Stern Men

by Elizabeth Gilbert

  “Wasn’t a raccoon, then,” Mr. Cobb said. “Couldn’t have been.”

  “Oh, it was a little raccoon, all right. He had a striped tail and the cutest little mask. I called him Masky!”

  “Wasn’t a raccoon. Couldn’t have been. Wasn’t a raccoon on this island until 1958,” Mr. Cobb said. “Courne Haven folks brought ’em over in 1958.”

  “Well, this was a baby raccoon,” Mrs. Pommeroy said, by way of explanation.

  “Probably a skunk.”

  “I’d like to shoot a raccoon!” Mrs. Cobb said with such force that her mouth actually moved, and her silent daughter, Florida, actually started.

  “My father sure shot Masky,” Mrs. Pommeroy said.

  She toweled off Mr. Cobb’s hair and brushed the back of his neck with a tiny pastry brush. She patted talcum powder under his frayed shirt collar and rubbed oily tonic into his wiry hair, shaping it into an excessively curved pompadour.

  “Look at you!” she said, and gave him an antique silver hand mirror. “You look like a country music star. What do you think, Ivy? Isn’t he a handsome devil?”

  “Silly,” said Ivy Cobb, but her husband beamed, his cheeks shiny as his pompadour. Mrs. Pommeroy took the sheet off him, gathering it up carefully so as not to spill his hair all over her glaring green kitchen, and Mr. Cobb stood up, still admiring himself in the antique mirror. He turned his head slowly from side to side and smiled at himself, grinning like a handsome devil.

  “What do you think of your father, Florida?” Mrs. Pommeroy asked. “Doesn’t he look fine?”

  Florida Cobb blushed deeply.

  “She won’t say nothing,” Mr. Cobb said, suddenly disgusted. He plunked the hand mirror down on the kitchen table and dug some money out of his pocket. “Never says a goddamn word. Wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouthful of it.”

  Ruth laughed and decided to get herself a piece of pie after all.

  “I’ll take those curlers out for you now, Ivy,” Mrs. Pommeroy said.

  Later, after the Cobbs had gone, Mrs. Pommeroy and Ruth sat on the front porch. There was an old couch out there, upholstered in big bleeding roses, that smelled as if it had been rained on, or worse. Ruth drank beer and Mrs. Pommeroy drank fruit punch, and Ruth told Mrs. Pommeroy about visiting her mother.

  “How’s Ricky?” Mrs. Pommeroy asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. He’s just, you know . . . He flops around.”

  “That was the saddest thing, when that baby was born. You know, I never saw that poor baby.”

  “I know.”

  “I never saw your poor mother after that.”

  Yah po-ah mothah . . . Ruth had missed Mrs. Pommeroy’s accent.

  “I know.”

  “I tried to call her. I did call her. I told her to bring her baby back here to the island, but she said he was much too sick. I made her describe what was wrong with him, and, I’ll tell you something; it didn’t sound too bad to me.”

  “Oh, it’s bad.”

  “It didn’t sound to me like something we couldn’t take care of out here. What did he need? He didn’t need much. Some medicine. That’s easy. Jesus, Mr. Cobb takes medicine every single day for his sugars, and he manages. What else did Ricky need? Someone to watch him. We could have done that. That’s a person’s child; you find a place for him. That’s what I told her. She cried and cried.”

  “Everyone else said he should be in an institution.”

  “Who said? Vera Ellis said that. Who else?”

  “The doctors.”

  “She should have brought that baby here to his home. He would’ve been just fine out here. She still could bring him out here. We’d take care of that child as good as anyone else.”

  “She said you were her only friend. She said you were the only person out here who was nice to her.”

  “That’s sweet. But it’s not true. Everyone was nice to her.”

  “Not Angus Addams.”

  “Oh, he loved her.”

  “Loved? Loved?”

  “He liked her as much as he likes anyone.”

  Ruth laughed. Then she said, “Did you ever meet someone named Owney Wishnell?”

  “Who’s that? From Courne Haven?”

  “Pastor Wishnell’s nephew.”

  “Oh, yes. That great big blond boy.”

  “Yes.”

  “I know who he is.”

  Ruth didn’t say anything.

  “Why?” Mrs. Pommeroy asked. “Why do you ask?”

  “Nothing,” Ruth said.

  The porch door swung open, kicked by Robin Pommeroy’s wife, Opal, whose hands were so full of her huge son that she couldn’t operate the doorknob. The baby, on seeing Mrs. Pommeroy, let out a crazy holler, like a delighted gorilla toddler.

  “There’s my baby grandson,” Mrs. Pommeroy said.

  “Hey, Ruth,” Opal said shyly.

  “Hey, Opal.”

  “Didn’t know you were here.”

  “Hey, big Eddie,” Ruth said to the baby. Opal brought the child over and bent down, heaving a bit, so that Ruth could kiss the boy’s enormous head. Ruth slid over on the sofa to make space for Opal, who sat down, lifted her T-shirt, and gave a breast to Eddie. He lunged for it and set to sucking with concentration and a lot of wet noise. He sucked at that breast as if he were drawing breath through it.

  “Doesn’t that hurt?” Ruth asked.

  “Yeah,” said Opal. She yawned without covering her mouth, showing off a mine of silver fillings.

  The three women on the couch all stared at the big baby locked so fiercely onto Opal’s breast.

  “He sucks like a regular old bilge pump,” Ruth said.

  “Bites, too,” said the laconic Opal.

  Ruth winced.

  “When did you feed him last?” Mrs. Pommeroy asked.

  “I don’t know. An hour ago. Half hour.”

  “You should try to keep him on a schedule, Opal.”

  She shrugged. “He’s always hungry.”

  “Of course he is, sweetheart. That’s because you feed him all the time. Builds his appetite. You know what they say. If the mama’s a-willin’, the baby’s a-takin’.”

  “They say that?” Ruth asked.

  “I just made it up,” Mrs. Pommeroy said.

  “It’s nice how you made it rhyme like that,” Ruth said, and Mrs. Pommeroy grinned and punched her. Ruth had missed the delight of teasing people without being afraid they’d burst into tears on her. She punched Mrs. Pommeroy back.

  “My idea is, I let him eat whenever he wants,” Opal said. “I figure if he’s eating, he’s hungry. He ate three hot dogs yesterday.”

  “Opal!” Mrs. Pommeroy exclaimed. “He’s only ten months old!”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “You can’t help it? He got the hot dogs himself?” Ruth asked. Mrs. Pommeroy and Opal laughed, and the baby suddenly popped himself off the breast with the loud sound of a tight seal breaking. He lolled his head like a drunk, and then he laughed, too.

  “I told a baby joke!” Ruth said.

  “Eddie likes you,” Opal said. “You like Roof? You like your Auntie Roof, Eddie?” She set the baby on Ruth’s lap, where he grinned crookedly and spat up yellow soup on her pants. Ruth handed him back to his mother.

  “Oops,” said Opal. She heaved the baby up and went into the house, coming out a moment later to toss a bathroom towel at Ruth. “I think it’s nap time for Eddie,” she said, and disappeared into the house again.

  Ruth wiped the hot, foamy puddle off her leg. “Baby barf,” she said.

  “They feed that baby too much,” Mrs. Pommeroy said.

  “He makes the necessary adjustments, I’d say.”

  “She was feeding him chocolate fudge sauce the other day, Ruth. With a spoon. Right out of the jar. I saw it!”

  “That Opal isn’t very smart.”

  “She’s got great big boobs, though.”

  “Oh, lucky her.”

  “Lucky baby Eddie. How could she have
such big boobs when she’s only seventeen? I didn’t even know what boobs were when I was seventeen.”

  “Yes, you did. Jesus, Mrs. Pommeroy, you were already married when you were seventeen.”

  “Yes, that’s right. But I didn’t know what boobs were when I was twelve. I saw my sister’s chest and asked her what those big things were. She said it was baby fat.”

  “Gloria said that?”

  “Kitty said that.”

  “She should’ve told you the truth.”

  “She probably didn’t know the truth.”

  “Kitty? Kitty was born knowing the truth.”

  “Imagine if she’d told me the truth? Imagine if she said, ‘They’re tits, Rhonda, and someday grown men will want to suck on them.’ ”

  “Grown men and young boys, too. And other people’s husbands, knowing Kitty.”

  “Why did you ask me about Owney Wishnell, Ruth?”

  Ruth gave Mrs. Pommeroy a quick glance, then looked out at the yard. She said, “No reason.”

  Mrs. Pommeroy watched Ruth for a long moment. She tilted her head. She waited.

  “It’s not true that you were the only person on this island who was nice to my mother?” Ruth said.

  “No, Ruth, I told you. We all liked her. She was wonderful. She was a little sensitive, though, and sometimes had trouble understanding the way some people are.”

  “Angus Addams, for instance.”

  “Oh, a lot of them. She couldn’t understand all the drinking. I used to tell her, Mary, these men are cold and wet ten hours a day their whole lives. That can really chafe a person. They need to drink, or there’s no way to deal with it.”

  “My dad didn’t ever drink so much.”

  “He didn’t talk to her so much, either. She was lonely out here. She couldn’t stand the winters.”

  “I think she’s lonely in Concord.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it. Does she want you to move there with her?”

  “Yeah. She wants me to go to college. She says that’s what the Ellises want. She says Mr. Ellis’ll pay for it, of course. Vera Ellis thinks if I stay here much longer, I’ll get pregnant. She wants me to move to Concord and then go to some small, respectable women’s college, where the Ellises know the president.”

  “People do get pregnant out here, Ruth.”

  “I think Opal has a big enough baby to go around for all of us. And besides, a person has to have sex to get pregnant these days. So they say.”

  “You should be with your mother if that’s what she wants. There’s nothing keeping you here. People out here, Ruth, they’re not really your people.”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’m not going to do a single thing with my life that the Ellises want me to do. That’s my plan.”

  “That’s your plan?”

  “For now.”

  Mrs. Pommeroy took off her shoes and put her feet up on the old wooden lobster trap she used for a table on the porch. She sighed. “Tell me some more about Owney Wishnell,” she said.

  “Well, I met him,” Ruth said.

  “And?”

  “And he’s an unusual person.”

  Again, Mrs. Pommeroy waited, and Ruth looked out at the front yard. A seagull standing on a child’s toy truck stared back at her. Mrs. Pommeroy was staring at her, too.

  “What?” Ruth asked. “What’s everyone staring at?”

  “I think there’s more to tell,” Mrs. Pommeroy said. “Why don’t you tell me, Ruth?”

  So Ruth started to tell Mrs. Pommeroy about Owney Wishnell, although it hadn’t been her original intention to tell anyone about him. She told Mrs. Pommeroy about Owney’s clean fisherman’s outfit and his ease with boats and about his rowing her out behind the rock to show her his lobster traps. She told about Pastor Wishnell’s threatening speeches on the evils and immoralities of lobster fishing and about Owney’s nearly crying when he showed her his packed, useless trap of lobsters.

  “That poor child,” Mrs. Pommeroy said.

  “Not exactly a child. I think he’s about my age.”

  “Bless his heart.”

  “Can you believe it? He’s got traps all along the coast, and he tosses the lobsters back. You should see how he handles them. It’s the strangest thing. He sort of puts them in a trance.”

  “He looks like a Wishnell, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Handsome, then?”

  “He has a big head.”

  “They all do.”

  “Owney’s head is really huge. It looks like a weather balloon with ears.”

  “I’m sure he’s handsome. They all have big chests, too, the Wishnells, except Toby Wishnell. Lots of muscles.”

  “Maybe it’s baby fat,” Ruth said.

  “Muscle,” said Mrs. Pommeroy, and smiled. “They’re all big old Swedes. Except the pastor. Oh, how I used to want to marry a Wishnell.”

  “Which one?”

  “Any of them. Any Wishnell. Ruth, they make so much money. You’ve seen their houses over there. The prettiest houses. The prettiest yards. They always have these sweet little flower gardens . . . I don’t think I ever talked to a Wishnell, though, when I was a girl. Can you believe that? I’d see them in Rockland sometimes, and they were so handsome.”

  “You should have married a Wishnell.”

  “How, Ruth? Honestly. Regular people don’t marry Wishnells. Besides, my family would have killed me if I’d married someone from Courne Haven. Besides, I never even met a Wishnell. I couldn’t tell you which one I wanted to marry.”

  “You could’ve had your pick of them,” Ruth said. “A sexy looker like you?”

  “I loved my Ira,” Mrs. Pommeroy said. But she patted Ruth’s arm for the compliment.

  “Sure you loved your Ira. But he was your cousin.”

  Mrs. Pommeroy sighed. “I know. But we had a good time. He used to take me over to the sea caves on Boon Rock, you know. With the stalactites, or whatever they were, hanging down everywhere. God, that was pretty.”

  “He was your cousin! People shouldn’t marry their cousins! You’re lucky your kids weren’t born with dorsal fins!”

  “You’re terrible, Ruth! You’re terrible!” But she laughed.

  Ruth said, “You wouldn’t believe how scared of Pastor Wishnell that Owney is.”

  “I believe everything. Do you like that Owney Wishnell, Ruth?”

  “Do I like him? I don’t know. No. Sure. I don’t know. I think he’s . . . interesting.”

  “You never talk about boys.”

  “I never meet any boys to talk about.”

  “Is he handsome?” Mrs. Pommeroy asked again.

  “I told you. He’s big. He’s blond.”

  “Are his eyes very blue?”

  “That sounds like the title of a love song.”

  “Are they very blue or not, Ruth?” She sounded slightly annoyed.

  Ruth changed her tone. “Yes. They are very blue, Mrs. Pommeroy.”

  “Do you want to know something funny, Ruth? I always secretly hoped you’d marry one of my boys.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Pommeroy, no.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “It’s just—”

  “I know, Ruth. Look at them. What a bunch! You couldn’t end up with any of them. Fagan is a farmer. Can you imagine that? A girl like you could never live on a potato farm. John? Who knows about John? Where is he? We don’t even know. Europe? I can hardly remember what John’s like. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him, I can hardly remember his face. Isn’t that a terrible thing for a mother to say?”

  “I can hardly remember John either.”

  “You’re not his mother, Ruth. And then there’s Conway. Such a violent person, for some reason. And now he walks with a limp. You’d never marry a man with a limp.”

  “No limpers for me!”

  “And Chester? Oh, boy.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “Thinks he can tell fortunes? Rides around with those hippies?”

  “Sells
dope.”

  “Sells dope?” Mrs. Pommeroy said, surprised.

  “Just kidding,” Ruth lied.

  “He probably does.” Mrs. Pommeroy sighed. “And Robin. Well, I have to admit I never thought you’d marry Robin. Not even when you were both little. You never thought much of Robin.”

  “You probably thought he wouldn’t be able to ask me to marry him. He wouldn’t be able to pronounce it. It’d be like Would you pwease mawwey me, Woof? It would have been embarrassing for everyone.”

  Mrs. Pommeroy shook her head and wiped her eyes quickly. Ruth noticed the gesture and stopped laughing.

  “What about Webster?” Ruth asked. “That leaves Webster.”

  “That’s the thing, Ruth,” Mrs. Pommeroy said, and her voice was sad. “I always thought you’d marry Webster.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Pommeroy.” Ruth moved over on the couch and put her arm around her friend.

  “What happened to Webster, Ruth?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He was the brightest one. He was my brightest son.”

  “I know.”

  “After his father died . . .”

  “I know.”

  “He didn’t even grow any more.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “He’s so timid. He’s like a child.” Mrs. Pommeroy wiped tears off both cheeks with the back of her hand—a fast, smooth motion. “Me and your mom both have a son that didn’t grow, I guess,” she said. “Oh, brother. I’m such a crybaby. How about that?” She wiped her nose on her sleeve and smiled at Ruth. They brought their foreheads together for a moment. Ruth put her hand on the back of Mrs. Pommeroy’s head, and Mrs. Pommeroy closed her eyes. Then she pulled back and said, “I think something was taken from my sons, Ruthie.”

  “Yes.”

  “A lot was taken from my sons. Their father. Their inheritance. Their boat. Their fishing ground. Their fishing gear.”

  “I know,” Ruth said, and she felt a rush of guilt, as she had for years, whenever she thought of her father on his boat with Mr. Pommeroy’s traps.

  “I wish I could have another son for you.”

  “What? For me?”

  “To marry. I wish I could have one more son, and make him normal. A good one.”