Painting the Light

by Sally Cabot Gunning

  Ida stopped walking and turned so fast Ezra was forced to back up. He took what must have been his first good look at Ida’s face. “All right, you’re angry. Yes. Fair enough. I see that. I do. But I’m trying to explain to you. I told you, it wasn’t like we planned it. We’d run into some trouble with the company—”

  “Which company, Pease and Barstow Salvage or the Electrolytic Marine Salts Company?”

  Yes, that stopped him. Briefly. “How’d you find out about that?”

  Ida said nothing.

  “All right, Ida, that makes it easier. Yes, it was Marine Salts. Someone was after us; we thought why not disappear for a while, try someplace new? I was going to send for you. I was going to send you money and a ticket. To Paris. You always wanted to go to Paris, right?”

  Ida whirled again and continued up the gully.

  Ezra kept going. “Oh, Ida, come on. I know, I know, you’re not too happy with me right this minute, but I’ve got lots of money now. It’ll be a whole different life. That horse and carriage you’ve always wanted, jewelry like you’ve never seen, jewelry to put that locket of yours to shame. Your own studio. In Paris!”

  Ida stopped again and turned. “Where’s Mose?”

  “Oh, nice, Ida. The first civil thing you say to me. Where’s Mose.”

  Ida waited.

  “Mose went to Australia. He wanted to send back some of the investors’ money; I said good luck to you, see you later, just don’t get caught before I get to Paris.”

  “This would be the money you scammed from your investors in the gold from sea water scheme?”

  Ezra peered harder at Ida, eyes narrowed. “All right. Go ahead. Make your point. You always have to make your point, don’t you, Ida? But did you hear what I said? Paris. Or did you miss that part? The part where your dreams come true and I take you to Paris?”

  Ida could only stare back. It was beyond credible that even Ezra could admit to such a lie—no, not a lie, an entire construction of deception in which Ida had gone through months and months believing herself a widow—and expect Ida could then listen and nod and climb on the boat beside him for Paris. But then again, Ezra had managed to talk Ida into a sheep farm on Martha’s Vineyard; why shouldn’t he believe he could talk her into Paris? But back then she’d been buried in that fog of grief. Now she wasn’t.

  “How did you work it?” Ida asked. “How did you get them to believe you were mining gold out of sea water?”

  Ezra hesitated. He studied Ida some more, seemed to see nothing dangerous in her, and began talking. Or maybe it was even simpler than that: Ezra just loved a good brag. Again, Ida was aware of time passing, of the sun dropping, of many, many words flowing from Ezra’s mouth, but only some of them landed in her brain. She snagged only enough from the air to confirm it was much as she’d speculated, with a few twists thrown in: a lot of foolish bells and whistles with zinc and electricity and accumulators designed to be unfathomable to all parties; the investors brought to a remote dock somewhere in Rhode Island—but not Grace’s Point—to watch a demonstration; Mose in his dive suit already under the dock salting the accumulators with the gold nuggets.

  “Of course it’s the same old bunch of nuggets every time.” Ezra looked at Ida proudly—proudly—but apparently he didn’t see the expected admiration in Ida’s eyes. His tone grew defensive, petulant. “I’ll tell you right now, it took some clever footwork, and a lot of time and aggravation. But it was worth it in the end.”

  “Which end is that, Ezra? The one where you exile yourself to a patch of useless ground on Block Island?”

  “The one where I sit in Paris counting it! Or maybe I didn’t say. We took $750,000 off those fools.”

  Which was, of course, their fault. Ida wished she could look at Ezra now and wonder at how he’d changed, at the moral depths to which he’d fallen, but all she saw as she looked was the same old Ezra who’d been there all along. And the same old fool Ida.

  Ezra shifted his feet, impatient now. “So what’s it going to be, Ida? I’ve got to stick it out here for a while; I’ve got some other money coming in and I can’t leave the country till I get it, but in the meantime I’ve got to keep out of the way of that detective. Back in that shack, though—in there is a ticket for the Umbria, New York to Liverpool. Then on to Cherbourg and the train from Cherbourg to Paris. It’s real, Ida. Paris is real. And as soon as I find a nice place for us—a place with a studio—I’ll send you your ticket.”

  And because Ida still stood there, no longer trying to figure out who Ezra was so much as who he thought Ida was—Ezra kept talking. She’d have to get her own train to New York—he’d hired a lobsterman who was going to get him there for an ungodly sum—but just wait till Ida saw that ocean liner. Ezra had seen the pictures. Mahogany furniture. Velvet curtains. Refrigeration! Four decks to stroll around, even a music room, separate dining for first-class passengers only. And of course she’d be going first class all the way. And just wait till she had her first champagne breakfast! Just wait till she saw Paris.

  At length it seemed to occur to Ezra that Ida wasn’t saying the things that—again unbelievably—he’d expected her to say. He took a step closer, lifted a hand, saw her face, dropped it. “All right, Ida. I know it’s strange seeing me here—”

  “I thought you were dead. I got your letter and thought you were dead. So clever, dating it the day the Portland sailed—I never questioned the delayed delivery because of the storm. And Mose, his letter to Henry, what he went through. The both of us.”

  “Oh, don’t try that on, Ida. You probably did a dance when you got that letter. Things weren’t that rosy with us. Admit it.”

  “I went to the Lifesaving Station in Wellfleet, the place where they’d piled up the unclaimed bodies. I walked around the bodies looking for yours. Can you imagine what that was like, Ezra?”

  There, finally, Ezra blinked. “All right. I’m sorry, Ida. I am. But what do you want from me? How many times do I have to say it? I’m going to make it up to you, I promise. All of it. Things will be different now. We’ll start off right this time because we’ll have money. No more throwing it in my face that I don’t have a horse or a carriage or a whole crew of farmhands or the cash to drop on a Boston hotel once a week. Now I can buy you a castle if you want! A castle on the Seine. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, a castle on the Seine? And your own studio in Paris. Come along, now. Paris!”

  It was too ludicrous. Too monstrous. And there the ludicrous and the monstrous merged and Ida started to laugh. Once she started to laugh she had some trouble stopping, so it was a second or two before she noticed that Ezra’s face had darkened. Warped. Twisted.

  “In case you have another thought in mind, in case you’re thinking to hop back home and talk things over with the friendly constable, there are things you did with your money, or so it will appear, that put you in this deep as me. I go down, you go down, Ida, and don’t you think different for a minute. So if you don’t play fair—”

  Fair. Oh, that Ezra could look her in the eye and say that word! But Ida could look Ezra in the eye too, and finally, finally, she could see all the things she’d missed when they’d married. She saw that Ezra’s eyes never looked out on her but always back on himself, that Ezra was all that mattered to Ezra, and it would always be all that mattered. And seeing this, Ida understood for the first time that there was actually something to fear here, that a man who would do anything to make himself come out right was not a man she should feel safe around. Ida was alone on a deserted point of land within fifty feet of a deadly sea that could carry her off long before any sleepy hack driver might decide to come looking.

  The adrenaline that surged through Ida cleared her brain, drove out any remnants of the surreal laughter that had overcome her, brought into sharp, clear focus that above all she needed to get away from Ezra. And because she knew Ezra now, she knew how to do it; not run—never run—let him think just what he’d assumed in his arrogance that she would certainly think: P
aris. She would forgive all, forget all, overlook all for Paris. Knowing that much of Ezra’s mind, Ida still had to move with care here—an immediate capitulation might leave him doubting it later on. Better she demand an accounting and then let Ezra glimpse in her what he no doubt believed she owned in surplus already: greed.

  But first she could let him see nothing of her fear. She stepped close and caught Ezra by the coat sleeves; shook him like an angry mother might shake her child. “I thought you were dead, Ezra. Do you understand? I need you to admit it. You let me think you were dead. Drowned. After what happened to my father and brothers and mother, you let me think you’d drowned.”

  “All right. Yes. I know—”

  “You do not know. I went to Wellfleet. I walked up and down row after row of sodden, bloated, ghastly corpses. I thought one might be you, or another, or another; I had to lean down and look hard, look close, unsure of my own eyes, but none of them were you. I went home and waited for someone else to find you, for the telegraph to come—” Ida’s anger had put a tremor in her voice but it didn’t matter; Ezra would only read it as grief.

  “I told you, Ida. I didn’t plan to do it. And look now. I’m here. I’m back. You just have to think of it as a bad dream. Put it out of your mind. Start thinking of the good dream. Us together in Paris.”

  “You expect me to adjust from the one to the other like that?”

  “No, no, I guess . . . well no, I guess I don’t. But you’ve got time; my ticket’s for the middle of August.” Did he sense a softening in her? She hoped so. He smiled, tentatively, yes, but even so. “Me, I’m already used to the idea because I’ve been picturing us together in Paris all along.”

  Oh, Ida doubted that. She doubted there had been any plan for a second ticket at all. She believed that the sight of her had triggered an old lust that had gotten him thinking, Why not? Why not this known quantity I’ve already managed to convince of so much versus starting at the beginning with someone new who would likely never be as naive as this one? Or maybe his thinking only took him as far as his own ticket, his own escape. Or maybe it only took him as far as that bluff.

  Ida took a good, deep breath. Then another. The breaths were real, and Ezra, watching her chest rise and fall, seemed to accept that she was in the middle of an honest struggle, if not the one Ida actually battled.

  “My own studio, you said.”

  There. The look on Ezra’s face. The triumph. He allowed it to blossom only briefly and then quelled it to begin his list again: studio, castle, clothes, jewels, horses, and carriages—plural this time. In turn Ida played her part, listening intently when he spoke of them touring Europe, when he offered to visit those museums she’d always talked of; she studied him and looked away and studied him in turns as if she were coming around one point at a time, as if the sum total of future assets might actually outweigh the sum total of Ezra’s past deficits. And when she’d done it, when the light of victory filled Ezra’s eyes, Ida bent down to pick up her pack. “I have a driver waiting. You’ll send me that ticket?”

  “I’ll send it. I promise,” but as Ida turned, he called after her. “Wait! You never said how you found me here.”

  Now Ida laughed. “I wasn’t looking for you, Ezra. You were dead, remember? I found the deed to this bit of land and came here hoping I could sell it. Or did you also forget you left me with nothing? That Ruth owns the farm? That I have no property? No money?”

  There Ida saw the first look of chagrin and pounced on it; it wouldn’t take long for Ezra to exonerate Ezra. “And needless to say, I don’t have money for any train to New York.”

  Ezra fished in his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. He peeled off several and handed them to Ida as if he were St. Nicholas himself. “To show my good faith. And to remind you that you’ve traded a run-down sheep farm for a studio in Paris.”

  Ida shook her head, smiling as she did it, again a genuine smile that Ezra would be sure to misinterpret. The last look Ida had of him, he stood shading his eyes as if to see her better, or as if to make note of her direction in order to follow her and push her over the bluff a little farther along the track.

  28

  Either Lem had second sight or he’d met every boat until Ida walked off one of them; there he was at the dock with the wagon. He peered at her harder than she liked, but no wonder—she was so knotted up that her knees didn’t bend and her jaw didn’t work. He handed her into the wagon and waited patiently through her yes and no answers to his questions: Yes, she found the property; no, she hadn’t yet made arrangements for sale; yes, she was tired from the traveling. Ida knew she should tell Lem about Ezra, but she couldn’t, not yet; she needed to calm herself, to think it through. So far she’d managed to think through one thought only: the need to get as far away from Ezra as possible. So Ida asked Lem about the farm and that carried them to the house.

  Lem helped her down from the wagon and followed her in with her bag. He dropped it on the table and looked at her one more time. “You all right, Ida?”

  “Yes. Tired. As you said. Thank you for minding the farm. Thank you for meeting me.”

  Lem brushed her thanks away. “Figured you’d either be on that boat or the next one.” He turned for the door, turned back. “You had a visitor while you were gone.”

  Ezra. That was Ida’s first irrational thought. Her second more rational one was Hale. But once Lem got through looking at her too hard again he said, “That Barstow.”

  Ida sat down in the kitchen chair.

  “He seemed pretty disappointed at missing you. He said if I saw you to tell you he’s back, which I figured was just about the worst thing I could do, but I’m doing it anyway.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You say that today. I could say you won’t be thanking me later on, but why trouble myself? You’ll do what you want to do, whatever that is. If you even know what that is.”

  Oh, Ida knew what that was. She wanted to see Henry.

  Ida’s knees unlocked with the first full rotation of the pedals. Her jaw loosened. She coasted down the hill, taking her usual joy in that flying freedom that even Ezra couldn’t diminish. She breezed onto Main Street and thought how like Block Island it was, the summer folk beginning to pour off the steamer in the usual conglomeration of trunks, hats, parasols, and gay, proprietary voices. These were people with no cares, Ida thought; these were people without phantom husbands or disappointing lamb counts or recalcitrant paintbrushes. She wove her way through them, not quite believing she’d find Henry in town until she saw his bicycle leaning beside the office door. Ida propped her bicycle beside it, pushed open the door, and was crushed into his arms.

  “Oh, Ida.” He drew back, smoothed away her hair to look harder at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be back.”

  Henry laughed. “Neither was I. I sent a letter you probably won’t get till tomorrow—”

  “I mean ever.”

  “What? Why? I told you there were complications—”

  “She came and took your things.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Your wife.”

  “My wife? Here?” Henry blinked. “Well, of course. I see now. That explains things.”

  Henry tried to pull Ida close again but this time she was the one who held him away.

  “Henry. Listen to me. Ezra’s alive.” She began to tell her tale, at first stuttering, then lashing the air with her words, but when she’d reached the part about opening her eyes to see Ezra standing over her, she could feel the trembling begin again; she crossed behind the desk and dropped into the chair. “To open my eyes and to see him, the shock of it—”

  But something was wrong. The room. The air. She twisted around and saw Henry pacing back and forth behind her, silent. Very well, he would be experiencing his own shock, but Ida needed something more from him than silence. She stood to intercept his track, and at first his eyes were full of all that she needed to see in them: an acknowledgment of
her anguish, followed by his own anguish, and last, the full weight of the shock of what Ida was telling him.

  Only somehow it didn’t look like such a great weight.

  “Henry?”

  Henry looked at her. Looked away. He began to pace again.

  Ida reached out and caught his arm. “Why doesn’t this shock you the way it shocked me?”

  “It does. Of course it does. It’s only—”

  “Only what?”

  Again Henry looked away.

  Ida pulled at his arm, drew him around again. And saw.

  “You knew.”

  “No. Not knew. Not with complete certainty.”

  “You knew.”

  “I suspected, Ida. A whiff of suspicion only.”

  “How? When?”

  Henry sat on the corner of the desk, but when Ida didn’t reclaim the chair he stood again. “I found a large withdrawal from Ezra’s Boston account after the Portland went down. At first I attributed it to an accounting error, a delayed transmission due to the storm, much as I attributed Mose’s delayed letter to the storm. But when I saw your letter from Ezra, a letter so similarly worded, so exactly timed—”

  “When you saw my letter? Last winter?”

  “I didn’t know for a fact. It was a suspicion only. I only grew surer when I discovered some evidence that he might be in trouble, that there were reasons he might have wanted to disappear with no—”

  “You grew surer. And still you said nothing to me.”

  “Ida, please. It was piece by piece. Your letter. A pamphlet in the office file about mining gold from sea water. Those zinc-lined kettles. Then you showing me the gold, and the discovery of an essentially empty office in Boston when it should have been in full operation after such a sudden death—”

  When Ida showed him the gold in Boston. In Boston. “And the fact that I might not be a widow after all didn’t strike you as information of interest to me? It didn’t occur to you that I might have some thoughts on what we should do about this?”