The Eves

by Grace Sammon

  I decide to start with the quilt. She sees me noticing it. Inviting me to sit in the easy chair, she folds her ninety-plus-year-old body into the straight-backed desk chair and looks me squarely in the eye. Even in the dimness, and at her advanced age, she has the most dazzling blue eyes I have ever seen. She begins, “Miss Barnet, we will talk about the quilt by and by, but, if you would be so kind, please let me start. I understand that you are interested in doing oral histories of those of us who live here, and perhaps in doing a historical perspective of the land itself. Is that correct?”

  She sounds precise, she sounds like someone capable of hearing my doctoral orals. Depending on how things go, maybe I’ll have her read my dissertation and she can challenge my thinking. I can’t imagine that I’d be any more intimidated at the oral test than I am now. I remind myself this is voluntary. I don’t have to be here.

  I mutter that the oral histories are where I think the project is going but that I’m not exactly clear on what the final product will be. I drag Tobias, figuratively, into the fray, telling Margaret Mary that he seems to think I can just wing it, go with the flow, until project clarity suddenly arrives.

  Her eyes have not left my face. She seems to want to say, “We are not amused,” but I continue. “To be honest, I think you probably all have amazing stories. I’d like to hear them, learn from them, and share them. For example, what is one of your earliest memories?”

  “Miss Barnet, what difference could that possibly make to you? If I told you that one of my earliest memories is of my large family returning from Mass on Sunday mornings and having the house dizzyingly filled with the smell of roasted chickens and potatoes and that that single memory brings a smile to my face nine decades later, would it matter?

  “Given that we had to abstain from all food and liquid for at least twelve hours prior to the Holy Sacrifice in those days, just entering the house would make your mouth water. In winter we would immediately sit down to eat. But, oh, in summer! My mother would pack up the meal. My father would carry it down the steps of our apartment and, quite creatively, tie the bundles to the engine of the car to keep everything warm, directly to the engine, quite inventive, quite ingenious. Funny to think of that now. My father would then return to the apartment, line us up, carrying whoever was the youngest, and off we would go for a day at the beach.

  “Those are my earliest and best childhood memories, but other than being a delightfully quaint and dated story I cannot see what difference it can make, Miss Barnet.”

  “Please. Please call me Jessica, it makes me uncomfortable to have you to refer to me so formally.”

  “So be it,” she says looking away from me for the first time. “The lack of formality today is something I mourn, along with the lack of good sentence structure, and the loss of Walter Cronkite and his peers as TV newscasters.”

  I’m not sure if it’s permissible to laugh in her presence but I find her statement wonderful and want to remember to write it down later. For now, I am unsure if I should be addressing her by her last name or her first. Instead, I simply state, “The memory you shared is delightful and it gives me such a great picture of you…”

  Again, she raises her hand, indicating silence. She finishes my sentence, “A great picture of me when I was young?

  “Jessica, close your eyes.” I do so. “Think about yourself. Is the image you create of a woman near sixty, with a slightly sagging jowl line, a hint of gray, and with lines on her face and veins clearly visible on her hands?” She must notice I wince. “Let me shift to something more comfortable. When you think of any one of us here, what do you see? You see our age, how our bodies sag, how it takes us a bit of time to get up from prayer. You are surprised when you learn that we do things like Photoshop.” She sees my body wince and recoil. “Yes, we talk about you when you are not here. There are not a lot of secrets when you live like this.

  “Keep your eyes closed. You imagine yourself as very young next to us, somehow giving you a feeling of youth and immortality. You note our gray hairs and our agedness. You are ready to write our histories because you think our lives are over and behind us. You think that we are ‘done.’ Open your eyes.

  “Am I that far from the truth, Jessica? Have you made notes about us?”

  Feeling as if I have been caught passing notes in school, I tell her that I have. She asks to see them. I hesitate but hand them to her. A look of self-satisfaction, indicating that she is exactly correct in her assessment, crosses her face before her eyes return to mine.

  She closes her eyes and continues, “I am shocked, when I catch my reflection in a mirror or store window. I don’t recognize, and want to deny the sag of my neck, the spots and veins on my hands, the soft flabbiness of my breasts and stomach, the lack of pubic hair.” She sighs. “I am shocked because when I close my eyes, I see a young and able woman. I am still in my thirties, maybe forties. I see the convent, habit, and sisterhood I left behind in order to adopt children and be a mother. I see myself adding baby and child after baby and child, raising them on my own, biking and ice skating with my children. I see myself doing that still with my grandchildren. Creating, along with my brothers and sisters, one large, closely connected clan. I see me as still capable of doing all those things represented on the quilt. I like to think that I simply choose not to do them. Those faces and names on the quilt above the bed are my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.”

  She opens her eyes and chuckles at the look on my face.

  “See, I have surprised you. It seems that you are easy to surprise. You have made predeterminations about us. We are not, as I fear you believe, done our lives. We have probably had all of our firsts, our first dates, first cars, first loves, careers, deaths of close loved ones, life threatening awakenings, and so on. I am not convinced, however, that we are ‘done’ or even done all of our firsts. The rest of what time we have left would be entirely boring if that were the case. Jessica, as long as you hold these preconceived notions of us you will never get to the truth of any of us.

  “When we are all together in the common areas, I do not see old women. I see the girls we once were. Jessica, I think your approach to this project is quite wrongheaded, quite wrongheaded.

  “I see I have confused you. It is just food for thought. Do not write the stories about the beginning of our lives because you have judged that we are already at the end them. Jessica, once upon a time we were girls, and we still believe we are. We are still very much alive. In many ways we are at a beginning, to not understand that is wrongheaded.

  “Come and sit by me and show me what you brought with you. I think Sonia mentioned quilts.”

  the tug

  A

  quick glance at my watch has me reluctantly begging my leave from Margaret Mary. I offer thanks and apologies and ask if I can come back soon. I want to show her the quilt squares. She asks if I want to leave them with her. I almost do but I don’t want to part with them. She’s no longer intimidating, instead, there is something about her that is captivating. I want to ask her about so many things.

  Wrong-headedness? Food for thought, indeed.

  Back in the car, the GPS is leading me thirty minutes south to Solomons Island. I’ve never been there. A quick internet check describes Solomons as a picturesque island town nestled between the Patuxent River and the Chesapeake Bay. “Nestled” brings up cozy images and the web images are just that—a busy marina, replete with restaurants, shops and art galleries, boats full-sail, families, and strollers. Established in 1867, population 2,000. Maryland Seaside magazine lists it as one of “America’s Happiest Seaside Towns.”

  I’m eager. Being truly happy would be great, but today, just for today, I am grateful. It is a perfect day for being out on the water. It’s one of the things I miss most about my life with James, and Florida, being surrounded by water, being in it and on it. James was such an able seaman. Even when our sailboat heeled far to one side, I felt safe. Life was alw
ays on the edge with James. I suppose I should have known.

  Pulling into the Island Harbor Marina, I luckily find a parking space close to the boat slip. The marina is perfectly situated in what James always called “good water,” minutes from the open waters of the Patuxent River and the Chesapeake. You can be sailing or cruising in no time.

  From the car I can see Roy and Ali sure-footedly gamboling about the bulwarks of the boat, checking lines and fenders, making sure the decks are dry. They are outfitted in purple Ravens’ athletic shirts. A small black dog runs behind them, between them. I can see Malcolm in the pilot stand, also sporting purple, presumably loading charts, checking weather. Nice boat. I’d estimate a forty-five-foot-long trawler, in the same class as cabin cruisers and tugboats. Probably two full berths in the fore cabin and a queen bed in the aft captain’s cabin. There are probably two heads, a full galley and great room. I count three tiers of decking, one behind the pilot house up top, a large deck behind the great room and a small one just below that at the aft. I note there will be good sunbathing on the fore of the ship. As my eyes lazily take in the boat, I realize it’s been too long since I’ve been in a marina.

  “Permission to come aboard.”

  “Permission granted! Good morning! What’s with the brace?” calls out Malcolm as he leans out of the pilot’s window.

  My hands are full with rum and the orchid. I am grateful that Roy leaps down to the dock to help me aboard. Ladders, I hadn’t counted on the ladders for getting aboard, and moving from deck to deck. This is more difficult than I anticipated.

  Ali comes down the ladders frontwards and quickly, both thanking me and admonishing me for bringing anything.

  “Come on, let’s get you settled, ice on the ankle and a beverage in-hand before the others get here. It will be nice to chat. Remember, no talking during the game.”

  And so, the day unfolds. Beverages in hand, with a mental note to not overdo it. Allison and I sit amicably and chat. I report my experience at the M and M, and she says she will take care of the toaster and talk to the culinary instructor. She says it’s discouraging about the simple problem-solving skills and adds that she’s gotten similar reports from Gene.

  I tell her about the upcoming Africa trip. She shares her and Malcolm’s plan to fly to Ft. Lauderdale and cruise over to the Bahamas during the college’s long break. I can hear Malcolm and Roy up top talking about the course we will take and the odds for today’s game. I move on to tell Ali a bit about my conversation with Sydney last night and my hope that it doesn’t cause any part of today to be awkward.

  This is feeling fun, like we are girlfriends, chatting lightheartedly. Outside of Sonia, I don’t have this. Because Ali’s just mentioned Gene, I ask her, since she’s friends with both Sydney and Gene, what she thinks of my idea of trying to set them up together.

  Her tone changes immediately, “That’s not going to happen, and please don’t mention Gene today.”

  There it is again, the sense of something, just beyond my grasp of understanding. Awkward.

  CC, Tia, Tobias, and Sydney arrive together. CC and Tia in matching purple shirts, Sydney in purple leggings. Even the black dog is sporting a Ravens’ bandana. Tobias and I are colorless. At least I gave Sydney the yellow orchid, saving the purple one for Ali.

  “Have you met the beast?” Roy wonders as he pops down from above, the dog under his arm. “This is Oso, the Schipperke.” He plops Oso down on my lap, takes drink orders for the others, and moves on.

  I ask Ali about her dog and she tells me how he was a present from Malcolm. “The breed name is said skipper-key. Malcolm will tell you they were bred as barge dogs, rat finders, the Captain’s or ‘skipper’s’ dog. However, Sonia and I looked that up and the breed is actually Belgian, and they were used as herders. I guess it doesn’t matter. Malcolm gave him to me because their listed traits include being stubborn, mischievous, and headstrong in temperament. Like Sonia, Malcolm seems to think I’m bossy,” she giggles. “He seems to think I deserve a pet that will show me what that’s like!”

  “That’s right,” Malcolm joins us and kisses her. “Everybody ready to go? I’ve got the engines up and running.”

  Although I am clearly the only one that hasn’t been here before, it is comfortable to be aboard and with these people. Malcolm and Ali, the instantly likeable, make everyone comfortable. It’s a party boat, the conversation is easy. Malcolm, ready to launch, puts the American flag on the stern, and invites Tobias up top for the view and to drive. He asks Ali and Roy to get the lines, and with a joint, “Ay Cap’in,” they do so, and we move out. Ali’s ability to be both hostess and first mate is impressive. Roy is ably pulling in, coiling, and tying off the lines and fenders. He left “sailor” off of the list of attributes.

  CC, Tia, Sydney, and I move to the open-air deck, Ali is checking on food, and the three men collectively maneuver the trawler out of the harbor towards the bay. As we get settled, I have the chance to say to Sydney that I am really glad she was up for coming today. I try to say it with enough emphasis that she knows I mean, not just in general, but after our conversation last evening. She thanks me for the orchid. Tobias shares that when he and Jan came back in this morning, they both commented on the sweetness of the small pale-yellow flowers. This opens the opportunity for CC, her hand around Tia’s waist, to talk about when they first met in Costa Rica.

  As they share the story of their eco-trip, they change before me. They become young women in their early thirties and forties. They tell us, as if it was yesterday, not twenty years ago, about meeting at the airline’s executive lounge in Houston. CC was flying from Boston, Tia from Baltimore. They share that while they didn’t have their “gay-dar” set up on purpose, it was pretty easy to scope out the other and strike up a comfortable conversation at the bar. It delighted them to discover that they were on the same flight into Costa Rica’s capital, San Jose, and, better yet, on the same eco-tour down from the mountains to the Pacific Ocean and into the national parks.

  “CC, rather manipulatively” says Tia, “got up from the bar, went to the airline desk, and without telling me, had my seat switched to be next to her in First Class.”

  “What can I say,” CC laughs in response “I wanted to get to know her. Ah, the benefits of being gay and having more disposable income than the rest of America.”

  Tia continues, “It was a pretty magical trip. The plants, the animals, even the insects awed us. The really startling thing for me was seeing the orchids. I can still remember our guide talking about them and being awed that they seemed to grow everywhere in the trees. There are…”

  “…fourteen hundred varieties,” CC interjects, finishing Tia’s sentence. “We saw one tree with eight varieties. Our guide was a little orchid obsessed. I remember she talked about how they live on fungus, and… damn, what did she tell us was the one thing humans can eat from orchids,” she asks looking at Tia.

  “You can remember that there are fourteen hundred varieties of orchids and you can’t remember what is harvested from the small yellow one?” Tia kids her, taking her hand.

  “I know,” Ali announces triumphantly, returning to the deck, carrying a tray of appetizers. “Vanilla!”

  “Correct,” pops in Sydney. “Small yellow orchid, green string-bean liked pods. Dry them, ferment them, and eureka, vanilla!”

  “And you know this how,” I ask her.

  “Well,” inserts Allison, “I know it because of cooking. Vanilla is stupidly expensive when you think about it, despite the fact that we probably all have a small bottle in our pantries. I wanted to know why. Reading up on it, I found out that of those fourteen hundred varieties you mention, CC, about one hundred and fifty of those are the pale yellow ones that produce vanilla beans, but that only two types bear enough quality ‘fruit’ to be used commercially. On top of that, it takes six months to develop the product.”

  “It’s cheaper than chemo,” Sydney interjects to inquisitive l
ooks. “Vanilla is the second most expensive spice, but it’s cheaper than chemo. You probably all know it came first from Mexico, the Spanish gave it the name, meaning ‘little pod,’ but they learned of its anti-inflammatory and anti-carcinogenic properties from the Mayan and Aztecs. The alternative health doc I go to uses it to inhibit the growth of cancer cells.

  “It was a good present, Jessica. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.” With that, there seems an instant peace between us. “So, what’s the first most expensive spice,” I ask her.

  In unison, Ali and Sydney respond, “Saffron.” Ali quickly adds, as if competing for the bonus round, “from the pistils of the yellow crocus.”

  Sydney shares that her doc uses this too as an antioxidant and as an antidepressant. I admit that I have neither vanilla nor saffron in my pantry.

  As CC and Ali settle in for the pre-game show, and Tia and Sydney head up-top, I work my way to the deck on the stern to better sense being on the water. We head north and pass the Drum Point Lighthouse. I know where I am. It no longer serves its original purpose, but it’s beautiful and unique ‘screw-pile’ design can’t help but make you smile. We are passing Calvert Marine Museum. I imagine a small Ryn and an even smaller Adam running through the exhibits.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Roy interrupts.

  “Just remembering. Roy, thanks for asking me to come today. And, for all your patience with me on the house. Really.”

  “Need anything, Jes?”

  “Nope, I’m fine, really,” and I am.