While Louisa sat down to cut out doll clothes, Isobel went to the pattern drawers and pulled out templates for standard hat forms — cloche, tam, and basic disk. She studied them and shook her head, tossing most into the trash barrel. They were woefully out-of-date. She would need more current patterns, along with bolts of ourson, flalean, and heavy felts. The money she had saved during the last few years would only go so far. Biting a thumb, she sat down with a pencil and paper.
After an hour the column of numbers was two pages long. She began to cross off items that weren’t absolutely essential. She’d have to order small quantities from suppliers she could count on to be fair. She would have to scrimp, be inventive, make do with older equipment.
She found the old steamer, stiff with rust and disuse. Looking for oil and rags, she opened a cupboard door. A mannequin head rolled out at her like a macabre prank. Isobel rocked back on her heels as the wooden head struck her foot. She almost began to cry.
There was no aspirin in the shop. At two she rested for five minutes, gulping tea while standing at the threshold of her quarter of the shop. She had moved most of Victor’s things from this corner and had incorporated them as neatly as she could into the rest of his clutter. She sighed. He’ll skin me alive. She sent Louisa home to find the tin of Bayer.
As she scrubbed down the front window she saw Mrs. Malley cross quickly from the pharmacy into the butcher shop. She’d nearly forgotten the awkward moments of the other day. She’d heard the gossip about Mrs. Malley, of course. Everyone in town had. A month before, while waiting to buy stamps at the post office, Isobel heard two of the mine owners’ wives talking.
“Malley, you know him, that big Irishman, he’s brought his wife from Chicago — to get her out of the heat, I suppose.”
“Seven monogrammed trunks full of clothes. You’ve seen her, like some duchess.”
“How she affords that on an engineer’s salary.”
Their voices rose in excitement. “And haughty, too. After I followed her into the pharmacy I said, ‘Welcome to Cypress,’ and if she wasn’t stiff as a board to me!”
“Did you say seven trunks?”
“Full of gowns, I s’pose. Furs, who knows what else… ”
Isobel stepped closer to the women, tempted to chime in with the suggestion they might be full of nonsense. The trunks, of course.
In the wake of the gossiping women, Isobel learned the Malleys had no children, even though Mrs. Malley, as one of them said in disapproving tones, “has the hips for it.”
“Maybe she’s got bad tubes,” offered the other with a shrug.
“Well, there must be something wrong with her… he certainly looks healthy enough.”
The Malleys had rented the big cottage at the end of Granite Point for the season. “Imagine,” said one of the women, a sting in her affected clip, “two people bumping about in that big place all by themselves.”
Isobel, after finishing at the counter, dropped her letter into the slot.
Walking to the shop she recalled what Victor had told her about Liam Malley. He was a structural mining engineer, who had been in Cypress since February. The mine had had trouble over safety issues when a minor cave-in had left miners skittish and restless. He’d stayed on to oversee the construction of an improved shaft in the third level.
Victor had said the first time he’d seen Malley was back in April, after delivering uniforms for the mine’s brass band. There had been a walkout after one of the Finns had pilfered a report Malley had written, a report suggesting the mine’s west arm was unsafe and recommending it be shut down until stress tests could be completed. Management had decided to keep the entire mine running until they could get a second sounding from another engineer coming in from Alberta.
After dropping off the uniform order, Victor stayed and watched the walkout and the ensuing confrontation, and later he described for Isobel the line of Finns who had posted themselves in a barrier around the entrance shaft.
“They were rooted like a stand of timber, with the Welsh miners grousing off to the side. Those Welsh were itching to get back to work, you could tell, but they didn’t dare cross that line, so they just shuffled around. Three supervisors and two managers barred the steps to the office. Ted Barry, the youngest manager, sweated through his undershirt so rings looped nearly to his belt. But he wasn’t the only fidgety one. Management wanted those Finns back at work, and someone had been sent down to the river to fetch Malley from his fishing.
“When Malley pulled up in his car, he parked midway between the factions. The Welsh were fuming by then. They were being docked pay right along with the Finns.
“He unfolded himself from behind the wheel, a big fellow, still in his hip boots. He took in the two sides and said to neither, ‘Looks like a nasty game of chess here.’ He was met by one of the managers and a rep from the line of Finns. He towered over the both of ’em. They spoke up at him for a bit, him nodding all serious. He never looked up, never looked down.
“These fellas talked at him till they were both blue, and just once Malley raised a finger to the brim of his fishing hat and pushed it high to his forehead. That must’ve meant he was done listening, ’cause both men shut their mouths and stepped back then.
“He just kicked his rubber boot into the dirt and took a breath. He plunked fists on his hips… emember the back of one hand was glittering, fish scales, I suppose. When he talked his mouth was hard under his mustache. He didn’t seem to be talking to anyone straight on, but when that Irish brogue echoed off the tin walls of those buildings, all the men went still.
“‘I done my share of mining,’ he said. ‘Ten years in open pit. And I’ll tell you, lads, that’s filthy work. Makes pulling ore outta this place look like a day at the fekkin’ Taj Mahal.’ He turned toward the Welsh. ‘You know what I’m talkin’ about here. I been in your country, I seen your nasty coal holes. But you gotta know too, this ain’t coal mining, and yer fellows here’ — he nodded to the wall of Finns — ‘are well right in this walkout. Just as the big boys here running the place are right to get another man in to check my numbers.’ He scratched his neck. ‘I’ll say one thing, though. If my report isn’t right, if I’m wrong and that shaft proves herself safe, I’ll eat all the bloody iron you can pull from that western arm.’
“There was nervous laughter from the Welsh. The management on the steps shuffled in place as if needing to go to the toilet. The Finns were silent as ever.
“‘I’m not union, and I’m not management either. And I’m no miner. No more.’
“He nodded to the men in suits on the stairs. ‘I imagine there’s plenty of rock to be pulled from the lower rooms in the south arm, lads, and it’s safe as a cradle. Why not put ’em working down there till your other hired man checks out the western arm.’ It wasn’t a question. The suited men looked hesitantly at one another and Liam shook his head. ‘It’ll cost you no more than five minutes per man per shift to go down that next level. And on what you’re paying that doesn’t add up to diddly, certainly doesn’t add up to anything like the trouble you could have here.’
“That settled, he turned and faced the Finnish men and wagged his finger just once between them and the Welsh.
‘And whatever you’ve got between you, clean it up. Men who don’t work together die together. That goes true in any goddamn mine.’
“He was in his car then, fist on the wheel and head turned, backing away from the three groups of men. He hadn’t even bothered to turn off the ignition.”
Isobel herself had seen Mr. Malley only a few times. He was handsome, at least from afar, and dark. The mine owners’ wives had whispered Irish as if it were an affliction. But he was just one of the many men who came and went in Cypress. Someone who had a job to do and would leave when that job was done. He didn’t frequent the Welsh tavern or eat at Maki’s, the Finnish café. Nor did he visit the brick houses of the mining executives or sit in on their card games at the Masonic Temple. He didn’t socialize so far as she knew, and
if he drank it was in the privacy of his rented cottage. He took his meals between Jem’s and the hotel dining room in the company of a newspaper and a pipe. On spring days, before sunset, he could be spotted fly-fishing from the Marko Dam, a lone figure thigh-deep in the river, casting his line to reflect the fading sun like undulating gossamer. He was a formidable but otherwise unremarkable man who only became remarkable after his extraordinary wife arrived.
And now there was Mrs. Malley, her business at the butcher done, walking in front of the tailor shop window. Isobel rapped on her side of the glass and the woman turned, startled. When Isobel waved her in, a softening passed over the woman’s features. Relief at seeing a familiar face? Once inside she shut the door with her back as if glad for an escape from the street.
“Hello again, Mrs. Howard.”
Mrs. Malley looked around the shop. “You’re still in a bit of a mess, aren’t you?”
She seemed changed, her gaze more steady, her smile easier.
Isobel laughed. “Oh, this? Nothing out of the ordinary. Will you stay for tea this time?”
“Oh! That would be lovely, but I wouldn’t want to keep you from —”
“My mess? Believe me, there’s nothing here that won’t keep. I’ve been waiting sixteen years to get going here. A cup of tea can’t slow me up much further.”
Mrs. Malley grinned and set her shopping basket down. “In that case, it would be my pleasure.”
She peered into the rear of the shop and saw the clutter of open boxes and equipment. As she took off her hat and gloves she turned to Isobel.
“Listen, what do you say we have that cup of tea, and afterward I’ll help you straighten up?”
Isobel nearly laughed. “Mrs. Malley, that’s very kind but —”
“Cathryn. You must call me Cathryn.”
The woman laid a hand on Isobel’s arm. “Please. I have the whole afternoon ahead of me.”
Isobel examined the woman for a second time. Mrs. Malley’s sophistication and reserve, her clothes, her very carriage, defined her as an outsider in Cypress. She was here for an entire summer. She felt a sudden pity toward the woman. Though Cypress was her home she saw it for what it was, an ofttimes cold place with a tight social layering Victor called the three M’s — management, merchants, and miners. Not much in between. Isobel shook her head. The gossips would eat Mrs. Malley alive.
“All right, Cathryn. Lord knows I could use the help.”
When Cathryn smiled, Isobel watched her face change from attractive to stunning. Something deep in her irises shone, as if there were a suppressed energy that she was holding in check. Isobel recalled part of a thought she had had a few days earlier about Louisa. Most all of her hidden.
CHAPTER SIX
~ ~ ~
Like an island.
“What did you say, Mother?”
“Did I say something? Sorry, I was gathering moss.”
“So, this woman, Cathryn, she’s a part of that summer?” Isobel smiled. “You could say that.” Thomas had a paper sack between his feet. He’d settled heavily into the chair next to the bed and pulled out a bagel and a cup of coffee. “Mind if I eat this here?” Isobel thought he looked tired. “Go ahead, but aren’t they going to miss you at the office?”
“I’m the last person they’d miss. No one likes having the boss around all day.”
“Hooey. They love you.”
Thomas had started the accounting firm after college. He’d inherited Victor’s lopsided grin but none of his clumsiness with numbers.
“Oh, maybe they like me. They’re planning some retirement bash for me, I’m afraid. When I was coming out of the john the other day I heard someone whisper, ‘Karaoke.’”
“Oh, with the microphone? Isn’t that… ?”
“Humiliating?”
“Will it be a big party? How many people do you have down there now?”
“Thirty-three. Hired two more last week.”
“Good Lord.”
Isobel raised a brow. “Doing well, then?”
“Well enough.”
“So that explains this nice private room.”
Thomas tucked a flag of loose sheet in under Isobel’s foot. It was not only private, but at the end of the hall. It hadn’t been easy to swing that. He’d attempted to make it homey, bringing a few of her violets, a framed oil from her bedroom, her favorite afghan. Just today he’d picked wildflowers from the open meadow behind his house. The manager of her apartment building had sent a dozen roses, but he’d discreetly tossed them out before his mother could see them, slipping the sender’s card into a bunch of purple asters instead. Her opinions on roses were clear: they were ostentatious and she disliked the cloying smell. She said they were given by people with more money than imagination, and insisted there wasn’t an occasion that warranted roses except secret assignations.
He sniffed now at the wildflowers, their odor mixed with the smells of the hospital. The air was rimed with the indistinct medley of sickness, flowers, and medicine. No amount of sweet aster could disguise the fact that they were in an institution.
The bagel tasted strange. He put it down and looked at his mother.
He’d been the one to find her. After letting himself into her apartment, he’d called out, and when there was no answer he’d assumed she was napping. He thought he’d get himself a beer and watch the news before waking her up. He didn’t know how long she might have been sleeping, but he figured another half hour wouldn’t hurt. She’d seemed tired lately, and he wasn’t surprised. She was wearing herself out with those daily marches she insisted on taking. He wiped his feet and glanced in the hall mirror, straightening his tie under the loose drape of flesh at his neck. He mumbled,“I’ll look like a turkey soon.”
Making his way to the kitchen he rambled on. “But I s’pose by the time I’m ninety-nine I’ll be wishing I looked as good as a turkey. Jesus. Now I’m talking to myself.”
He hoped there would be a cold bottle in the fridge.
When he saw her splayed on the linoleum he lost his footing. He laid his palm flat on the kitchen table and leaned hard, as if he might sink into the pattern.
He thought he’d prepared himself. Christ. Oh, Christ. She was so old, of course he’d imagined her dead. Many times. He’d even planned the funeral in his head, working out what kinds of music she’d like, what readings. Any day of the last thousand could easily have been her last. But she’d kept going on like some well-oiled engine. As the years went by he’d begun to take for granted her seemingly unyielding clutch on life.
But as he stood in the kitchen a stiffness began to creep over his own limbs. His knees locked.
“Oh, Mother.”
An ancient bitterness rushed to him. He had been so young when his father died. No one could explain to him what he was in for, the greyness of it. He’d been a boy lost in the confusion and dark corners of a family grieving and lost themselves.
He saw now that age didn’t matter, ten or sixty-nine, he’d be in the abyss again, the grey as impermeable.
He knew that he hadn’t asked the questions he should have, wasn’t ready to let go of her after all. Not even close. “Not now. Not now, Momma.” His words echoed in the room. He made himself move. He crouched over her and gently pulled the hem of her dress down over her knee. When she moaned he jerked backward, almost falling. It was then he began to cry, great sobs of relief nearly choking him as he righted himself and crabbed over to the kitchen phone.
The smell of coffee made her wriggle up straighter in bed. “That’s not hospital coffee, is it?”
Thomas blew on his steaming cup. “Starbucks next door.”
“Do you think I could have a sip?”
Thomas dug into the paper bag. “Almost forgot.”
He handed her a full take-out cup. “I brought you your own.”
The coffee warmed Isobel’s hand and she breathed in the smell of it, sighing, “I’m not supposed to have caffeine.”
“One cup? Prob
ably won’t kill you.”
Isobel smiled and pointed to the bag. “Sugar?”
“And rot your teeth?”
“I don’t have any teeth.”
“Well, you did. Where’d they go? They were right here a minute ago.”
He took two packets and poured one into the glass her dentures had rested in earlier. “Sweet tooth?”
“Thomas! You’ve ruined my Efferdent!”
When she stopped laughing he turned. “Mother, I want to ask you something.”
“Ask away.”
He edged closer. “D-did you love… ”
Thomas faltered, the stammer he’d developed as a boy came tripping back to knot his words. “Dad. I mean did you r-really love him?”
Isobel stared at him. “My God, Thomas, have you ever thought I didn’t?”
Her exhalation tore the flag of steam rising from her paper cup.
~ ~ ~
Cathryn came to the shop early the next day, bringing pastries from the Swedish bakery. Isobel tentatively took the waxed bag from her outstretched hand.
“Ah, have a seat, Cathryn. I can make us coffee.”
She looked at the clock, wondering when she would have time to fill out the many order forms on the desk.
Cathryn took off her coat. She was wearing a work apron over her crepe dress. “Rest easy, Isobel. I’m not about to keep you from your work. I’ve come about a job — volunteer, of course.”
Isobel blinked. The day before, when Cathryn had helped her in the shop, they’d both worked so diligently at their tasks there was hardly any conversation. When Cathryn had finally left, with her nails ruined and her hair dusty, Isobel thought she might never see the woman again.
“But isn’t this summer your holiday, Cathryn? Why on earth would you want to be stuck inside here all day?”
“When I could be sitting out in that blasted sun, doing nothing?”
Cathryn pointed to the jumbled bolts of fabric she’d moved the day before but hadn’t had time to put in order. “For instance, those still need some attention, and you’ll be too busy with your paperwork.”
These Granite Islands Page 8
