The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons

by Barbara Mariconda

  Addie nodded and slid silently out the door.

  “Close it!” he bellowed. I watched Addie take a deep breath and gently shut the door.

  Uncle Victor walked toward me. Though not a big man, he was taller than me, and he leaned over so that his bruised face was just inches from my own.

  “This,” he said, pointing to his face, “this is your doing! You and that miserable dog of yours.”

  “No!” I began. “No, you don’t underst—”

  “Silence!”

  I not only heard the word, but felt the force of his breath explode against my face. I backed up, my mouth dry, hands shaking.

  “I have a good mind to have the beast drowned, as he should have been in the first place!”

  I thought, at that point, that my legs might give way, that I might actually pass out. Would the water swallow up everyone and everything I loved? Mother, Father, Mr. Pugsley? I pushed back the sorrow that rose up in me like a squall.

  “No,” I pleaded, “it wasn’t Mr. Pugsley’s fault.”

  “Shut up,” he snarled. “You, missy, are not going to make a fool of me! And we won’t be spoiling you rotten like those putting-on-airs parents of yours were so fond of doing! Oh no! There’ll be no more of that, I can assure you. A little liar, you are, an ill-bred little ruffian.”

  “You’re right, Uncle Victor,” I said, almost choking on the words, furious that he’d insulted my wonderful parents, but I pressed on.

  “I did lie. I wasn’t out there doing my chores. You were right. I was playing marbles, is what I was doing.”

  I thrust a handful of the clear aqua and agate marbles under his nose. “See! I was using these. I dropped one on the path and when I went to pick it up I stumbled. That’s how I got dirty and scratched.”

  The words poured out, one lie after the next. “And then … and then.... out here on the steps I dropped one, and, and … you stepped on it, I’m sure of it. That’s how you tripped. I am so, so sorry,” I lied, allowing the tears of fear and anger I felt at the prospect of losing Mr. Pugsley to slip down my cheeks.

  “I never wanted to see you get hurt,” I sobbed, channeling my frustration into my role as penitent. “I’m very sorry. Please, please don’t punish the dog. It wasn’t his fault!”

  I covered my face with my hands and chanced a glance through the tangle of hair and dirty fingers. Uncle Victor stared at me with an odd mix of anger and satisfaction—satisfaction, I’m sure, in thinking that he’d broken my spirit.

  He pulled the thin smile that spread across his lips into a grimace and lifted my chin so that I was once again eye to eye, nose to nose with him.

  “Listen to me, missy,” he said. “There’ll be no more lying. There’ll be no more dillydallying out there near the shore. No more of your shenanigans.”

  “But Mr. Pugsley …”

  “I’ll let you keep the dog—for now,” he emphasized. “But the next time you disobey me, or dishonor me with a lie, the beast goes; do you understand that?”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding, “yes, I understand.” Relief almost bowled me over.

  He took a step back from me and pointed his finger in my face.

  “You, young lady—although you don’t deserve that title—will not be allowed outdoors.”

  I gasped.

  “But …,” I struggled, “but what about …”

  My distress seemed to make him more adamant. “You are not to venture outside without my express permission, do you understand that?”

  I nodded, knowing I had no choice.

  “Then we understand each other,” he said. “I spare the dog, for the moment, and you answer to me. I would say that, under the circumstances, that is quite generous on my part. Now, go upstairs, missy, and do not come down until tomorrow. You will do without your dinner. Do you understand?”

  I nodded again.

  “Now go,” he said, with a flick of his hand. “Out of my sight!”

  I turned and left the room, walking silently past Addie and Aunt Margaret, stationed outside the door.

  As I crossed the threshold into my room, I knew I had indeed crossed another line—and had come to a curiously exhilarating, yet frightening, realization.

  In order to find Aunt Pru, rescue our home, and protect my loyal Mr. Pugsley, I would consciously and determinedly disobey—and yes—even lie to Uncle Victor when circumstances required it, as I suspected they most certainly would.

  I offered a silent apology to Mother and Father—after all, they hadn’t raised me to be dishonest or disobedient. This I followed with a vow to do whatever I had to do, hoping, believing, that Mother and Father would understand.

  10

  The very next day I stood before my bedroom window, staring toward the shore. I’d already spent some time playing Father’s flute. The notes of the chantey were now confidently beneath my fingers, the tone pure and clear. There were times, however, when the instrument seemed to play of its own accord, ornamenting and embellishing the simple tunes I was capable of—or perhaps it was my imagination working overtime, bored as I was as a prisoner in my own house. I laid my precious flute down on the windowsill and gazed longingly outside.

  There had to be a way to earn Uncle Victor’s confidence, or at least a way to convince him to allow me out of doors. I ran down a list of tedious outdoor chores that might sound virtuous to him—weeding the garden, picking rose hips out along the shore. I even thought of suggesting clamming, for I knew he loved to slurp raw clams from the half shell. The problem with that notion was that I hadn’t the faintest idea of how to collect clams—I knew it involved digging in the mud, but beyond that, I hadn’t a clue.

  While muddling through these schemes, I caught a glimpse of a most amazing sight down on the bumpy old shore road—a wide dirt path, really, that was the only link between our small peninsula and the village. A squarish wagon, drawn by a swaybacked old brown horse, made its way lazily along, raising a cloud of dust beneath its large spoked wheels. The wagon itself was painted black, the letters RFD emblazoned on the side in fancy red-and-gold script.

  My heart thumped wildly. I had heard Father speak of his efforts to bring the mail wagon—the Rural Free Delivery—to our home and to the other remote homes along the shore, for up until that time, receiving mail required a trip into the village to the postal office. The carefully constructed wooden mailbox Father made had stood at the edge of our property along the shore road for perhaps a year awaiting the promised Rural Free Delivery. But the mail wagon had never come—at least not until now. At this very moment, I surmised, the postman might be carrying a letter from Aunt Prudence—a letter he would place in our mailbox! There was a small red-hinged flag on the side of the box that remained inconspicuously tucked in place. But when the postman placed mail in the box, he would lift the flag—a signal that mail had arrived. And I further surmised that Uncle Victor would notice that flag in an instant and be upon the box, the letter, and the key to my freedom in the blink of an eye. I had to get to the box before he noticed—I had to!

  My first thought was to tiptoe down the staircase and out the front door. But there was no way to know whether Uncle Victor was sitting in the front parlor, in view of the door; in the library, which was set off to the side; or even on the front porch. I would just have to take a chance.

  As I stepped toward my bedroom door, a curious dizzy feeling came over me. The door seemed to spin before my eyes, and to my great dismay, despite all of my pulling and yanking, the door would not budge! The glass knob slipped in my sweaty palms, and the door seemed to actually swell up stubbornly in its frame. I furiously twisted, jiggled, and tugged at the crystal knob, but the door remained resolutely shut.

  A faint tinkling noise over near the window interrupted my efforts. I turned to face the sound and found another of those swirling, glittering clouds floating about my bedroom window. I stood staring as the mist seeped between the window and the ledge, and watched the window slide effortlessly open. Father’s flu
te slowly floated on the mist and began to play, coaxing me, calling me, as though played by an invisible Pied Piper.

  Mesmerized, I stepped forward. The flute dipped and bobbed in encouragement, the tune increasing in tempo. The instrument tipped and pointed toward the window. I followed, staring out through the wavy glass pane.

  The mail wagon was rounding the bend toward Father’s mailbox. To my chagrin, the postman began ringing a bell to herald the arrival of the much-awaited RFD service. As if in response, Father’s ship’s bell clanged as well. It would only be a matter of time before Uncle Victor went to investigate the cacophony.

  There was a knock on my door, followed by Addie’s voice.

  “Here you go, darlin’,” she called. “I’ve got yer breakfast tray ready for ye.”

  I rushed to the door and pressed my lips against the keyhole.

  “Addie,” I whispered, the desperation somehow carrying my hushed voice out to her. “Addie, be very quiet! Don’t say anything that will arouse their attention!”

  I was met with silence.

  “Addie!” I said, as loud as I dared. “Addie?”

  “Yes, Lucy,” she whispered, the touch of her Irish brogue returning as it did whenever she was upset or riled up, “I hear ye. What are ye all worked up about, child? Stop tinkerin’ with that flute, and explain yourself!”

  I peered through the keyhole at her neat blue skirts. This calmed me somewhat.

  “Addie, I can’t explain just now.” I glanced back toward the window. The cloud of mist was swirling furiously around and over the windowsill. The flute tootled and trilled excitedly. “Just listen to me. I need you to keep Uncle Victor and Aunt Margaret busy for the next few minutes.”

  “But what d’ye mean, Lucy? I—”

  I sighed impatiently, the sound of the mail-wagon bell growing more insistent.

  “Addie, you must trust me! I’ll explain it all to you later, you have my word. But right now it could be a matter of life and death....” I gulped at my own exaggeration, although it did indeed feel that important. “You just need to keep them distracted for a few minutes!”

  I could almost see Addie on the other side of the door gripping the breakfast tray, glancing nervously down the stairs, biting her bottom lip.

  “But, Lucy,” she began, “I don’t know....”

  “Just think of something!” I whispered. “Anything at all. Please!” If I could have opened the door and given her a shake, I would have.

  There was a pause before I heard the crash of the tray on the stairs and Addie’s voice calling out.

  “Oh my stars! Oh good heavens! Mrs. Simmons, would ye look at what I’ve done now!” she shouted. I heard the scrambling of feet on the stairs, a confused jumble of angry voices.

  I didn’t wait an instant before dashing to the window. The misty vapor cascaded over the ledge and illuminated the side of the house below.

  Of course! I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it! Beneath my window hung one of Father’s large, sturdy nets, which was once strung between the masts of his great ship. This was another of Father’s keepsakes from his sailing days, another bit of seafaring memorabilia that graced our home. The expanse of thick rope and fat knots had created a grid of footholds for Father’s crewmen to scramble across. In the decade since Father left the high seas, the net had served as a curious kind of trellis, with wisteria, rather than sailors’ feet, creeping up knot by knot toward the sky.

  With scarcely a thought, I swung one leg over the ledge and searched with my foot for the top of the net. Encumbered and greatly exasperated by my full skirts, I hastily grabbed the hem with one hand and shamelessly shoved it into the waistband of my wide white bloomers.

  In this way (much like a stuffed pillow), I made my way down the net, the scratchy rope chafing against my palms, my neat black button shoes slipping and sliding along the ropes. I had hardly a thought as to the safety of this escapade, for only the clanging of the mail-wagon bell spurred me on. As I neared the bottom, I felt the pins and needles of the mist at my feet and, chancing a look down, watched in amazement as the vapors actually curled back the wisteria vine, clearing a way for me. I watched the green curlicue tendrils loosen, uncoil, and creep aside as I placed my feet lower and lower.

  Finally I jumped to the ground and ran toward the mailbox—a peculiar spectacle, I’m sure, what with my full skirts still jammed into my bloomers.

  I waved at the postman, and, just as I hoped, he finally refrained from that infernal bell ringing long enough to jam a slim stack of letters into the box and gape at the strange sight of me barreling down the hill. Flustered and embarrassed, I’m sure, he left the mail, lifted the red flag, averted his eyes, cracked the reins across the back of the old horse, and was on his way.

  As I flew toward the mailbox, I got a bit ahead of myself and stumbled. I tumbled forward and skidded across the dirt on my belly, leaving two great green streaks across my knees and a nasty tear along the seam of my bloomers. I was aware of my knees bleeding, but I scrambled to my feet and ran on.

  Finally, out of breath and sweating like the dickens, I reached the box. I hurled myself at it, flipped the flag back into its resting position, and flung the little door open.

  A stack of letters sat there waiting for me. I snatched them from the box and, still panting, began shuffling through them with shaking hands. An envelope from the village grocer, one from our family doctor, several more addressed to Uncle Victor from people I’d never heard of.

  I slipped each of these to the bottom of the pile, revealing the next and the next letter. As I fingered the last letter of the stack, I saw a shadow—a long, thin shadow—fall across the ground before me. I spun about to find myself face-to-face with my uncle.

  I gasped and put my hands behind my back, shielding the precious letters from him.

  “What do you think you’re doing out here?” he snarled. His eyes were narrowed, and his expression was even more sinister than usual, what with the black-and-blue eye and his swollen, misshapen nose. He made a grab for my arm, and I quickly backed up, throwing him off balance. This infuriated him further.

  “Give me those letters, missy,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “It’s bad enough you’ve disobeyed me by coming out of doors against my wishes. Don’t make it worse by interfering with my mail, do you hear me?”

  He made another lunge for me, and again I stepped back.

  “I’m not interested in your mail,” I said flatly. “I’m looking for my own mail. Mine or Mother’s, which is none of your concern!” I was aware that I sounded most rebellious, and my shock at my own defiance seemed only to feed my behavior further. I was quite panicked, if the truth be known, and nearly out of control. Recklessly, I pressed on, Uncle Victor’s fury only adding to my insubordination. I set my jaw tightly and nodded at him with a hmph of determination.

  “Why, you little hussy,” he said, glaring at my bloomers, spitting the words. “How dare you leave the house like this? What are you trying to do—ruin my good name carrying on like a common street wench?”

  I felt the color rise to my cheeks, and my shame further fueled my agitation. I hastily untucked my skirts, avoiding my uncle’s eyes. He used that opportunity to fall upon me, wrenching the letters from my hands.

  “No!” I shrieked and, shocking him as much as myself, I threw myself upon him, knocking the two of us to the ground.

  Dear Lord, I knew at that point that I was in too deep to back off. Despite the fact that I realized no good would come from it, and that I could not hope to win out, I engaged him in a wrestling match, the two of us tumbling about trying to gain possession of those letters.

  I stood finally, panting and gasping, filthy from head to toe, my hair wild and hanging in my eyes, staring at the stack of letters in his hands.

  “Oh my good Lord, what are ye doin’, Mr. Simmons?”

  Addie grabbed me by the arm and yanked me to her. “What is goin’ on here, for heaven’s sake?” She looked wild, A
ddie did, staring openmouthed at the spectacle of the two of us. Behind her Aunt Margaret was lumbering across the lawn, huffing and puffing like a chubby locomotive, her skirts hiked up in her plump hands.

  “What? What … happened?” Aunt Margaret gasped, out of breath, her eyes rolling about like those of a frightened cow.

  Uncle Victor swiped at his hair, smoothing it back across his forehead.

  “Disobeying me, she was!” he said. “Caught her running around out here in her bloomers!”

  Aunt Margaret looked as though she might just faint dead away. I stuck out my chin even farther and stubbornly fought the tears that stung the backs of my eyes.

  “’Tis true?” Addie asked, her voice more wrapped in that brogue than perhaps I’d ever heard it.

  “No,” I said, “it was just that I wanted to get the mail!” My words rushed out in a flurry, the last word, mail, stretching into an extended sort of wail. I refused to lower my eyes though, refused to give in to him. The tears rolled down my cheeks, but I checked the sob rising in my throat, gulping and clenching my teeth together tightly, holding my chin stubbornly high.

  “In her bloomers?” asked Aunt Margaret, fanning her face, which by then was as flushed as mine. “Why wasn’t she properly dressed?”

  “Ask her!” shouted my uncle, who was himself red as a lobster; this along with the black and blue gave his angry face a purple cast, which made me think that perhaps he might just explode. It was an optimistic thought.

  I shrugged in answer to their eyes, all three pairs of them fixed on me, Addie’s gaze a mix of worry and confoundment, Aunt Margaret’s one of shock and something between fear and confusion, Uncle Victor’s full of pure fury.

  “And not only that!” boomed Victor, waving the letters above his head. “She knocked me to the ground and tried to steal my mail!”

  Aunt Margaret inhaled through pursed lips, shaking her head back and forth, staring at me as though I were some sort of circus freak or dangerous insect.

  “I did not want to take his mail!” I shouted. “It was my own mail I was interested in. Mine and Mother’s! And he won’t even let me see what he’s got there in his hands! He’s the one who’s stealing, I tell you!”