by Nancy Thayer
“Then, thank you,” Madaket said. Rising, she approached Joanna and, leaning forward, briefly hugged her and kissed her cheek. Then, embarrassed, nearly tripping over her feet, she said, “I’ll go get Christopher’s gift now. I had to hide it out in the shed.”
She flew out into the hall and through the front door and back in again in only moments, carrying with her something very large and heavy and covered with a blanket. The wind and fog had lifted Madaket’s hair into a black halo around her head. Her eyes shone with excitement. Joanna was holding Christopher in her lap as he sat looking out at the cheerful disarray of the room with its mess of wrapping paper and presents and the rainbow of sweaters spilling out of the box beneath the Christmas tree. Madaket put her present on the floor and lifted the blanket off.
A large and marvelously beautiful wooden rocking horse stood before them. He was carved of pale pine, and his coat was polished to a sheen, and his sculpted mane was accented with gold, as were his black saddle and his elegantly braided tail. Real leather reins hung from glistening gold rings in his mouth and he smiled a handsome horsey smile with his long rectangular white teeth.
“Oh, Madaket,” Joanna breathed, amazed.
“Todd built him. I designed him, and helped sand him, and painted him. And put the rings in—they’re attached to a dowel and I’m sure Christopher won’t be able to pull them out.” Lovingly she pushed the horse’s back and he rocked gently back and forth on his curved rockers.
“He’s beautiful. I’ve never seen such a beautiful thing.”
“Now for your present!” Madaket took the last present from under the tree and put it on the sofa within Joanna’s reach, then lifted bottom-heavy Christopher into her own arms and perched on the edge of the sofa to watch Joanna open her gift.
Carefully Joanna peeled back the red and green wrapping paper to find a framed, ten-by-twelve-inch, pen-and-ink drawing of her house. It was perfect. The lines were drawn with sure authority, and every detail captured. Underneath, in flowing calligraphy, was the title: “Joanna’s House.” In the corner the name Claude Clifford was signed, and Joanna caught her breath. She knew the kind of prices Claude could command for such a drawing.
As if reading her mind, Madaket said, “Claude gave me a deal. Because he likes you so much, you know.”
“I don’t know what to say, Madaket. This is an amazing gift.” She looked up and saw Madaket’s eyes shining with delight. “Thank you,” she said, and turned her head away, to hide her tears.
Just then the telephone rang; the Latherns calling to wish her Merry Christmas. Soon after that a knock sounded on the door and Gardner came in, wearing jeans and a camel-hair blazer that made his sandy hair blaze like sunlight. Joanna and Madaket had invited him for Christmas breakfast since he was alone now, and he had walked down from his house at the other end of Squam Road. They traded gifts. Gardner gave Joanna several books about Nantucket’s history, and to Madaket he gave a large and very beautiful book of Dutch prints of flowers and herbs. Joanna gave Gardner a silk tie, and Madaket shyly presented him with several jars of her jams. Then they adjourned to the dining room for a holiday feast. Gardner held Christopher while Joanna and Madaket cooked and served eggs scrambled with peppers and feta cheese, and her country fried potatoes, and bacon, and Madaket’s special almond Christmas bread, and fresh coffee, and champagne mixed with fresh orange juice. After that, Gardner went home and they napped until it was time for Christmas dinner at the Hoovers’.
On Christmas night Joanna fell into bed in a state of happy exhaustion, certain that nothing except Christopher’s most serious entreaties would waken her. But almost as soon as she sank into sleep, she was jolted awake by an awareness of something—a sound, a slight change in the air?
She sat up in bed. Dark lay all around her except for the night-light glowing from the bathroom, which slightly illuminated the cradle where Christopher lay. The windows were black with night. She looked at the clock on her bedside table: it was not quite midnight. She’d been asleep only about thirty minutes. Throwing back her covers, she tiptoed over to look down at her baby, who lay on his back in angelic repose, arms flung upward, small chest rising and falling evenly. The bedroom was very warm, the floors warm to her bare feet.
She heard a noise, so slight it was almost imaginary. Perhaps Madaket was down in the living room watching television. Quietly Joanna went out into the hall, which was still dark. She peered down the stairs: darkness. She started to call out Madaket’s name, and then some instinct stopped her and sent her down the full length of the hall. Staying in the protection of the heavy draperies, she leaned against the window and looked down at the driveway, which was brightened by lamps on either side of the front door.
The Snows’ red pickup truck sat in the white gravel. The engine was running and the truck vibrated gently. As her eyes adjusted to the semidarkness, Joanna saw that Madaket was sitting inside the cab of the truck, talking to Todd. It was too dark to see them clearly, she could make out only movements and the flashing of white teeth, and shadows. It didn’t seem that the two young people were in a lovers’ embrace. It looked as if Madaket was on the passenger side. It did not seem that they were touching. Still, why was Todd here? At midnight on Christmas night? Were they exchanging presents? What had they discussed while they worked together as conspirators, building Christopher’s rocking horse? How close had they become?
A feathery touch brushed against Joanna’s hand, making her jump and nearly cry aloud. It was only Wolf. Then from her bedroom came Christopher’s high wail. Joanna held her breath. Perhaps he’d fall back asleep. She looked out the window. Madaket and Todd were still apart, still talking. Christopher cried once more, then steadily. Reluctantly Joanna left her watch post to return to her bedroom. Gathering her baby up in her arms, she checked his diaper—dry—and shushed him and soothed him and then sank into her rocking chair and nursed him and burped him, then rocked him, singing lullabies. And after all that time, and after she lay him back to sleep in his cradle, Madaket still did not return to the house. Joanna crawled back in her bed and lay on her side, keeping watch through her eyelids for a change in the light, listening for the soft opening and closing of the front door. But the next thing she knew, it was morning and the December sun was shining thinly through a layer of white clouds.
And all that day, and all the days that followed, Madaket did not mention her midnight meeting with Todd to Joanna, and Joanna did not ask.
How many other times had Madaket secretly met Todd? She wouldn’t ask.
In January, Joanna received an invitation to join a mothers’ group that met weekly at different homes. She had little energy for meeting new people, but her mind nudged her for information about such humble topics as teething and feeding and crying patterns, so she forced herself to go. It could only be good for her, she suspected.
And it was. Once there, she immediately was overcome with a deep sense of humility. Listening to the other mothers, she realized she had no right to complain. Most of the women were juggling care for their baby with caring for at least one other child, and some of them also worked outside the home, leaving the baby with a relative or a neighbor or a less than satisfactory babysitter. They all loved their infants ferociously, and they all felt that they loved their babies insufficiently, that somehow they were failing their children. Joanna sat listening, holding small Christopher in his pure cotton Baby Dior romper, and realized how spoiled she was, and how blind she had been to what good luck she truly had.
She did not speak to the other mothers of the baby girl who had not lived, but when Joanna was in this group, the thought of Angelica lingered with her, a ghost child nestling near. Among these women her sorrow would be understood and accepted and even shared. Joanna could almost feel the extra weight in her arms.
One frigid February afternoon Joanna returned home from a mothers’ afternoon get-together to find her answering machine blinking. Madaket took Christopher off to the nursery, and Joanna sank
down into her chair, and put her feet up on the footstool made for her by Doug Snow, and leaned back. She hadn’t spent much time in her study recently, and she looked around with pleasure at her computer and her printer and her waiting Rolodex. She pressed the play button.
“Joanna, hello, dear, it’s Justin. Just wanted to tell you we’ll be sending the galleys of your books off at the end of this week. Hope you can plan to clear your calendar and get them back right away. One’s scheduled to come out in June, the other in September. We’re thinking about some publicity; perhaps even an author’s tour. It would help sales immensely. What do you think? Call me.”
“Joanna. Jake here. How’s Christopher? Hey, I saw Justin today for lunch and we have some ideas cooking. Some TV tie-ins, which would keep your name and face in front of the audience over the spring and summer and be a great buildup for the fall and your return. I’ll call again.”
A delicious warmth flowed through Joanna. She hugged herself and smiled. Her books! And an author’s tour! Fabulous Homes! The world opened up before her. Oh, what fun! She’d take Christopher and Madaket, and Madaket, who had traveled no farther than Hyannis or Boston on a school trip, would get a chance to see the country. She’d take Madaket to a Broadway show, to a nightclub in New Orleans—
But wait.
First, Joanna insisted to herself, first she had to settle something between herself and Madaket. What connection did Madaket feel to Todd? What plans did they have, exactly, concerning the discovery of any more treasure? Were they conspiring against Joanna? Or was Madaket trustworthy? Joanna needed to know, because she felt beholden to the young woman and increasingly fond. Even though no amount of money could have bought the kind of care Madaket had given, still it was money, Joanna reasoned, that could best express her gratitude. Now was the time.
There were no direct flights to New York from Nantucket, so Joanna made an appointment with a jeweler on Newbury Street in Boston. She told Madaket only that she had some business to attend to there, and using the breast pump, she expressed milk into bottles for the young woman to give Christopher. With the baby carefully tucked into his car seat, Madaket drove Joanna to the airport. Joanna felt oddly unreal in her sleek hose and slender clothes, the first work clothes she’d donned since her pregnancy.
“You look glamorous,” Madaket told her as she entered the airport.
“I just hope no one spits on me,” Joanna replied, for she was wearing her black mink coat and hat against the winter cold.
The flight went well and took only forty-five minutes. Joanna took a taxi directly to the jewelry shop. An elegantly uniformed security guard stood frowning in front of the shining brass doors. He eyed Joanna coldly before nodding curtly at someone inside, who pressed a button which released the electronic locks. Entering this rarefied atmosphere where the jewels and the jewelers exuded the same iciness, Joanna was glad for her furs. Mr. Vandermeer greeted her with a European bow and led her to a luxuriously appointed private salon, where she sank onto a George Cinq settee and sipped Hu-Kwa tea before getting down to business.
Joanna opened her purse and took out a black velvet jewelry box. Inside were the two rough-cut rubies. Mr. Vandermeer actually smiled as he studied them under his magnifying glass. When at last he lifted his gleaming bald head, he said, “These are top-quality rough-cut rubies. I could pay you thirty-five thousand dollars.”
Joanna shook her head and sighed.
Mr. Vandermeer sighed, too, then said sadly, “Each.”
“Very well. That seems a fair price.” Joanna sipped her tea while the jeweler called in various employees to deal with the paperwork. In a remarkably short period of time, she had a certified check for seventy thousand dollars and a stamped bill of sale. She shook hands with Mr. Vandermeer and went back out into the bright winter day. Two blocks of walking brought her to a branch of one of the banks with which she had accounts. She went in and deposited the check in her checking account. No use to open a special money market account for it, she decided, she’d be writing a check to Madaket almost immediately.
She had some free time before her flight back, so she walked along Newbury Street, looking in the windows at the fashionable shops. People passed her on the sidewalk without a second glance. Had her face been forgotten so soon? She grew tired more quickly than she thought she would and went into the Ritz for tea. The gracious room was filled today; it seemed she was the only one alone. Pairs and groups of friends bent toward each other over the tea tables, and the air was sprinkled with soft laughter and the hum and buzz of intimate talk, and Joanna looked and listened with envy, suddenly pierced through with longing for the bustle and perfume of city life. She couldn’t wait to get all this treasure business settled, and proof the galleys of her books, and gear up for a book tour. Her figure, while not yet in its original shape, was slimming down very nicely, thanks to the nursing. But she could be more diligent about shaping up. She’d heard there was a health club in Nantucket. Perhaps she should start working out, to build up her strength and flatten her tummy. And then she would have to buy some fabulous new clothes!
Madaket and Christopher were waiting in the airport. Madaket was holding Christopher up and exclaiming, “There’s Mommy! There’s your mommy!” To her delighted surprise, Joanna’s heart jumped at the sight of them, her almost-family, waiting eagerly only for her.
“He really missed you,” Madaket said. “He didn’t like his bottle at all.”
Joanna leaned over and rubbed her nose against her little boy’s. “Hi, Christopher. Did you miss me?”
“Bbuuhh,” Christopher said, blowing bubbles of joy at the sight of his mother. He waved his fat arms bulkily in the padding of his snowsuit. Christopher had Carter’s piercingly clear blue eyes, rather startling in a baby, but the expression in those eyes was winsome and sweet and terribly yearning, as if Christopher were trying to talk.
Joanna grabbed her baby and kissed him all over his face, smooching him ecstatically, and Christopher laughed a deep hearty baby chuckle and cooed and wriggled for joy.
“God, I’m just spurting milk!” Joanna whispered to Madaket.
They raced to the car.
“You drive. I’ll nurse him right now.” She buckled herself in and hastened to unfasten all the buttons and snaps on her clothing. The baby’s toothless bite on her nipple brought a surge of relief. “Did he cry?”
“No, but he fussed a lot. I was busy entertaining him!” Madaket steered the Jeep out of the airport parking lot and toward home. “How was your trip?”
“Successful. I’ll tell you about it later.” Joanna stroked the side of Christopher’s head as he nursed. His skin was as soft as silk.
“Joanna, I have some good news for you.”
“Oh?” Christopher clamped his fist around her finger.
“The Snowmen returned today. Just showed up about ten o’clock and started pounding away on the sunporch floor. The trapdoor is all covered over with subflooring now, and they said they’ll put in the tile tomorrow.”
“Oh. What a surprise.” Joanna looked over at Madaket to watch her profile as she spoke. “How very odd that they showed up the day I was off the island.”
“It is a strange coincidence, isn’t it?” Madaket agreed. She didn’t seem ill at ease, and yet Joanna wondered: had Madaket called the men and told them it was safe to return to the house because Joanna was gone for the day? Joanna studied Madaket. She’d come to rely on the young woman so completely she’d stopped really seeing her. She was beautiful, exotically, erotically beautiful.
As they pulled into the driveway, the Snowmen were leaving in their red truck. They’d been alone in her house, Joanna realized. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with fatigue.
“I’m tired,” Joanna said as they entered the house. “I think Christopher and I will spend the evening in bed reading magazines.”
“All right. Shall I bring your dinner to your bedroom?”
“That would be nice.”
Madaket went off
to the kitchen. Later, after she’d brought Joanna’s dinner up on a tray, she went up the stairs to her attic room.
Joanna played with Christopher, and looked at magazines, and nursed Christopher again, then slid into her wide bed with Christopher next to her and fell asleep. When the baby woke her for his night feeding, it was two in the morning but bright with a high cold winter moon. Joanna nursed and changed the baby, then tucked him into his crib. The lazy evening had left her restless and she’d been having unpleasant dreams. Pulling her heavy down robe on, she went down the stairs, planning to fix herself a cup of chamomile tea.
The overhead kitchen light was too glaring when she flicked it on, so immediately she flicked it off and crossed the room to turn on the small light above the stove. As she moved around the kitchen in the soft cottony light, she realized that Wolf wasn’t around, following her every step with hopeful eyes. That was odd. No matter that he slept in the attic with Madaket; if Joanna got up in the night, he always heard her and came down to accompany her, especially when she was eating.
She checked the back hall door. It was unlocked, and Madaket’s parka was gone. So even in this weather she was out walking at night, Wolf undoubtedly by her side. The kettle whistled. Joanna poured her tea, then walked through the dark house, looking out the windows. Under the silver moonlight the property around her house rambled off in a tangle and blur of bushes and moors. It was still another two months before the bulbs would be piercing up through the cold ground. Madaket had described it all: crocuses and snowdrops would come first, then the tulips grouped under the windows in the shelter of the front of the house, and finally the daffodils scattered wildly across the back lawn and iris and lilies in the garden. It would be beautiful.
She spotted Madaket at the front of the property, walking slowly around the long rectangle of earth she’d dug and fertilized and worked for a garden last fall. Wolf was by her side. Probably she was planning her spring planting. On the dining room windowsills and in rows in the pantry, small boxes of seedlings and ceramic pots of herbs sprouted. Madaket intended to set them out when it was warm enough. Marjoram, tarragon, parsley, mint—Joanna couldn’t name them all. In the sunroom, too big for a sill, sat fat tubs of Madaket’s grandmother’s ancient and rather gnarled geraniums with stems as thick as fingers and leaves as large as saucers. It made Joanna oddly melancholy to see the plants waiting so patiently, so mutely, through the night, their scalloped leaves angled for the morning sun.
