The Cape Ann

by Faith Sullivan

  “About that.”

  “Then they’ve been gone close to an hour and a half,” Grandpa observed. “Should be back any minute now,” he assured me, thinking I had some need of Papa.

  In the house the women were again laying food on the table and brewing coffee. Delia Weller and Grandma Erhardt were talking about leaving as soon as supper was out of the way, before it got dark. They didn’t like to be on the road when it was dark.

  “One thing I’ll say for Willy,” Mama told Grandma Erhardt, “he’s a good driver. You don’t need to worry about that.”

  “Oh, yes, I know. Though sometimes I think he drives too fast,” Grandma pointed out.

  “I do think Stanley looks poorly,” Delia Weller suddenly put in, as if they’d been talking about him all along.

  “He’s thin,” Grandma Erhardt sympathized.

  “Yes,” Delia agreed. “He’s working too hard. And it’s worried him, I know, about the baby. These times are so bad. It’s not a time for bringing children into the world.”

  “Well,” Grandma Browning injected, “sometimes God decides when it’s time.” She was defending her daughter in case the gist of Delia Weller’s conversation was that Aunt Betty ought to have waited until times were better.

  “And now,” Delia observed, “He’s decided that the time wasn’t right after all.”

  Grandma Browning said in a voice so reasonable, it was obvious that she was piqued, “I can’t speak for God, but Betty’s not getting any younger. If Stanley wants children, he has to consider that. They’ve already waited too long, I think. Now Betty’s risking her life.”

  “I wonder if the boys will be coming soon,” Grandma Erhardt interrupted mildly. “Supper’s nearly ready.”

  “Lark, go see if Aunt Betty’s ready to get up. She should eat.”

  The bedroom was bathed in a peachy glow from the late afternoon sun. Wearing a cotton kimono, Aunt Betty was gathered into a ball on the bed. Her back was to me, and her spine and ribs pressed against the kimono fabric.

  I touched her shoulder. “Aunt Betty?” She sighed in her sleep. “Aunt Betty.”

  Slowly she returned from the land of Nod and rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

  “It’s almost time for supper. Mama says you should eat.”

  She continued to stare.

  “Would you like me to brush your hair?”

  She looked at me blankly.

  “Do you want to put on your dress?” I tried to think of things to say to get her out of bed.

  Mama brushed aside the drape and said matter-of-factly, “Time to get up, Betty. Everyone’s waiting. We’re going ahead without Willie and Stan. They’re not back.”

  “Not back?”

  “Willie took Stan for a ride in the Oldsmobile.” Mama put her arm around Aunt Betty and helped her to sit. “Get your aunt’s slippers from the closet, Lark.” We slipped them on her feet.

  “I suppose we should leave the boys’ plates on the table,” Grandma Erhardt said when supper was over, and the table was being cleared. “They’ll come hungry.”

  “I’m starting to worry,” Delia said. “It’s not like Stanley to miss supper.”

  Grandma Erhardt assured her, “They’ve just lost track of time. You know how boys are.”

  “Yes,” Delia agreed. “Still, I worry. The sun is down. Dad and I have to be on our way as soon as the dishes are washed.”

  “They’ll be here, wait and see,” Grandma Erhardt promised, tying on the fancy apron she’d brought with her on the train.

  “What if they’re in the ditch somewhere?” Delia continued, addressing Alf, who had settled himself on the living room couch and was tamping tobacco into his pipe. Referring to the pipe, Delia suggested, “I think you should take that outside.”

  “They’re all right, Mother,” he told her impatiently. “Get the dishes washed so we’re ready to go.”

  The dishes were washed and put away, and the kitchen light extinguished when Grandpa Browning brought Aunt Betty back from their little walk around the outside of the house. Settling her in the corner of the sofa, he wandered outside, peeling a stick of Beechnut and folding it into his mouth. Alf was on the porch, smoking his pipe, sharing opinions with Grandpa Erhardt about the state government in St. Paul and how it had let people down.

  Delia sat on a dining room chair in a posture of attention, ready to spring up at the sound of a car. “I don’t know what to do,” she told Grandma Erhardt, who stood nearby, removing her fancy apron and folding it carefully. “We’ve got to get home, Alf and I, but we can’t leave without knowing that Stanley’s all right.”

  Grandma Erhardt nodded. “How are you feeling?” she asked Aunt Betty. “Do you have pain?”

  Grandma Browning said, “The baby was so small, Betty didn’t have much tearing. That’s what Arlene said, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Mama answered. “But she had a lot of pain from the poisons.”

  Aunt Betty was looking out the open window into the near darkness of late twilight. Maybe she was thinking about Baby Marjorie, who was spending her first night in limbo. That’s what I was thinking about as I hung on the periphery of the evening. And I pondered Grandma Browning’s words about tearing. What, I wondered, did the baby’s size have to do with Aunt Betty’s pain?

  “I remember how torn I was when Stanley was born,” Delia told us. “It was three months before I was out of bed. He was a big baby. Eight pounds, nearly.”

  The headlights of a car appeared at the top of the block. Delia sprang from her chair.

  “Not Willie,” Grandpa Browning called out.

  I pushed open the screen door.

  “Don’t stand with the door open,” Grandma Browning told me. “You’ll let the moths in.”

  Mama said, “I can’t sit around waiting. It makes me nervous. Lark, you want to go for a walk?”

  “What if Willie comes?” Grandma Browning asked.

  “We’re not going far.”

  On the porch Mama said, “I won’t be long, Papa. I just need to walk.” From the way she grabbed my hand and pulled me along, I knew Mama was mad.

  “I’ve got a pain in my side,” I told her as we neared the Skelly station, which was closed and dark, its windows giving back a faint, spectral reflection of Mama and me as we passed.

  Nothing on downtown Main Street was open except Boomer’s Tavern. In front of it, watery light lay in a pool on the sidewalk. A single car, not Papa’s, was parked at the curb.

  “Wait here,” Mama ordered, leaving me on the steps while she went in to inquire. She was back in a minute, grabbing my hand. “He’s not here,” she told me. “He hasn’t been here.”

  Down the street we continued, past Esterly’s Groceries and General Merchandise, the barber shop, and finally, a tiny café, long ago out of business and abandoned. Barely visible through the streaked window, a few cheap wooden chairs and small tables waited for ghosts to sit down and order.

  A light burned in the depot, and another outside illuminated the platform. “Have you seen Willie Erhardt or Stanley Weller?” Mama asked the agent through the open window of the office.

  “No, ma’am.”

  So Mama and I tromped back to Aunt Betty’s. The three men were still on the front porch. “No sign of them?” Grandpa Browning asked.

  “No,” Mama said, and opened the screen door. “Get your nightie on, Lark.”

  Delia was sitting at the dining room table quietly crying. “I know something’s happened,” she whimpered, dabbing her eyes.

  Mama shepherded me into the bathroom to put on my nightie. “Do you think Papa’s had an accident?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “I know your papa.”

  “Then what’s he doing?”

  “Drinking.”

  After she’d washed my face and hands, Mama put me in her bed, kissed me, and turned out the light. “Don’t worry about your papa. God watches out for fools, chi
ldren, and Democrats. Your papa qualifies for all three.”

  When I woke, it was growing light outside. Lying beside me on the narrow cot was Grandma Erhardt, still wearing her good flowered dress, though she’d removed her shoes and stockings.

  Trying not to disturb her, I crawled to the foot of the daybed and climbed over the end. On the living room couch, Grandpa Erhardt was curled up, the crazy quilt tucked around his shoulders. Delia and Alf shared the rollaway.

  Peeking into Aunt Betty’s room, I discovered Mama and Grandma Browning squeezed into bed, still in their funeral clothes, one on either side of Aunt Betty. Grandpa Browning lay stretched out on the floor with a sofa pillow under his head. The room smelled of cigars and warm flesh.

  The kitchen clock said four-thirty. I ate the last of the potato salad that was in the icebox and let myself out the back door. Laying a dark trail where my feet crushed the dewy grass, I made my way around the house to the front porch and sat down on the step to wait for Papa.

  Within minutes the Oldsmobile appeared at the top of the block. Papa switched off the ignition and let the car coast to a stop.

  “There he is,” Mama said, her face obscured in shadow behind the screen door. Her cold voice made me shiver.

  27

  PAPA HESITATED. HE MUST have considered driving away again.

  I dashed across the street. “Papa, where were you? We thought you were in an accident.”

  “Ran out of gas,” he said wearily, crossly, as if I had no right to ask, “and couldn’t find anybody open.”

  Uncle Stan was flopped in the backseat, asleep, head thrown back, mouth agape, snoring. The car smelled strongly of alcohol.

  “Why didn’t you come home?”

  “I told you, we ran out of gas.”

  “But before, when the gas stations were open, why didn’t you come home then?”

  “Leave me alone,” he said, and reached into the backseat to shake Uncle Stan.

  The house quickly filled with embarrassment as first Grandpa Browning, then Grandpa Erhardt, Delia, and Alf woke to discover that Papa and Uncle Stan had returned, not bloody or with any other good excuse, but with a silly story of running out of gas.

  Both men headed toward the kitchen. “Any coffee? We haven’t exactly had a swell time of it, you know, sitting out there in the country all night.”

  “Where’d you run out of gas?” Grandpa Erhardt wanted to know.

  “Between Archer and Mankato,” Papa told him.

  “What took you to Mankato?” Alf inquired. Hitching up his trousers and tucking in his shirt, which had come out while he slept, he followed the men to the kitchen.

  “Nothing in particular,” Papa said, lifting the coffee pot, finding it empty, and slamming it down again. “Thought I’d show Stan how fast the Olds’ll go. Got her up to a hundred between here and Farley.”

  Uncle Stan sat at the kitchen table, barely able to keep his bloodshot eyes from closing, letting Papa handle the explanations.

  “Willie.” It was Grandma Erhardt, small and angry, in the doorway of the little back bedroom. “You and Stan should have stayed home. What about Betty, here alone?”

  “Alone?” Papa snorted. “With twenty people hanging over her, including a bunch of batty old bitches I never saw before?”

  “You be careful how you talk to your mother,” Grandpa Erhardt told Papa.

  Grandma Erhardt pursued. “You know what I mean, Willie. Stanley was needed here. His wife nearly died this past week.”

  Delia clung to the kitchen door, weak from the night’s ordeal. “The two of you should be ashamed. You don’t know what you’ve put us through. Your pa and me are not young, Stanley. You could’ve killed us. We thought you were dead someplace in a ditch.”

  “Instead of being drunk God knows where,” Alf added, furiously shaking the change in his pocket.

  Mama came into the kitchen and began running water into two coffee pots.

  “How come you didn’t walk to a farmhouse and borrow some gas?” Grandpa Browning, in his stocking feet, wandered into the kitchen, massaging the stubble on his jaw.

  “It was too late to go waking people up.”

  “But where were you until it was too late?” Grandma Erhardt demanded.

  “What the hell is this?” Papa asked. “A court of law?” Standing in the center of the room, he looked around at them with accusation and great self-concern, as if he were a dog surrounded by wolves.

  “It’s more than a court of law, Willie, it’s your conscience,” Grandma Erhardt told him.

  “Your mother wants to know, where were you?” Grandpa Erhardt pressed.

  “We went to Mankato. We had a couple of drinks. You gonna send us to prison?”

  “How much money did he lose playing cards, Stan?” Mama’s voice sliced quietly through Papa’s drama.

  “Not much,” Stan said, closing his eyes and looking as though he might topple off the chair. He was experiencing a kind of second drunk.

  “Stanley,” his mother cried in horror, “you didn’t gamble, did you?”

  “Juss … juss twenny-five dollars Willie … Willie lent me.” He put his hand on the table to steady himself.

  “My God. That’s a third of what your pa makes in a month. Stanley, what’s becoming of you?” Delia shrieked.

  “A man should never gamble what he can’t afford to lose,” Alf pronounced.

  “F’chrissakes, I’m broke. I can’t buy food. My wife’s starving.” Tears slipped from beneath his lids.

  Suddenly Aunt Betty appeared in the doorway, dressed in her nightie. “You don’t have to tell them,” she cried, running to him, pressing his head against her body where the great swelling had been.

  “Whassa use?” he asked. “Whassa use? We’re at some kinda end here.” He grabbed Aunt Betty’s hand. “I thought I could make us some money tonight. I thought I could be your hero.” He lifted his face to see if she understood.

  Mama had seen and heard enough. Turning her back, she said, “You must be real proud, Willie.”

  Spinning her around, Papa slapped her face. “Don’t you ever shame me in front of my folks,” he yelled at her.

  “What kind of man are you?” Grandpa Erhardt demanded, grabbing Papa’s arm.

  Papa swung around, pushing his father away. Thrown off balance, Grandpa flung out his arms to catch himself, but there was nothing to hold, and he fell to the linoleum, striking his head on the corner of the icebox.

  Before Alf could reach her, Delia folded up in a sigh. Seeing what he’d done. Papa grabbed Grandpa Erhardt under the arms.

  “Stan, give me a hand here,” he said.

  “I’m all right,” Grandpa told him, but his head was bleeding.

  Stan took Grandpa’s legs, and he and Papa carried him to the couch.

  “Pa, I’m sorry,” Papa kept repeating.

  Mama grabbed a clean dish towel from the drawer and held it against Grandpa Erhardt’s head. Grandma Browning and Alf saw to Delia, who soon came around, weeping and telling them again and again, “We’ve got to talk about Stanley.”

  When Grandpa Erhardt’s wound had stopped bleeding, and Mama had washed it, Grandpa said, “Annie, it’s time we got home.”

  “Let me get you some breakfast before you leave,” Mama said.

  “No, no, Arlene,” Grandma Erhardt demurred, “we’ll be home before we know it. You have enough to do here.”

  When Grandpa and Grandma Erhardt were settled into the Oldsmobile and ready to leave, Papa tried to put his arm around Mama as they stood together on the porch. Mama pulled abruptly away.

  “Did you see your sister in there?” Papa asked. “That’s how a woman treats a man if she cares about him.”

  Mama looked dumbfounded.

  At length she said coldly, disinterestedly, “You’re going back to Harvester from New Frankfurt?”

  Papa nodded, wincing and putting a hand to his forehead, where a headache had hold of him.

  “I want to know how much
money you lost last night,” Mama said.

  “You can’t leave me alone, can you?”

  “How much?”

  “I wrote IOUs. I’ll pay ’em off over the next few months.”

  “How much? I’m the one who pays the bills. I’m the one who’s got to figure out how to feed us. I want to know where we stand.”

  Finally he seemed to cave in. “I lost a lot.”

  “More than two hundred?”

  He nodded.

  “Oh, God, Willie.” Mama started to cry.

  “Jesus, not where my folks can see you, Arlene.”

  “How much, Willie?”

  “Four hundred and fifty.”

  Mama sank down on the porch step, her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving.

  “It’s going to be all right, Arlene. You’ll see. I gotta go now.” He began backing away. “When’re you coming home?”

  Mama didn’t answer.

  “Well, all right then. I gotta go.” He turned and hurried across the street to the car.

  As the Oldsmobile pulled away, Grandma Erhardt waved. She was worried about Mama, but she smiled and waved.

  When the car had turned the corner and was gone, I said, “Don’t cry, Mama. I love you. Don’t cry.” I dropped the five-dollar bill into her lap.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Grandpa Erhardt told me to give it to you when they were gone.”

  Then Mama cried harder, and I was sorry I hadn’t waited until later.

  28

  AFTER A WHILE GRANDPA Browning came out on the porch and stood behind Mama. “What’s the matter, Arlene?”

  “Nothing, Papa.”

  “Willie lose a lot of money?”

  “It’s not anything, Papa. I’m just worried about Betty and Stan. What’re they going to do?” She wiped her eyes on the back of her forearm.

  “We’ll work something out.”

  “What can we work out?” She wanted concrete answers, not “eyewash,” as she called it.

  “Your mama and Delia are in there fixing breakfast. We’ll eat and then we’ll talk,” Grandpa told her.

  After breakfast I helped Grandma Browning with the dishes while the others remained at the table, trying to work out a future for Uncle Stan and Aunt Betty.