Beloved

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  She laid the Sarah Lee aside, just like that, and rang up the rest of Jane's purchases, giving her directions to St. Michael's Day Care. "You make sure you come, now. Seven o'clock. There'll be games of chance."

  Jane walked out clutching her paper bags, briefly tempted to drive to the other, newer supermarket for the darn Sarah Lee. But that would mean going right back where she'd come from; and besides, after shopping at the A&P for the past couple of weeks she felt a surprisingly strong loyalty to the old store.

  Good lord, she thought as she eased her car out of the pretty, cobblestoned lot. I'm bonding. In her whole life she'd never felt loyalty to a supermarket, probably because she'd moved so many times: Providence, Boston, New York, New Haven. Wherever the meat was cheapest, that was good enough for her.

  So many moves, so many jobs, and where had it got her? Clinging to a career ladder with broken rungs and living in a condo that she couldn't sell if she wrapped a big red ribbon around it and threw in her Volvo. No wonder she liked Nantucket so much: it was someplace to run, someplace to hide.

  After she got home, Jane decided against doing any heavy work and contented herself with sorting through some of the boxes in the room that her aunt had used for storage. They were filled with the usual leftovers of a long life lived without heirs: clothes too good to toss, too tight to wear; appliances that stayed broken because there was no husband to fix them, no money to pay someone else; pots that were too big to cook with for one; and photos and prints with broken frames or no frames at all.

  One box, and one box alone, interested Jane. It wasn't very big, just big enough to hold a harmonica, a slender bundle of airmail letters bound in a faded blue ribbon, and a group photo of a dozen or so World War I soldiers. There was an empty bottle of Paris perfume, very old, called Dangereuse. A newspaper clipping, and that was all.

  It was obvious that the items were all related and had had some significance for Aunt Sylvia. But in that case, why hadn't she taken the box with her to the nursing home? Jane untied the brittle ribbon from the letter packet and lifted the top one from the rest. It was addressed in a different hand from the others — French, judging from the stylized numeral "one" and the slashed "seven" in the address. Jane unfolded the single sheet of onionskin. It was dated December 3, 1918, from the French town of Sedan.

  Dearest Sylvie,

  This is the hardest thing I ever had to write. I won't be coming back. I've thought about it until my head hurts, but I can't leave Sedan. Everything I want is here. I've fallen in love, Syl. With a Frenchwoman. She's married too. I didn't mean to and neither did she. But when the armistice was signed three weeks ago, we both knew I couldn't go back to the States.

  You can have the house, Syl. It's the least I can do and I know you're fond of it. I didn't mean to hurt you, honest. If you want a divorce, that's all right too, but I don't know if they'll let you divorce a fellow you can't find. I'm sending along the harmonica your dad gave me. I never learned to play it and I know he had it all his life. I don't know what else to say.

  Your dearest husband,

  Sam

  Shocked, Jane sat there for a stretch of time, then automatically slipped the letter into its envelope and put it back, as if she'd stumbled into an extremely intimate scene between a man and a woman. This was a secret her aunt had very nearly carried with her to the grave: of a husband who had betrayed her in the worst possible way.

  It explained so many things. Was it any wonder that Sylvia spent the rest of her life withdrawn from the Nantucket community? What would her choices be whenever the subject of her husband came up? To lie, or to humiliate herself. Dear, poor Aunt Sylvia. No wonder they thought she was a witch.

  It explained something else as well: her aunt's vague story that she had had her husband's remains cremated and scattered at sea. The real reason there was no grave was because Sam had never come back.

  Jane couldn't imagine what it must have been like to open the envelope addressed in someone else's hand; to read the crushing message within; to fold the letter up and put it away; and — eventually — to make supper, or do the laundry, or a little Christmas shopping. In short, to go on living, in the house Sam was letting her keep as a consolation prize.

  In the house that Sylvia had bequeathed to Jane.

  Good God, she realized suddenly. The house may not even be mine to have. What if Sam were still alive, or had remarried — did Aunt Sylvia ever divorce him? Or what if he had children in France? And how had Sylvia Merchant managed to convince her attorney that she was a widow? Overwhelmed by the possibilities, Jane went back to the cardboard box, looking for an answer.

  She found it almost at once, in a brittle newspaper clipping dated a month after Sam's letter to his wife. It was an obituary, cut out of the Inquirer. Sam Merchant had died on December 11, 1918, exactly one month after the armistice was signed at Compiègne, when the transport vehicle he was riding in overturned.

  So the Army had never found out, and neither did Nantucket, that Sam had made other plans for himself. Which had come first to Sylvia Merchant, Jane wondered — the news from the Army, or the news from her husband? The postmark on Sam's letter was illegible, and Jane couldn't find any death notice from the Army. Either way, it was a sickening one-two punch.

  And who had posted Sam's last letter? The handwriting on the envelope was French, undeniably. His mistress? Could any woman be that cruel? Or was she just doing the rational thing, the French thing, and tying up loose ends?

  A kind of morbid, fatalistic curiosity overtook Jane, and she began reading Sam's letters — there were a dozen or so — from the earliest to his last. They were short, sweet, and simple, spanning about six months. There was the initial excitement of landing in a foreign country; predictable raves when he passed through Paris; some gossip about the men in his unit; expressions of hope that the Germans would soon be defeated.

  Sam also wrote of the French people, whom he found aloof and indifferent — that is, until he met a soldier who was a fisherman by trade, with a boat on the Meuse. After all, Sam was a fisherman, too, with a boat on Nantucket; they spoke a common language.

  After that, Sam became more enthusiastic about the French. By the time the Germans abandoned Sedan, and the U.S. military respectfully encouraged the French to reenter their town first, Sam was a staunch ally. That was the day before the armistice was signed. Three weeks later, he didn't want to come home.

  What had happened? Was it really love at first sight, or was it the war? How could he be so sure it was love?

  Jane stood up and wandered over to the window, the one that opened onto the huge lilac bush, and stared out at the bleak late-winter landscape beyond. For thirty-three years Jane had been waiting to fall in love at first sight. How hard could it be? All her friends apparently had done it. She'd heard all about the symptoms: pounding heart, stumbling speech, sweaty hands. But the only time she'd experienced those symptoms was when she had to make a presentation at the office.

  Jane picked up the photograph of the Army unit again. She had no idea which of the soldiers was Sam Merchant. They all looked alike: young and naive, and new to the game. How could any one of them have made a decision to go AWOL in a foreign country and leave behind a wife and a home — and a boat? It seemed such a monumental, passionate thing to do. She felt a sudden stab of jealousy for someone so thoroughly ravaged by love.

  She laid the curled photograph face down on the letters and tied them up with the ribbon. Never mind, she told herself. You have a list of the symptoms. When it happens, it'll be obvious.

  She thought about it and smiled. Just like the flu.

  ****

  That evening Jane decided, after all, to go to St. Michael's bazaar; with any luck she'd find out something more from Mrs. Adamont about her aunt. She put on a black wool skirt and a bulky teal sweater, and black leather boots which weren't very waterproof, and headed off for the day care center.

  St. Michael's Day Care was a small gray-shingled house st
anding alongside a small turreted church of the same name, near the Nantucket Airport. The area was one of the less fashionable in Nantucket, probably because it was too far inland for the pied-à-terre set. The parking lot was reasonably full. Jane followed the signs and ended up in the church's basement, a wide-open, well-lighted room filled with tables and tables of ... stuff. She had no idea what to expect — she'd never actually been to a church bazaar — but this one looked like fun.

  There were raffle tables, a take-a-chance display, a handmade crafts and linens table, a book sale, and a white elephant section. There was even a concession table serving up pizza and Coke. A long table set up at the far end held a mouth-watering assortment of baked goods, including three still-warm coffee cakes Mrs. Adamont had just put out.

  "Isn't that nice, you've come," she said to Jane when she saw her. She leaned over and whispered, "Buy this one; it has extra apricots."

  Jane bought it. And two slices of baklava. And two cupcakes with sprinkles. And a Napoleon. She and Mrs. Adamont were arranging the haul in a brown paper bag when the churchwoman spied someone behind Jane. "Hey! Mac! Come over here!"

  Jane whipped around in time to see Mac McKenzie laughing with a couple of men behind the pizza table. It was like being splashed with cold water. McKenzie — laughing! McKenzie — at ease with other human beings! So he wasn't a misanthrope. And he didn't look anything like an ax murderer. He glanced over with a wave of acknowledgment and sauntered toward them, hands in the pockets of his corduroy slacks. If he was surprised by Jane's presence, he didn't show it.

  "Mac, you never endorsed that third-party check over to St. Michael's," Mrs. Adamont said, rummaging through her handbag for it.

  She found the check and laid it on the table, then dove back into her purse for a pen. Jane, normally the soul of discretion, read the front of it. It was from Bing Andrews to Mac McKenzie for thirty dollars. On the memo line, Bing had written "plow J.D. drive."

  "There's a pen here somewhere," said Mrs. Adamont. "I'll find it." She plunged into her purse with both hands, like a clamdigger with a bull rake at low tide. "I'll find it."

  McKenzie turned his back to the bake table and murmured pleasantly to Jane, "Slumming?"

  It was uncalled for. Almost everything he'd ever said to her was uncalled for. "Not until now," she said, just as pleasantly.

  Mrs. Adamont brandished a pen in triumph. "I found it! Sign it over, Mac. Before you change your mind!"

  McKenzie bent over the table to endorse the check and Jane found herself assessing the broad expanse of his back. She averted her eyes, she wasn't sure why. She studied his signature instead: strong, quick, illegible. His personality exactly.

  "Thank you, Mr. McKenzie, sir," Mrs. Adamont said cheerfully, snatching up the check. "This is a lovely donation. But take something with you, at least. For dessert."

  McKenzie grinned and said, "Okay. If I can't have you, Adele, then I'll take one of those Napoleons I saw earlier."

  Mrs. Adamont looked crestfallen. "I sold the last one to this young lady."

  Instantly Jane said, "You're welcome to it, I have more than enough of everything —"

  "That'd be my guess, too," he said dryly.

  "Lighten up, McKenzie," she said through a clenched smile. She opened the top of her brown A&P bag and said, "Help yourself. It's right on top."

  He bent over to see at the same time that she bent over to check, and they knocked heads. Jane let out a little cry of pain and annoyance. McKenzie said, "We seem to do a lot of this, don't we?"

  "Yes! No. Here you are," she said, reaching in the bag and pulling out the pastry. "Take it."

  It wasn't exactly a peace offering, not in any real sense of the phrase. But Jane wanted to be on the granting end, not the receiving one, with this man. It was important to her. She wondered why. Maybe she knew, instinctively, that he'd resent it. The way he must've resented Bing's check.

  She watched him take the sweet, and for a second she thought he was going to donate it back to Mrs. Adamont. But instead he smiled and bit down on it with strong, white teeth, savoring it, and that made her instantly want the Napoleon more than anything else in her bag.

  This is absurd, she thought, compressing her lips. This guy drives me nuts. He does it on purpose.

  She passed her grocery bag over the table to Mrs. Adamont. "Can I leave this with you until I've looked at some of the other tables?"

  "Sure you can. Mac, you take this girl around and show her the bazaar. She was very nice, giving you her Napoleon." She dismissed them like two preschoolers and turned her attention to the next customer.

  As they walked away, Jane said quickly, "I'm sure you have other things to do."

  McKenzie polished off the last of the cream-filled puff paste and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. "If I get a better offer," he said, wiping his hands clean, "I'll let you know."

  "Please do," Jane said coolly, and stopped, ignoring him, to peruse the white elephant table. It held the usual array of castoffs: awful bowls and orange vases, odd glasses and gold-trimmed pitchers, and linen calendar towels, never used, from years gone by. There was also a wooden crate filled with old and broken tools.

  McKenzie beat her to it. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he poked around in desultory fashion through the collection of screwdrivers, coping saws, planes, and chisels. One of the things he laid aside in the process of sorting through them was an old-fashioned rotary hand drill.

  "A hand drill!" Jane said, delighted. "I've been looking for one."

  McKenzie looked almost embarrassed. "I'm, uh, sorry ... I took it out to buy."

  "Oh. Well, naturally, since you saw it first ... Ah, the handle's missing," she added quickly. "I wouldn't have wanted it anyway." She picked up the next thing she saw, a Phillips screwdriver for fifty cents, and paid the man in a Bruins cap who was standing guard.

  Incredible. Twice in five minutes they'd gone after the same thing. Men and women never wanted the same thing. That was one of nature's laws. What would they be fighting over next, she wondered. A shower curtain?

  The next table was overflowing with crafts and linens. McKenzie ambled past the crocheted doilies and corn husk dolls with hardly a glance, but Jane stopped and sniffed each of the potpourris, grateful for the chance to regroup. What was it about him? Every moment they'd ever spent together had been awkward. And she was just as much to blame as he was. She'd never met anyone who'd got so much on her nerves. Oil and water, that's what they were.

  And it was also true — she was ashamed to admit it — that she still didn't trust him. Some people were open books; Bing, for example. But others ... well, she was beginning to understand the expression "Still waters run deep." Oh, she'd known quiet men before. But they were merely dull, sometimes transparently so. They were not men she'd call deep.

  She'd been staring for a small eternity at what looked like a pink-and-purple crocheted top hat, without having a clue what it was. When the sweet old lady behind the table said, "I made it myself," Jane had no choice but to buy it. She handed over two dollars and fifty cents.

  "You might not be able to fit it over the fluffier kinds," the elderly volunteer advised. "I use Scott brand."

  Baffled still, Jane turned and walked virtually into McKenzie's arms.

  "A screwdriver and a toilet paper cover," he said with an absolutely impenetrable expression. "You're really making out tonight."

  "A what? Oh, you mean the ... yes, the toilet paper cover. Well," she said, tossing off a shrug, "that's what tag sales are like. Something for everyone."

  He smiled — in a way it was an attractive smile, even if it was a snotty one — and said, "We'll see if it ever ends up on your bathroom shelf."

  "I doubt very much that you'll ever get the chance to know," she retorted, and then she turned her attention to the next table.

  It was the take-a-chance table, with a big fishbowl filled with little folded slips. The prizes were mostly stuffed animals; but there we
re three grand prizes of a blender, a coffeemaker, and a toaster oven, to lure the high rollers. Jane plunked down five dollars, assuming she'd get five chances, and was astonished when the vendor said, "Fifteen chances, young lady. See what you can do."

  She plunged into the bowl and pulled out her first slip of paper. Sorry, it said in a neatly written hand. She pulled out another. Sorry. And another: sorry.

  McKenzie was still standing there, enjoying her rotten luck, she supposed. "You know, Mr. McKenzie," she said, still simmering over the toilet-paper-cover crack, "I'm pretty tired of you treating me like some snob."

  She pulled out two slips at once by mistake. Sorry. Sorry. "Apparently you have some problem with people who inherit real estate" — sorry — "although I can't imagine why, since you own an old family business yourself." Sorry. "But I'm a little tired of your attitude." She opened three more slips while she waited for him to respond: sorry, sorry, and a sorry.

  "My attitude," he said at last, "is to live and let live."

  Sorry. "You know that's not true," she insisted. "You know you resent me living in that house. You know you resent me getting ready to sell it. There's no way you won't resent me. You're determined, because I'm an off-islander." Sorry! Again? "Well, there's nothing I can do about that." Sorry. "Maybe my aunt should've left you the house, but she didn't. I'm sorry."

  She opened the next slip: You win a stuffed toy.

  "Hey! I won!" she cried. "I won I won I won!" she repeated in a laughing babble. "This is incredible! I won!"

  She waved the paper at the vendor in high spirits, then turned around in time to see McKenzie staring at her with a look of ... she didn't know what. She'd never seen a look like that on a man's face before. Good, bad, up down — she had no idea. "Well, I did," she repeated, altogether confused.

  The vendor said, "Pick any toy you want, miss, any at all."