These Granite Islands

by Sarah Stonich

  “Go on, Jack. The lady waits.”

  As the days wore on Isobel noticed that the hang of Jack’s shirts became severe, the skin under his eyes took on a dusty blue, his thinness seemed tubercular. He had volunteered for the most brutal shift at the station, nine p.m. to six a.m. Bracing himself with coffee, he spent nights logging incoming telephone reports of campfires gone awry, false alarms, or heat lightning strikes. Crews were on alert around the clock with the dry conditions, and many worked double shifts. Jack dispatched crews and wrote long letters to Cathryn in the dawn, the time he felt most clearheaded. He cooked breakfast for the incoming shift and updated the pin maps. At six he drove twelve miles on an unmapped logging road to his mainland dock, then rowed the last mile home through the bog end of the Maze. On calm mornings he was home early and could sleep until noon. In order to be with Cathryn a few hours each day he cut his scant sleep in half, got back in his boat, and rowed east to Granite Point.

  Usually when he arrived they lingered near the shore, talking. From her nest in the bottom of the canoe, Isobel didn’t hear very much, but sometimes bits of conversation would drift over, amplified by the medium of water, and she would feel suddenly guilty, as if caught eavesdropping.

  “We will be together, Cathryn. Always.”

  “Jack.”

  “Nothing can change what we have. I promise you that.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “Nothing.”

  Other times, less often, they laughed. And sometimes, after a long silence, Isobel would glance over to see them only looking at each other, or sitting with their heads bent. She turned away when they touched each other, but sometimes she couldn’t help but catch brief images… and reaching out to touch a face, a finger tracing a lip, a chin tilted upward for a kiss.

  Eventually they would climb the ledge of granite and disappear into the cottage. Then Isobel tried desperately not to think what they were doing.

  She busied her mind with other things — her children, her work, the book she was holding and pretending to read — but flashes of limbs and falling garments interrupted her. The book fell to her lap. She wondered if they made love in the bed Cathryn shared with Liam. She hoped they didn’t.

  Just before Isobel was to be married, her mother sat her down to explain what she could expect on her wedding night. She dipped a wedge of lemon cake into her tea and looked at her daughter with a rare expression of condolence.

  “Just let him have vot he vants. It’s easier than fighting it.”

  Isobel felt a stone in her stomach. “Fighting it?”

  Her mother popped the cake into her mouth and crossed her arms, her smile sour.

  But she found Victor’s kisses pleasant! There was nothing brutal in his attentions. She was sure of it. Why, only the other day when he had greeted her in an embrace, he hadn’t let go of her waist — and she hadn’t wanted him to. They had smiled stupidly at each other the entire moment his hands cinched her ribs, moved down over her waist to rest on the swell of her hips.

  They had danced together. The proximity of his lips to her ear, his breath in her hair, made her want to dance longer, forever. She had already made up her mind that the next time Victor’s warm hands strayed upward to the bodice of her dress she would not stop him. Was there something she didn’t know?

  “Mother, it can’t be all that bad.”

  “Bad? There’s vorse tings in marriage, I suppose. But in the bedroom? There’s blood and there’s pain.”

  Her mother’s tone turned suddenly accusing. “Mein Gott. You’re not expecting pleasure?”

  The stone in her stomach turned on end. Her mother made love sound like misery. Isobel glared at her. Maybe for you it is, she wanted to say. Maybe for you.

  The pitying gleam in her mother’s eyes and the weight of her own doubt shadowed Isobel the entire train ride back to Duluth. From the station she walked to the pier and sat on a bench. She had arranged to meet Victor by the bridge, but she was early. She passed the time watching freighters move under the lift-bridge and the families milling around the waterfront. On the other side of the channel children played on the sandy beach. They plunged into the waves, squealing and shouting as they were repeatedly knocked down. Parents lounged on blankets, and at the shore two girls swung their toddler brother between them so that his knees sliced the water. When he screamed with delight Isobel found she was vaguely irritated at his joy, envious at how free he was, the obvious ease with which he flung his body through the world.

  Victor sidled up beside her, handing her a bag of popcorn in greeting. He kissed her temple. She felt her face where his lips had touched her.

  “You’re a million miles away.”

  “No I’m not.”

  She frowned, remembering why she’d come.

  As they meandered the boardwalk she tried to break their engagement. Victor, too stunned to be angry, hounded her for a reason, until she broke down and relayed the conversation she’d had with her mother.

  Victor bent double laughing.

  Isobel stared. “But what if it is awful, the way she makes it out to be? I just don’t know, Victor.”

  He took her arm and led her away from a group of tourists. Jokingly he offered, “Well, we could give it a go. If you don’t like it, we won’t get married.”

  Isobel stared at the seagulls feeding on popcorn strewn over the rocks at the shore.

  “What do you mean? Try it out?”

  He gave her a sidelong glance but did not answer. She dug into the paper bag and threw more popcorn toward the swooping gulls. “Fine. Let’s do it, then.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ~ ~ ~

  Victor reserved a room at the Hotel Duluth. Saturday after her shift at the Pasal Millinery, Isobel rushed home to pack. She bathed, put on perfume, decided the perfume was too strong, bathed again. She raced out the back door of the boardinghouse so her landlady wouldn’t see her leaving with an overnight bag. She’d left a note saying she was going to see a cousin. Like a criminal.

  She had tried to make herself look as mature as possible, putting on a hat that was much too old for her face and a dress that fell nearly to her ankles.

  Victor arrived in the hotel to find her just barely sitting on a velvet bench and kneading the beaded bag in her hands. He tapped her on the shoulder and she jumped.

  When she turned he was staring at her.

  “Victor!”

  She looked around the lobby and whispered, “Do I look like a hussy?”

  He took in her long dress and borrowed eyeglasses. With his index finger he pushed the hat riding low on her brow up so he could look into her eyes.

  “Ah, noooo. You look more like a young schoolmarm.”

  She kept her gloves on in the lobby to hide the fact she had no ring.

  Victor steered her into the hotel restaurant. Once they were seated he pulled a bottle of cheap Bordeaux from the valise at his feet and began to open it. Isobel gasped, “Victor! That’s illegal now.”

  Victor shrugged. “Look around.”

  Several tables had flasks openly set out, the waiters seemingly taking no notice. Victor poured the wine into coffee cups. They ordered. The wine was too astringent at first, but Isobel thought it grew more mellow after the first cup.

  “Victor, what did you to today?”

  “Don’t gulp, now,” Victor whispered, easing her hand down. He poured them each another cup when their food came. He ate heartily, salad, potatoes, and pork chops, while Isobel only picked at her salad between sips. “What’d I do?”

  He laughed. “Well, I had a little fella come in, nearly didn’t see him over the counter. He wanted a pair of trousers let down two inches.”

  Victor took a gulp himself. “I measured him and measured the pants and said, ‘Look, they’re right on the money for your inseam.’ And he says, ‘Let ’em down anyway.’ And I say, ‘But you got a twenty-two-inch inseam. I can measure again, but what you got is a twentytwo leg, and these pants got a twent
y-two leg.’ So, when the little guy puffs up like a blowfish, I throw my hands up and tell him, ‘If I let ’em down you’d be draggin’ your cuffs through the mud!’ Then he turns all red and reaches down and slams a box on the counter. And what do you think’s in it?”

  Isobel had discovered that if she ran her finger around the rim of her water glass, it made a pleasing sound. She suddenly looked up at Victor. “I’m listening.”

  “So, what do you think’s in the box?”

  “I don’t know, Vic.”

  “He pulls out these shoes with huge lifts built into them! Like something out of Frankenstein.”

  Victor slapped the table. “Like Frankenstein!”

  Isobel touched his arm. “Are you nervous?”

  Victor looked around, suddenly aware of his loudness, though no one seemed to have noticed. He turned slightly red. “A little. You?”

  Isobel nodded, and covered his hand. “Okay, so what happened to your little man, then?”

  “Aw, not much. I told him, ‘Well, hell, you shoulda showed me in the first place. I can even flare the cuffs out so nobody’ll know you’re wearing high heels.’”

  “Victor, you didn’t.”

  Victor waved his napkin. “Oh, he’s all right, even had a good laugh by the time he left. Damnedest thing, isn’t it, the things people try to hide. Like trying to hide a tumor from a doctor. People come in to see me and have some fault… ame leg or shoulders like a girl or a hump — but I can always figure out a way, I can make their problem less obvious. But they got to work with me, right? It’s a matter of trust.”

  Isobel leaned back. “Trust?”

  Victor held up the nearly empty bottle. “Yes, trust. You trust me, don’t you?”

  She bowed and blotted a tear, but not before he saw it.

  “Ah, Izzy.”

  Victor took her gloved hand. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not it. I’m just… I had a bad day. And now all this.”

  Isobel plucked the collar of her dowdy dress and pulled the borrowed glasses from her face. “I look like a fool.”

  “A pretty fool.”

  Victor took her other hand and kissed it before picking up his cup. “Let’s toast.”

  “To what?”

  “To us. To now. Yes, now. Let’s toast to that. To this moment. To tonight.”

  They clinked their cups and finished the bottle. When they rose to leave the dining room, Isobel felt a pleasant unfocusing, a cushioning with each step.

  Upstairs, the length of corridor seemed endless. At their door, Victor fumbled with the key and it fell to the rug. They both bent down to get it, and their heads knocked together with a dull crack. Isobel slapped her hand over Victor’s mouth to stifle his laughter, took the key from his hands, and unlocked the door herself.

  But before she could step in, Victor pulled her back. He picked her up in his arms. With his knee, he propped open the door so he could carry her through.

  “But, Victor,” she whispered, “I’m not really a bride.”

  “Close enough.”

  He stepped over the threshold and deposited Isobel in the narrow vestibule. She took one step and stumbled over her suitcase. She found this somehow hilarious, and Victor had to reach out to steady her. He kicked the suitcase out of the way, making her laugh harder.

  Isobel leaned back, misjudging the distance, so that when she met the wardrobe door it was a hard resting of flesh to wood.

  “Whoops!”

  Her giggles died under the jangling of wire hangers.

  When Victor placed his palms on the door at either side of her head, she looked at him and fell quiet. After a moment she whispered, “Well.”

  “Here we are.”

  He kissed her lightly on the brow. “Yes, right here.”

  Victor’s lips moved to her temple, her ear, her throat.

  He lingered at her collarbone, breathing scent at the slight ridge. Isobel touched the back of his neck, her nails raising gooseflesh at the cowlick. She browsed the nape with her fingertips, his hair soft as a child’s. He smelled of laundered cotton, starch, and pears.

  She reached behind her, placed her hands on the wardrobe door to steady herself, and wondered aloud if she was very drunk or only a little drunk. The hangers rattled again, and Victor’s response was muffled by the collar of her dress. She felt his lips and the smoothness of his teeth graze her. She felt the strain at the fly of his trousers.

  “What should I do? I mean, what do you want me to do?”

  “Do anything… anything you want to do.”

  Isobel reached up to unbutton the front of her dress. Victor’s hands covered hers, and he smiled. “Except that. I get to do that.”

  He kissed her from the hollow at her throat to the slight cleave between her small breasts. His lips found the taut roundness at her belly through the silk of her chemise. The dress fell, pooling on the carpet, and he began to remove her underthings. Straps fell, a breast was cupped, kissed, cupped again.

  When he stepped away she covered herself. He peeled her arms from her chest and looked at her. The softness in his eyes eased her embarrassment.

  Victor’s shirt peeled away, and she looked at his wrists for a long time, marveling at their squareness, the inner plane of pale skin, the bony ridge giving way to darker flesh and the abrupt line of hairs defining his forearms.

  He guided her hands to the band of his shorts, hooked his thumbs over hers and helped her lower the garment over his hips. When she began to turn her face away, he demanded, “No. Look.”

  She did. His body was not ugly, not at all frightening. The opposite. He was beautiful; his arms and chest were hard, but his skin was soft under her touch. In the oval mirror of the wardrobe they were framed as if for a portrait. She smiled at the contrasts, she so pale against his side, his nipples tawny where hers were rose. His penis was not the shock she’d expected — she wanted to touch it. As she looked at their reflections together, then at herself, she thought for the first time in her life, I’m pretty. My body is pretty.

  They moved away from their clothes toward the bed.

  He lay down and opened his arms, but Isobel stood rocking in a moment of apprehension. He waited. After a moment she reached down to touch his lower lip, and when he tried to take her finger into his mouth she pulled it away to trail the shallow cleft at his chin. She stopped at a bristled spot where his razor had missed. Her fingers traveled the length of his throat, over his Adam’s apple and to the shallow dip between his collarbones. She felt the slight depression halving his upper chest, the plate of bone beneath muscle. Laying her palm flat over the place where his ribs separated, she felt the flesh give and pulse slightly. His navel was a half-moon just below a soft fanning of fine hairs.

  She knelt on the edge of the bed and bent low over his hip. When her hair swept over Victor’s belly he sighed. She stretched on the bed next to him and arrayed herself as if she were an offering. When he began touching her she lost words. Under his hands she could feel parts of herself emerge, places that seemingly hadn’t existed before. Isobel felt she was being mapped, compiled, and expanded, as though her flesh were an endless plane. Layers of her were uncovered, rolled, smoothed. Her hands occasionally found his, and when his hands pulled away her palms stung with the emptiness.

  She felt his touch on her, over her, and down her limbs, the fine skin of him like wind. His breath on her ached. His palm was a blessing on her spine. As his hands traced her she was reminded of his working on the wedding dress she had yet to see completed. He took care with her as he would a fine hem, smoothing her as he would a dear length of silk.

  Suddenly he was over her, separating her knees, and Isobel sighed. This is it, then. But it was his mouth that found her. A jagged breath of shock gave way to a shifting and blurring as Victor’s mouth uncovered her layers. His mouth moved intently as different colours broke over the backs of her closed lids, lavender splashing into magenta and carm
ine. She lost her breath and found it, thought of asking him to stop, but knew there was no compelling reason to offer. She found herself pressing toward his mouth and felt his teeth over ridges of flesh her mother had told her never to touch except with soap and water.

  A sin, surely.

  She didn’t care.

  When he kissed his way back to her neck and over her chin to meet her open mouth, she could taste the slight sharpness of her own sex on his mustache, a mild pepper, shifting liquid from his tongue to hers.

  He moved gently and there was a pressing in. Resistance where she expected pain. She imagined blood, but her concern dissolved under the instinct to meet Victor’s rhythm of shallow movements. There was a sharp sting as Victor arched and forced his length into her. He stopped abruptly and looked into her face. “Are you all right?”

  Isobel’s empty hands drifted to the sheets. “Yes, I’m fine. It was fine.”

  “Was?”

  Victor smiled. “Oh, Iz, we’ve only just started… ”

  Afterward, Isobel lay with her head on Victor’s thigh. A tiny ridge ran down the underside of his penis and flowed over the soft pouch, halving it with the tenderest of scars. Victor watched as she gently traced this line. He rose up on an elbow and whispered, “It’s the final seam, Izzy. It’s where the angels stuffed me before they sewed me up.”

  She sighed and rolled onto her back. “Ask me again.”

  Victor’s fingers drifted to linger at her temple. “Ask you what?”

  “Ask me to marry you again.”

  “Isobel, will you marry me?”

  She pretended to mull it over. Victor shot to his knees and pounced, straddling her and pinning her arms above her head. Her face was serious, but a twitch pulled at the corner of her lip. “My mother, she was right, you know, about letting you have what you want. It was easier than fighting it.”