Yours Until Morning

by Patricia Masar

  The screen door opened and John came in. June flinched. She hadn’t even heard the truck pull up. She was terrified he would guess what was going on in her head.

  “Smells good,” John said. “I could eat a horse. Emerson and I put in a hard day today. We didn’t even stop for lunch.”

  June kept her back turned and busied herself at the sink. She was afraid John would see the anguish in her face, notice her puffy eyes, although she supposed she could blame it on the onions. “I didn’t hear the truck pull up.”

  “It broke down again. So I started to walk home, but then Richard Hutchinson gave me a lift.”

  June’s stomach turned over at the sound of Richard’s name. She tried to keep her voice even. “Oh.”

  “Yeah. He’s not a bad guy, actually. We chatted a bit, seems he used to be quite a fisherman in his youth. Told me he went out a lot with his father at their family place in East Hampton. He even said he wanted to take a look at the Evening Star some time. I offered to take him out before they leave. Free of charge, since he’s our neighbor and all.”

  June was silent. That was all she needed. Her husband and her lover getting chummy. Could things get any worse? She fought to keep her voice even. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Why don’t you go on up and change your shirt.”

  John seemed to sense that she wanted to be alone and he went up the backstairs to the bedroom. June felt a force building up in her like a fist in her throat. She wanted to scream and scream like a madwoman. She wanted to tear her hair and smash plates, anything to cut through the terrible farce of conversing politely with John when it was Richard she wanted to be with. She didn’t care anymore what anyone did or said. She didn’t care about keeping up appearances. It all made her tired. So tired. If only she could like down and sleep.

  The sky was black with heavy clouds and the first few drops of rain splashed against the window. Thank god, June thought. At least a storm would cool things off a bit. She turned on the overhead light. “Girls,” she called. “Dinner’s ready. Come wash your hands.” She pulled the meatloaf out of the oven and set it on a rack to cool. She lifted the ears of corn out of the pot and placed dollops of mayonnaise on wedges of iceberg lettuce. It wasn’t one of her better meals, but why should she slave over a hot stove in the heat of August?

  A flash of lightening lit up the room, thunder rolled across the sky. The girls shrieked and came running.

  “Can I go out in the rain?” Claire said.

  “Absolutely not. Do you want to get struck by lightning? Wash your hands now. It’s time to eat. Evie would you slice the meatloaf? I’m going to unplug the television.”

  June escaped into the dark living room and bent down to pull the plug out of the socket. She thought about turning on a light to make the room cheerier, but decided against it. It would just be a waste of electricity if no one was in here to enjoy it. She sat down in the much-worn upholstered chair by the window and stared out at the storm. Flashes of lightening lit up the dunes, rain spattered against the glass. Was Richard home now, safe and dry, telling Tibby about giving John a lift? What had he been thinking while he talked to her husband? Did he feel guilty about making love to another man’s wife? Would today be the last time they saw each other?

  Raising her hands above her head, June smoothed her hair and reset the bobby pins behind her ears. She hauled herself out of the chair, feeling like an old woman, and returned to the kitchen. Evie had sliced the meat loaf and arranged it on a platter. Ben was in his highchair banging a spoon. John bounded down the backstairs. “This rain’ll do us good,” he said. “The farmers could use it and it’ll clear the dust out of the air. You okay, Hon?” He looked at June, his face a study in concern. “You’re kind of pale and your eyes are red.”

  “I’ve got a headache coming on,” she said. “It’s this weather.”

  “Well, after dinner, you can lie down with a cold washcloth on your forehead. The girls and I can do the dishes.”

  They gathered around the table as the wind gusted and the rain splashed against the house. June thought about her roses. They’d be shredded in the morning, the ruined blossoms lying in ragged heaps like wet newspaper on the ground. With the windows closed the heat in the kitchen was oppressive.

  “Perhaps closing everything up wasn’t a good idea,” June said, getting up from the table to open the back door where at least the overhang would prevent the rain from coming in.

  “That’s better.” She toyed with her meatloaf, tuning out the chatter of the girls. “Here, Ben. Eat up.” She wiped his chin with her napkin. When she looked up John was watching her.

  “Maybe you’re coming down with something,” he said. “You usually have more appetite than this.”

  “It’s just hot,” June said. “Maybe I’ll go upstairs and lie down.” She dropped her crumpled napkin on the table and pushed back her chair. Her arms and legs felt stiff, her joints all wrong as if she were an unstrung marionette. She climbed up the back steps, clutching the railing, and entered her darkened bedroom. It was a relief to be away from John’s questioning gaze. If she wasn’t careful he’d find out everything just by looking into her eyes. She’d have to pull herself together and act normally. But how could she act normally when all she wanted to do was tear her hair and pound her thighs, scream and cry at the unfairness of it all.

  She pulled off her dress and lay down on her bed in her bra and panty girdle. She could hear the slow rumble of John’s voice and the high pitched voices of the girls. They seemed more relaxed without her. Laughter floated up the backstairs. Maybe I should leave them, June thought. I’m a bad mother anyway. They’d never miss me. John could take care of them. She closed her eyes and began to imagine the life she could have with Richard, if only he’d see how wonderful it would be. She didn’t think of the messy parts, the leaving, the divorce, the anguished faces of her children. Skipping over all that, she moved right to a vision of Richard and herself in their brownstone in the city. Sitting down to breakfast together. Fresh squeezed orange juice and home-baked breads served to them by a maid. Or perhaps they would have a house in the suburbs and would belong to a country club, where they could sit around the pool, sipping cocktails in the warm evenings, play tennis in the afternoons and then dress for dinner. Richard, handsome in his dinner jacket, June in a fetching, pale blue taffeta dress with a rustling skirt, a delicate choker around her neck, pearls or even diamonds. Yes, diamonds would be better. At night, getting ready for bed, Richard would wrap his arms around her, nuzzle her neck, kiss the delicate pink shell of her ears, tell her how lovely she was, how happy she made him. She did not think of her own children, or about John or Paul or Tibby. They did not enter into this fantasy at all. It was just the two of them, June and Richard, Richard and June, locked together in a fairytale world of their own.

  13

  Claire waited for Paul at the end of the lane. She crouched down behind a tangle of blackberry bushes and when she heard Paul’s whistle and lopsided gait, she leaped up.

  “Gotcha!”

  Paul jumped.

  “Hey, look at that funny bird,” he said, pointing behind her. Claire turned to see. “Madeja look, madeja look.” He stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes.

  “Ha ha. Come on we’re going to miss the ferry.” Claire pulled his arm. “Did you leave your mother a note?”

  Paul colored. “Yeah. I just hope she doesn’t find it before we’re on the island. But she’ll probably send the cops after me anyway.”

  “Mine too. But let’s run so they don’t catch us.”

  They ran all the way into town as if chased by demons. Claire felt as light as a bird. She hadn’t run like this in months and her ponytail flew out behind her as her sneakers pounded the pavement. But it was too hot for running and before long her flushed face began to feel like an overripe tomato. Sweat ran down from her hairline and stung her eyes.

  “Okay, we can stop running now. I can see the ferry. Let’s get some ice cream befor
e we get on.” She was out of breath, and blood pounded in her ears.

  The freckles stood out on Paul’s nose. He too was breathing heavily from the unaccustomed exertion. They smiled at each other, suddenly shy, now that the two of them were alone, embarking on an adventure. All week they had discussed in whispers and coded notes how they would take the ferry over to Oak Bluffs early on Saturday morning so they could ride the Flying Horses, eat ice cream and walk along the pier. At the last minute a twinge of conscience had made Claire suggest they leave notes for their mothers so they wouldn’t worry. Although note or no note, Claire knew her mother would hit the roof when she found out what she’d done and there’d be some kind of punishment waiting for her when she got back home.

  But now she didn’t care. It was the last week of August and she wanted to do something wonderful and wild to mark the end of summer before going off to junior high school in September, where she’d have to negotiate the dark hallways with the older kids, girls with breasts and boys with acne. Soon the long carefree days of childhood would recede faster than she could hold them back and she wanted this day with Paul to stay in her memory forever.

  And she didn’t even care what happened to her when she got home. Buying ice cream cones with Paul at ten in the morning and boarding the ferry for the forty-five minute ride across the channel made it all worthwhile. A real adventure. Much more exciting than playing spies or capture-the-flag in the dunes. Claire had never been to Oak Bluffs, but she had heard about it as the home of the famous Flying Horses, the oldest merry-go-round in the United States. Paul had even found a reference for it in his encyclopedia.

  Claire knew Evie would be angry that they had not asked her to go along, but Claire wanted Paul to herself, she didn’t want Evie’s pretty features and sparkly manner upstaging her. All Evie cared about these days, anyway, was Mrs. Anson and the baby that was coming and reading her movie magazines, trying out hairstyles, and mooning about this mysterious boy she liked.

  They bought their tickets and walked up the gang plank with the rest of the passengers and into the bowels of the ferry. They clambered up the narrow steel staircase and emerged on the top deck and into the sunlight. “Let’s sit all the way in the bow,” Claire said with authority. “It’s the best spot.”

  They ran to the bow and leaned over the railing. Seagulls banked and dove overhead. The sky was flecked with striped clouds. A mackerel sky. Claire finished her ice cream and wadded the paper napkin into the pocket of her shorts to keep as a souvenir. The horn blasted and with a great churning of the diesel engines, the ferry pulled away from the dock.

  “What’s 63 times 297 minus 514,” Paul said, testing her.

  Claire scrunched up her face. The numbers appeared in her head as clear as if displayed on a movie screen. In a few seconds the answer came to her. “Eighteen thousand, one hundred and ninety-seven.”

  Paul pulled a pencil stub out of the pocket of his dungarees and did the sum on a scrap of paper. “Wow. You’re good. You could work for NASA. Like some kind of human computer.” He licked the last of his ice cream and tossed what remained of the cone into the water. “Except you’re a girl.”

  “I can so work for NASA,” Claire said. “There’s no law says that girls can’t. My father told me. The Russians sent that lady into space.”

  Paul considered this silently. “My father wants me to work on Madison Avenue, like him. But I want to be a scientist, and inventor.”

  The expression on Paul’s face was so morose that Claire felt sorry for him. She’d hardly ever seen Paul’s father, but she couldn’t imagine Paul growing up to work in an office in the city. It seemed so dull. Stuck at a desk all day, where was the fun in that? The horn blasted again as the ferry pulled out of the harbor. Claire hung over the railing and dangled her feet in the air. She pushed her face into the breeze, happy to be escaping land for the wide, wide ocean. She flung her arms out to catch the breeze and twirled around on the deck till she felt dizzy. “We’re striking out for the open ocean, setting off for lands unknown.”

  “Not exactly,” Paul said, squinting into the distance. “I looked on the map. We’re just crossing the channel and going to an island that’s probably been settled by humans for thousands of years.”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “There you go again. Mr. Encyclopedia.”

  Paul shrugged. “I’m just stating the facts.”

  The ferry churned its way across the channel, heading toward the island which was just a smudge of green in the distance. The boat was crowded with families and other day trippers going out to the island for a few hours of sightseeing and amusement. Children ran along the deck, while frazzled parents tried to keep their offspring from falling overboard. Sunburned shoulders and suntan oil, rubber sandals and ice cream all mixed in with the smell of the ocean. Paul said he felt sick to his stomach and Claire told him to sit down in one of the blue plastic deck chairs and fix his gaze on the horizon.

  When they docked on the other side, Claire and Paul were the first ones off, pushing their way to the front of the crowd. But once on dry land, Claire’s confidence faltered. “What should we do first, ride the Flying Horses or just walk around or what? She didn’t want to admit that she hadn’t the slightest idea which way to go. “Let’s go this way,” she said finally, following the direction of the crowd. They ambled along behind a pair of mothers and their young children, their earlier elation dampened somewhat now that they’d actually arrived at their destination. The air was heavy and a haze hung over the water. They wandered along the waterfront until they came to the village green with its newly painted bandstand set in the middle of a wide open space. Gum wrappers and paper napkins littered the grass.

  “If we’re lost, why don’t we just ask someone where the horses are,” Paul said.

  “I’m not lost.” Claire scrunched up her face and closed her eyes, hoping to jump start the circuits in her brain. She had never been here before but perhaps she could conjure up the right direction in her mind. But a sense of place, a series of guide posts refused to crystallize out of the darkness. “I think it’s down this way,” Claire said at last. “Come on, I’m broiling in the sun.” They walked down the street, hugging the buildings to stay in the shade. For the first time Claire began to have doubts about the success of this adventure. Sweat had glued her blouse to her back, her feet felt squelchy in her sneakers. She was on the brink of telling Paul that they should just forget the whole thing, until a wooden sign appeared before them far down the street, announcing the site of the Flying Horses. Claire was disappointed by the lack of fanfare. The sign was faded and peeling in the sun. The merry-go-round was housed in a cavernous building, dark and rank, smelling of wet seaweed and strange molds.

  After a minute their eyes adjusted to the light and the big painted horses, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, loomed out of the darkness. A notice on a chalkboard announced that the next ride would begin in ten minutes. Claire and Paul bought their tickets from the old man behind the booth and then leaned against the wall, studying the horses, discussing the virtues of the different mounts. The building was cool and damp. It was a relief to be inside and out of the sunlight. Claire’s head swam from the change in temperature and for a minute panic flickered through her. What if she had a seizure, a real foaming-at-the-mouth seizure right here in front of Paul? He would be disgusted. He’d never talk to her again. She pressed her hands against the sides of her head and took deep breaths until stars floated across her eyes and her head stopped whirling.

  “It’s not very crowded,” Paul said. “Maybe we’ll get our first choice. I want that one, the black stallion with the red saddle.”

  “I want the white one,” Claire said. “With the gold bridle. And it’s on the outside. You need a horse on the outside if you want a chance at the brass ring.”

  The waiting area was starting to fill up, mothers with their children, a few fathers shuffling in, leaning against the rail, lighting cigarettes, looking awkward. Young children cl
ambered on the guard rail, their eyes wide, gazing at the horses. Claire and Paul held their tickets and stood at the very front of the entrance to the merry-go-round which was closed off with a red velvet rope. The ticket taker came and removed the rope. “Single file, please,” he called out over the crowd. “No pushing.” He plucked the tickets from Claire and Paul’s outstretched hands and as soon as they were past the barrier they rushed to their chosen horses. Paul chose a different black horse, one that was on the outside so he too could make an attempt for the ring. Mothers settled their small children on the horses and then stood protectively by their side.

  The ride started with a jolt. Claire’s horse lurched upward and then jerked back down before settling into a steady rhythm, moving smoothly up and down on its stationary pole. She stroked the carved mane and neck, ran her hand along the horse’s lacquered flank. They were moving fast now and Claire turned around to smile at Paul. He was holding onto the pole, crouching on his horse, ready to reach out for the brass ring on the next pass. When he saw it coming, he stood up in the stirrups and made a grab, but his reach fell over a foot short and the brass ring flew past him. “Next time around,” Paul cried. “I’m gonna get it. I was this close.” Claire turned back to face forward. She was no longer interested in the ring. She could see now that it was impossible to grab, unless you had arms like a gorilla. Or were a very tall grownup. If her father were here, he’d be able to reach it. He would grab the brass ring and carry it home like a trophy. Maybe that would put a smile on her mother’s face, and all would be well.

  At the thought of her mother, Claire felt a prickle of fear. Her mother was sad these days, going around the house with teary eyes and slumped shoulders. Although she tried to hide it, Claire knew something was going on. And by running off today, she’d probably caused her more worry. She knew she was in for it when she got home, would probably be sent to bed without her supper, or worse, but she hoped her father would stick up for her, that her mother’s anger would be buffered by his sense of calm, and this perfect day wouldn’t end in calamity and ruin.