Painting the Light

by Sally Cabot Gunning

  Next morning Ida and Bett made a brief foray into the woods, but Ida didn’t have the tracking skills to decipher anything she saw, and Bett soon lost interest in the nothing they were tracking in favor of the squirrel that they weren’t. They returned to the yard and stood staring out at the sheep, huddled in a single bunch around the hayrack. It seemed impossible that the hayrack could need filling again so soon, and the thought of it exhausted Ida. But of course she hadn’t slept, listening for every odd noise.

  Ida yawned and set to pitching hay, daydreaming of storming up the hill to Ruth, handing her the farmhouse key, getting a room in town, and signing on as a waitress at the Bayside. With Lem now out of the picture, Ruth would be forced to hire a new manager, and thinking what that might set Ruth back, and how much a strange face around the farm would irritate her, added considerably to Ida’s fantasy. But how much would a new manager set Ruth back? Ezra had worked for a percentage of the profits, but Ida had no idea what that percentage was. And why was that? Why was it Ezra had worked for a percentage of the profits while Ida was expected to work for nothing beyond the roof over her head?

  Ida went inside and sat down at the desk. She pulled out the farm book and flipped through it page by page, noting the money received for last season’s wool and for the lambs sold in October, marking the notations for Lem’s wages, the hayers, the bills from Luce and Tilton and everyone else. At last Ida came to a line marked EP with a sum attached that Ida worked out to be 50 percent of the profits.

  Ida hunted for a fresh sheet of paper in the desk, but if there had been any, she’d burned it along with the catalogs. She retrieved her sketch pad and pencil from her studio, flipped it to the back page and began a neat record of her numbers. When she finished she flipped through the sketchbook till she came to the page with the drawing of Lem; she’d done nothing more with it, and now she saw why. It wasn’t the Lem she knew. She put on her coat and hat, tucked the sketch pad under her arm, and headed uphill to Ruth’s.

  For a Beacon Hill girl it wasn’t much of a hill, but the wind managed to come over and down with fresh force straight at Ida; she hung tight to the sketch pad that held her numbers, tucked her chin and forged ahead. She was mulling over the words she planned to use on Ruth when she looked up and saw a boy squatting in the dirt of Hattie’s winter-blasted garden, digging a hole with a stick. He looked to be about five years old, still with a too-big head and too-big ears on top of a skinny neck, fine hair the color of wet sand protruding from under a green wool cap. “What are you doing?”

  “Digging a hole.”

  “What for?”

  “See what’s in it.”

  Ida peered in. “Find anything?”

  “Not through digging it yet.”

  “Ah.”

  Ida stepped up to the door and rapped. Hattie opened it, looking around Ida at the boy.

  “Who’s that?” Ida asked.

  Ruth came into the room. “Somebody’s mistake.”

  “My cousin Mary Nye’s boy,” Hattie said.

  “Second cousin once removed,” Ruth amended.

  “His mother’s dead,” Hattie continued.

  “And Lord knows who his father is,” Ruth said.

  “His grandparents are raising him up. But his grandmother’s in hospital and his grandfather—”

  “Is useless,” Ruth said.

  “So I offered to take him for a bit.”

  “Forty-five-year-old spinster decides to be a mama. What’s it your business?” Or that’s what Ida thought Ruth said, assuming she was still talking to Hattie. Ruth rapped the table in front of Ida. “I said, what’s your business?”

  “I’ve come to talk to you about the farm.”

  Ruth peered at her. “Well then, sit.”

  Ida set her pad on the table and shrugged out of her jacket. Either Ruth’s house was plenty warm, or Ida really was as nervous as she felt. Without asking, Hattie opened Ida’s sketch pad and flipped through till she came to the picture of Lem. “When did you do this?”

  “Christmas night.”

  Hattie looked at Ida. “I saw no sketching going on.”

  “Later, when he came back to collect his kettle.”

  Hattie studied it some more. “It’s nothing like.”

  Ruth looked too. “No, it isn’t.” Ida wasn’t surprised by Ruth’s remark—she’d never complimented a work of Ida’s—but Hattie was always so effusive it rendered her opinion worthless. The sketch of Lem wasn’t good, Ida knew that, but nothing like? It was one thing for Ida to say it, but for Hattie . . .

  The boy came into the kitchen, skirting Ida like a cat.

  “Say hello to Mrs. Pease,” Hattie said.

  “Hello.”

  “Put those boots outside!” Ruth ordered. She turned to Ida. “I can’t think what their floors looked like in New York. Come into the parlor. We can’t talk in this mess.”

  They sat in the parlor by the stove. Ida began. “Lem tells me he isn’t interested in managing the farm. I need a place to live and some income until I get myself set up to move back to Boston. It occurs to me we might work something out.”

  “Lem will come around.”

  “Lem won’t. He told me flat out. He wants his fair wage for shearing and emergency calls at lambing and that’s it. I can do this, with Lem’s help.” Ida elaborated, listing all the things Lem had taught her: how to watch for the restless, circling ewe who was about to lamb; how to tell a normal presentation from one that needed human help; how to watch the weather in order to call just the right time for shearing and haying as neither could be done wet; how to cull the sheep that would go to fall market. She mentioned a feisty ewe they should ship out, another who had aborted twice and even if it carried to term this time would only weaken the strain going forward. She talked of a couple of ewes too old to breed that should be sold while they still carried decent fleece. She watched Ruth as she talked and saw that this was talk the old woman understood. Ida finished by saying that until Henry Barstow settled the estate and Ida had recouped enough in funds to house and clothe and feed herself in Boston, she needed to house and clothe and feed herself on Martha’s Vineyard.

  There Ida held out her pad and pointed to the number she’d come up with—35 percent of the profits. Ruth waved the pad away. Behind Ida, Hattie said, “That’s not half what Ezra got. You don’t take Ida you’ll be paying a stranger twice that much.”

  “Ida’s not Ezra. She’ll call Lem at the drop of every hat, adding to my expense.”

  “That’s why I don’t ask for Ezra’s fifty percent. I know I’ll have to rely on Lem more than Ezra did.” There Ida recalled something another female art student had said while complaining of the difficulty in finding time to paint. What I need is a wife. “And I don’t have a wife who works for nothing the way Ezra did.”

  Hattie chirped out a laugh. “So she gets her thirty-five percent and you still save, Mother. And Lem said you can trust her.”

  “Trust her! Didn’t she just say? As soon as she gets enough money she’s away to Boston.”

  Which was it? Ruth wanted her here or wanted her gone? Ida guessed she now wanted her here if she could get her farm work done on the cheap. But there would be no money till the summer wool sale; she’d be foolish to leave before that. “I’ll sign a contract,” Ida said. “I’ll stay through getting the wool to market.”

  Ruth looked at Hattie.

  “That will give you plenty of time to find a new man before fall,” Hattie said.

  Ruth stared at Hattie. “Get me some paper,” she said. She turned to Ida. “I’ll have a contract for you to sign tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Ruth.”

  “Well, you ought to thank me,” Ruth said.

  Ida left. Hattie followed her out. “That’s more than half what Ezra got,” Ida said.

  “I know, but she doesn’t. I do the books.”

  “But why—?”

  “She’s called me a forty-five-year-old spinster one time too much.
”

  As Ida struggled to adapt to this new idea of Ezra’s cousin, Hattie added, “I’m forty-two. In March.”

  Oliver Nye was back in the yard, digging another hole. This time he didn’t look up; he’d met Ida now; clearly she wasn’t worth the trouble of lifting his head twice. But Ida had met Oliver now too, and she knew something of being orphaned; she pulled her skirt tight and squatted beside him.

  “A new hole?”

  “T’other didn’t have anything in it.”

  “Ah. Well, it looks to me like you’re a pretty good digger.”

  She stood up and started to walk away. Behind her she heard that high, tight little voice: “My father’s a really good digger.”

  Ida turned. “Is he, now? And what does he dig?”

  The boy paused in his digging, presumably the better to think. “Rivers,” he said.

  Henry Barstow didn’t return to the island until the end of January. It was true that it seemed to either rain or snow in turn every third day, and the sea added its usual complications for the crossing, the steamer canceling its run just when everyone seemed to need it most, but nevertheless, a month seemed a long time. For one thing, Ida had begun to fret over the gold in her closet. By rights Henry, the executor of the estate, should know about the gold, but if she told him, would he confiscate it as part of the estate and send it into the same limbo as the real property, waiting on the courts to declare Ezra dead? Ida had already come to think of the gold as hers alone; Henry had found no record of it, which meant it had nothing to do with the salvage company and needn’t be shared. Or did it? What if Ezra had reclaimed it from some wreck and then hidden it from Mose? The longer Ida thought on the thing, the more it seemed that this was the only logical explanation. Ida held no delusions about Ezra’s honesty; the question now was what delusions she might hold about her own.

  But Ida had no doubts of Henry Barstow’s honesty; he’d proved himself early on by sending her after her own attorney to protect her rights in the estate settlement. She would tell him about the gold next time they met.

  Hattie knocked on Ida’s door on her way back from the exchange. “He’s back,” she said.

  “Who?”

  Hattie looked at her. “Henry Barstow. The one you’ve been asking me to ring every week.”

  “Twice. I asked you to ring twice.”

  “Three times.”

  “So he’s back. Thanks.”

  Ida waited for Hattie to top the hill before she headed down it.

  There was some small commotion going on in front of Luce’s; two women and a man were standing in a tight circle with raised voices—or rather, one raised voice—and one raised hand.

  The voice belonged to the man. The hand belonged to Rose.

  “You shove that thing at me one more time, young lady, and I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”

  “I only ask you to read it, Mr. Stone. It just says—”

  “If I don’t want to read it, I don’t want to hear it. How much clearer does that get? Come along, Ella.”

  Rose Amaral made one last attempt to hand the pamphlet to Ella Stone; Ella took it, ripped it in two, and dropped it in the street. Rose turned away in the direction of the Bethel. The Stones entered Luce’s. Ida walked up and retrieved the torn pamphlet. She held the two halves of the cover together and read. “WHAT WE WANT: A World regenerated by the combined labor and love of Men and Women standing side by side, shoulder to shoulder, a calm, lofty, indomitable purpose lighting every face.—Julia Ward Howe.”

  Ida tucked the pamphlet into her pocket to read later and walked into the salvage company with a single purpose—to tell Henry about the gold—but leaning against the wall was a bicycle, a different bicycle, a smaller one, with an oddly angled crossbar. Henry leaped up, grinning. “Come!” He rolled the bicycle out the door. When Ida didn’t move at once he said, “You wanted to learn, yes?” He was still grinning, the kind of grin that demanded company—Ida’s cheeks were stretched wide by the time he’d led her out the door and off the main street into the alley.

  “Whose bicycle is it?”

  “My wife’s, but she’s gone off it. Now stand here and let me check the seat.” He eyed Ida’s legs, pulled a wrench from his pocket, and adjusted the seat.

  “Now remember, it’s nothing but balance.” He knelt at Ida’s knee and rotated the left pedal with his hand until the right rose up on the other side. “This is your start position: just after the right pedal starts its descent.” He rotated the pedal backward. “You remember I showed you the coaster brakes? This is how you stop. Now here, step through and arrange your skirt. No, like this.” He knelt again and settled her skirt to fall evenly on each side; Ida flushed. “Take care not to get the cloth tangled in the chain. You want to keep a light hand on the handlebars; this is where your balance comes from. You steer with your body, not the handlebars. Now put your right foot on the pedal, push off the ground with your left, find the seat, push down on the right.”

  Ida did as he said and kilted sideways so fast she would have landed in the dirt if Henry hadn’t caught her at the hips. She could feel her heart beating in her throat, not—surely not—because of those hands on her hips. She pushed off again, so fast Henry wasn’t ready, so when she wobbled this time she really did hit dirt. Henry helped her up, brushed her off. “Are you—”

  “Of course I am. I can do it.”

  “Of course you can.” He was grinning again. This time he didn’t let go but ran alongside, clutching her waist, calling instructions, a single meaningless phrase he repeated over and over: Find your balance. It meant nothing. Once, she got going fast enough to outpace Henry and keeled over again. She grew hot in the January chill.

  “Are you quite sure you’re all right?” Henry asked, but Ida only clambered back up. This time Henry managed to keep her upright by grasping tight to her waist and not letting go, but the concept of balance eluded Ida and appeared to frustrate Henry.

  “Don’t you feel it?” he kept asking. “Don’t you feel your balance?”

  Ida had to shake her head every time in the same mortification she’d felt when her brothers sailed away from the wharf on their first coastal trip without her. Oh, she’d wanted to learn to sail! She wanted to learn to ride that bicycle! But this balance. She felt nothing but Henry’s hands on her.

  Finally, knees quivering, Ida gave up.

  “Come tomorrow and we’ll try again,” Henry said, but he didn’t say it as if it were a thing he was looking forward to, and why should he? Those double lines were back between his brow and he was more red-faced and sweating than Ida, his hair now damp at the neck.

  Ida had walked—or waddled—halfway home before she realized she’d forgotten to tell Henry about the gold; the bicycle had outshone it.

  10

  Julia Ward Howe’s motto for the women of America was “Up to Date!” Her fee for a speaking engagement was two hundred dollars, and she was to appear in Boston on four different dates. Ida wrote the four dates in her almanac and pondered what might have to align in this new, skewed universe of hers to get her there at any one of those evenings. Too much.

  Ida didn’t return to the salvage company the next day, or the next, or indeed, the one after that. With the clear-eyed perspective only a new day could bring she confirmed in her own mind that Henry Barstow’s invitation hadn’t been a warm one. She needed to tell him of the gold—it was as if she could feel those nuggets festering in her closet—but she couldn’t bring herself to face Henry after the mortification of the failed lesson. And besides, she had painting to do.

  As Ida sat drinking her coffee that brick-red cupboard had begun to annoy her, standing out as a too-bold spot of color in an otherwise dark and drab kitchen; it needed some other color to balance it. Mr. Morris had taught her well about values, about composition, about light and dark. Thinking of Mr. Morris, of her beloved Museum School, Ida felt the ache as if she’d suffered an amputated limb, but she would not allow herself t
o indulge in self-pity. She’d made her choice to leave Boston, and now she must push all Boston thoughts away. She rinsed out her cup, swept away her breakfast crumbs, and attacked her chores, but once she’d finished and was satisfied all was well with her creatures she changed out of her now-fouled skirt and boots and set off.

  Over the two years Ida had lived on the Vineyard she’d visited Tilton’s Hardware a half dozen times, but old Mr. Tilton still gazed at her as if he couldn’t quite place her. He fetched the can of ochre paint she requested, and she handed over her money, offsetting her guilt at the expense by thinking of the gold in her closet. Mr. Tilton admired the color and seemed to have contemplated saying something else to her before falling silent. Just as well, thought Ida; he’d say something inane and she’d say something inane back and to what purpose?

  Once home, Ida set to work. She painted the splash board behind the tin sink and stood back, but the result only half pleased her: the ochre was a good complement to the brick-red pie cupboard but now she had two bright spots on opposite sides of the room. It wasn’t enough. She painted the wooden stool she used to hang herbs off the beams, and that helped, but it still wasn’t right. The shelves? Yes. But after Ida had completed the first shelf she stood back to assess and found she still wasn’t happy; the golden glow certainly enlivened the kitchen, but three more shelves might be too much glow. She considered returning to Tilton’s for more brick red but then thought of the money wasted on the ochre, and gold in a closet was not cash in the bank. How did gold in a closet become cash in a bank? She must ask Henry when she told him of it, which must be the next time they met.

  She’d decided this without wavering when she looked out the window through the last of the day’s light and saw Henry Barstow pedaling effortlessly over the rise on his bicycle. On his wife’s bicycle. A scarf covered half his face and a wool cap covered most of the rest of it, but there was no mistaking the high cheekbones, the dark eyes, the long legs winging out on either side like a cricket’s, his posture—leaning low over the handlebars with his elbows akimbo—contributing to the insect effect. He pulled up to Ida’s door and leaped off, not as Ida leaped off, but with both legs at once so that for a moment Ida thought he was going to do a handstand on the handlebars. He bounded up the steps and knocked.