Stories

By Leonard C. Meeker

There is no available information at this time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 9, 2007
• ISBN: 9781469123202

Book preview

STORIES

LEONARD C. MEEKER

Copyright © 2007 by Leonard C. Meeker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

38051

CONTENTS

I

SUNDAY MORNING

II

THE OCEAN BEACH

III

THE FISH POUND

IV

ROWING

V

SAILING ON THE BAY

VI

SATURDAY’S RACE

VII

UNCLE FRED

VIII

THE FOURTH OF JULY

IX

THE SOUTH WIND

X

CHRISTENING THE BONAVENTURE III

XI

LETTERS FROM PHILADELPHIA

XII

AN UNTOWARD INCIDENT

XIII

THE NORTHEASTER

XIV

A CRUISE TO ATLANTIC CITY

XV

GROWING ATTACHMENTS

XVI

TIPPING OVER ON THE BAY

XVII

A FATAL OCCURRENCE

XVIII

UNEXPECTED ARRIVALS

XIX

SEARCHING THE HORIZONS

XX

A BETRAYAL?

XXI

LABOR DAY APPROACHES

XXII

THE LABOR DAY RACES

XXIII

EVENING

XXIV

DECISIONS

I

THE APARTMENT

II

INTERVIEWS

III

VICTORIA’S OTHER LIFE

IV

FRANCO’S DATES

V

QUESTIONS ABOUT THE FUTURE

VI

JASON AT GOLD’S GYM

VII

PAINTING, THE BEACH, AND THE ART GALLERY

VIII

THE WHISTLE BLOWER

IX

HANNAH COMES TO DINNER

X

DR. WATSON VISITS CALIFORNIA

XI

SUMMER’S END APPROACHES

XII

VICTORIA AND FRANCO

XIII

PAULA AND JASON

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

1

September

2

High-School Classes

3

Hallowe’en

4

Winter Comes

5

A Formal proceeding

6

Aftermath

7

Spring Thaw

8

Greening at Ashmont

9

Commencement

LONG BAY SUMMER

Leonard C. Meeker

Copyright © 5 June 1995

Library of Congress Control Number: TXu 694-106

I

SUNDAY MORNING

Lydia Horrocks felt a still perceptible summer morning breeze drifting in the window from the west, having come the half mile across Long Bay and bringing the scents of pine trees and of earth warmed by the ten o’clock sun already well up in the sky. These scents reminded her of the related but somewhat different old cedar smell she encountered on opening the house in mid-June when she pushed up windows to let the old seasons out and bring summer in. She heard Max upstairs tramping from chest of drawers to closet and back, probably ferreting out tennis shirt, slacks, socks, and sneakers. Lydia smiled at the thought of his forgetfulness and inability to find things when he wanted them. Max had said he was going to play at the Yacht Club this morning. He thinks it’s suitable for me to go to church, to represent the family, Lydia reflected. And, of course, the boys should have the experience of at least being exposed to some religion. He had had enough in his time, and now could take in other activities on the short week-end away from the office.

Lydia savored the quiet luxury of still sitting at the breakfast table when the others had finished and gone. The cantaloupe had been just at the right stage of ripeness and full of taste, unlike some disappointing melons she could recall. The last piece of toast, buttered, and spread with the light clover honey sent by her mother from New York, brought to her warm and comfortable memory of breakfasts with Grandfather long ago in the sun-brightened dining room of his brown-stone house on East 69th Street. But it is really time to finish and clear away these dishes, Lydia thought, and she proceeded now more quickly and efficiently to eat the rest of her toast. I must talk with Julia and Augusta about dinner. It being Sunday, these two had kept their third-floor room until after ten o’clock and were just now coming into the kitchen.

Good morning, Augusta, good morning, Julia.

Good mornin’, Miz Horrocks, they returned.

We will have those chickens today which Mr. Horrocks got from the farm in Spencerville yesterday afternoon. Thyme for the stuffing, but not sage as my husband does not like sage. Then your wonderful light mashed potatoes, and green beans. There haven’t been any good salad makings, so we’ll go straight to the ice cream, which you can turn in the freezer later this morning. Lydia realized this was extra work for the two maids. On the other hand there was something special about ice cream turned by hand, and of course without really cold refrigeration here at the shore it was the only way to have ice cream.

Lydia heard the front screen door bang after two running boys jumped through the door-way and raced up the front stairs.

Where have you two been? Lydia called up to them.

Oh, we were over at the Bay looking for crabs.

Did you get any, Parry?

No, we didn’t take the net this time, answered Johnny.

You have just time to get dressed and get yourselves to church to ring the bell. You know, Mr. Sims counts on you to be there by twenty of, so that everyone can hear the bell and be reminded in time.

Lydia went upstairs herself and along the short hall to the southwest bed room that she and Max shared. He had found and gathered his tennis things and was putting them on.

Who will you be playing with?

Edgar Jones today.

Now about dinner. When will you be back?

I’ll be back from the Club right after 12, then change and go to Edgar’s for the Sunday celebration. How about coming today, after church?

"You know, Max, I don’t care much for those gatherings. They are so noisy, especially after you men have taken in a few drinks. Also, while I never favored Prohibition, it is the law and I don’t like the idea of breaking it. It isn’t a goodexample for the boys if they learn, one way or another, what you’re doing at Edgar’s on Sundays. And just think if there were ever a raid and you were all arrested and taken off to jail in Toms River?"

The boys probably don’t even think about Prohibition. As to a raid, that won’t happen. The Sheriff is much too civilized and understanding.

I still don’t like it. I’ll be here, and hoping we can have dinner at 1:30. Do try to be back on time. You know that Parry and Johnny will be hungry, and we shouldn’t keep them waiting too long. After all, 1:30 is late enough.

I’ll try.

Good luck for your game.

Max trailed off, went down the stairs, and left the house. Now alone, Lydia turned to look at the open south window of the bed room, from which the beginning of a different air was gently pushing the white gauze curtain into the room. It was south wind which succeeded a barely perceptible interval of flat calm when the west breeze gave out. For half the summer or more this south wind started coming off the ocean, at an angle, toward 10:30 each morning. At first it was mild, just wafting a little coolness and an aroma of the sea. The sun, warming the land, created an upward draft over Long Bay Island, which in physical actuality was more a peninsula on which the Borough of Illomantic lay; some claim might be made to Island because of a narrow canal that some years ago had been cut through from what had been still fresh water, at the head of the Bay, to the ocean to allow fishing boats easier access to the sea; otherwise it would have been the 25-mile trip south on the Bay to the Inlet. The upward draft from the land in turn drew in air from the ocean. The draft increased in strength with the heat of the day, and the south wind soon strengthened to a fresh breeze which was fine for sailing and kept its strength until near sun-down. Salt isn’t a smell, Lydia thought, and yet I associate that smell of the south wind with salt water when the breeze first comes off the ocean. Maybe the myriad life forms in the sea are what make the smell. After a few minutes her olfactory sense was accustomed to it, and the smell no longer registered for her. It was cooler than the west breeze, refreshing, and just a little damp.

She called to Parry and Johnny to see if they had gotten dressed and were ready. But they had already gone. They would be at the church by 10:40 all right. Looking in the closet, she settled on a flowered light summer dress that would do for today. Soon she heard the somewhat flat clanging of the church bell’s single tone. Was it an F? The sound repeated at fairly rapid though sometimes irregular intervals. Parry and Johnny were evidently pulling on the rope with 13-year-oldenergy and 11-year-old enthusiasm. They like doing it, Lydia thought. Perhaps it even relieves a little of their impatience and frustration at having to go to church. Boys have such a lot of physical energy and need to use it up.

Lydia looked in the mirror, was satisfied enough, and went down-stairs. Out she went from the front door, across the wide covered porch, and then down the wide flight of numerous gray-painted wooden steps leading to the side-walk. Carried to her through the air were the notes of a meadow lark’s call—high, bright, and then falling a little on the scale with a suggestion of incompleteness and longing. But still cheerful and happy and marking that summer was at its height and had still a long time to run before the first signs of a change in season. Lydia walked straight down Bay Avenue, past the tennis courts and Yacht Club on the right and the store on the left where Lorimer Avenue crossed east-west from Bay to ocean, and on to St. Aidan’s-by-the-Sea, which was situated about mid-distance in the quarter-mile-wide peninsula. The church was shingled like all the houses of Illomantic. Sun, rain, wind, and salt had weathered all the shingles of the Borough to a medium gray. Lydia entered the small building, looked for a minute to see where she would sit, and chose a pew two thirds of the way to the back where she joined Henrietta Jones.

Good morning, Lydia. Here we are while our husbands are amusing themselves at tennis!

Yes, the usual pattern.

The bell-ringing stopped because it was now eleven. With it conversation in the church dropped away as the church-goers awaited the beginning of the service. In a moment Henry Sims entered from the right front, turned left, and stood before his congregation which fairly but not completely filled the church. He was wearing his accustomed simple white vestment adorned only by an olive-green stole descending from both shoulders. He never wanted to be called Father by anyone, or Doctor Sims, although he had a degree in divinity.

The Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before him … Lord, open Thou our lips. The congregation: And our mouth shall show forth Thy praise. O come, let us sing unto the Lord; let us make a joyful noise … Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving … For the Lord is a great God, and a King above all gods … The sea is his, and he made it, and his hands formed the dry land … and we are the people of his pasture, and the sheep of his hand …

As the service began thus, Lydia thought, I like this voice, it makes me comfortable and feel at home. I guess I know why. He sounds like Grandfather.

Sims had in fact been born in New York, grew up there, and never left it before he went off to Yale at 17. His churches had been in southeastern Pennsylvania; he was now rector of Grace Church in Dutchtown, a Philadelphia suburb. But he had never acquired the lazy-seeming accent that prevailed in a band of territory stretching from southern New Jersey all the way to Baltimore and even a little beyond, an accent which among its features rendered the present participle as runneen and saileen. Such speech did not seem to go with Quakers, who were after all serious and often intellectual people. But there it was. It was something Lydia had had to swallow and live down when she accepted Max in marriage.

Yes, I like Henry’s voice. Maybe that’s why I like Henry altogether. But I’m not alone in liking him, and admiring him too. Everyone thinks his sermons sensible. He must also be a wise counselor in helping people who are troubled. His services in this church are quiet and reassuring. I guess I’d as soon be here as anywhere on a Sunday morning.

Sims went on with the service. He asked the congregation to sing O God our help in ages past, words of Isaac Watts (1674-1748), music, St. Anne, by William Croft (1678-1727). The hymn was familiar, and the singing of it went fairly. He read the Lessons from the Old Testament and the New and then announced the hymn Come down, o love divine, words of Bianco da Siena (d. 1434) and music of Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958). Sims knew this would not be easy for his parishioners. It was not a hymn they had grown up with. They could make out the words well enough. But the tune line, and the chords if anyone should attempt the part-singing, sounded too 20th-century and just plain dissonant. The music did not come easily to them. This was evident in the spotty and uncertain singing. People did not object, though, to Mr. Sims calling once in a service for a hymn like that. They respected his judgment, and concluded, correctly, that he wanted some modernity in the Church. Not only that, Henry had a feeling about this music. Yes, there were dissonances in it. They mirrored discords in life. But the composer had something more to say which he wanted his hearers to understand: if you try, you can bring concord out of what at first seems disorder; this is what I have attempted in this music. This is what Henry heard. For him it was the triumph of reason and generous spirit in a turbulent sea.

Lydia thought of her mother living in New York. Why would she not come in the summer for just a brief visit? The trip by train from Pennsylvania Station to the junction just two miles north of Illomantic was a simple and easy one. Or she could come by car with Fred on one of his week-end trips, although that would make the house a little crowded upstairs, and she knew her mother wanted plenty of space for everyone. Her mother said the dampness was bad for her arthritis. But not coming in the summer, and rarely journeying to Dutchtown when the Horrockses were at home for nine months of the year, she didn’t see much of her grandsons, and Lydia missed her company too. I must take the boys to New York at Christmas if the visit would not be too much of a burden for Mother. I’ll sound her out and try to decide.

How was Max’s game going with Edgar Jones? Were they playing singles this morning, or had others joined them for doubles? Lydia remembered when she and Max formed a doubles team before they were married and how they continued for a while afterward. But a number of years ago the practice had dropped away, and Max no longer seemed interested. At least he no longer proposed tennis with her. Perhaps they had stopped when she was pregnant with Parry and not taken it up afterward. Then Johnny came along, and the suspension of tennis became definitive. What is Max really interested in? He doesn’t read. Sometimes he plays golf. I wonder what he and his partners talk about when they are on the links. I have suggested travel to France and Italy to see the monuments of the past, enjoy the scenery, experience life in another country with another language, give the boys some exposure to all this which need not be wasted even at their present ages. But he brushes the idea aside. Takes too much time. Too expensive. They should see their own country first when they are a little older.

Certainly she was attracted to Max before they were married. He was handsome in youth, athletic, he liked other people and seemed good company. Was it all on the surface? Was that what I paid attention to, without looking deeper to find his true character? Yes, I was not experienced. I had not had beaux. My life in school and out was sheltered and over-protected. When Max and I were together it was at parties, or at friends’ houses, or with our parents. We didn’t spend time alone with each other, perhaps tramping through woods or on a beach, talking, finding out about each other’s interests and hopes. Certainly I had hopes. I wanted a happy household like Grandfather’s, I wanted children, I wanted concerts and museums, I wanted travel in Europe. Why didn’t I talk about these things with Max? Maybe I just thought they would come naturally, with time, as a part of inevitably unfolding experience. Did I just assume that Max had the same interests and would pursue them, that there just had not been occasion to talk about them?

With a little social activity thrown in—like tennis, and Sunday noon at Edgar’s—Max’s life seems to consist of going to his brokerage office in Philadelphia, his grandfather’s firm of Parry, Van Dusen & Janney. He doesn’t talk about his work, but it seems to absorb him altogether. Is it that fascinating to him? Or has he gotten into a rut and doesn’t even think about other possibilities?

Lydia started from her reverie as Sims called for the closing hymn and the congregation began singing Glorious things of Thee are spoken. He liked the music of Haydn, and it did not trouble him that the tune was used also in the Austrian National anthem. The hymn with its strongly affirmative sound closed the service on a note of triumph. The congregation knew the hymn and sang with enthusiasm. Lydia stood for the hymn but still had not come back in consciousness to the church; her singing was automatic and expressionless.

May the Lord bless you and keep you. May He make the light of his countenance to shine upon you and give you peace, now and forever more.

Brought by Sims’s benediction to an approximate sense of the present, Lydia realized she had not heard the sermon. She might have missed important thoughts, and how would she respond if someone brought up the subject and message of the sermon and asked her what she thought? It was too late now. She rose, walked steadily to the door at the back of the church where Sims had now gone to greet his parishioners. There he stood, tall and smiling, his dark hair graying a little, his eyes a clear blue, with a look of interest and with a voice of animation as he exchanged a few words with each departing church-goer.

To Lydia: Your sons do a fine job of ringing the bell. I really appreciate what they do. Please tell them.

Lydia walked out and up Bay Avenue by herself to the rented cottage on the east side where Bridge Street comes to an end, and if you are coming off the bridge in a motor car you must turn either north or south. Up the wide steps, across the verandah, and into the house, where she ascended the stairs on the left. When she came down, Parry and Johnny were waiting for her.

Can we go sailing this afternoon? The wind isn’t really too strong.

I know how you boys like the new boat. Perhaps your father will go with you. I don’t want you to go alone yet. I am not sure what his plans are for the afternoon. Why don’t you ask him when he gets home.

We’ve been sailing enough now to manage on our own. Lydia was half persuaded. Then she reflected, even though the boat is a little wider than the standard one-design fifteen-footer, even though weights have been put in the bottom to increase stability, it could still tip over. Then if it filled with water—oh, I had not thought of this before—the weights could make it sink, and the boys would be out there with nothing to hold onto. Yes, they can swim, but how long would it be before someone came out to rescue them? Would they even be seen? Could they keep afloat if it were a long time before someone came along?

I believe you still need a little more experience before you go sailing alone. Let’s talk it over when your father gets home. Until then, let’s go out and sit on the porch.

They went, and each took a rocker. Lydia rocked gently and slowly, Parry and Johnny in longer and faster arcs, making Lydia wonder if they would tip over backward. She decided to say nothing and just waited. They all waited. Lydia kept looking at her watch. When it told 1:30 she sighed. After ten more minutes Johnny pleaded:

We’re really hungry. Can’t we begin dinner when it is so late?

Yes, I think we might as well.

Feeling defeat after the morning’s conversation with Max, Lydia led the way into the dining room, by way of the kitchen, where she asked Julia to bring on the meal. It proceeded in relative silence after Lydia carved the first chicken and the vegetables were served. Her appetite was not keen, but Parry and Johnny ate their portions quickly and asked for second helpings. When the main course was cleared away, Julia brought in the ice cream, a large cylinder on a platter—fresh peach, fresh from the hand-turned freezer.

The front screen door banged. Max came straight back to the dining room and sank into his chair at the west end of the table, facing Lydia and with their sons in between. She inquired, equably:

How was your game? A scowl answered, then the words:

Edgar beat the pants off me.

Are you tired, Max? Your face is a little flushed.

I’m only good for a nap this afternoon. First, just a little dinner.

Parry and Johnny were hoping you could sail with them. Perhaps a little later in the afternoon, after your nap.

Please, Daddy, it’s a great afternoon.

I don’t think I can make it today. Sorry to have to disappoint you. In fact I am going back to Philadelphia before supper time.

Couldn’t we go by ourselves. We’re pretty experienced now. Lydia broke in:

Max, I think they need to be just a little older. We can see tomorrow whether Ted Wicks would go out at the same time in his boat and generally keep an eye on them; he is supposed to get back on the train this evening.

Well, boys, I guess you better do as your mother says.

The meal completed, Max climbed slowly and somewhat heavily upstairs. He reached their bed room, threw off his jacket, un-knotted and loosened his tie, flopped onto the bed, and lay face up, arms out-stretched and palms up, just looking at the beige plaster ceiling. You’re just a stock broker, Horace Wilson had said it to his face. Maxfield Parry Horrocks, you’re only a stock broker. The fact of the saying could have stemmed from the three martinis Horace had already consumed at Edgar’s. He didn’t have much to crow over since he was an insurance agent. But what about the pronouncement Horace had voiced? Max felt tired. The stimulating effect of the Jones cocktails had worn off. Yes, I am a stock broker. Should I be ashamed because I’m not running a railroad, I’m not a bank president or head of the telephone company? On the other hand, is this where I’m stuck at 40 and going to remain until I retire? Was Horace comparing me with my grandfather? Grandpa was a stock broker too. But of course he founded the firm, and he was also a trustee of the Academy of Fine Arts and of the Philadelphia Orchestra, and a power in politics. He didn’t run for any office, but he influenced who did and who got elected. What has happened that I am not doing any of those things? Is the blood running thin in the third generation in spite of Princeton, Army service in the War, and everything else? Perhaps I could manage some major financial deals, really put the firm on the map. Maybe I could get into under-writing, launch big bond issues or stock offerings by major corporations. Would they let me? That is, the corporation, or the firm, knowing that I don’t really have experience in that field? The firm is a pretty quiet place. I wonder if it is sliding since Grandpa’s time. I don’t know. Then there are those fellows talking about a crash because the market has gone so high. And the bond or stock issue if we could not sell enough of it? We could be wiped out, and I’d be responsible. I’d be through. Oh, it’s too much for me, at least now. I’m too tired to figure things out this afternoon. What I need is a little sleep.

Downstairs, Lydia addressed Parry and Johnny:

I’d like to go to the beach a little later. Will you come with me? An uneasy pause as the boys looked at each other and fidgeted. Then:

All right. There’s nothing else to do.

Parry and Johnny went outdoors to wait for the expedition to the beach.

II

THE OCEAN BEACH

At 3:30, Max still asleep, Lydia left the house. She wore a white bath robe over her black silk bathing dress. The boys were in blue flannel trunks belted in white canvas held together by metal buckles in which one flattened snake inter-twined with another. Dark wool jersey shirts completed their costumes for the ocean. Parry carried the wood and canvas beach chair for his mother. They descended Bay Avenue, turned east onto Lorimer Avenue, and in one short block were at the board walk. They took the steps down to the sand, turned south, and continued the few hundred yards to the bathing beach. This area was marked off by a quadrilateral of ropes. One end was anchored far up the shore, led into the ocean for 50 yards supported by floats, turned south from a sea anchor for another 50 yards, then right-angled shore-ward from a second sea anchor to reach the beach and be finally anchored far up in the sand. Toward the center of the area stood the life-guard’s stand, manned by Whitey Gibbs, who sat up high and surveyed the water in the quadrilateral before him. All of six bathers were in the water, four of them boys rushing back and forth in the waves, only partially immersed and not actually swimming. Posted on a small square black-board projecting up from the stand behind Gibbs was today’s ocean temperature, 57. It was still early in the summer, and warmer currents had not yet reached Illomantic.

Parry asked:

Where would you like your chair, Mother?

Lydia looked over the beach. She did not want to be seen scrutinizing it too much as that could give the impression that she was discriminating closely before making a decision on who should be her neighbors. She saw Francis Gage, reading a book, and asked Parry to station her chair at a point that was within talking distance of him. I wonder how Mary is today. Poor Francis has to come to the beach alone. I don’t understand her illness. No children. Now a wheel chair, and she scarcely ever leaves the house, just sits on the porch once in a while and looks out silently over the beach and ocean. She doesn’t even do that very much any more. Now it’s said she doesn’t recognize people. It is terribly sad for Francis. No family life. Just his law practice. I guess he has satisfactions from that. People who have watched him in court say he is one of the ablest advocates in the state.

Lydia lowered her spare frame gracefully into the simple reclining beach chair Parry had unfolded for her and placed on the sand.

Now, boys, if you are going in the water, don’t stay too long at one time. Come out and get warmed up in the sun once in a while.

OK, Mother, we can read the temperature. Johnny and I are going to build a fort under the board-walk. We’ll swim later, just before going home.

Francis had looked up from his reading. She is still so young. That thick blond hair, clear complexion, eyes sea-green. Mary was once healthy like that. We played tennis, we swam. She laughed, and enjoyed everything. That was so long ago.

Hello, Lydia. I haven’t made up my mind whether I have enough courage to go in that water today, so I am putting off the decision by reading. What’s your idea? will you try the ocean later? I don’t see any book, so perhaps you have already decided.

"Fifty-seven is awfully cold. I was hoping it would at least be over 60 today. What are you reading?"

The librarian at the Mercantile told me about this novel. Its author is an English writer, Virginia Woolf. The story is about a family with young children spending their holiday at the sea-side. The youngest boy hopes they can sail out to the light-house the next day. His father tells him gloomily that it is going to rain. It does, and they don’t make the trip. Not much excitement yet, anyway, but there are great accountings of what goes on in the minds of the father, of Mrs. Ramsey, of their children, and of a couple of house guests including a young woman painter. The librarian says the book is even autobiographical, and that the author wrote it to exorcise the ghosts of her parents with which she had been obsessed since childhood for 20 or 30 years. Her mother died when she was only 13. I think you’d like reading it.

I would, and I’ll make time for it. Not that that’s difficult. I have really a rather idle life here. Just a little shopping, over-seeing the household, and watching out for the boys. They’re pretty independent now, but still I feel I have to know what they are doing and that their activities are safe, with all this water around us.

Francis thought, what a waste of her best years. Max is all right, a good enough fellow. But I wonder if he appreciates Lydia’s spirit, joins in her interests, and gives her real companionship. He has his business, likes tennis and parties, but I never see him reading a book, and they’ve never traveled. If Mary had been in health, we’d have gone to France to see the cathedrals and even go over some of the battle-fields which now must be peaceful and green, so different from the horror scenes I saw in the War. And then Italy. I never got there, before or during the War. Venice must be a great city, and Florence, with all their history. I’ve only read George Eliot’s Romola. At a distance in space and time it still gives a wonderful picture of the place. I’d like to see how much of her Florence is still there—if indeed it ever existed. Some critics have been pretty severe in their appraisal of her historical accuracy and of her portrait of Renaissance Florence. A tourist’s book, they say, based on a limited stay in the city. All this makes me want to go and see for myself. Lydia would like travel like that and would understand what she was seeing.

Francis looked at his watch.

I see it’s now four. I need to go up to the house and relieve Miss Fleming. She needs some time off, especially on a Sunday afternoon. Mary still manages to propel herself in the chair, but she requires attention and someone needs to be with her. I do that quite a lot of the week-end, and then Bessie is here during the week to spell Miss Fleming. Bessie is wonderfully faithful. I don’t know how we would get along without her. She’ll be back this evening, before I have to leave to go back to the city.

I wish there were something I could do to help. Might Mary enjoy an occasional visit?

I am afraid not. She no longer recognizes people. I am not sure she knows me. She doesn’t talk, and she doesn’t give signs of recognition. There doesn’t seem to be anything to do. The doctors have no more suggestions. They are just baffled and only say it is an obscure disease of the central nervous system.

I am so sorry. This is terribly hard on you, Francis.

Your words are kind, and sympathy coming from you really helps. It’s time for me to go now. Perhaps I will see you next week-end.

Good-bye for now, and do take care of yourself.

Francis Gage rose easily, took his book and beach chair, and went up the slope of the beach to the board-walk steps, crossed the wooden planks of the walk, and covered the short distance to the front porch of his house. He disappeared inside. No one was on the porch.

A really interesting man, thought Lydia. A mind not confined by his profession, and ranging wide. I believe he is 39, two years older than I am, but he has almost the athletic form of a life-guard, He likes sports, especially squash and tennis, and that must be what keeps him in trim. But someone so young and strong. What outlet does he have. Surely no longer Mary. No affairs have even been rumored. I can imagine Max in such a situation. Just out of control. He has to have sex still. That is what I am for. But, to be fair, he likes his home, the way I run it, he does care for the boys. But it’s not the way I used to imagine marriage. I was naive. I should have taken more notice when Father said, Max is all right, he’ll do for you. At the time I thought he was just reacting as the father who resisted the idea of his daughter’s marrying and leaving home. But he may have seen farther and meant more. He should have said all that was in his mind. Anyway, I ought to have asked him to tell me his thoughts. But I was too excited by the idea of Max the good-looking fun-loving young man full of humor and good at sports. But as Mother has often said, You’ve made your bed, now you must lie in it. And my life is not at all bad. I have what I need and a good deal of freedom. I sometimes wonder if I am making good use of that. At Bryn Mawr we were educated for a continuing life of the mind. I haven’t really kept up to that. I should read more, and find people to talk with about the big questions. Maybe I should do some more study now that I have time, in my old favorite subjects of art and art history, and perhaps think about the possibility of teaching. With Max, inertia has taken over. Bryn Mawr. Yes, it was going there to college that led to my meeting Max. Everything looked different then. I had no idea of limits in life and thought I could do anything. To be honest with myself, I haven’t really tried. Of course, there are the excuses of marriage, a household, and children. But is it too late, even now? I must think about it, and try to do more.

The sun was still well up, warming the beach, the south wind not yet falling away, a warm breeze, not chill. Shall I venture into the water? It would be bracing. And I would feel warm afterward by the contrast of coming out onto the dry sand in the warm sun-light. The plunge would be icy. But why shouldn’t I try it? Lydia turned her gaze from the ocean and scanned the space in shadow under the board walk, looking for Parry and Johnny. She located what looked a little like a fort some distance north of where she had been sitting, got up, and moved to within calling distance. Mid-size waves were breaking on the shore in almost regular rhythm. Their sound required that she approach nearer in order to be heard by her two sons. By this time they had had enough of fort-building out of pieces of drift-wood that they had gathered on the beach and piled against two of the board walk’s supports. They saw their mother before they heard her call and came running to meet her in the mid-distance. They guessed her purpose and said they were ready to try the ocean. Lydia nodded.

Parry and Johnny ran toward the water and dove into the same wave. Parry shouted:

Oh, it’s like ice.

Lydia didn’t distinguish the words over the crash of waves, but she understood the meaning. Hesitation almost overcame her. She nearly decided not to take off her bath-robe. But then she screwed up her courage, cast off the robe, and marched straight to the water. A few strokes were all the swimming she did, within the guarded bathing area. Soon on the shore again, she felt the relief of relative warmth. After drying off a little and putting on her robe, she gestured to get the boys’ attention and sign that it was time to come out. The water was now less icy to their actively moving bodies after thrashing around in it for a few minutes. Soon, however, they responded and ran up on the shore. All three headed home.

Once there, the boys followed the now-ingrained habit of rinsing out their bathing suits and hanging them on the clothes line behind the cottage. Wet wool jersey had distinctive smell. Even fresh water didn’t rinse it out. Parry reflected on this and on the scratchiness of the material. Everyone had the same suits. Everyone must have the same experiences of them. Lydia took longer than her sons in getting dressed. Max had already gone, driven his yellow roadster back to Dutchtown. He had not left a note. Perhaps it would be dinner at the club with Hugh Kenneally, Albert Lorenzen, and Helmerich. Their wives were away too, so the golfing partners might get together this evening. Lydia proceeded to the kitchen, not tenanted Sunday evening by Julia and Augusta; they had this time off as well as Thursdays. Lydia found in the ice box the blue fish remaining from last night’s dinner, flaked it, mixed it with bread crumbs and minced onions, sprinkled salt and pepper, added milk, placed the whole in a glass casserole, which she then put in the kerosene-fired oven on the top of the kerosene stove, to be baked a little later for supper. We’ll have also sliced tomatoes, she thought, and we’ll finish the huckleberry pie. That should do for tonight.

III

THE FISH POUND

Are you ready to go to the fish pound?

Lydia asked Parry and Johnny after breakfast Monday morning. They nodded. All three went out and down the front steps. Lydia got into the front seat of their Ford station wagon with its rectangular varnished wood body. The boys sat in back. Lydia piloted them carefully out to the north-south Main Road, which lay roughly half way between Bay Avenue and the ocean. There were cottages bordering the west side of the Road, but none on the east side until you came to the cottages on the ocean front several hundred feet farther east. It was only nine o’clock, but the gravel Road was already dusty, and every vehicle—of which there were not so many—was followed by a cloud.

It’s certainly time to put chloride down. They didn’t do it before this last week-end’s traffic. It needs doing every week. Johnny asked:

How does it work?

Uncle Fred will have to explain it to you scientifically when he comes. All I know is that calcium chloride spread from a truck takes moisture out of the air and holds it on the ground, laying the dust.

They passed the Albertson Hotel on the left, at the south end of Illomantic. It was a long shingled three-storey building running out toward the ocean and thus facing north and south. Then the white-painted Coast Guard station. After that they left the Borough. There were no signs or markers to tell them, but you knew at once when you had left Illomantic and entered Trent. You knew becausethe only structures in Trent were a few large old shingled houses set on dunes that had been left undisturbed between ocean and Bay. Bayberry bushes grew all over, and there were occasional cedar trees, bent in a southwesterly direction because the strong winds of winter storms came from the northeast. High on the dunes behind most of these houses was a summer house—an unscreened but roofed circular wood pavilion with benches around its interior circumference. Parry and Johnny had never seen anyone sitting in these summer houses. In fact, they could not recall seeing people in the main houses. Were they really occupied any more, or had they been abandoned? Their mother didn’t know.

After a half mile they came to a sand track leading toward the ocean. Lydia did not attempt this, but left the station wagon at the side of the Road with its left wheels still on firm gravel shoulder. They walked up-hill on the track to a long low wooden shed, again stretching east-west, with three walls and open to the south. The shed floor was a platform about three feet above sand level. They climbed steps up to this platform, and all three began inspecting today’s catch which lay in baskets scattered across the floor in no apparent order. The fish had been brought in early that morning, perhaps between six and seven, in two large open dories with inboard engines. They were steered with a tiller and rudder in the stern. Except for this feature you could not tell which was bow and which was stern; both came to a point. The dories had been steered through the waves of the surf onto the beach and then pulled by horses part-way up the first line of dunes. Lydia moved about looking at baskets of weak fish, flounder, Spanish mackerel, blue fish, and ordinary mackerel. Parry and Johnny were attracted by something else, a single huge fish lying in the middle of the floor. They asked a fisherman what it was. Tuna, he said. They then asked how much it weighed. The answer was: More than 500 pounds. They wondered how it had been gotten up here from the shore, but they did not venture more questions. Lydia decided quickly on two flounder and two Spanish mackerel. The fish were wrapped for her in newspaper and put in a brown paper bag for the brief trip home.

When are we going to see Ted Wicks?, asked Parry as they got back to the station wagon.

First I want to get the fish into the ice box, his mother answered. In this warm weather it shouldn’t stay out any longer than is absolutely necessary."

The day’s south wind had not yet come up, and the peninsula was lying exposed to 10-o’clock sun with the night’s west breeze close to disappearance. Once the fish had been delivered to Julia to put into the ice box, Parry asked:

Can we go over to the Wickses’ now?

Yes, we can do that. Just let me go upstairs a minute first.

The boys were anxious for a sail. They counted automatically on plenty of wind by noon and lasting almost until sun-down. With their mother they went down off the side porch on the south side of the house and started back through a short field of grass in the general direction of the ocean. They skirted the cess-pool, crossed the two railroad tracks—there was a switch here to allow trains to pass each other—and went on through sand and brush across a vacant lot to the Main Road. The Wickses’ house, on the ocean front, lay straight ahead. They crossed the Road and went up to the side door on the south side of the house, looking for signs of occupants.

Lydia called, Serena, are you home?

There was no immediate answer. Then after a minute Mrs. Wicks appeared in the door-way.

Good morning, Lydia. Your two young men seem to grow each time I see them.

Yes, and they think they are grown enough to go sailing by themselves. Max and I believe they need a little more time for that. I am wondering whether Ted might go for a sail in his boat at the same time as Parry and Johnny and sort of keep an eye on them out in the water.

Oh, he’d probably do that, but today he is not back yet from Philadelphia. His summer job will keep him through Wednesday. He’ll be here that night. I’ll ask him about sailing when he gets here, and he can come let you know, probably Thursday morning.

My boys would really appreciate that. They are keen on sailing, and I’d feel ever so much better about it if they could be kept in view by an 18-year-old with more experience on the Bay. We’ll look forward to seeing Ted on Thursday, and we can plan a time then.

He loves sailing too, and is looking forward especially to the race this Saturday at Ocean Heights. Maybe I’ll see you at the beach later today. I’m planning to go this afternoon.

Fine, I’ll look forward to it.

The three Horrockses descended the steps, reached the Road and crossed it, then the railroad tracks, and in minutes were back at their cottage. Parry and Johnny felt disappointment that there would be no sailing today, in fact not until Thursday at the earliest. Parry asked his mother:

"But we can go out in the row-boat, can’t we?

Yes, that’s all right. Just don’t go too far. Lydia’s picture of an over-turned sailboat did not extend to the row-boat. It was flat-bottomed and stable, and the boys were used to rowing.

They went out the front door, and as they did so Lydia noticed a small parcel lying just outside the screen door. She bent down and picked it up. There was a note attached. It read:

Lydia:

I finished V. Woolf last night. I am leaving now to go back to the city this morning, and I thought I would just leave the book for you. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.

Francis

How thoughtful he is! Always with the interests of other people on his mind. I am lucky to know him.

IV

ROWING

Parry and Johnny went west on Bridge Street to the Marches’ house just south of the bridge on the Bay. Colonel McCready March, who now happened to be on National Guard summer training at the Army camp in Sea Girt, was entirely agreeable to having the Horrocks row-boat tied up on his beach. Parry pulled the anchor out of the sand and put it and the rope in the bow of the boat. Then he and Johnny partly lifted and partly pushed the boat down into the water. Each took off shoes and socks, waded the few feet in shallow Bay water to the boat and climbed aboard.

I’ll row first, Parry said.

He took his place amid-ships, lifted the oars into the locks, and started to back-water on the oars. But with added weight in the boat and Johnny in the bow, they were aground.

Give me an oar, and I’ll push us off, suggested Johnny. Parry complied, and soon they were free in the water. With both oars in his possession now, Parry began rowing.

Where are we going? asked Johnny.

Why not up north of the bridge, and we can explore along the shore.

Parry rowed carefully between pilings under the bridge. It was an all-wood structure, with a swing draw worked by a bridge-tender who responded to three blows on a horn from sailing or power boats whose masts could not clear the bridge underneath. The bridge-tender had to walk round and round on the draw, pushing a long iron bar before him, to open the bridge and close it. This morning there were no boats in sight likely to want the bridge opened.

On the north side of the bridge Parry felt that he was practically in another country. The Yacht Club was no longer in view, nor the Horrocks cottage. There were no docks along the shore, just narrow sand beaches. They continued for a while, well out from land.

Let me have a turn now, urged Johnny.

Do you think you can really manage these oars? They’re heavy.

Let me try. Johnny moved to change places with Parry. The boat tipped.

Watch out or you’ll upset us.

The exchange was accomplished, and Johnny pulled on the oars, somewhat unevenly, occasionally catching a crab. With that, the boat lurched, but did not seem in danger of over-turning.

You see, you don’t really know how to row.

You’re not always so great either. Remember the time when you hit the bridge and got caught in the pilings by the current?

We got out, didn’t we?

Johnny let the subject of rowing ability drop there, and yielded the oars once again to Parry. The light west breeze had faded. The sun, well up in a clear sky, felt hot to the boys and brought out sweat on Parry’s face and neck. He kept rowing, but rested on the oars every few minutes. Johnny looked down into the water. It was dark brown at the depth where they were, and he could not see anything.

Let’s go nearer shore, he urged Parry. We might find something interesting washed up on the sand. Or we might find crabs to chase. Do you suppose we would ever find a bottle with a message inside, from some sailor lost at sea?

You and your imagination! How would such a bottle ever get here in the Bay, with the current flowing mainly southward?

I don’t know. The idea just occurred to me. It would be exciting to make a find like that, open up the bottle, and read the message. Have you ever thought of being ship-wrecked on the ocean?

I wouldn’t like it. When you’re ship-wrecked, you may not get back. Have you thought of that?

What about getting off into a life-boat and being rescued by a ship you signal to?

What makes you think a small boat would stay up if the ocean was stormy enough to wreck your ship?

Johnny gave up his fantasy. Parry had obliged by turning the row-boat toward shore, and they were now in water only a couple of feet deep, where both could see the bottom. They spied no fish, or crabs either.

Let’s look up and down the beach a little way.

Parry put the boat gently on the shore. Johnny jumped out from the bow and pulled it up, Parry’s weight farther astern helping Johnny’s effort. Parry jumped out too, and together they got the boat far enough up on the sand to stay.

Don’t forget the anchor, Parry advised. Johnny did not like being bossed around, but he took the anchor and planted one prong firmly in the sand.

They walked bare-foot up the shore, looking down carefully to see what they might find. The pickings were slim. Johnny saw a thin pearly shell. Parry pronounced it just a piece from an oyster shell. They continued north. Parry came across a length of rope half hidden in the grass a few feet above the water-line.

Let’s take this home.

It’s too short and not worth carrying, Johnny replied, taking his turn to denigrate Parry’s find.

Parry carried the rope along anyway, and the two boys continued their shore exploration. After a time Johnny asked:

What time do you suppose it is now? Neither boy had a watch.

Parry looked up at the sun, then said:

With daylight saving time it’s hard to tell, but maybe we’d better start back.

As they turned they felt the south breeze which had come up while they walked north. It was pleasantly cooling on their faces. Back at the row-boat Parry threw aboard his find of rope. Johnny weighed anchor, and Parry began to row. It was slower going against the wind. In fact, it was hard work. Parry asked:

Do you want to try now, Johnny?

Johnny understood that Parry wanted a little rest and also that his brother might want to crow again over Johnny’s relative lack of ability. Johnny took the oars and pulled. The bow of the boat kept getting blown by the wind, first to starboard and then to port. They were not keeping a straight course. Johnny looked around from time to time, and was discouraged by his inability to keep the boat going straight. At length he said:

Here, you take the oars again and see if you can get us home.

Parry was more successful, but their progress was much slower than on the voyage out. Parry grew tired, and rested from time to time. The south wind had become fresh and turned up small waves against the bow of the boat.

Manoeuvering under the bridge through the pilings was as uncertain and slow as on the prior occasion Johnny had teased about. But he said nothing now, just wanting to get back to the Marches’ shore. At length they saw Dorothea on the beach, waving to them and motioning them to land. They had no other intention, and after a further effort Parry brought the row-boat to the beach.

Your mother was here, and she was really worried about you. The boat was gone so long, and just your shoes and socks were here. You’d better get home in a hurry.

We’ll probably catch it now, said Parry.

They hurried up the shore to Bridge Street and on to their house. Once inside they saw their mother. Her expression immediately took on a large smile, and she hugged both boys, an embrace to which they yielded gracefully, knowing they could be in trouble. Lydia then looked serious and said:

You really worried me. You were away so long and I had no idea where you were. Over at the Bay there was no sign of you or the boat. Just your socks and shoes. Now I am relieved that you are safely back, but don’t do this to me again.

We didn’t know what time it was, and the wind made it a lot slower on the way back, offered Parry.

Where did you go, way north of the bridge? Remember, I asked you not to go too far. Go wash your hands now, and we’ll have some lunch.

V

SAILING ON THE BAY

Thursday morning exactly at nine there was a knock on the front screen door of the Horrocks cottage. Parry ran from the dining room to see if it was Ted. It was. The tall youth, now just over six feet and topped by a shock of blond hair that soon would need cutting, stood before Parry and impressed the 13-year-old with his height, straight stature, and tanned muscular fore-arms projecting below his short-sleeved shirt. I wish I were 18 and could do the things Ted does, flashed through Parry’s mind. But will I grow that big? Will I get that strong? They call me a string bean now. But Mother says I’ll fill out when I’m a teen-ager.

I hear you guys want to do some sailing. How about this afternoon? I’ve made a date to take Lillian Renney out after lunch. Can you and Johnny be down at the Yacht Club basin about two?

Lydia, over-hearing the boys’ conversation, arrived at the front door.

Good morning, Ted. I’m glad to see you, and I know Parry and Johnny are. When did you get here, last night?

"Yes, I came on the late train. I’m having a break from my summer job the next couple of days. The lumber yard is doing inventory at the end of the month, and they say it’s the end of their fiscal year too. So I’m off until next Tuesday. Monday, being the Fourth of July, is a holiday. Five days a week, ordinarily, I carry customers’ purchases from a shed in the lumber yard and load them into their cars. It’s a good enough job. And I can be here for the race this Saturday.

Of course, I’ll miss the rest of the Saturdays this summer until the Labor Day week-end. But a job is a job."

You said you are going sailing this afternoon?

I’m planning to, around two.

I’d be really grateful if the boys could go out at the same time and if you could generally keep an eye on them. I don’t mean to follow their boat on every tack, but just to see that they are staying up in the water! The afternoon breeze can be strong, and in coming about there is always a possibility of the boat going over, especially if they try to gybe, which their father and I have tried to discourage them from doing. They’re getting to be good sailors, but they are only 11 and 13. They need more experience and to be a little bigger before they sail entirely by themselves. They probably couldn’t right their boat if it did go over. Not that I am really expecting that to happen. We ended up getting them not the standard 15-footer but one of two boats designed to be about the same length but a little wider, and with ballast under the floor boards. It may seem like over-caution, but parents are sometimes that way.

Ted laughed. Yes, I know about parents. But I’ll follow your directions, and everything will be OK.

I’m sure of it, with you in charge.

Parry, Johnny, I’ll see you at the yacht basin at two.

With that, Ted turned, descended the front steps, and went down the road.

* * *

The two Horrocks boys were almost too excited to eat lunch, but with their mother’s urging each managed to down a chicken sandwich and a large glass of milk.

No dessert?

Uncharacteristically, they declined slices of Augusta’s orange cake with orange icing.

Wearing white polo shirts, khaki canvas shorts, and sneakers, Parry and Johnny set off for the Yacht Club almost at a run. They left their