The Weight of Water

by Anita Shreve

  Karen, during this time, attended to her sewing and her spinning, and I was just as happy not to have her in my way or in constant attendance. In the beginning of Karen’s stay, Anethe set out to please this sister of Evan’s, rolling the wool that Karen had spun, feigning enthusiasm for the skill of embroidery and offering to braid Karen’s hair, but it was not long before I noticed that even Anethe, who previously seemed to have nearly inexhaustible reserves of selflessness, began to tire of Karen’s constant querulous whine and started to see as well that pleasing Karen was in itself a futile endeavor. There are some people who simply will not be pleased. After a time, I noticed that Anethe asked me more and more often for chores of her own to perform. I had more than a few to spare, and I took pity upon her, as enforced idleness in such a claustrophobic setting will almost certainly begin to erode joy, if not one’s character altogether.

  As for me, I had not thought about joy much, and sometimes I felt my character, if not my very soul, to be in jeopardy. I had not prayed since the day that Evan spoke harshly to me in the kitchen, as I no longer had anything compelling to pray for. Not his arrival, not his love, not even his kindness or presence. For though he was in that room all the days, though we were seldom more than a few feet from each other, it was as though we were on separate continents, for he would not acknowledge me or speak to me unless it was absolutely necessary, and even at those times, I wished that he had not had need to speak to me at all, for the indifference of his tone chilled my blood and made me colder than I had been before. It was a tone utterly devoid of warmth or forgiveness, a tone that seeks to keep another being at bay, at a distance. Once, in our bed at night, John asked me why it was that Evan and I seemed not to enjoy each other’s company as much as we used to, and I answered him that there was nothing in it, only that Evan was preoccupied and blind to everyone except Anethe.

  Since the first day of March, the men had been going out to sea again, and there was something of a sense of relief in this, not only because we had all survived the gruelling weeks of the hard winter, but also because now there would be some breathing room. The men, in particular, were cheered by occupation, and I suppose I was a bit more relaxed not to have so many underfoot. My work did not seem to lighten much, however, since there were the same number of meals to prepare and increased washing now that the men would come back fouled with fish goory in the afternoons.

  On the morning of 5 March, I remember that Karen painstakingly dressed in her city clothes, a silver-gray dress with peacock-blue trim, and a bonnet to match, and that once outfitted in this manner, she sat straight-backed in a chair, her hands folded in her lap, and did not move much for hours. I believe she thought that being in city clothes prevented her from taking up a domestic occupation, even one so benign as sewing. It was extremely annoying to me to observe her that day, so stiff and grim, her mouth folded in upon itself, arrested in a state of anticipation, and I know that at least once I was unable to prevent my irritation from slipping out, and that I said to her that it was ludicrous to sit there in my kitchen with her hat on, when the men would not return for hours yet, but she did not respond to me and set her mouth all the tighter. Anethe, by contrast, seemed excessively buoyant that morning, and it was as though the two of us, Anethe and myself, were performing some sort of odd dance around a stationary object. Anethe had a gesture of running the backs of her hands upwards along the sides of her neck and face and gracefully bringing them together at the top of her head and then spreading her arms wide, actually quite a lovely, sensuous movement, and she did this several times that day, and I thought it could not just be that she was glad the men were out of the kitchen, for, in truth, I think she was ambivalent about not being with Evan, and so I asked her, more in jest really, what secret it was that was making her so happy on that day, and she stunned me by replying, “Oh, Maren, I had not thought to tell anyone. I have not even told my husband.”

  Of course, I knew right away what she meant, and it hit me with so much force that I sat down that instant as though I had been pushed.

  Anethe put her hand to her mouth. “Maren, you look shocked. I should not have said —”

  I waved my hand. “No, no…”

  “Oh, Maren, are you not pleased?”

  “How can you be sure?” I asked.

  “I am late two months. January and February.”

  “Perhaps it is the cold,” I said. It was an absurd thing to say. I could not collect my thoughts and felt dizzy.

  “Do you think I should tell him tonight? Oh, Maren, I am amazed at myself that I have kept it from him all this time. Indeed, it is surprising that he himself did not notice, although I think that men —”

  “No, do not tell him,” I said. “It is too soon. It is bad luck to speak of this so early on. There are so many women who lose their babies before three months. No, no, I am quite sure. We will keep this to ourselves for now.” And then I collected myself a bit. “But, my dear, I am happy for you. Our little family will grow bigger now, as it should do.”

  And then Karen said from the table, “Where will you keep it?” and Anethe, I think somewhat taken aback by the use of the word it rather than the child, composed herself and looked steadily at her sister-in-law. “I will keep our baby with myself and Evan in our bedroom,” she said.

  And Karen did not say anything more at that time.

  “It is why you have been looking pale,” I said, suddenly comprehending the truth of what Anethe was saying. As I looked at her, I had no doubt now that she was pregnant.

  “I have felt a bit faint from time to time,” she said, “and sometimes there is a bad taste in the back of my mouth, a metallic taste, as if I had sucked on a nail.”

  “I cannot say,” I said, standing up and spreading my hands along my apron skirt. “I have never had the experience.”

  And Anethe, silenced by the implications of that statement, picked up the broom by the table and began to sweep the floor.

  The coroner missed this fact about Anethe in his examination of her body, and I did not like to tell Evan, as I thought it would make his agony all the more unendurable.

  About two o’clock of that afternoon, I heard a loud hallooing from the water and looked through the window and saw Emil Ingerbretson waving to me from his schooner just off the cove, and so I ran outside quickly, thinking that perhaps there had been an accident, and I managed to make out, though the wind kept carrying off the words, that John had decided to go straight in to Portsmouth, as he could not beat against the wind. When I had got the message, I waved back to Emil, and he went off in his boat. Once inside, I told the other two women, and Anethe looked immediately disappointed, and I saw that she had meant to tell Evan that day of her news, despite my admonition not to. Karen was quite vexed, and said so, and asked now what would she do all dressed up with her city clothes on, and I replied that I had been asking myself that question all morning. She sighed dramatically, and went to a chair against the wall in the kitchen and lay back upon it.

  “They will be back tonight,” I said to Anethe. “Let’s have a portion of the stew now, as I am hungry, and you must eat regular meals, and we will save the larger share for the men when they return. I have packed them no food, so unless they feed themselves in Portsmouth, they will be starved when they return.”

  I asked Karen if she would take some dinner with us, and she then asked me how she would eat a stew with no teeth, and I replied, with some exasperation, as we had had this exchange nearly every day since she had had her teeth removed, that she could sip the broth and gum the bread, and she said in a tired voice that she would eat later and turned her head to the side. I looked up to see that Anethe was gazing at me with a not unkind expression, and I trust that she was nearly as weary of my sister’s complaints as I was.

  We ate our meal, and I found some rubber boots in the entry-way and put them on and went to the well and saw that the water had frozen over and so I went into the hen house to look for the axe, and found it lyin
g by a barrel, and brought it to the well and heaved it up with all my strength and broke the ice with one great crack. I had been used to this chore, since the water often froze over on that island, even when the temperature of the air was not at freezing level, and this was due to the wind. I fetched up three buckets of water and took them one by one into the house and poured them into pans, and when I was done I brought the axe up to the house and laid it by the front door, so that in the morning, I would not have to go to the hen house to get it.

  Dusk came early, as it was still not the equinox, and when it was thoroughly dark, and I noticed, as one will notice not the continuous sound of voices in the room but rather the cessation of those voices, that the wind had quieted, I turned to Anethe and said, “So that is that. The men will not be back this night.”

  She had a puzzled look on her face. “How can you be sure?” she asked.

  “The wind has died,” I said. “Unless they are right at the entrance to the harbor, their sails will not fill, and if they have not yet left Portsmouth, John will not go out at all.”

  “But we have never been alone at night before,” Anethe said.

  “Let us wait another half hour before we are sure,” I said.

  The moon was in its ascendancy, which had a lovely effect on the harbor and on the snow, outlining in a beautifully stark manner the Haley House and the Mid-Ocean Hotel, both vacant at that time. I went about the lounge lighting candles and the oil lamp. When a half hour had elapsed, I said to Anethe, “What harm can possibly come to us on this island? Who on these neighboring islands would want to hurt us? And anyway, it is not so bad that the men have not come. Without them, our chores will be lighter.”

  Anethe went to the window to listen for the sound of oars. Karen got up from her chair and walked to the stove and began to spoon broth and soft potatoes into a bowl. I took off my kerchief and stretched my arms.

  Anethe wondered aloud where the men would stop to eat. Karen said she thought it likely they would go to a hotel and have a night for themselves. I disagreed and said I thought they would go to Ira Thaxter’s on Broad Street, for they would have to beg a meal from a friend, until they sold the catch, the proceeds of which were to have gone for provisions. Karen pointed out to me that Ringe hadn’t been fed yet, and I rose from the table and put some stew into his dish. All in all, I was quite amazed that Karen had not muttered something about the men having failed to take her into Portsmouth, but I imagine that even Karen could tire of her own complaints.

  While Anethe washed the pots and dishes, nearly scalding her hand from the kettle water, Karen and I struggled with a mattress that we dragged downstairs to lay in the kitchen for her. Anethe asked if she could sleep in my bed to keep from being cold and lonely without Evan that night, and though I was slightly discomfited by the thought of a woman in my bed, and Anethe at that, I did reason that her body would provide some warmth, as John’s did, and besides, I did not like to refuse such a personal request. After stoking up the fire for warmth, I believe that the three of us then took off our outer garments and put on our nightdresses, even Karen, who had thought to stay in her city clothes so that she would not have to dress again in the morning, but in the end was persuaded to remove them so as not to muss them unduly. And then, just as I was about to extinguish the lights, Karen took out from the cupboard bread and milk and soft cheese, and said that she was still hungry, and I will not weary the reader with the silly quarrel that ensued, although I had reason to be annoyed with her as we had just cleaned up the kitchen, and finally I said to Karen that if she would eat at this time, she could tidy up after herself and would she please extinguish the light.

  Sometimes it is as though I have been transported in my entirety back to that night, for I can feel, as if I were again lying in that bed, the soft forgiveness of the feather mattress and the heavy weight of the many quilts under which Anethe and I lay. It was always startling, as the room grew colder, to experience the contrast in temperatures between one’s face, which was exposed to the frigid air, and one’s body, which was encased in goose down. We had both been still for some time, and I had seen, through the slit underneath the bedroom door, that the light had been put out, which meant that Karen had finally gone to bed. I was lying flat on my back with my arms at my sides, looking up at the ceiling, which I could make out only dimly in the moonlight. Anethe lay facing me, curled into a comma, holding the covers close up to her chin. I had worn a nightcap, but Anethe had not, and I suppose this was because she had a natural cap in the abundance of her hair. I had thought she was asleep, but I turned my head quickly toward her and back again and saw that she was staring at me, and I felt a sudden stiffening all through me, a response no doubt to the awkwardness of lying in my bed with a woman, and this woman my brother’s wife.

  “Maren,” she whispered, “are you still awake?”

  She knew that I was. I whispered, “Yes.”

  “I feel restless and cannot sleep,” she said, “although all day I have felt as though I would sleep on my feet.”

  “You are not yourself,” I said.

  “I suppose.” She shifted in the bed, bringing her face a little closer to my own.

  “Do you think the men are all right? You don’t think anything could have happened to them?”

  I had thought once or twice, briefly, not liking to linger on the thought, that perhaps John and Evan had met with an accident on the way to Portsmouth, although that seemed unlikely to me, and, in any event, hours had passed since Emil had come with the message, and if some ill had befallen the men, I thought that we would have heard already.

  “I believe they are safe in Portsmouth. Perhaps in a tavern even as we speak,” I said. “Not minding at all their fate.”

  “Oh,” she said quickly, “I think my Evan would mind. He would not like to sleep without me.”

  My Evan.

  She reached out a hand from the covers and began to stroke my cheek with her fingers. “Oh, Maren,” she said, “you are so watchful over us all.”

  I did not know what she meant by that. My breath was suddenly tight in my chest from the touch of her fingers. I wanted to throw her hand off and turn my back to her, but I was rigid with embarrassment. I was glad that it was dark, for I knew that I must be highly colored in my face. To be truthful, her touch was tender, as a mother might stroke a child, but I could not appreciate this kindness just then. Anethe began to smooth my forehead, to run her fingers through the hair just underneath my cap.

  “Anethe,” I whispered, meaning to tell her to stop.

  She moved her body closer, and wrapped her hands around my arm, laying her forehead on my shoulder.

  “Do you and John?” she asked, in a sort of muffled voice. “Is it the same?”

  “Is what the same?” I asked.

  “Do you not miss him at this moment? All the attentions?”

  “The attentions,” I repeated.

  She looked up at me. “Sometimes it is so hard for me to sit in the kitchen until it is proper to go up to bed. Do you know?” and she moved herself still closer to me so that her length was all against my own. “Oooh,” she said. “Your feet are freezing. Here, let me warm them,” and she began, with the smooth sole of her foot, to massage the top of my own. “Do you know,” she said again, “I have never told anyone this, and I hope you will not be shocked, but Evan and I were lovers before we were married. Do you think that was very wrong? Were you and John?”

  I did not know what to say to her or which question to answer first, as I was distracted by the movement of her foot, which had begun to travel up and down the shin of my right leg.

  “I no longer know what is right or wrong anymore,” I said.

  Her body was a great deal warmer than my own, and this warmth was not unpleasant, though I remained stiff with discomfort, as I had never been physically close with anyone except my brother Evan and my husband. I had certainly never been physically close with a female, and the sensation was an odd one. But, a
s will happen with a child who is in need of comfort and who gradually relaxes his limbs in the continuous embrace of the mother, I began to be calmed by Anethe, and to experience this peace as pleasurable, and, briefly to allow myself to breathe a bit more regularly. I cannot explain this to the reader. It is, I think, a decision the body makes before the heart or the head, the sort of decision I had known with John, when, without any mental participation, my body had seemed to respond in the proper ways to his advances. In truth, as Anethe laid her head on my chest and began to stroke the skin of my throat, I felt myself wanting to turn ever so slightly toward my brother’s wife and to put my arm around her, and perhaps, in this way, return something of the affection and tenderness she was showing to me.

  “Do you do it every night?” she asked, and I heard then a kind of schoolgirlish embarrassment in her own voice.

  “Yes,” I whispered, and I was shocked at my own admission. I wanted to add that it was not my doing, not my doing at all, but she giggled then, now very much like a girl, and said, to my surprise, “Turn over.”

  I hesitated, but she gently pushed my shoulder, and persisted with this urging, so that finally I did as I was told, putting my back to her, and not understanding what this was for. She lifted herself up onto her elbow and said, close to my ear, “Take up your nightgown.”

  I could not move.

  “I want to rub your back,” she explained, “and I cannot do it properly through the cloth.” She pushed the covers down and began slightly to tug at the skirt of my nightgown with her hand, and I, though somewhat fearful of the consequences, began to wrestle with the gown and to pull the hem up to my shoulders. I held the bunched cloth to my bosom as I had done once at the doctor’s office in Portsmouth when I had had the pleurisy. But shortly I felt the warmth of being attended to, and I surrendered myself to this attention.