Iris looked from her husband to the child that was left her. They waited on the other side of the grave. Then she turned to her father, standing beside her. Finally she rose. Mr. Kimmelbrod put his hand in the crook of her elbow and together they turned away from the graves.
“Wait a minute, Dad,” Iris said. Stepping carefully on the plank, she knelt down, and smoothed out the wet, wadded tissue she held in her hand. She took a handful of dirt. It was dry and pebbly, and some leaked through her fingers. She poured the dirt into the tissue and then folded it into a tiny bundle. She hesitated for a moment, wondering where to put it. She had neither purse nor pockets.
“Give it to me,” Daniel said.
She handed him the soggy tissue and rubbed her gritty palm on her hip, leaving a smear of dirt on the khaki fabric of her skirt. She clasped her daughter’s hand, gave her father her other arm, and led them across the grass to where the cars were parked, Daniel trailing a few steps behind.
VIII
A dozen books piled in her arms, Ruthie bumped her hip against the handicapped-accessible button and stepped back to allow the library doors to swing slowly open. She strode through the door, eyes down to elude any random sympathetic glances that might be cast in her direction. She made it to the circulation desk just as she began to lose her grip on the books.
It was Mary Lou Curran’s day volunteering behind the desk, a task that members of the library board shared during August when, with the influx of late-summer visitors, the circulation of books doubled. Normally, Iris would have been obliged to take a shift or two, but after the accident the board had met in special session and voted to absolve her of the responsibility for the rest of the summer. Mary Lou’s hand had been the single one raised in opposition to the motion. Without knowing it, she and Ruthie shared similar notions about the burdens of sympathy. Mary Lou was convinced that it would have done Iris more good to stick to her usual routines than to hole up in the house.
“My goodness,” Mary Lou said, stacking Ruthie’s books neatly on top of one another. She flipped open a book, and glanced at the due date. “Overdue,” she said. “That’s not like you. And since when do you read John Grisham?”
A few days ago, Ruthie had received an e-mail from the head librarian gently informing her that a number of books checked out by Rebecca Copaken were now long overdue. “I don’t want to trouble your mother at such a time,” the librarian wrote. “But there are nearly twenty people on the waiting list for Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and almost as many for The Last Juror.” Ruthie had not been willing to trouble Iris, either—about the books or anything else. In the six weeks since the funeral her mother had burrowed deep. She spent hours in her saggy armchair on the screen porch, sometimes not even bothering to change out of the old plaid pajama bottoms and white T-shirt of Daniel’s that she slept in during the summer. For hours she intently perused back issues of Oxford University’s Holocaust and Genocide Studies, which was not that different from the way she’d passed all the previous summers of Ruthie’s life, Ruthie supposed, except that now Iris no longer punctuated her days of grim research with jaunts on the whaler, sailing with friends, or picnic excursions to Red Hook Hill. Ruthie was not surprised that her mother had become more remote and inaccessible in her grief, nor did she begrudge her for needing to do it; but understanding and accepting her mother’s reaction did little to alleviate her own loneliness.
Like her mother, books had offered Ruthie refuge since the accident. Ruthie had retreated to the familiar, rereading all of George Eliot from Adam Bede to Daniel Deronda. In her return stack was a copy of Middlemarch, which was one of her favorite novels. This time her melancholy had infected her appreciation of Eliot’s wit.
Ruthie had taken upon herself the task of tracking down and rounding up Becca’s library books. This was, in truth, not much different than what Ruthie had always done for her sister. Even as little girls, Ruthie had been neat and orderly, Becca sloppy. When Iris would demand that Becca clean her room, as often as not Ruthie would do it for her. Ruthie had always organized Becca’s closet, added her name to cards on presents to make up for her forgetfulness, and returned her library books.
The legal thrillers and murder mysteries that were all that Becca ever read had been scattered and secreted all over the house. Some had even migrated onto the bookcases, where they hid next to generations of summer reading, her great-grandmother’s bloated paperbacks, her mother’s various literary volumes, her father’s biographies and histories. Armed with the e-mailed list, Ruthie found books that Becca had borrowed months before, and one, a water-bloated copy of a Stephen King novel, another edition of which Ruthie knew resided on the bookshelf in Daniel’s office, that had been due in June. Of last year. Ruthie arrived at the library this morning with eight of the eleven overdue titles. She had a good idea where the other three were, but she had not been able to bring herself to enter Becca’s room to search for them.
Mary Lou took her hand-held scanner and began scanning the bar codes. “Ah,” she said. She gave Ruthie a small but understanding smile.
Ruthie said, “They’re all really late. Some of them …” She fumbled for her purse.
“Oh, don’t worry about the fines,” Mary Lou said. She tapped a few keys on the computer. “All gone.”
“It’s all right,” Ruthie said. “I brought money.”
“Absolutely not,” Mary Lou said, pushing away the wad of bills Ruthie pressed on her.
“Please,” Ruthie said. “I insist.”
Mary Lou considered the matter. “If your money’s really burning a hole in your pocket, you might want to bail your young friend here out of trouble. She’s a notorious deadbeat.”
Ruthie turned and found little Samantha Phelps standing behind her, clutching a substantial pile of books in her skinny arms. Her hair was done up in two painfully tight pigtails and she wore a pair of cutoff shorts and a T-shirt that was at least two sizes too big.
“They’re not late!” Samantha said. “I know they’re not late.” She dropped to the ground and began flipping through the books. She seemed to be both outraged and terrified by the idea of having incurred overdue fines. “See!” she said. “August fifth! That’s tomorrow. They’re not late.”
Mary Lou smiled. “Of course they’re not, honey. I was just teasing.”
Ruthie helped Samantha get to her feet and gather up her things from the carpet, where, in her haste to defend herself, she had dropped them.
“You like audiobooks,” said Ruthie, handing Samantha a plastic box containing cassette tapes of Kipling’s Just So Stories.
“I like the ones with music,” Samantha said.
“Classical Literature with Classical Music,” Ruthie read. “That sounds fun. Did you like the Kipling?”
“It’s okay.” Samantha shuffled her feet, clearly eager to slip away. “I like the Bach.” She pronounced it to rhyme with catch.
Ruthie wrinkled her brow, unable to understand the mispronounced reference. “When I was little Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was my absolute favorite story. Do you know that one?” Introducing someone to a book she might love had always been one of Ruthie’s greatest pleasures.
Samantha said, “It’s on the tape.”
“Oh, good. Well, did you like it?”
“Yes,” Samantha said. “Especially the music.” She looked down at her feet, her long bangs falling across her eyes. Ruthie felt the urge to smooth them away, but instead she crouched down next to the girl and said, “How’s your aunt?”
“Okay.”
“And Matt?”
“Okay.”
“Everyone’s pretty much okay, huh?” Ruthie said, gently teasing.
Samantha flushed and glanced down at her feet. She was wearing sandals a size too big for her, her toes hidden beneath the Velcro strap. Ruthie gave into her urge and reached out and tugged gently on one of Samantha’s pigtails. The girl stilled beneath her hand. Ruthie could not tell if she found the touch pleasant or disturbi
ng.
“You remember me, right?” Ruthie said.
“You’re Becca’s sister. Ruthie.”
“Yes,” Ruthie said. She wanted to say something more, to continue the conversation, maintain the connection, but couldn’t think of anything. “Well, you tell everyone I say hi.”
“Okay.”
Samantha slipped out from beneath the unbearable burden of Ruthie’s palm and ran down the hall in the direction of the children’s room.
“She’s an odd little duck,” Mary Lou said. “She’s had a hard life, though, hasn’t she? That poor mother of hers. It was sweet of Becca to include her in the wedding. I’m sure it meant the world to her.”
Ruthie flinched at the casual use of Becca’s name. She could not get used to hearing it spoken aloud.
Mary Lou, seeing Ruthie’s discomfort, patted her hand and said, “You’ll be all right, dear. You know that, don’t you? It just takes time.”
Ruthie felt tears gathering on her lashes. She blinked them back.
Mary Lou asked, “How is your mother holding up?” Before Ruthie could even begin to fabricate a plausible reply, Mary Lou added, “No, of course. I know. You just give her my regards, won’t you?”
Ruthie nodded. She had planned to choose a few books for herself, but suddenly the task seemed insurmountable.
She turned to leave and found herself face-to-face with Matt Tetherly.
“Oh!” she said.
“Hey, Ruthie,” he said.
He looked terrible, black smudges not just under his eyes but around them. His lips were so chapped they were peeling. He licked them now, nervously.
“Hey,” Ruthie said.
“I was just looking for Samantha.” He glanced beyond Ruthie to Mary Lou. “Has she been by to check out her books?”
“She dropped some off,” Mary Lou said. “I imagine she went off to choose some more. If I know that girl it’s going to take her some time. You’d best find a seat. Or, better yet, go on over to the New Releases table. The new Tracy Kidder just came back, and I know how much you loved The Soul of a New Machine.”
“I read that!” Ruthie said. “For a psych class on obsession and compulsion.”
“Really?” Matt said. “I mean, I guess I can see that. The guys it profiles are complete workaholics.”
“Have you read House?” Ruthie asked. “That’s the book of Kidder’s that I really love.”
“I didn’t read that one. I’m not really interested in architecture or construction.”
“I’m not either, but I thought it was really compelling.”
Mary Lou, tapping away on her computer, announced, “House is in. For some ludicrous reason it’s in home improvement. Which probably explains why no one has checked it out in four years. Ruthie, why don’t you take Matt upstairs and find it for him.”
Ruthie and Matt blushed and looked away from each other self-consciously.
“Go on,” Mary Lou said, brooking no disobedience.
As they made their way up the stairs Ruthie said, “You don’t have to check it out if you don’t want to.”
Matt shook his head. “Oh, you bet I do. And I’ve got to read it, too. She’ll be quizzing me on it next time I come in.”
Ruthie giggled, and then stopped in her tracks, aghast. She could not believe that she had laughed. Actually laughed. As if anything could be funny now.
Matt glanced back and saw her frozen two steps below. He came back down and stood next to her, not touching her. “It’s okay,” he said.
His voice was impossibly soft and gentle, and although such sympathy from anyone else would have immediately caused her to break down yet again, this time she felt something ease inside of her. “Let’s go get you that book,” she said.
She found it for him quickly. He followed her back downstairs and stopped at the circulation desk to check it out. She stood next to him for a moment and then murmured, “I’d better go.” Before he could answer she turned on her heel and, with a hasty good-bye to Mary Lou, left the library.
After a quick stop at the market to buy milk, eggs, and a tub of the Moose Tracks ice cream her father was so fond of, Ruthie headed for home. To get from the center of town to East Red Hook without traveling on Red Hook Road past Jacob’s Cove was an exercise in complicated navigation that involved nearly fifteen miles of driving, much of it on dirt roads in various states of ill repair. Still, despite the fact that it turned a twelve-minute drive into one that could last as long as forty-five minutes, depending on whether you had the bad luck to get stuck behind a tractor, this was the route that Ruthie had been taking since the accident.
Today, however, during the few minutes she’d spent in the library, a pickup pulling a six-horse trailer had managed to jam itself across the width of the road, its front end hovering over the ditch on one side of it, the rear of the trailer pressed firmly up against a wide tree stump on the other. The driver, a string bean of a man with the long, cadaverous face and the deep-set, dark-rimmed eyes of an Edward Gorey character, leaned against the side of the trailer smoking a cigarette.
Ruthie rolled down her window, “Excuse me,” she said. “Are you stuck?”
The driver raised an eyebrow and took a long drag on his cigarette, the ash drawing down nearly to his fingers.
“Are you waiting for a tow truck?” she said.
“Yeah,” he replied, drawing out the word in a Maine accent so thick it sounded put on.
“Do you know how long it’ll be?”
The man shrugged. “He’ll get here when he gets here, won’t he?”
Ruthie rolled her window back up and rested her forehead on the steering wheel, imagining the ice cream turning to soup in her reusable canvas shopping bag. After a few moments she put the car into reverse and headed back through town, turning sharply onto Red Hook Road.
She drove quickly at first, taking the turns too fast, allowing her car to drift perilously close to the opposing lane. But as she approached Jacob’s Cove, she slowed to the speed limit, checked her mirrors, and began to pay close attention to oncoming traffic. When she rounded the final curve she slowed down even further, fixing her eyes on the asphalt immediately in front of her car, willing herself not to look to her right. She made it nearly all the way past the beach when finally, unable to resist it any longer, she glanced into her rearview mirror.
The strip of beach was full of people lying on gaily striped towels, sitting in beach chairs, making their painstaking way down across the pebbles to the water. An inflatable boat bobbed in the shallow water near the shore, and as she watched, two small boys wearing bright orange life vests grabbed each other’s hands and tumbled together over the side and into the water. They bobbed immediately to the surface. Ruthie’s eyes filled, but the blare of a car horn snapped her to attention. Her car had begun to drift to the center of the road, too close to an oncoming car. She jerked the steering wheel, overcorrecting, and for a moment her tires bumped along the shoulder. By the time she reached the village and pulled into her driveway, she had stopped crying.
IX
In the meadow behind Jane’s house stood a ramshackle barn, long ago painted red but now faded to a murky, peeling brown. John had laid claim to the barn the moment they had moved into the house soon after Jane and Frank’s divorce, and it had always been his exclusive domain. Matt was never excluded, but to enter he had always to request permission, a ritual he continued to observe, under his breath, whenever he crossed the threshold, despite the fact that John was no longer there to grant or deny it. It was years now since Matt and John had hauled eleven truckloads of trash out of the barn: generations’ worth of broken furniture, empty crates, rotted sails, car batteries spiderwebbed with acid dust, reeking buoys. It had taken them more than a week to empty the barn enough to make room for John’s derelict schooner, Rebecca. They set up the barn as a makeshift dry dock, and John proceeded over the next few years to renovate the boat, with Matt as his eager assistant and dogsbody.
Coming
home from Jacob’s Cove on the night of the accident, Matt had crawled up into the half-finished old Alden and stretched out along the inside of the hull, resting his cheek on the smooth planks. He had lain there all night and into the morning, until Maureen had barged into the barn and hollered at him to stop crying like a baby and get his ass inside with the rest of the family where he belonged.
For weeks afterward, Matt had lain around the house playing video games, watching TV, and reading. He’d never returned to work at the yacht club after John’s funeral, and after a couple of weeks his mother had given up bothering him about it. His only excursions had been to the library, where he would spend an hour or two surfing the Internet before checking out a pile of books to bring home.
But today, after seeing Ruthie in the library, he found his usual distractions unsatisfying. He tried reading the book she’d recommended, which he had to admit was compelling enough, despite its subject matter, but he couldn’t concentrate. There was nothing on TV, and playing video games had come to make him miss John too much. John had given him a PlayStation 2 for Christmas last year, a gift as much for himself as for Matt. It wasn’t the same playing Dragon Ball Z or Final Fantasy X on his own.
Finally, he wandered over to the barn and stood in the shadow of the Alden’s bereft carcass, staring up at it. He had loved working on the boat with his brother, listening to music, shooting the shit. Just like when they were kids and their aunt used to send them out on their uncle’s lobster boat to pull his traps when he was too drunk to do it himself. Their father, as big a drunk as their uncle, hadn’t been around much, and even when he was there he would never have dreamed of patiently teaching Matt the right way to handle a router or a caulking gun, or even how to hammer a nail.
John had planned to finish the boat by the next summer, then sail it down to the Caribbean, where he and Becca would get into the luxury charter business. The Alden, though measuring only a bit over forty-eight feet, was roomier than she looked. She’d been designed with full, deep ends, a high freeboard, and a generous beam that allowed for two staterooms—one large and elegant, the other small but fitted neatly—a good-sized galley, and an enclosed head with a comfortable shower. The amidships saloon was well proportioned, with a transom, two berths, and a large drop-leaf table. The idea was that Becca would cook gourmet meals for the rich people, and John would show them a good time: pick pretty coves to drop anchor in, take them out snorkeling. John would always include Matt in this grand scheme, saying that his brother could come down and crew for them after he graduated from Amherst, and Matt would always reply that he had plans of his own: graduate school in oceanography, hopefully at Scripps out in San Diego, where he could study the effects of climate change on the oceans, a field that had obsessed him from the first time he read about what rising sea levels would do to coastal regions like Down East Maine. John would remind Matt that he would still have vacations, and Matt would agree to help him finish the boat, then join him and Becca in the Caribbean for a week every Easter, because their mom would expect him home at Christmastime.
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