The Eves

by Grace Sammon

  I try to remember that.

  Of all of the Eves, Margaret Mary is the most surprising to me. Everyone’s original impressions of her are quite wrong. She is demanding, has standards, but she is not haughty, hard, or cruel. One day I build up the courage to tell her this and her response is surprisingly delightful. “Miss Barnet, my demeanor is a cultivated skill that has served me well. You should have seen me as Sister Lucia!”

  Jan expresses disappointment that Juneteenth didn’t come off the planning page this year. It was just too much to take on. In addition, she and Margaret Mary get into a bit of a pissing match about the quilts. Jan insists that African American quilts be included in the celebration. Margaret Mary thinks this a great idea but balks at Jan’s insistence that the quilts were used historically as communication and road maps for the Underground Railway and thus are a vital part of Black history. Margaret Mary insists that there just was no historical basis for the quilts doing anything of the sort, that these quilts were known to be historical family records but that no quilting history showed the use Jan purports. Jan takes umbrage at this, especially after Margaret Mary tells her that, in general, the first reference to the quilts being used for the Underground Railroad were part of a fabrication in a 1987 video. The debate rages for most of the summer as each does furious research.

  As a compromise between the two, Tia and CC install a wonderful wall-mounted water feature. It’s a large flat fountain made up of the tile paintings done on Mother’s Day. It looks very much like a patchwork quilt of all the families’ artwork and history. The water slides over the tiles, bubbles in the basin and is recycled to once again slide down. Margaret Mary says she will not contest that Jan’s tile depicts the Underground Railroad. In any event, Juneteenth is on the calendar for next year.

  Jan and I plan meals and cook with the spoons. I tell her about Africa and Robert, and the footsteps and the spot where man, or maybe just woman, learned to stand erect and walk with two others. This makes her prod me to become the storyteller she imagines me to be. She invites me to her room. She’s chosen one on the second floor. We take the elevator and pass Roy’s plastic panel reminding us of the straw bale construction. She’s taken all the orchids I brought for the Eves on Mother’s Day to her room and gotten books on propagation. Everywhere there are attempts in various stages of success. I get out my phone and gave her the phone number of “The Orchid Lady” from the mall in Sarasota as well as a link to Selby Gardens so she can get good information. Jan has a notion about getting students involved in growing the plants and giving the orchids as gifts or selling them. She’s still not sure how she wants to proceed. She is just fascinated by the flowers.

  In her room she’s recreated the bookcases, displaying the Native American pottery. We talk about the orchids. I reach for the Cordero storyteller and, suddenly, the story I want to tell spills out of me. Jan sits on her mother’s bench and listens as I tell her the story I have in my head about the love between mothers and their children, and about the gift of “other mothers.” I add that this may all be a coming-of-age story about women as they age. As Jan listens and leans forward. When I finished, she says to me, “Aliksa’i, child, this is delicious.”

  As I limp through the summer, using the love of others, the story I want to tell takes shape, not as an article but as the book Elizabeth first envisioned. The writing comes easily. The story that now needs to be told oozes out the tips of my fingers, on to the keyboard, and on to the screen. I write best when I was at The Eves. Roy and I find ourselves spending more and more time there.

  One night we went out on The Tug. It was just Malcolm and Allison, Roy and me, and Tobias. He had to be coaxed to come but the lure of staying overnight and watching the cliffs wake up was too great. Ali cooked a great meal while all three men fished off the back. Wine and conversation flowed. Tobias told us stories about his youth and of his father and grandfather. Malcolm told us the story of falling in love with Ali the first time they met.

  As the sun set, Roy played Taps for us as Malcolm took down the American flag he flies when he sails. There were no tears and Tobias didn’t sing. His eyes were fixed on the top of the cliffs, though, at about the point I imagine the cemetery to be. In the dusk I thought I saw him mouth the words “Good night.” It’s been almost a year since Joan died. Maybe it gets easier, but I doubt it. I think it just gets different.

  When darkness fell Ali and Malcolm went up top to check weather and charts, and to smoke cigars together. While I was cleaning up the galley I could hear the murmur of their voices, their laughter, and the occasional banter about the Ravens and how pre-season play was going. Roy sat with Tobias on the open-air deck while Tobias pulled out his banjo, played, and hummed.

  When I joined them, bringing Tobias a highball, Roy went below to make up a bunk for Tobias and turn in to read. Tobias insisted that he wanted the bunk in the salon, leaving the forward cabin to Roy and me. He wanted to make sure he was awake to see the dawn. He told us he might just spend the whole night right where he was on one of the couches out here.

  Ali and Malcolm came down from up top. With their goodnights they confirmed the time of sunrise and the beautiful morning promised the next day.

  Alone with Tobias, I tell him I’d missed Orion overhead all summer. My knowledge of summer constellations extends only to the Big and Little Dippers.

  “Jessica, Orion will be back,” he told me as he continued to pluck. “You just have to wait for him. Things happen in their own time. You’ll see. The bonus of the summer sky is Sirius. The brightest star in our galaxy. Look for it.”

  Upon his instruction, I got up and located it, pointing. “Sirius?”

  “That’s right, Jessica. Sirius, part of the constellation Canis Major, actually consists of two stars, but the Greeks didn’t know that. Canis, the dog constellation. It’s where we get the expression the dog days of summer. Myth has it that Sirius was Orion’s hunting dog. I always think of it as him leading Orion back to us. It will happen Jessica, but tonight you should go to bed with that man who loves you so much. Besides, I have a woman to talk to,” he tells me nodding up to the cliffs.

  When I go below Roy has fallen asleep. I slide in quietly next to him and find my spot, the place where my head fits so nicely on his shoulder and I can hold his left hand. As I listen to his regular breathing I tell him, finally, that I love him. Love him a considerable amount.

  “I know you do Jes, and I’m glad,” he says squeezing my hand tightly.

  In the morning, very early, Tobias awakens us all with the clang of the ship’s bell and the pronouncement that the cliffs are waking up.

  They are a sight to behold!

  second harvest

  S

  uddenly, it is fall. Sonia and Erica are back. Erica is starting her junior year of high school, getting a driver’s permit, looking at colleges. It is so good to have them back. The history of us creates one of those few friendships where each time you meet is like yesterday. We pick up where we left off with our runs and texts and chats. I’ve forgiven Sonia for the uncommitted crime of being there for my children when they were not ready to have me.

  I’ve finished my dissertation and am just waiting for the final suggested edits from my advisor, and questions from the readers. The oral defense is rescheduled, as Sonia suggested, for just before Christmas. This leaves the long winter break to finish the book and send the final edits to the proposed publisher.

  Gabler and I, along with Roy, decide to move down to The Grange the last half of October and the beginning of November. It is the second-prettiest time of year in the mid-Atlantic. We want to enjoy the rich colors and as much boating as possible before the weather turns.

  It’s hysterical to watch Roy each morning try to participate in the “breakfast banter.” He proves single-handedly how different men’s and women’s brains work. After a few weeks he’s up and out the door early, helping with the animals and fields.

  These
days, I try not to read too much into things, but I still frequently over-think things. Both Ryn and Adam at least acknowledge my gifts now. There have been a few correspondences where they send me things that remind them of me. They’ve said they aren’t coming for any holidays, but maybe they are talking about coming to see this place in the New Year. I’ve tried not to make a big deal of it, telling them they are welcome anytime. They each say thank you. Tobias promises, “Everything in time.” I let myself go with the flow.

  Knowing that they aren’t going to be with me has made it easier to accept an invitation to finally meet, face-to-face, Jesper. The video chats have been good. We cover hard questions and are building rapport. I am always eager to talk with him. However, I can’t quite get over the hurdle that he is not just this very nice man, he is my son. We can’t figure out what he should call me. I tell him that I will be coming to Oslo around the time of our American Thanksgiving. I will stay until 12 December, the day after his birthday. The word birthday feels full and rich to me.

  The preparations for Harvest kick into high gear. “Joan’s Acre” is ready for the students from Anacostia. The barn is set up for the ritual of the hands. The day of the event we get shattering news. Sydney’s cancer is back. She tells us this in the same breath that she tells us that the polio injections have already been scheduled for Thanksgiving week. For a few moments, our world stops. She’s already told Gene.

  Somehow, the day still unfolds, and it is as magical as my first Harvest. What a year it has been! Towards the end of the day, Deirdre meets each student, gleefully asking them if they had “peak produce picking.” They laugh and take places at the tables. Tia now takes Joan’s spot. Tobias looking content, his hand gently resting on the back of the chair. I sit with Elizabeth and she squeezes my hand. Sydney joins Jan and Allison. Once again, I marvel at the discussions, the interactions, and the beauty of the Harvest. Taking it all in I notice Oliver shifting his weight and pulling back and forth in his stall.

  Excusing myself from the table, I go to eavesdrop on the other tables, making the rounds. Done with that, I go around the corner, pick up a handful of oats and move to nuzzle Oliver. He seems agitated, probably because of all the commotion. He keeps pushing me away from him shaking his head toward the room. Sydney seems to notice as we catch each other’s eye.

  “Come on,” I motion to her, knowing the barn loft will already be set up. She missed the last Harvest because of the chemo. Who knows if she will have another chance? As she climbs into the loft you can see the sense of awe come over her as she takes it in.

  “Is your handprint here?” she asks.

  “Nope, wasn’t ready.” I walk over to the little wooden hands Roy made. “Here, here are my kids. The red one is Adam, the blue one Ryn’s.”

  “You know Jessica, tomorrow isn’t promised. We should both do this, ready or not.”

  Together we review the colors laid out by CC. Dipping our hands in the paint we pick a spot on the wall, overlap our palm prints, and leave a mark on this place. Then I go back to the paints, dip my right hand one more time, walk to the spot where I’ve hung their small wooden hand cut-outs, and place my purple-dipped hand so that the paint on my fingers is touching the little wooden hands. I place a small tiny pinky fingerprint on each of their prints. We’ve made a mark on the land. One way or another, I have made a mark on their hearts.

  Tomorrow isn’t promised. There is only hope.

  reach

  T

  he morning of my trip, as I get ready to leave, Deirdre pulls the word “reach” out of the Breakfast Banter Bowl. The conversation gets off to a sleepy start as the Eves move into the solarium. Margaret Mary rolls her eyes, reaches for the dictionary, and finds the page defining “reach.” She reads aloud synonyms for reach. “Touch, stretch, grasp, arrive at, get to, attain, achieve, influence.” They all go around and around citing their accomplishments, noting what they’ve attained or achieved. I notice, half listening, that the topic doesn’t seem to be getting much traction. I can’t go perk up the conversation though, too much to do today before leaving for Jesper!

  My vacation preparations are spread all over the house this morning, especially in both alcoves. I’ve been working in the little alcove near the solarium all morning. My anxiety at meeting Jesper is eased by the bubbling of the water feature and the Eves’ babbling about ‘reach.’

  I hear the sound of a car grittily speeding up the gravel drive announcing Sonia’s arrival. Getting up to get more coffee, I see Sonia wave as Erica pops out of the car. She has no school today and she, very sweetly, wanted to be here to say good-bye and good luck for my trip. She is, increasingly, like her mother in beauty and in style. She bursts upon the scene this morning with positive energy interrupting both the rhythmic water sounds and the stalled conversation on “reach.” With good mornings to everyone, Erica’s arrival pulls me back from future to present.

  She’s a quick study. “Bad brainstorming banter?” she asks me, moving her head to indicate the solarium discussion.

  “Very clever, little one. The topic is ‘reach.’ It doesn’t seem to be working for them.”

  “Reach?” she says moving to the solarium. Her energy enters with her, and all of a sudden, the topic takes off. A few minutes later, I can hear the volume rise and the Eves all talking, interrupting each other, sparring, laughing. Erica rejoins me in the alcove.

  “How’d you do that?” I ask her.

  “Sometimes I don’t think they listen to themselves. Remember Margaret Mary telling you about wrong-headedness, or Jan singing ‘Both Sides Now?’ They were already talking about the whole ‘reach’ thing then, in my opinion.” She says these words with deferential Sonia-like emphasis, “They had too much focus on the end, the arrival, what they have done so far, not the impact they have going forward.

  “Dag, didn’t Margaret Mary yell at you about that too? All I did was say that they should think of this like the reach of a long arm. I told them I think they are actually always talking about reach. They talk about how they can reach back in time, like, one hundred and fifty years, to stories that their grandparents or parents told them, or taught them. That means their grandparents and parents still have reach into today. And, they have their own reach of at least, like what, a hundred and fifty years into the future. As long as their kids, and their friends, and we keep talking about them, get influenced by them, learn from them. Like, how old would Tobias’ grandfather be now, kazillion? I bet I’ll be telling my kids about the cliffs ‘waking up.’ I got that from him, and Orion, from you. That’s reach.”

  I simply stare at her. “You’re brilliant, amazing really,” and I pull her to me and kiss the top of her head. I won’t be able to do that much longer. She’s grown in these last months.

  “Not really,” she says pulling away and smoothing her hair. “It’s kind of like your lame question about what you want on your tombstone. I just asked what they wanted to be remembered for, what lessons they are leaving for the future, what would they want their kids to know, what do they still have from their parents, what reach they expect to have. It’s all in the wording Aunt Jessica. You know that. Words matter.” She winks at me. I know she is playing on my love of words and downplaying her mother’s comment that it does not matter what we say, only how we look.

  I take her hand. “Let’s go listen. Make notes for me, Ok? I’m way too overloaded to add whatever they come up with to the book before I leave.”

  We go back toward the solarium and listen. I can see Erica making mental notes. I’m sure she will email them to me while I’m gone. Reach might be a good name for the book, if it ever gets completely finished and I stop finding more things, like this, to add!

  Erica and I return to the alcove. “Thanks, email me your thoughts on that, OK?”

  “Sure, look for the subject line ‘eves dropping.’”

  “Really? Ouch!” She’s quick.

  She’s suddenly serious. “Can I tal
k to you about something? I was thinking about what you said about shoes.” She plops cross-legged into the rich, blue, easy chair, and hands me a thick envelope. “And, about books.”

  “Tell me what you are thinking,” I ask, eager to hear from her.

  This reminds me of when Adam would come home from school and share his day. Linking that time and this is less painful now. I want to believe there is hope for me and Adam, me and Ryn. Separately and together and, maybe, just maybe, if things go well, with Jesper. For today, it’s a blessing, really, just to have Erica want to share these things with me.

  “So,” she says suddenly all business, “I think the idea I had about a photo book of just shoes and feet is a good one. I want to explain it to you better than I did last time. Here’s what I was thinking. I got the idea at first from mom’s closet. You know what a shoe freak she is. Ridiculous! So, I started taking pictures of her shoes, then her feet. Then I thought back. Do you remember that photo I took of CC’s ankles and sneakers, and the one of Tobias’ shoes and cane? Maybe I have a shoe thing like mom and didn’t realize it. I started doing an internet search and there are lots of things for people who have a shoe fetish, like wine bottle holders in the shape of a shoe. I don’t get it, but it means there might be a market for what I want to capture.”