These Granite Islands

by Sarah Stonich

  She patted Isobel’s arm. “You get busy. I’ll do the coffee.”

  By lunchtime Cathryn had measured, tagged, and neatly arranged all of the bolts in Victor’s high wall of shelving. It was a tedious job, but she seemed happy to do any task. Gabardines, tweeds, and woolens neatly lined the shelves like somber lozenges.

  Isobel approved, but her apprehension was obvious. “I feel terrible that I can’t pay you, Cathryn.”

  Cathryn stopped, as though considering this. “Liam and I manage all right as it is.”

  Later Isobel would remember this modesty when Cathryn, somewhat embarrassed, disclosed a memory of her mother letting her play with the contents of the many velvet cases she’d kept in her bedroom safe — pendants and brooches Cathryn was allowed to drape over her forehead and wrap around her wrists, diamonds and sapphires to wear on her toes. “I thought they were toys.”

  One of the necklaces had been worth a city block, Cathryn admitted. “It’s in a museum now, thank God.”

  “And the rest?”

  She shrugged. “Oh, around, in among my things.”

  She argued with Isobel about the job. “Oh, please? I’m not skilled, so it would be more like an apprenticeship. Just let me help out until you get established.”

  She crossed her arms in defiance. “I’m here until September.”

  Cathryn smiled. “But of course you can boot me out anytime.”

  They shook hands in mock solemnity and Cathryn began with the dirtiest tasks. She sneezed at the filth rising from her rag, but it only seemed to make her more determined to get the place into shape. Isobel watched from the corner of her eye, sure that Cathryn — most likely unaccustomed to such work — would tire of the novelty and be gone by the end of the week.

  Cathryn tackled Victor’s mess. She backed out of the cubby under his desk with ringlets of dust dangling from her chignon. “When your husband comes back, he’ll be so surprised he won’t begrudge your claiming your wee corner for the millinery.”

  Isobel shrugged. “It’s hard to say what he would begrudge.”

  Cathryn opened her mouth just as the door chime sounded.

  Louisa slipped into the shop. Isobel smiled. “You’re early.”

  That morning they’d left the house together, in their new routine, each carrying a bag lunch. They’d held hands until splitting off in different directions halfway down the hill, Isobel heading downtown and Louisa veering off to the Finnish neighborhood, where she’d taken her first summer job, helping Mrs. Hokkanen with her new twins.

  Louisa had her notebook clutched under her arm, and Isobel smiled at the sight of it, knowing its margins were dotted with figures in the girl’s laboured writing; the running tally of her wages — five cents an hour — in one column, and in two other columns, the total of diapers she’d changed each day, how many had been “number one,” and how many had been “messes.”

  Louisa said, “Whew!” but then stepped back when she saw the strange woman just behind her mother, a tall woman who looked like a model in a magazine, rag in hand and pearls at her ears.

  Cathryn turned. The girl was nearly a miniature of Isobel, leaning in the vestibule, her hands clasped behind her back.

  “Oh, my goodness. This must be Louisa.”

  The girl nodded once but did not move. Cathryn walked slowly over and dropped to one knee.

  “Hello. My name is Cathryn. What’s yours?”

  The girl’s voice was low. “But you know my name. You just said it.”

  Isobel frowned. “Louisa. That’s hardly polite.”

  “No, no, she’s right.”

  Cathryn offered her hand. “Let’s try again. Hello, Louisa. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  The girl meekly took her hand. “Hello too.”

  “You have a lovely name.”

  Louisa nodded in agreement. “When I was your age, one of my favorite authors was named Louisa. Have you ever heard of Louisa May Alcott?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, you haven’t? Well, is there a library here in town?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Perhaps we could go together sometime. I could read you some of Miss Alcott’s stories.”

  “I can read.”

  The girl was hesitant, hung back.

  “Of course you can.”

  Cathryn did not break from the girl’s steady gaze. “Louisa?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I was just thinking of doing a little project, but I can’t manage it alone, and your mother is very busy right now. I wonder if you might have some free time?”

  Louisa nodded, and Cathryn pointed to the cutting table. The girl followed her and settled onto a stool. There was a mound of discards from her earlier chore of trimming bolts; scraps too short for a vest or a sleeve were heaped and ready to be thrown out. Cathryn reached into this mass and fished out a fistful of fabric. She found a small scissors, fetched a piece of paper, and did a few sketches, handing the girl the pencil every so often so she could add her own lines. Referring to this paper they quietly spent the rest of the afternoon cutting and sewing by hand.

  Isobel occasionally looked up from her desk to see Cathryn gesturing or indicating with her scissors, or directing a line with a finger, mute as Louisa. If Isobel walked by on her way to the bathroom or to the storage hall, they shielded their project as though it were a great secret.

  At dusk they finally let her look.

  As far as Isobel could tell, they had accomplished their collaboration with less than ten words between them. It was a waggish collage of twill and herringbone horses appliquéd against a background of pinstripe hills, a lake of satin in the distance. There was a checkered sky with plaid clouds, and their two sets of initials knotted together at the low corner in brown and green floss. L.H. & C.L.M.

  It was late when the three of them walked to the drop box at the post office.

  Isobel let Louisa drop the stamped orders for supplies into the slot.

  “Not much to do now but wait.”

  “And plan.”

  Cathryn smiled. Isobel looked up to the rising moon. It was nearly ten.

  “Oh dear, how will you get home?”

  Cathryn pointed back to the shop, where a bicycle rested against the lamppost. “My crimson steed, how else?”

  “But it’s dark!”

  “So it is.”

  She pulled a flashlight from her purse, flicked it on, and held it aloft, posing. “Who am I, Louisa?”

  The girl reached out to position Cathryn’s purse so that it rested in the crook of her arm like a volume.

  “There. You’re Lady Liberty!”

  “Right!”

  The next morning Cathryn was waiting at the stoop when Isobel turned the corner onto Main Street. Along the entire length of the block, heads were cocked in the direction of the tailor shop, and several people were staring at the well-dressed woman loitering at the door. Most of the shopkeepers greeted Isobel as usual when she passed, but they blinked excessively or let their greetings trail off, as if to give her an opening to explain why the mining engineer’s wife was so often in the shop. She smiled, remarked on the rising temperatures, but offered nothing else. Her annoyance soon tempered to amusement at their blatant curiosity.

  Mrs. Harding, the druggist’s wife, was at least bold enough to ask. Sweeping her section of sidewalk to where it met the curb, she leaned over the end of her broom. “Goodness, Miz Howard, what are you ladies doing in that shop all day?”

  She stared at Cathryn until Isobel felt obliged to introduce the women. Mrs. Harding dropped her broom to cross the street. As she held out her hand, she strained to see the things in Cathryn’s basket, and frowned to discover only a loaf of nut bread and a tin of China tea. She jumped back when Cathryn held the basket out so she could get a better look.

  Mrs. Harding nodded to the window. “I, ah, I see the new sign you put up there. Millinery? Is that like haberdashery? Is it something to do with Victor’s tailor bu
siness?”

  “Sort of. It’s —”

  Cathryn cut in. “It’s boat-building, Mrs. Harding.”

  Her face was a mask of sweetness. “We’re constructing an ark.”

  The woman frowned, as if she were about to consider it. Isobel slapped Cathryn’s hand and chuckled an apology as she turned the key in the lock. “Hatmaking, Mrs. Harding. Just hats.”

  She turned to Cathryn once they were inside. “I’ll get you your own key.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad you came by when you did. I was beginning to feel like some zoo animal out there.”

  Isobel sighed. “I know. Wait until you meet Mrs. Sima.”

  “Oh, I have. She’s invited me to tea.”

  Her hand fluttered. “Unfortunately, my social calendar is just jammed.”

  They went about fine-tuning the details — pressing patterns, sharpening cutters and scissors, oiling machinery, cleaning surfaces that were already sparkling, and lining up spools and hand tools that had already been lined up.

  They pored through catalogs and magazines, looking for styles that pleased them, patterns that Isobel would modify or copy. In her eagerness to be working, she found some old scrap felt and began to cut out a simple cap. She let Cathryn cut the band and lining. A passerby might have peeked in and surmised they were partners, scheming as if they’d hatched the idea of the business together.

  Cathryn was spending more time in the shop than she did in her rented house at the lake. When Isobel said she was afraid Cathryn would become bored, she balked.

  “But I love this place!”

  She looked down. “Please, if I’m in the way just let me know, and I’ll go.”

  “You’re not in anyone’s way. Good Lord, Cathryn, look at how much you’ve done here. I was just wondering if I’m keeping you from something.”

  Cathryn stuttered. “F-from what? I’d rather be here than alone.”

  The strain on Cathryn’s face showed in the fine lines at her brow. Isobel touched her shoulder.

  Of course. How stupid. Mr. Malley worked such long days and was away overnight to neighboring mines so often. She had to be lonely.

  As if reading her mind, Cathryn asked, “Aren’t you lonely with your husband away?”

  Isobel’s hand fell as she thought about it. “I suppose I haven’t had time to be very lonely. Actually,… ”

  Cathryn sat down next to her. “What?”

  Isobel reached up to wipe away a surprise tear. She couldn’t believe she’d begun to cry in front of someone she barely knew. She tried to make light of it. “Well, before Victor left we’d been going through a little rough spot. You know how it is when you’ve been married a long time.”

  “Yes, I do know. Listen, I don’t mean to pry but… ”

  She found herself accepting a tissue, and for the next hour gave Cathryn the barest details of how she and Victor had grown apart. “And then he took them to the island. Not to spite me, I’m sure, but still… ”

  When Isobel looked up to see Cathryn staring into the distance, she immediately regretted her confession. “Oh, you see? Now I’ve said too much, I’ve upset you too.”

  Cathryn took her hand. “No, you haven’t. I was just thinking it’s good to be able to listen to someone else, help ease another’s troubles for a change.”

  “Of course, exactly. You have your own troubles.”

  Cathryn’s look was wry. “I have a husband, don’t I?”

  There was only the briefest pause before they started laughing.

  When Cathryn wasn’t busy at some task, she would drag a chair to sit near the windows to read or embroider. She explored and reexplored the dim recesses of the Lshaped storage hall off the back entry. The hall ran the entire length of the building, separating the tailor shop from the butcher shop next door, and as far as Isobel was concerned, its only saving grace was that it acted as a buffer from the disquieting whine of meat saws and the thunk of cleavers.

  The hall was lined floor to ceiling with dozens of oak cupboards fronted with milky glass, the wood nearly black with seasoned shellac. One high window that had been painted shut since Isobel was a child allowed only a dusty square of light. She associated the hall with the crisp husks of dead flies and the close smells of brass and dust.

  But the darkness and claustrophobic dimensions of the hall did not seem to bother Cathryn, who would disappear into the space for hours, clutching a rag and a can of Brasso to attack the half-moon drawer pulls and latches tarnished to molasses. Once Isobel went back to find that Cathryn had climbed the rolling ladder with her sleeves pushed high and was scouring furiously at a particularly stubborn handle.

  “Good heavens, Cathryn, come down. It must be a hundred degrees up there!”

  “Almost finished, Isobel. Just give me another hour.”

  “An hour?”

  She reluctantly left Cathryn to her polishing. Finding herself near the rear door of the shop, she turned to survey the main room. With hands on her hips, she rolled a critical eye around its perimeters, trying to imagine how it might look to a newcomer, someone like Cathryn.

  She didn’t see the room so much as sense it. The planes and quirks of the space were held within her. Without looking at the windows, she knew the locations and sizes of the air bubbles trapped in the many panes. She had acquired the habit of noting the time of day by glancing up to see which panel of beadboard was hit by the trajectory of prism light from the beveled glass of the door.

  The room was the same light olive colour her mother had chosen thirty years before. The walls stretched up to meet a pressed tin ceiling that had been varnished countless times, giving it the odd appearance of having been coated in honey. Sometimes when a heavy truck rolled by outside, the odd shard might shake itself loose, a bit of false amber to be plucked from Isobel’s hair or from a crack in the floor.

  She had been two years old when her parents had bought the building. Her childhood was distinctly mapped on the floor in front of her in pattern and shadow. A long path worn by bakery customers led to a dark spot where the old pastry cases had been. Black dimples recorded the weight of marble pastry slabs. Mismatched patches of maple defined the curve where crescent-shaped brick ovens once squatted.

  Isobel had only to scan this floor to recall lying on her belly on warm wood, or the freedom of skipping out the back door, the limb-flailing skid of slipping on flour. The taut breathlessness of crouching undetected under a table. How many times had she hidden like that?

  Those childish escapes of daydreaming were often perforated by sounds and voices from above: oiled baking sheets gliding together, the sandy spray of cornmeal, the ppppring of timers, her mother’s tired rail, her father’s defensive retorts echoing against the hard surfaces.

  The harsh tones of her parents’ voices changed only when customers came in, smoothing to a fleeting civility that quickly curdled after the customers left and the jangle of the bell-rope over the door had stilled. Isobel had vowed that when she grew up and had her own family, she would always speak in reasonable tones, even when furious.

  Long ago she stopped wondering why her parents had been so unhappy, though early on she suspected herself, naturally, being born a girl after a string of stillborn baby boys.

  Her father had ordered flour in fiftyand hundredpound sacks. Each morning a sack larger than herself was emptied into the great steel bowls and bins. She spent hours underneath the marble pastry slab, where she would reach up to run her fingers along the fissures of its unpolished side, flour whispering down the edges in diminishing curtains. Daydreaming and drifting along with the rays of sunlight thick with it, she often imagined the journey the flour would have taken in its many forms, from seed to wheat, then milled to powder. Using her fingertip, Isobel would draw these scenes into the thin film covering the worktables — the hopeful farmer planting furrowed rows, storm clouds hinting at travails, the triumph as the horsepulled combines cut quilt patterns through tresses of wheat. She romanticized the end of the har
vest by drawing a check-aproned wife and fat-cheeked children by the farmer’s side, plump as the stalks being heaped onto wagons. The farmer’s family was always smiling. A kindly mother and father, two or maybe three boys, and a girl, always a girl her own age.

  The flour had been stored in wooden cupboards that tipped out from the walls, metal-lined bins that now held Victor’s better woolens, protecting them from moths. Sometimes, laying out a length of Poirot or Shetland twill, Isobel would notice a crease coated with decades-old flour and brush it away, her past and present merging under her fingers for a brief moment.

  Isobel’s parents had done well in Cypress. The town was prosperous, with two new mines opening to bring more customers to the bakery. Isobel had always felt a little guilty to be better off than the immigrant children who lived in the crowded shanty neighborhood or along the reedy south shore of the lake. In school she often felt awkward and overclean, the skirts under her stiff pinafore crinkling too precisely as she sat next to girls wearing faded cotton jumpers. Year after year, her deskmates tended to be plagued with sagging stockings, grimy necks, and pidgin English. When none showed interest in becoming friends, Isobel had an idea to win their favor. She took to stuffing sweet rolls or cookies into her pail and offering them to the girls at lunchtime. The foreign girls ate in close knots, heads bent protectively over their battered opened pails, their indecipherable patter defining her exclusion. Her treats were accepted and quickly eaten, but the knot would tighten against her again as they washed down the sweets with gulps of thick milk.

  On her way home Isobel would feed the leftovers to the grackles, dropping crumbs along the alleys. By the time she gave up trying to make friends and stopped bringing treats, the grackles were trained to follow her home, clustering at her feet in waves of oiled satin the minute she left the schoolhouse.

  For weeks the birds persevered, until one hopped onto the toe of her boot and nipped her ankle. She kicked it away and ran, a carnation blooming through her stocking. Once home she’d lied to her mother about the blood, saying she’d cut herself on a fence post. It was her first lie, and the ease of it surprised her.