mirror and moved it until she saw the comforting image of Michael leaning against a tree, looking with great wisdom at the group of sailors (for he was an alumnus of their life and older) and with great love at her, for he loved what she had done with the mirror.
Michael was getting lobsters from his traps; doing it made him feel like a sorcerer. She could see him in the tiny green boat with the white sail he raised when he moved from float to float. Had he known the wind would rise as it had he would not have gone out, for the fishermen of Three Mile Harbor were like lobsters who are clever enough to get out of the coil; they had to shoot between two sides of a jetty over a bar, and negotiate a thin channel funnel. There had been deaths there.
Suzanna felt as if she, and he, and the century itself, were on the verge of a discovery. She dreamed always of the remote and thought it one reason why Michael loved her so. Beneath her white and gold New England face were thoughts that went deep into the tropics and skirted jungles full of richer, darker colors, colors of fast and intense life. This woman sat in church and, taking the rhythm from the organ, put herself in Africa, or Turkestan, or Palestine, or any place with a name like candy, fruit, or the Bible. Her father and her fatherâs father had been missionaries; they were ministers in Salem and saw the sea as a natural road for what they believed. As Salem merchants traded spices and brass from and to Zanzibar, so they preached. Her brother and she had been born in Africa; she did not remember it, he did. She had been her fatherâs daughter after he returned from the brighter parts of his life. When a little girl, she had grown among stories and artifacts from Africa and China, where her grandfather had been.
Michael began to run with the wind, which from where he floated high on the waves shot directly to shore, even though on the beach it was confused and blew his wifeâs skirts and apron in all directions in imitation of a real tempest. Despite the wind and waves this run would be easier than most because he did not have to tack. He could head straight for the inlet, building up speed, until he passed it with a breath of quick relief. He felt confident, as he had while traveling. When he traveled he was not knit to his possessions and made an implement to maneuver them. When in other parts of the world he felt light and comfortable, as a good man would doing something good and easy. He dreamed of traveling with Suzanna; he knew she wanted to see what he had seen, and when he had seen it he had wished for her to be by him. Without reasons it was really quite simple. He loved her and wanted to go places with her. His boat, beautifully made by his cousins who put double seams and double caulk to satisfy him, gained speed and seemed to nose itself to target. He felt always when running the inlet, or shooting the bar as the older men called it, that he knew himself, that he and the boat had something in common, a solidarity on the waves.
She finished opening the clams and went to stand by the inlet, breathing more deeply as the wind forced itself into her body. Michael was coming in. She was frightened and happy. They were married in the spring and they first made love in late April, so that the month had been always in her eyes. That night when the window was opened and she could see the stars through it, they heard the small streams and rivulets from the melting snow. Now her hands were harder and she cursed easily, and often making love had nothing whatsoever to do with the stars or the brooks, but only the bed and the heat they raised, so that even ten minutes after in the deep of quiet they were not dry and they glistened. She wished that she would not spend the rest of her life trying to get the slight flamboyance one must have when nineteen, that Michael had in the navy when he spent time finding the round world, that she had not had. He was older and
Michael was getting lobsters from his traps; doing it made him feel like a sorcerer. She could see him in the tiny green boat with the white sail he raised when he moved from float to float. Had he known the wind would rise as it had he would not have gone out, for the fishermen of Three Mile Harbor were like lobsters who are clever enough to get out of the coil; they had to shoot between two sides of a jetty over a bar, and negotiate a thin channel funnel. There had been deaths there.
Suzanna felt as if she, and he, and the century itself, were on the verge of a discovery. She dreamed always of the remote and thought it one reason why Michael loved her so. Beneath her white and gold New England face were thoughts that went deep into the tropics and skirted jungles full of richer, darker colors, colors of fast and intense life. This woman sat in church and, taking the rhythm from the organ, put herself in Africa, or Turkestan, or Palestine, or any place with a name like candy, fruit, or the Bible. Her father and her fatherâs father had been missionaries; they were ministers in Salem and saw the sea as a natural road for what they believed. As Salem merchants traded spices and brass from and to Zanzibar, so they preached. Her brother and she had been born in Africa; she did not remember it, he did. She had been her fatherâs daughter after he returned from the brighter parts of his life. When a little girl, she had grown among stories and artifacts from Africa and China, where her grandfather had been.
Michael began to run with the wind, which from where he floated high on the waves shot directly to shore, even though on the beach it was confused and blew his wifeâs skirts and apron in all directions in imitation of a real tempest. Despite the wind and waves this run would be easier than most because he did not have to tack. He could head straight for the inlet, building up speed, until he passed it with a breath of quick relief. He felt confident, as he had while traveling. When he traveled he was not knit to his possessions and made an implement to maneuver them. When in other parts of the world he felt light and comfortable, as a good man would doing something good and easy. He dreamed of traveling with Suzanna; he knew she wanted to see what he had seen, and when he had seen it he had wished for her to be by him. Without reasons it was really quite simple. He loved her and wanted to go places with her. His boat, beautifully made by his cousins who put double seams and double caulk to satisfy him, gained speed and seemed to nose itself to target. He felt always when running the inlet, or shooting the bar as the older men called it, that he knew himself, that he and the boat had something in common, a solidarity on the waves.
She finished opening the clams and went to stand by the inlet, breathing more deeply as the wind forced itself into her body. Michael was coming in. She was frightened and happy. They were married in the spring and they first made love in late April, so that the month had been always in her eyes. That night when the window was opened and she could see the stars through it, they heard the small streams and rivulets from the melting snow. Now her hands were harder and she cursed easily, and often making love had nothing whatsoever to do with the stars or the brooks, but only the bed and the heat they raised, so that even ten minutes after in the deep of quiet they were not dry and they glistened. She wished that she would not spend the rest of her life trying to get the slight flamboyance one must have when nineteen, that Michael had in the navy when he spent time finding the round world, that she had not had. He was older and
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