury Victoria O’Brian

  A silent tear slid down her cheek. Why had no one told her about this dear grandmother before? Why hadn’t they allowed her to visit? A soft tap at the door startled her, and she wiped her wet face with the back of her hands and opened the door.

  “I see you found your letter.” Muriel opened the drawer of the little bedside table and retrieved a white linen hanky trimmed in hand-tatted lace. “Here’s something else for you. Your grandmother made this from Irish linen.” She handed it to Allison. “Many a time over the years I’ve picked up that letter and dusted around it, wondering if . . .

  Muriel placed the tray on a little table by the fireplace and hugged Allison. “It’s all right, dearie, you go ahead and have yourself a good cry. If need be, I might even join you. This family has had more than its share of tragedy, that’s for sure.”

  Allison wept until she had no tears left. She wiped her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. They sat quietly beside the crackling fire, Muriel in the overstuffed chair and Allison in the petite sewing rocker.

  Allison sipped her cocoa. “I just don’t understand Marsha’s family. They must’ve hated my father. I would have absolutely loved to come out here for a visit—and I never even got the chance. I never even knew they existed. Probably never would have, either, if I hadn’t taken matters into my own hands.”

  Muriel nodded. “So your mother doesn’t know. Well, I’m not surprised. Now, don’t tell anyone, but I’m glad you came. But how in the world did you manage? Do they know where you are? Will we have the police after us? Not that I couldn’t take care of them.” Muriel grinned.

  Allison filled Muriel in on all the details of her trip, and Muriel giggled like a schoolgirl. Allison leaned back in the rocker and warmed her toes by the fire.

  “Muriel, this room is so perfect. I’ve never been in a room that made me feel so special . . . so loved. I feel right at home here.”

  Muriel’s eyes grew misty. “I only hope the saints in heaven can look down from time to time. Your dear grandmother spent the spring of ‘42 working on this entire room just for you. She fretted over each tiny detail, wanting it to be just right. She ordered the wallpaper from New York—it was pre-war Czechoslovakian, hand printed. The rug came from an expensive catalog, and the bedspread was made by her church’s quilting circle. Mrs. O’Brian knew you’d been sent to boarding school, and she was madder than a wet bee about it. She wanted to keep you here and take care of you for Jamie—until he returned from the war. You can’t imagine her disappointment when she got that horrible letter from the Madisons.”

  Allison leaned over, eyes wide. “What was it about?”

  “Oh, it was from your other grandmother. She said awful things about Jamie—just awful! And she told dear Mrs. O’Brian that she would never, never allow you to visit. It broke her heart, it did. I suppose it was no surprise when she became so ill that fall.” Muriel twisted her handkerchief and stared into the fire. “After the bad news about Jamie, Mr. and Mrs. O’Brian began to argue. They had never argued before—at least nothing serious. Mrs. O’Brian refused to believe the news about Jamie, but Mr. O’Brian wrote back East demanding proof. Before long, newspaper clippings were sent.” Muriel blew her nose loudly. “It was pitiful. Truly pitiful.” Allison sat on the edge of her chair waiting for her to continue.

  “I’m probably telling too much, but it’s nothing you shouldn’t know already. Finally poor, stubborn Mr. O’Brian realized that Mrs. O’Brian’s health was too far gone. In the end, he even pretended to agree with her about Jamie’s innocence—he tried everything to rouse her, but it was too late. She slipped away, leaving Mr. O’Brian like a lost little boy. Took him a long time to get over it, and ever since he’s blamed poor Jamie for her death.”

  Muriel pushed herself up from the chair. “But now you’re here, dear. Like a breath of sunshine, you are. Just what the doctor ordered.” She stooped to pick up a small pile of laundry that Allison had accumulated on the trip.

  “Muriel, I can take care of that. Really, I don’t expect you to wait on me.”

  “We’ll have to get one thing straight, young lady. I am paid to work, and besides, I like doing laundry. I don’t mind you helping out once in a while, but don’t forget who runs this house.” Muriel’s smile softened her words.

  “Thanks, Muriel. For everything.”

  “It’s late, dear, and I’m sure you must be very tired.”

  �
��Do you think Grandpa’s feeling better?” She wanted to believe that he would be okay. The reality of his fragile health hit her once again and sent a chill right through her. She still barely knew him. He had to get better. He had to.

  “I’m sure he’s going to make a miraculous recovery, Allison. He’s got such a strong will, and what with you here . . .

  Allison smiled. Of course Muriel had to be right; she’d known Grandpa for years. “Do you think he’d mind if I borrowed a book from his library? I know I won’t be able to sleep. I still feel worried, and so much is running through my head.”

  “Certainly. I know he’ll want you to make yourself right at home. I’m going to check on him right now. And George and I will take turns during the night.”

  “Oh, can I help, too?” Allison asked.

  “No, dear. I think what you need is a good night’s rest. You’ll have the whole day tomorrow to spend with him. By the way, anything you find in this room is for you. This is your room, Allison. It’s the way Mrs. O’Brian always meant it to be.” Muriel closed the door gently behind her.

  Allison looked around the room again. This was her room! Not just a pretty spare room, but her very own room. There were a few books on the bookshelf. A Child’s Garden of Verse, some Beatrix Potter and Winnie the Pooh . . . a little young perhaps, but sweet. She’d have been delighted with them when she was eight. She went to the dainty oak bedside table. It was draped with a delicate crocheted dresser scarf. Allison switched on the sweet little bed lamp, and the pale yellow shade glowed like sunshine. She opened the drawer and discovered a small Bible bound in white leather. Inside, she found the same lacy handwriting dedicating it to Allison from Grandmother. She pressed her lips together and clutched it to her chest. It was a bittersweet joy. Someone had really truly loved her even though they’d never met.

  Allison pondered her grandmother’s sorrow. Perhaps in one way it was fortunate she’d died in the fall of ’42, because it was only shortly after that her father was killed in the war. Poor Grandmother, at least she didn’t have to face her son’s death, too. But Allison’s heart ached just the same. Why couldn’t things have been different? And why had Grandpa blamed his son for Grandmother’s death? It just didn’t seem fair. So much sadness. Would she ever get it all sorted out in her head? At least now she had Grandpa. She would get to know him, and maybe in time it would all make sense.

  She slipped down to the den to look for a book. The light still shone on Grandmother’s portrait. She stared at the lovely woman again. This time she realized that Grandmother Mercury was no longer a stranger. In fact, Allison already felt she knew Grandmother Mercury even better than she knew Marsha.

  She explored the shelves and finally settled on a slightly worn volume of Gone With the Wind. A lot of her friends had read it at school, but it had always looked so thick she’d shied from it. She’d probably have more time for reading now, and she needed something to keep her mind from fretting. She settled back into her room, but the excitement of the day caught up with her. She was asleep within minutes—deep in the South with hoop skirts swaying and jasmine in the air.

  The next morning she awoke relaxed and refreshed. The sunshine-filled room greeted her cheerily. A delicious smell wafted from the kitchen, and Muriel met Allison in the hallway with a laden breakfast tray.

  “What are you doing up so bright and early? I was just bringing up your breakfast. You won’t even let me spoil you for a day!”

  “I’m sorry,” Allison laughed. “Do you want me to go put on my nightie and jump back into bed?”

  “No, but maybe you’d like to take your tray in and join your grandfather for breakfast. He’s complaining something terrible about having to stay in bed this morning.”

  Allison grinned and took the tray from Muriel, then knocked lightly on her grandpa’s door.

  “Who is it?” he grumbled.

  “It’s me, Grandpa, may I join you?”

  “I should say so,” he commanded, his smiling face betraying the warmth behind his gruff voice. “You come right in, Allison. If they’re going to lock me in my room, I should at least have some good company, don’t you think?”

  She rolled a tea cart next to his bed and set her tray down. Then she settled into a nearby overstuffed easy chair. The drapes were drawn, exposing rows of sparkling leaded-glass windows that framed a magnificent view of the ocean. “Grandpa, this room is splendid!”

  “Well, it’s only fair if I’m to be imprisoned, I should at least enjoy the view.”

  “And it’s beautiful out, not a bit of fog today!” she exclaimed. She took a bite of crispy bacon and spread jam on a biscuit. “Now it even looks like summer.”

  “If you look over to the left, you can see a fishing rig out there. It’s a good day for it. When I’m feeling better maybe we can go out. I’ve got a friend with a bonnie boat.”

  “Oh, that would be great. Is it okay with Dr. Hartley?”

  “That old horse doctor! What does he know, anyway?”

  “Grandpa.” Allison tried to sound stern. “I want you to take care of yourself, do you understand?”

  He chuckled. “I guess Muriel’s right about you. You just might be able to keep me in line.”

  She noticed a brass telescope set up by the window. “Does that really work?”

  “Sure does. Bring it over here and we’ll have a look-see.”

  She set it up close to his bed, and he leaned over and peered out, making some adjustments. “There, now, Allison, look out—just as it is—hurry, now.”

  “Wow, Grandpa, I can see the men on the boat and nets and lines and everything.” She watched for a long time, slowly moving the telescope to follow the fishing rig. She wondered if they knew they were being spied on.

  “Yep, I remember that first year here in Oregon. I signed on with the local fishing fleet. Big outfit. Worked my way right up to first mate by the second month. Seems all my years of fishing with my dad off the shores of Ireland finally paid off. I showed them techniques we’d devised back home, and these Oregon waters were just brimming with fish.” He sipped his tea and looked across the blue depths of the ocean. “In no time, Hank Jenson offered me a share in the fleet. Maybe he was afraid I’d go into competition with him, but I wouldn’t have. Hank was a good man. Things were going well for us. We bought a little cottage after Jamie came. But Mercury worried about me getting lost at sea, and the hours were horrible. I’d read about a need for lumber in California and noticed there was plenty around here. Hank and I talked and talked . . . finally we decided to venture out. That was the birth of the J and O Lumber Shipping Company, back in 1912. I invested what little savings I had and Hank financed the rest. But I was the brains in the operation. I did my research, hunted for the best deals, and it all began to play out just like I’d predicted.”

  “That must’ve been exciting! You’d only been in America a few years and you already owned your own business.”

  “Yep, things were moving along fine when we bought this house in 1913 from an old sea captain. But the next summer little Katherine died, and the war slowed down business. Hank and I even went back to fishing for a while just to make ends meet. Those were rough days. . . . But after the war things picked up again. We couldn’t seem to ship lumber fast enough. We bought us another ship and I named her the Mercury Victoria. Hank liked the name—he said maybe the Mercury part would make it go faster.”

  Allison smiled. It was almost like having a ship named after her. Maybe she could see it someday.

  “Things went smoothly for a few years, and we were making money hand over fist. Then in 1925 the Mercury Victoria shipwrecked during a nasty storm. It was right here at Tamaqua Point. They were heading in for the bay after a long trip from San Diego when they hit the rocks out there. Just smashed the boat to bits—pieces of ship washed up for weeks. Hank was aboard. Some of the crew managed to swim to shore, but not old Hank. . . .” Grandpa’s eyes grew misty.

  “Oh, Grandpa, I’m so sorry.”
It seemed a feeble thing to say, but no other words of comfort came to her.

  “I’d tried to talk Hank into constructing a lighthouse many a time, but he never thought it was necessary. I handled Hank’s share of the business. Of course, he left a monthly stipend for his widow, Beatrice Jenson. With the loss of the ship, we decided to incorporate the business. We sold shares and made enough to replace the ship as well as build a lighthouse. It’s named Jenson Light after Hank. But some folks call it the Tamaqua Lighthouse. The government took over the lighthouse during the war, but they put me in charge. I was also the head of the Citizens’ Coast Watch. We kept a lookout for Japanese ships, subs, and aircraft.”

  “That must’ve been exciting. Did you ever spot anything?”

  “No, not really. I thought I saw a submarine once, and even reported it. But later I wondered if it’d been my imagination.”

  “I think I saw the lighthouse yesterday, but it was so foggy I could only see the beam. I want to see it up close sometime. Maybe when you’re feeling better?”

  “I don’t think so, Allison. It’s hard to get to, and the keeper isn’t very friendly. Some people around these parts call him the mad lighthouse keeper.”

  “Really? Do you think it’s true? If he’s mad why don’t you get rid of him?”

  Grandpa’s face twisted. “It’s not that simple. . . .”

  “Are you okay, Grandpa? Am I wearing you out?”

  “No, not at all, lassie.”

  “How was the lighthouse built—I mean, wouldn’t it be difficult being on an island?”

  “Aye, it was. We took out a crew of six men and a bunch of supplies. Periodically we delivered food and materials. The lighthouse was finally completed the summer of 1928.”

  “That’s exactly twenty years ago! You should have a celebration or something.”