Yours Until Morning

by Patricia Masar

  The horses slowed all too soon and the ride came to a halt.

  “Let’s go again,” Paul said. “I’m sure I can get the ring now. There’s a technique to it. You just have to….”

  “I don’t have enough money,” Claire said, sliding off her horse and giving its nose an affectionate pat. “Besides, I think the point of the brass ring is that you can never grab it. It’s just supposed to be something you hope for.” She dug her hand in her pocket, fingering the few nickels and dimes that remained. “I’ve got about 50 cents left, enough for a sandwich and a Coke. Maybe another ice cream. Aren’t you hungry, don’t you want to eat?”

  Paul was busy studying the horses and calculating their distance to the brass ring. “You’re right. It’s not possible,” he concluded. “It’s not fair. They should at least move it closer so you have a chance.”

  “Come on.” Claire slung her arm over his shoulder. They left the building and went out into the hot air. It was too early for lunch, but Claire had skipped breakfast and her stomach was rumbling. She was thirsty too and starting to sweat again. They walked down toward the pier to a sandwich stand with white plastic chairs arranged under striped umbrellas. They ordered tuna fish sandwiches and Cokes and stared out at the colorful sailboats on the water that were doing their best to come about in the still air. Pedestrians passed by, their sneakers and sandals making pleasant flapping sounds on the sidewalk.

  When they had finished eating, Claire and Paul wandered away from the waterfront and into the section of town where the colored people lived. They passed brightly painted gingerbread houses where people were sitting on their front porches, sipping lemonade and fanning themselves. Big oak trees shaded the houses, and barefoot children were playing on the worn and dusty grass.

  “Hey, that’s my father’s assistant,” Claire said, pointing to a man in a paint-spattered shirt. He held a brush in his hand and bright blue paint dripped from the bristles as he touched up the porch railing of a tiny house set back from the street.

  “Mr. Wheeler!” Claire shouted, then blushed at her boldness. What if it wasn’t him, what if it was just some other man who looked like him in the dappled light of the shade trees.

  But the man turned and squinted at her. He smiled. “Well, if it isn’t John’s little girl. Claire, right? I’d shake your hand, but I’m all covered in paint.”

  “This is my friend, Paul. He lives next door to us. But only for the summer. They’re from New York. His father’s rich.”

  Paul kicked her on the ankle. “He is not.”

  Emerson laughed. “You kids look hot. You want some lemonade or soda pop? I’ll ask Delia.” He lay the brush down on the edge of the paint can and strode up on the porch. “Delia! Guess who’s here. John Kerrigan’s little girl and her friend.”

  Delia Wheeler came out on the porch, balancing a baby on her hip. She wore a pale blue waitress uniform and a starched white apron tied around her waist. “Why, hello there.” Delia smiled. “You’re a long way from home. Are you visiting some of your people over here?”

  “No ma’am. We’re just walking around, seeing the sights.” Claire dug her toe in the dust, shy from all the attention.

  “You children look hot. Why don’t you come up on the porch and set awhile. I have to leave for work soon, but I’ve got some lemonade for you.” Delia put the baby down on a blanket and disappeared into the house. Paul sat down in a wicker chair and Claire crouched down next to the baby. She was about a year old, with a round face and big dark eyes. A pink bow was tied around her hair. Claire patted her head and made faces to make the baby laugh.

  “She likes you,” Delia said, coming out on the porch with a tray.

  “I could babysit for you sometime,” Claire said. “I take care of my little brother all the time.”

  “Well, that’s sweet of you, honey, but you live awful far away for that and I take her over to my mama’s house when I go to work. Which better be right now, or I’ll be late.”

  She set down the tray of lemonade and bent to scoop up the baby. “My husband will keep you entertained. But it was nice seeing you again. Say hello to your mother and father for me.” Delia picked up her purse and stepped down from the porch. She walked over to her husband and kissed him full on the mouth. “You’re a mess,” she said, lovingly, her voice husky and soft. “I’m off now. Clay’s still at the Nelson’s. You’re supposed to go over there to get him at four.”

  “Will do. Stay cool now.” Emerson winked at his wife.

  Paul and Claire sipped their lemonade in silence.

  “I like the color of your house,” Claire said when Delia was gone. “Maybe I can get my father to paint ours like this. Where we live everybody’s house is gray. It’s boring.”

  Delia’s mama’s house is pink with magenta trim. If you think this is bright, you should see her place. So how’s your daddy? He out fishing today, got some charters?”

  Claire shrugged. “I guess so. He got up early and left the house, which usually means he’s out on the boat. How come you’re not with him? He’s always saying he needs an extra hand.”

  A shadow crossed Emerson’s face. “I don’t much like going out on boats. And some folks wouldn’t be happy having me on board anyway.”

  Claire blushed. She didn’t know what to say in response, was afraid of entering unknown territory in which she’d say or do the wrong thing. “But my dad talks about you a lot. Says you’re the best darn boat builder he’s ever seen. That’s a direct quote. He says wood is like a living thing in your hands.”

  Emerson laughed. “Is that right? Well, all I’m doing with this wood here is masking the decay. It’s all rotten underneath. Next good storm’s gonna blow this house right off its foundation. Wood’s a funny thing, isn’t? I never forget it used to be a living thing, a tree growing in the forest. Even though you’d never know it to see it all dolled up like this. He patted the railing affectionately.” Emerson addressed Paul. “So what does your daddy do?”

  Paul looked down into his empty glass and mumbled. “He works on Madison Avenue. But we’re not rich.” He looked darkly at Claire.

  “Nothing to be ashamed of if he is,” Emerson said. “Nothing wrong with money. Only when you don’t have it, folks who do treat you different. But that’s life, I guess.” Emerson slapped some more paint onto the porch trim and stepped back to view his handiwork. He dropped the brush in a bucket of turpentine and sat down on the front steps. “Miss Claire, would you mind pouring me some of that lemonade? If I get paint on Delia’s pitcher she’ll tan my backside.”

  Claire held onto the pitcher with both hands, poured out some lemonade into a glass and carried it over to Emerson. She sat down near him on the steps and studied the splashes of bright blue paint against his dark skin. There was music coming from inside the house, a phonograph record was playing that Claire hadn’t noticed before. Some kind of haunting music that didn’t sound like anything she’d ever heard on Top of the Pops. A lady’s voice started up, sweet and low. It was like a pillow, or a caress. Claire just wanted to lean right back and sink into that voice.

  Emerson finished his lemonade in one long swallow and set the glass down in the grass. He looked at Claire for a moment. “You kids run away or something. Does your Mama know you’re here?”

  Claire looked away, scuffing her toes in the dirt. “We left notes. My mother would never let me come over here alone. She still treats me like a baby.”

  “It’s ‘cause you’re sick,” Paul said. “You have that thing in your brain. Epilepsy.”

  “Just tell everyone why don’tcha,” Claire said darkly. “It’s supposed to be a secret.”

  Emerson touched her briefly on the arm and then pulled his hand away quickly as if realizing what he’d done. “Nothing to be ashamed of. We’ve all got something. White folks think dark skin is an affliction, that it’s catching. They don’t even want to sit next to us on the bus. In Alabama where I’m from we all still have to sit in the back of the bus, just
so we won’t contaminate white folks with our color.”

  Claire was silent. She was white, but she didn’t think she’d catch anything by sitting next to Emerson. “You can’t catch what I have. It’s just that my mother’s afraid people will find out and if they do, no one will want to be around me anymore.”

  Emerson was quiet, they were all quiet. The only sound was the buzz of an occasional cicada high up in the trees. “Hottest summer I can remember around here,” he said, finally, standing up and stretching. “It’s almost as hot as Alabama. Must be something funny in the air. I’d better get back to my painting. If I’m not done by the time Delia gets back she’ll think I spent the whole day shooting the breeze with y’all.”

  “We have to get going now anyway,” Claire said. “Are you going to be in the fishing derby next weekend? The prize is two hundred dollars.”

  Emerson whistled. “That’s a lot of money. But I don’t think so, I’m not much of one for fishing. You kids get on home now. I don’t like to think of your Mamas worrying about you.”

  “Thanks for the lemonade,” Claire said. “Yeah, thanks,” Paul echoed. He’d been strangely quiet the whole time and Claire wondered what had gotten into him.

  “You’re mighty welcome. Anytime, y’hear. John Kerrigan’s a good man. You’re always welcome.”

  “Which is the way to the ferry?” Claire asked.

  Emerson pointed with his brush. “Down this street, take a left then another left and when you come out to the main road just follow it all the way to the water. You can’t miss it.”

  They waved good-bye and walked in silence toward town and the ferry dock.

  “I guess we’d better go back now,” Claire said. “Unless you want to stay longer.”

  “Nah.” Paul shrugged. “I feel like going back.”

  Claire touched her pocket to make sure she still had her ticket. They were quiet while they waited for the ferry to dock. It had been a wonderful day, a real adventure, but somehow talking to Emerson had put a damper on her excitement. Or maybe it was that music that darn near hypnotized her, and she wished she’d remembered to ask him who it was singing on the phonograph. She was dusty and hot and tired. She wondered what Evie was up to, if the house would be in an uproar when she got home. With her eyes closed she pictured the look on her mother’s face, blue eyes blazing, her mouth a tight line. But then she blocked it out and tried to smile. No sense in worrying about it now. Claire looked over at Paul who seemed lost in thought. He looked scared. Probably wondering, as she was, what kind of reception was waiting for him at home.

  14

  June paced the kitchen floor. She’d been pacing the house all day like a nervous cat. Starting in the kitchen, then heading down through the hall and out onto the front porch, scanning the land around their house and the dunes beyond for any sign of Claire. She didn’t know what to do. John was out on the boat with a day charter and wouldn’t be back till late afternoon. She supposed she could leave Evie with Ben and take the ferry over to Oak Bluffs. But then what? Claire and Paul could be anywhere. How would she go about finding them? She was furious at Claire for running off. Not just for putting herself at risk, but for ruining June’s plans for the day.

  She was supposed to have spent the afternoon with Richard. They had so little time left together, every meeting was precious to her, and she still held onto the thought, tiny as it was, that Richard would leave his wife. But with Claire having run off, all that was spoiled now. She had run over to the fishing hut mid-morning to leave him a note to say she wasn’t coming. Of course he must know why. His own son had run off too since Paul and Claire were together. Richard would probably laugh at her concerns, say that she was being overprotective, but then what did he know? He wasn’t a mother, he didn’t have to cope with a daughter who had epilepsy.

  She made herself another iced coffee and then poured it down the sink after one sip. More coffee would just put her over the edge. Her nerves were stretched to the breaking point as it was. She peered out the back door for the hundredth time, hoping to see Claire coming down the lane. Instead she saw Emma Sanders striding toward her, waving gaily.

  “Hi June. Lordy it’s hot. I tried to walk slowly but I’m still a mess. So much for having my hair done yesterday. My bouffant’s more like a boufflat.” Emma laughed at her own joke. “At least next weekend’s Labor Day and after that the kids will be back in school. Hallelujah. What’s wrong with you? You look like somebody died.”

  “Oh, Emma.” June dragged shakily on a cigarette. Claire’s run off with the boy next door. They’ve gone over to Oak Bluffs for the day. She left without telling me. I found a note on the kitchen table when I got up.”

  “Is that all?” Emma steered June into the kitchen. “Claire’s a big girl and she’s not alone. I’m sure they’re just fine.”

  “But she’s not supposed to go off by herself. And Oak Bluffs! Who knows what kind of trouble she’s getting herself into.”

  Emma opened up June’s ice box and took out a pitcher of lemonade. “She held it up. Shall I pour each of us a glass?”

  June nodded and sank down into a chair. She stubbed out her cigarette and rested her chin in her hands. She would just let Emma take over. Emma had trained as a nurse before her marriage and it was in her nature to be kind and understanding. She wanted so much to tell Emma everything, about Claire’s illness, about her affair with Richard. But June knew Emma would be shocked by June’s infidelity. A regular church goer, Emma would never understand how June could betray John. And how could she possibly convey her emotional turmoil to her friend without revealing the two things that lately seemed to form the axis of her life. June bit the inside of her cheek. She ducked her head and said nothing.

  Emma reached across the table and clasped June’s hands in both her own. “Are you sure it’s just Claire. Nothing else is going on? Evie and Ben are okay aren’t they? You and John aren’t having problems?”

  June fought for control. In a minute she would break down and tell Emma everything. That Claire was sick, that she was desperately in love with Richard Hutchinson, that she had squandered her self-respect by flinging herself at a man like a cheap harlot, putting her dignity, her marriage and family life at risk. That soon the man she loved would leave her to go back to New York and her life would be over.

  June straightened her shoulders and framed her mouth into a smile. “I’m fine. Really. Everything’s fine. I’m just worried about Claire is all.” She tried to make light of it. “You’re right. I’m sure they’re perfectly fine. It’s just that…I hope this isn’t a sign of things to come. All I need is for Claire to turn into some wild teenager, running off with boys, staying out late. I keep imagining a rocky road ahead. Not with Evie, she’s a mother’s dream, but Claire’s always had a stubborn streak and I haven’t been able to pummel it out of her.”

  June knew she was blathering on, but Emma’s face was sympathetic, her eyes kind. She only had boys, though. She didn’t know what it was like to worry about maturing girls who, if you didn’t watch them like a hawk, could get into all kinds of trouble, especially the big one, with a capital T, which could happen to any girl who wasn’t careful.

  Emma chattered about Jimmy and the boys, about how she was looking forward to school starting so she would have some more time to herself. She was thinking seriously about taking up dressmaking as a profession, having made clothing off and on for a few years, for a few loyal customers. And with the boys getting older she could spend more time at it, thinking it would be nice to make a contribution to the family income. “Oh, just pin money,” Emma said hastily. “I wouldn’t want anyone to think that Jimmy couldn’t support us.”

  June nodded and smiled, envying Emma’s enthusiasm, her contented and comfortable life. She stood up once to refill their glasses, but she wasn’t really listening. Emma’s bright face and red hair floated in front of her eyes. She was thinking all the while about Claire and Richard, her twin anxieties tying a knot in her stomach
so tight she could scarcely breathe.

  Finally Emma stood up to leave. She fluffed her hair with her fingers and gave June a concerned look. “Now don’t tear yourself apart with worrying. Any minute now Claire will walk through that door right as rain.”

  June made some vague promise about calling Emma later, but when her friend was gone she was relieved to be alone. Evie was in the backyard, where she’d been for most of the day, stretched out on a towel in a bathing suit and white-rimmed sunglasses, pretending to be a movie star, working on her tan. Ben was in his playpen, next to her in the shade. It would be time to put him down for his nap soon. The hum of the icebox seemed loud in the wake of Emma’s absence. She decided to send Evie into town with Ben in his stroller to get some things at the market. She needed to have the house to herself. The events of the day had drained her. Claire’s note said they’d be back in the afternoon. It was nearly 3 o’clock. They could come in any time now.

  She was at the kitchen table nervously drumming her fingers against the vinyl covering when she heard the door open. Claire and Paul slunk into the kitchen, their eyes lowered, like wary animals, ready to flee at the slightest sign of danger.

  June saw that Claire’s white shorts were dirty and that there was a smear of something – blue paint? – on her arm. She looked at Claire and then at Paul, who wouldn’t look her in the eye. She tried to keep her voice calm. “Paul, I think you should go home now. Your parents are probably very worried about you.”

  Paul nodded.

  “I’ll walk you home,” Claire said.

  “You stay right here, young lady. We have some talking to do.”

  Claire froze as Paul scooted out the back door and broke into a run toward Stone cottage.

  “Sit down.”

  Claire sat at the kitchen table. June’s face felt taut, her mouth was pressed into a thin line.