Don't Put the Boats Away

by Ames Sheldon

  Dorie gets up from her chair. “I’m going to lie down for a while.”

  Eleanor asks, “Are you feeling all right, Dorie?”

  “I’m just tired, Mother Sutton.”

  Once she is out of earshot, Harriet says, “Dorie gets up late, takes naps during the day, and goes to bed early. What’s going on with her? She wasn’t like this last summer.”

  “Perhaps she’s pregnant again. Or she could be depressed,” Eleanor says.

  “What does she have to be depressed about? She’s got four fine children and a wonderful husband who’s doing very well professionally.” Harriet can’t believe what just came out of her mouth. She must feel a touch of envy that Dorie doesn’t have to work; at the same time, she’d never want to be in her sister-in-law’s shoes.

  “Come on, Harriet, you know better than that.”

  “Of course I do. I don’t understand why I judge Dorie so harshly. It’s difficult to feel like I know her. She doesn’t open up with us.”

  “I suspect she doesn’t feel she fits into our family, though of course she is part of this family.”

  “I just can’t seem to warm up to Dorie. I’d like her a lot more if it looked like she was making Nat happy.”

  “Let’s try compassion,” says Eleanor. “It’s not Dorie’s fault that she isn’t sophisticated. She never went to college. She doesn’t have any brothers or sisters, so she doesn’t have that experience in getting along with others. She might feel intimidated by us.”

  “I suppose so. I’ll see if I can draw her out when she gets up.”

  After dinner that night, the children race around the outside of the house, playing Capture the Flag, while the grownups sit on the porch.

  George proclaims, “I’m glad President Johnson is sending more troops to South Vietnam. If we don’t push back the Red Chinese, they’ll take over the Far East.”

  “I don’t know why we’re even in Vietnam,” Harriet replies. “What business is it of ours? If this keeps going and they institute a draft, Joey could be shipped over there.”

  Fervently, Eleanor says, “I hope to God that never happens!”

  “We’ve got to be realistic,” George replies. “In the last war we had a great lesson in man’s capacity for evil. I don’t think the Communists are any better than the Nazis.”

  Watching the sun descend over the bay, Nat turns around to interject, “I hate all this killing: JFK, Malcolm X … What’s next?”

  Harriet says, “At least we got the Civil Rights Act passed. That’s some progress.”

  “Speaking of progress, Harriet,” George says, “have you had a chance to read the financial study the Taylor, Lieberfeld, and Heldman research firm prepared?”

  “I’ve skimmed it, Father. I’ve got other things I need to study to prepare for my new position.”

  “What are you talking about?” asks Nat.

  George answers. “Warden and Hartley are considering a merger. Coeducation has become a national trend for many independent schools. Both Warden and Hartley have declining enrollments, especially in the lower schools. The financial study shows that both are running deficits that are barely covered by their annual fund campaigns. The schools rely much too much on annual giving for their operating budgets. They’ve got to merge if they’re to survive.”

  “But single-sex education is so much better for the development of confident girls with a sense of their own autonomy. I keep telling you that, Father!”

  He says, “Boys and girls should go to school together so they can prepare for life in a world that is coeducational.”

  Harriet crosses her legs. “It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.”

  “It’s up to the boards to decide.”

  “I hope you’ll seek input from the administrators and faculty of both schools.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Eleanor puts her knitting aside. “Tell us what’s going on at the university, Nat.”

  Dorie, who’s now wearing a faded housedress, gets up from her chair and leaves the porch.

  “As I’ve said before, I was very fortunate to have a fellowship at the Variety Club Heart Hospital under Doctors Walt Lillehei and Richard Varco. Now, unfortunately, the funding for that cardiovascular training grant from the National Institutes for Health is about to end.”

  “Is that so?” says George.

  Harriet can tell that wheels are starting to spin in his brain.

  “We’ve learned so much about how to repair the heart. The surgery itself is relatively simple. The trick was to find a safe way to slow the heart down long enough to fix it without depriving the body of oxygenated blood. First they used hypothermia, and then they developed the heart-lung machine, but a lot of patients developed ‘heart block.’”

  “Tell me again what that means,” Eleanor says.

  “It means their hearts stop beating during or after the surgery. So Lillehei and an electrical engineer named Earl Bakken developed an electrical pacemaker to make the heart start beating again.”

  George leans forward. “I was glad you told me about Bakken when he took Medtronic public. My stock in that company has done very well.”

  “There have been lots of refinements in the pacemaker since the one Dr. Lillehei inserted into the first patient’s heart muscle in 1957. Now we have much smaller ones.” Nat pauses.

  George says, “Go on.”

  “Well, the fellowship program has attracted physicians from around the world, and they’re taking what they learn from the pioneers in the field back to their home countries. I don’t know what will happen when the funding ends.”

  “How much money did the NIH grant provide?”

  “I have no idea, but I can find out. Are you thinking the Sutton Foundation might be able to help?”

  “Possibly.”

  Nat’s youngest, Violet, runs onto the porch, crying. She climbs onto her father’s lap. The other children follow close behind.

  “What’s wrong, Vi?”

  “I tripped and hit my chin.”

  He inspects her chin, licks his finger, and wipes the dirt away with his saliva. “It isn’t bleeding, pumpkin.” He looks at the kids. “How about we go to the Little Red Store for some ice cream?”

  “Yeah, sock it to me!” cries Joey.

  Retta grabs Violet’s hand.

  “Wait,” Harriet says to Retta. “Give me a hug before you go.”

  Retta complains, “Oh, Mother,” but she hugs her quickly, then takes Violet’s hand again.

  While Nat leads the children away, Eleanor rises. “I’m ready to head up to bed. George?”

  “I’m coming.”

  Harriet stays on the porch. She wasn’t able to get Dorie talking, and she’s worried about what kind of home she and Nat are providing for their children. Not that it’s any of her business. But as their aunt, maybe it is her business.

  Later that evening she tracks down her brother, who’s sitting in the living room. “What are you up to, Nat? It’s nearly midnight.”

  “I’m making copies of the lyrics to my new song so everyone in the audience tomorrow night can follow along.”

  “I hadn’t realized you’ve been writing songs again.”

  “It’s what I do when I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t get back to sleep. I was writing songs about Andover, but now I’ve started writing about Sea View.”

  “That is so cool, Nat! Do you want help copying the lyrics?”

  “No, I can finish this later.”

  “Let’s get a drink. I’d like to talk with you.”

  They go into the pantry and pour themselves short glasses of whiskey with water.

  Back in the living room, she goes to the sagging sofa. “How are you, Nat?”

  He takes a nearby cushioned chair. “Work is great—very challenging and endlessly fascinating.”

  “I’m really glad to hear that. Do you miss working as a musician?”

  “I play music in my free time.”


  “Retta and Joey certainly enjoy making music with you. You kept the kids occupied much of the day.”

  “We have fun together. I’m pretty happy with the songs we’re getting ready to perform. Do you want to hear one?”

  “Of course I do.”

  He rises to pick up Abby’s guitar, which is leaning against the wall. Standing, he strums a few chords and then he sings:

  Let’s not put the boats away!

  Maybe we’ll stay for one more day,

  Cook out once more and watch the sun

  Setting red and gold in Ipswich Bay.

  “That’s great!”

  He grins. “You’ll have to wait till tomorrow night to hear the rest of the tune.”

  “You really love music, don’t you, Nat?”

  Placing Abby’s guitar in its case, he responds, “Always have, always will. Music helps me stay sane.”

  “How are things at home?”

  Slowly, he sits back down. “The kids are growing like weeds.”

  “I see that. Abby must be five inches taller than she was last summer.”

  “She towers over Ned now. He doesn’t like it one bit.”

  “Are you thinking of sending him to Andover when he’s old enough?”

  “No. Both Abby and Ned attend the University High School on campus. It’s first rate and they like it a lot. Students have to demonstrate academic excellence to get in and it’s quite affordable, with tuition around $200 per student. The school is filled with faculty brats.”

  She’s going to have to be more direct. “I’ve noticed that Dorie seems pretty withdrawn.”

  “She’s depressed. I’ve tried to get her to go see someone about it, but she refuses.”

  “I’m sorry, Nat.”

  “Me too.” He sighs. “How about you, Harry? You were getting pretty hot under the collar while you and Father talked about that merger.”

  “I’m convinced it would be bad for the girls.”

  “It’s not pleasant to disagree with Father, is it? I’m trying to figure out how to tell him I can’t serve as medical advisor for the foundation.”

  “He asked you to do that?”

  “Yes, but I can’t possibly leave the kids alone with Dorie over a whole weekend. I’d need to come east for meetings.”

  “It’s that bad?” As she imagines what his life at home must be like, she reaches over to put her hand on his arm.

  Then she wonders why their father hasn’t asked her to play a role at the foundation? She knows that he’s still in the throes of getting organized, establishing an office for the Sutton Foundation, applying for a 501(c)(3) tax determination letter from the IRS, hiring an assistant, and setting up the business and accounting systems for his nonprofit organization. She tries not to feel too hurt about this. She refocuses on her brother, who’s gazing at his knees.

  “Is Dorie pregnant?” If she is, that would explain a lot.

  “Absolutely not. She couldn’t be.”

  Realizing what this likely means, she feels even worse for him. “I’m sorry, Nat. Is there anything I can do?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. I made my bed. Now I get to lie in it.”

  February 1967

  It’s well after dark when Nat arrives home from the hospital. The outside light is on, illuminating the white stucco façade and the double windows on both sides of the front door, though it barely grazes the twin dormers in the roof or the desiccated hydrangeas leaning against the foundation. A swing, hung from the large cottonwood tree, moves eerily with the wind, as though some invisible person were riding it.

  He likes everything about their house in Prospect Park, and it’s close enough for him to walk to work if he has the time, though that’s rarely the case.

  Opening the front door, he’s met with a blast of heat and sound. Abby, Ned, Ernie, and Violet are seated around the dining room table, plates of food and glasses of milk at their places, while Dorie looks on from the end of the table. There’s nothing in front of her except a glass of water.

  “Daddy!” cries Violet, jumping up from her chair and running over to him. As she embraces his legs, she says, “You’re home!” He can hear the relief in her voice. “Ernie’s being mean to me!”

  Violet’s so skinny, her arms and legs look almost like sticks emerging from her old pajamas, which clearly she outgrew some time ago. Suddenly it occurs to him that she looks malnourished—but that’s impossible—they have enough food. “Wait a minute, Vi. I can’t hear myself think.”

  The other kids are shouting over the song “Somebody to Love,” which is booming from the kitchen. He charges in to turn off the radio. He’s had enough noise for one day after attending to the ceaseless paging of physicians and code blue announcements at Variety Club Heart Hospital.

  Violet stands in the doorway.

  He gets down on his knees so he’s level with his nine-year-old. “Okay, pumpkin. Tell me what happened.”

  Her lower lip trembles. “Ernie took my favorite paper dolls, and he cut them into little tiny pieces. They’re ruint!”

  At eleven, Ernie shouldn’t be acting like this.

  “Don’t worry, Vi. We’ll get you some new paper dolls.”

  “But I liked the ones I had!”

  He wonders why she would care so much about paper dolls—isn’t she a little old for this? “You and I will go to the store this weekend and see what we can find.”

  “Thank you, Daddy.”

  Rising from his crouch, he pats her on the top of her head. She heads back to the table while he picks his way through toy cars and trucks and dolls and crayons and Lincoln Logs strewn across the floor of the living room. He stuffs his coat into the crammed front hall closet and returns to the dining room.

  The children are eating macaroni and cheese with peas once again. He turns to Dorie. “Can’t you fix them a decent meal with meat? Growing kids need protein. Hot dogs and beans? Surely you can manage something like that.”

  Slumped in her chair, Dorie says, “I’m not feeling well. Abby made dinner.”

  He feels sick. This happens almost every night.

  Sweating now, he moves over to check the thermostat, which has been pushed up to seventy-five degrees. He turns it down. Then he takes the vacant seat at the dining room table. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, he tries to contain his frustration.

  “So, tell me about your days. Vi, you go first.”

  Bouncing in her seat, Violet’s golden curls jump as she exclaims, “I got one hundred on my spelling test!”

  “Good for you, Vi.”

  Ernie chimes in: “My trumpet teacher said I did a really good job on the piece I learned for my lesson today.”

  Ned, who’s been shoveling noodles into his mouth, looks up from his plate and says, “It sounded like screeching when I heard you practicing.” Nat is startled once again by how much his thirteen-year-old son can eat.

  “I got better,” Ernie replies. “Dad, I want to play the bass.”

  “We can think about that.”

  Vi stabs one pea and puts it in her mouth. The mound of macaroni on her plate looks untouched.

  Nat’s worried about Vi’s health, and his fury at Dorie for not feeding her better rises higher. “Have some noodles, Vi. You can’t just eat peas.”

  Violet shakes her head. “I’m not really hungry.”

  “Would you like a piece of cheese?”

  “No thank you, Daddy.”

  Giving up on this for the moment, he looks over at his oldest. “How about you, Abby?”

  “We finished Bellum Gallicum in Latin class today. We start reading Fabulae Faciles next.”

  “You’re moving right along.”

  Abby brushes back the hank of hair that’s fallen across her eyes. “Would you like the rest of the macaroni and cheese, Dad? I can warm it up for you.”

  “How about you, Dorie—do you want some?”

  Staring at the wall behind him, she says, “No.”

  He turns back to Abby.
“In that case, I’ll finish it off. Thank you, sweetheart.”

  Dorie adds, “I had peanut butter on saltines a while ago.”

  “Then why didn’t you give the children some peanut butter?” he mutters under his breath.

  Later that night after he has checked everyone’s homework and brushed teeth and tucked the younger children in, and the house has grown quiet, Nat goes into their bedroom, where Dorie lies under the covers in her nightgown. Her face looks puffy.

  He sits next to her and takes her hands in his. “Dorie, why don’t you sing around the house anymore? I always loved hearing you sing while you went about your chores.”

  “I don’t know, Nate. I don’t feel like singing. Maybe I would if I had a gig to prepare for, but that’ll never happen now. I don’t have any time for myself.”

  “You must admit, it’s not Abby’s job to make dinner and look after the other kids. She’s only fifteen.”

  “It’s too much. I don’t know how to do it all. I didn’t have brothers or sisters to take care of. I never babysat—I was busy taking music lessons and singing in the church choir.”

  “I’ve heard this before.”

  Defensively she says, “I handle the driving, get groceries, and take the kids to all their lessons and doctor’s appointments.”

  “You need to feed our children. Violet looks like she’s starving to death!” He’s nearly shouting now. “What do you actually do all day?”

  “I just don’t have the energy for everything.”

  “We can’t go on like this.” He sighs deeply. In a quieter tone of voice, he says, “Do we need to hire someone to help out—a housekeeper or a cook?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want someone in my house looking over my shoulder.”

  “Would you like to take a class at the university? Or you could teach singing to kids in some school.”

  She shakes her head despondently.

  “Then what are we going to do?”

  “What about me? I’m stuck here by myself all day. I never get to go out with my friends and just have fun.”

  Nat has never met any of those supposed friends. “You’ve got to make an appointment to see Dr. Mason.”