Yours Until Morning

by Patricia Masar

  “Never, ever run off like that again. I’ve been worried sick! And your father’s out on the boat all day. What if something had happened to you? Did you think of that? You have an illness, a potentially harmful one, and the sooner you face up to that the better. When your father gets home he will think of an appropriate punishment, but right now you’re to go up to your room and stay up there for the rest of the day.”

  Claire opened her mouth to protest.

  “Not a word out of you. There’s nothing you can say in your defense. Now go.”

  Claire clumped up the back stairs sulkily. June was gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles were white, her body as tense as a twig ready to snap. It was all too much. Richard, Claire. She couldn’t cope anymore. She dropped her head in her hands and wept. She tried to hold back her tears, but they flowed out through her fingers like a spring. She wept and wept, for herself, her life, Claire’s damaged brain, the fact that Richard was going away, vanished dreams, the hard gray reality of her existence that would do nothing more than spool out endlessly until the grave.

  She heard Evie coming up the back porch and hurriedly stood up and splashed her face with cold water at the sink.

  “Mom?” Evie stood in the doorway, holding Ben on her hip. “Are you okay?”

  June turned and stared with burning eyes at her twelve-year-old daughter. In a flash she saw Evie’s life before her. She would graduate from high school, marry a local boy, bear children, live in a weather-beaten cottage in the dunes that needed constant repair, struggle to make ends meet. Her beauty would flower and fade as she stood over a hot stove, washed dishes, sorted laundry, mopped floors. Something seized up in her chest. Surely Evie deserved a better life than this.

  “I’m fine, honey. Just fine. It’s just that I’m so angry at your sister…and it’s so hot and your father’s been gone all day and I just don’t feel like I can cope with Claire on my own.”

  “Is she back? I didn’t see her come in.” Evie put Ben down on the floor. He started to cry.

  June’s shoulders tensed up. “She’s upstairs. Ben must be hungry.” She pulled some stewed pears and a carton of milk out of the icebox. Wearily she filled a bowl with the pears and poured out a plastic cup of milk. Evie went upstairs and June set Ben in his high chair and handed him a spoon. He mashed the pears with his fingers and spread them on his face, delighting in the mess he was making. But at least he was quiet now. She left him to himself. There was still dinner to be made. John would be home soon and he liked to eat early on Saturdays, coming back from his charters hungry from the long day out on the water. He always smelled of fish on those days, his arms and legs coated with slime and scales, his face sunburned, white lines flashing like starfish at the edges of his eyes. She would leave it to him to handle Claire. He was the man of the house; it was his job to hand out punishments. But whatever he did, however the two of them might talk to her, the strain of worry would never go away. And it would only get worse. In less than two weeks Claire would be going off to junior high school. She would no longer be in the same classroom as her sister where Evie could keep an eye on her, but changing classes every hour with the older kids, moving with the jostling crowd through the dim hallways, clanging lockers, ringing bells. Anything could happen to her then, lost in the sea of shuffling bodies.

  If only they had more money. She could send the girls off to private school where they would learn manners and etiquette, make friends with girls other than the fishermen and shopkeepers’ children they went to school with now. And Ben. More likely than not he would grow up to work in the boat building business or as a fisherman, when she wanted him to go on to college. Unless a miracle happened, she would never be able to give her children the life they deserved. She supposed she could travel to Boston. Swallow her pride and throw herself on her mother’s mercy, ask her to think of her grandchildren’s welfare. But Bessie Stephenson was not a forgiving woman. She would tell June that she had made her own bed and now she must lie in it.

  John arrived home at five-thirty, bone tired, as June knew he would be, and smelling strongly of the rancid mackerel he used as bait. June was lying upstairs on her bed with a cold washcloth over her eyes. She heard John’s heavy tread on the stairs.

  “Ben’s crying in his playpen,” John said. “Don’t you hear him?

  “I hear him,” June said, not getting up. “I just wanted two minutes of peace to myself. She removed the washcloth from her eyes and sat up. John’s face was bronzed from the sun, his hair wild and stiff with salt. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and the hair glinted gold on his forearms.

  “Claire ran off today with the Hutchinson boy. They took the ferry over to Oak Bluffs. She’s back now, in her room. I wish you hadn’t been out on the boat today. I was frantic.”

  John pulled off his shirt. “But she’s all right?” June nodded. “No harm done then. You needn’t have worried. The kids were together. But, you’re right, she shouldn’t have run off,” John amended hastily. “I’ll speak to her as soon as I’ve cleaned myself up.”

  He stood in the middle of the room in his boxer shorts and June looked away. They had not made love since she’d started seeing Richard. Even just looking at her husband with his clothes off made her feel she was being unfaithful to her lover.

  “You look beat,” John said. “What do you say I make the dinner tonight? I’ll whip up a batch of my famous spaghetti. How does that sound?”

  “Fine,” June said. “But keep Claire in her room. She needs to be punished, John.” She had replaced the cloth over her eyes. Her voice felt like it was coming from far away. She wanted to sink back into the dark tunnel of sleep where she could dream that she was in Richard’s arms. Her need to see him, speak to him was bordering on desperation. Perhaps later, after dinner, she could slip out and go to the fishing hut. Maybe she would find him waiting for her and she could run into his arms, cling to him, beg him to stay.

  From the hazy edge of sleep, June heard splashing in the bathroom down the hall, doors opening and closing, John’s deep rumble and Claire’s high pitched voice. Then feet on the stairs, pans banging in the kitchen, Ben’s whimpering. She drifted in and out of sleep. The glass of vodka she’d gulped down earlier was having an effect, her arms and legs felt leaden and her head was woozy. She couldn’t move, felt imprisoned on the bed, like an insect pinned to the back a collecting chamber. More clanging pans. Evie’s laughter floating up the back staircase. The smell of food cooking, then something burning. Smoke stung her nostrils.

  What kind of mess was John making now? She sat up in bed and shook her limbs to rouse herself. She’d better go see what was happening in the kitchen. There was no sound from across the hall. Perhaps Claire had fallen asleep. She wondered what was happening over at Stone cottage. Had Richard punished his son for running off, or did he laugh it off and say to Tibby ‘boys will be boys’ and ‘no harm done.’ She hated thinking about the three of them sitting down to dinner together, Tibby in a fashionable sundress, her golden shoulders bare, Paul relating his adventures of the day, Richard swirling the ice in his before savoring the sweet bite of gin. What were they eating? Grilled lamb, swordfish steaks, lobster? Something expensive and elegant, she was sure, while John was down in the kitchen scorching pans. She’d better get down there before he burned the house down.

  June dragged herself off the bed and changed into an old dress. What did it matter what she wore? She wouldn’t be meeting Richard now. After dinner he and Tibby would probably go down to the club. Maybe they would even dance. Just thinking about Richard dancing with his wife caused a fresh wave of misery to sweep over her. She studied herself in the mirror on her dressing table. The line between her eyes had deepened, as if cut there with a knife. That was the problem right there. She wasn’t pretty enough or witty enough or refined enough for Richard. She may have come from a solidly middle class Boston family, but what was she now but a boat maker’s wife?

  June stood up from the dressing ta
ble, every movement an effort. She walked down the back stairs, holding onto the rail as if she might fall. Dirty pans were piled up on the counter. The smell of burned onions hung in the air. A large pot of water boiled furiously on the stove.

  “We’re making spaghetti,” Evie cried. “I’m in charge of the meatballs.” She held a raw meatball proudly in the air for June to see.

  “That’s nice, Evie. But what’s that burning smell?” A thin veil of smoke hovered near the ceiling.

  “Feeling better?” John turned and gave her a concerned look.

  “Not really,” June said. “I just came down to see if you needed any help.”

  “We’re doing just fine on our own. Everything will be ready in a few minutes. Maybe you should call Claire to come down.”

  “I think Claire should go to bed without her dinner,” June said. “Don’t you?” She lowered her voice so Evie wouldn’t hear. “And I also want you to tell her she can’t go with you in the fishing derby next weekend.”

  John stopped stirring the spaghetti sauce. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

  June was determined to stand her ground. “No, I don’t. She has to be taught a lesson. I don’t want her to ever pull a stunt like that again.”

  He turned back toward the stove, his face in shadow. “We’ll talk about it later. Okay, Evie, ready to put the spaghetti in?”

  “Ready.” She clutched a fistful of spaghetti in her hand and dropped it into the boiling water. The kitchen was full of steam.

  “Isn’t it awfully hot for all this cooking?” June waved her hands to clear the air. “If you really don’t need my help, I’m going to sit out on the porch.”

  The screen had been torn in a few places and was still not repaired. The floorboards were scuffed, the paint peeling. The old wicker furniture was falling apart. She closed her eyes to the decay and sat down on a lumpy green cushion. The sour smell of mildew rose up in the air. There wasn’t a hint of breeze. The air was as heavy and solid as it had been for weeks. She sat facing away from Stone cottage, not wanting to see Richard outlined in the window, sipping his drink, perhaps bending over to kiss his petite wife on the cheek or take her in his arms. June wished she were not so tall and willowy. Petite with curves was what Richard obviously liked. She cupped her small breasts in her hands and imagined that it was Richard touching her. A great hard lump formed in her throat, threatening to choke her, and she coughed as tears welled up in her eyes. She knew she was being ridiculous, crying over a lover. She was a responsible wife and mother, after all, not some silly teenager for heaven’s sake. Soon she would be an embarrassment to her own children. Chin up, June, she admonished herself. Pull yourself together.

  She opened the screen door and sat down on the back steps. Grass had grown up around the planks where the mower couldn’t reach. She’d have to ask John to trim there. Her rose bushes were wilting in the heat, the leaves mottled with black spot. Most of them had succumbed to fungus and she’d given up trying to fight it. It was too hot and humid, the air too full of salt. Roses didn’t really belong here. Not the delicate English hybrids anyway.

  “June? Dinner’s on.” She stood up. Guilt at her childish behavior pricked her conscience. John was trying. She should make an attempt to be nicer. But it was much too hot to eat spaghetti and meatballs and besides she had no appetite, she’d just have to force down the food.

  The table was set, an empty jam jar held a bunch of black-eyed Susans. Ben was in his high chair mashing peas with his fingers. Evie proudly carried the serving platter over to the table. June looked at them, her perfect family, and her throat closed up. If she wasn’t careful she would break down and cry.

  “Sure you don’t want Claire to join us?” John said.

  June shook her head. “No, let’s eat. The dinner looks lovely.” She pulled up a chair. John tucked a napkin into the collar of his shirt while Evie served the food. “Careful of the sauce, Evie,” June said. “You don’t want to get any on your nice white shirt.” Her throat burned with unshed tears. In spite of the sadness and grief galloping in her chest June smiled at her daughter, praying that Evie would have a happy life, that she would never be torn by the heartache she was feeling now.

  “I feel bad about Claire,” John said as he tucked into the meal.

  “I won’t let her starve,” June said. “I’ll bring her something later. Don’t make me feel guilty about this. She’s the one who ran off.”

  Evie said nothing and they ate in silence. It was too hot for conversation. Sweat beaded on June’s forehead and trickled between her breasts, prickling her skin under the stiff bra. Ben was quiet for a change, happily mashing a meatball with a spoon. Evie reached over to wipe his face with a napkin and made encouraging noises at him. She’ll make a better mother than I am, June thought sadly, feeling an utter failure at the one thing she was supposed to have done with her life. She picked at her salad and nibbled on a piece of bread. The meatballs were too heavy for her stomach, but she forced herself to eat one and a forkful of spaghetti. “Delicious,” she said a couple of times, but it really was too hot to eat.

  Evie sat back and fanned her pink face. “Let’s pretend it’s the middle of winter,” she said. That’ll cool us off.”

  John and June agreed. They talked about snow and ice storms and Christmas and sledding on the dunes. The mood in the room lightened. Evie bent double in a fit of giggles. Maybe June was imagining it, but for a minute the air did seem to grow cooler.

  When they finished eating, June stood up to clear the plates. “No, you cooked,” she said when John got up to help. “I’ll do the dishes. Why don’t you relax with the newspaper?” The strain of keeping up appearances had worn her down. Better to be alone in the kitchen with the dirty dishes where she wouldn’t have to smile and chatter and pretend everything was okay.

  When she had finished the dishes and dusk had fallen, June gathered up her cigarettes and lighter and a tube of lipstick and a comb and stuffed them into a small hand bag.

  “I think I’ll go for a little walk,” she said. John was sprawled in his chair in the living room with the newspaper, reading the sports section.

  “Okay, hon.” He barely looked up.

  “If I’m not back before the girls are supposed to be in bed, could you make sure they brush their teeth?”

  John nodded, absorbed in the paper.

  Before she left the house, June climbed the stairs to check on Ben. I’m not a terrible mother, she said to herself, bending over Ben’s crib, stroking his sweaty head. She smoothed back his damp hair. I’m not so terrible, she whispered, bending down to kiss his cheek. She crept down the backstairs and out the kitchen door. The night was warm; the sound of crickets filled the air. But even in the torpid August heat, there was a hint of summer’s end, of fall approaching, and the cold dark winter to come. June wasn’t sure she could bear another winter in Lockport, but what choice did she have? Richard told her that he and Tibby spent two weeks in Florida every winter, but that kind of luxury was out of reach for her. For as long as she could remember, life meant scrimping on anything and everything, just to make ends meet.

  She walked through the deepening dusk in the direction of the dunes. The beach grass brushed her ankles. She puffed on a cigarette as she walked, sucking the smoke deep into her lungs. Before going out she had taken another nip of vodka from the bottle she kept hidden under the sink, and the alcohol had dulled the sharp edge of her nerves. But not quite enough. Perhaps she should get some tranquilizers from Dr. McDermott. Or sleeping pills. She’d been sleeping badly and the lack of sleep made her a nervous wreck during the day. She’d lost weight. When she looked into the mirror her face seemed haggard, old. Those first weeks with Richard, when she’d been giddy and happy, flushed and blooming like a garden rose, seemed like a lifetime ago. How had it happened that she had plunged to such depths, had gone from the heights of happiness to the pit of despair in just a few short days?

  Without being conscious of it, s
he found herself walking in the direction of the old fishing hut. Of course Richard won’t be there, she chided herself. They were supposed to have met in the afternoon, but that was before all this business with Claire and Paul. If Claire wasn’t sick she supposed it wouldn’t have been such a terrible thing, her running off, she might even have given the kids her blessing. Claire and Evie were twelve now, big girls capable of acting responsibly and knowing what to do in an emergency. But with Claire’s epilepsy, nothing was the same. If she didn’t get better or her illness grew worse, June would have to watch over her even more. And once people knew about her epilepsy, Claire would be an outcast, current fears and superstitions being what they were. What boy would want to marry her then? She would grow old, alone and childless, end up working as a clerk in one of the shops in town, renting a room at a local boarding house, stale with the smell of other people’s disappointments and despair. What kind of life would that be?

  June tossed away the butt of her cigarette and immediately lit another. The dark outline of the fishing hut appeared before her and she stopped for a minute to listen. Nothing but the click and rustle of insects in the still air. Her heart beat faster. Maybe Richard was in there, waiting for her, perhaps tonight was the night he would declare his love for her, announce that he had changed his mind, that he would leave his wife and take her away from here forever. She ground the half-smoked cigarette under her foot and smoothed back her hair. The hut was dark and June opened the door.

  “Richard?”

  There was no one.

  June’s heart contracted and stopped. Who was she kidding? He’s not going to be out here at night trampling through the brambles, waiting for her like some lovesick teenager. He’s got his own problems at home to deal with. She closed the door behind her and rummaged around for the candles. Lighting one with her cigarette lighter, she set it down on the ground and unfolded the rug she and Richard made love on. She wrapped herself in the chenille bedspread, chasing the scent of his aftershave in the folds of cloth. The smell of the burning wax soothed her. She could feel Richard’s presence, imagined what he would be saying to her now if he were here. She lit another cigarette, and with her free hand rubbed her shoulders and throat, caressed the tops of her feet. It took her several minutes to realize she was crying. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks. June sat for a long time, staring into the candle flame. Waves of sadness slammed against her chest, and she trembled, as if rocked in a small boat, lost at sea.