space between the day and the dark. She lived as a happy woman and no trace of her remains, unless you count the harvest the land yields every summer.
But my grandmother was wrong. This house was built not for her, but as a shrine to her rival. My grandfather hired many of the same men who built his ship to construct the house, and their careful reminders of the sea are everywhere, if you know where to look.
I know where to look, now. I rest my hand against the beam that runs the length of the attic and feel it vibrate, like a mast in a high wind. The floorboards creak and slant as if they were at sea. The round window at the peak of the roof is no more than a porthole, really, and in storms I’ve almost seen him sitting there, brought out of the darkness for a split second during flashes of lightning.
My grandmother took one sea voyage herself, the summer her eldest daughter turned sixteen. They traveled to Europe on one of my grandfather’s ships, bringing with them the girl’s two sisters but leaving the baby, a boy of two, at home. My grandfather also stayed behind. The women filled trunkswith the latest fashions, wrote letters describing the salons and dinner parties they attended. They set sail for home on a calm August night, eager to return.
But a storm blew up three days out from land. It savaged the boat, turned it around, tossed it upon the shoals. The captain survived, as did a handful of crew members. My grandmother and her children did not. Her body was found more than a week later, in what state the captain did not say. He buried her remains quickly, saving only her ring, which he returned to my grandfather himself. I dream. I hope. I love.
IN summer the trees are full, but in fall they drop their leaves, and the valley and surrounding land crouches below the house like a cat before it springs. If someone searched very hard, they could just see, from that attic window, the things they hold most dear: the faintest glint of sunlight on water; the white, circling wings of gulls; the remote, unreachable face of the woman they love, telescoping away into darkness.
Andie
IT’S ninety degrees and Andie can feel the sweat dripping down her face as she lifts a stack of newspapers tied with twine. She and Gert are in the shed, a euphemistic name for the small building behind the house. In Andie’s childhood it was used to store wood; today the shed is cluttered with old magazines, clay pots, and glass jars filled with screws and nails.
Andie drops the newspapers in the pile she’s designated for recycling and wipes her hands on her shorts. She lifts her hair off her neck in hopes of a breeze. None comes, and with a sigh she turns to her aunt.
“Is there somebody we could call to come pick up this stuff?” For years, Andie knows, Gert has driven once a month to the town dump. But the flotsam and jetsam that’scollected in the shed over the past forty years is beyond the capacity of one ancient vehicle.
Gert, who is eyeing a box of canning jars, is noncommittal. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever use these?”
Andie just looks at her.
“Fine,” Gert says. “Maybe we can donate them for the church fair. Let’s start a pile for that.”
The shed has a damp, earthy smell. Inside, despite the heat, a coolness comes up from the dirt floor. Andie remembers playing hide-and-seek here, the thrill of waiting in the dimness to be discovered, the almost erotic excitement. And once, the summer before college, she and a date snuck into the shed to escape Clara’s eagle eye and make out.
“Andie!”
She starts and looks at Gert.
“Where were you? I was saying that perhaps we could pay Cort McCallister to take some of these things away. That truck of his is big enough.”
“Maybe.”
Cort isn’t on Andie’s list of favorite topics this morning. She came home from the grocery store yesterday to find Nina curled by the front steps, reeking of manure. It took several scrubbings with Andie’s salon
But my grandmother was wrong. This house was built not for her, but as a shrine to her rival. My grandfather hired many of the same men who built his ship to construct the house, and their careful reminders of the sea are everywhere, if you know where to look.
I know where to look, now. I rest my hand against the beam that runs the length of the attic and feel it vibrate, like a mast in a high wind. The floorboards creak and slant as if they were at sea. The round window at the peak of the roof is no more than a porthole, really, and in storms I’ve almost seen him sitting there, brought out of the darkness for a split second during flashes of lightning.
My grandmother took one sea voyage herself, the summer her eldest daughter turned sixteen. They traveled to Europe on one of my grandfather’s ships, bringing with them the girl’s two sisters but leaving the baby, a boy of two, at home. My grandfather also stayed behind. The women filled trunkswith the latest fashions, wrote letters describing the salons and dinner parties they attended. They set sail for home on a calm August night, eager to return.
But a storm blew up three days out from land. It savaged the boat, turned it around, tossed it upon the shoals. The captain survived, as did a handful of crew members. My grandmother and her children did not. Her body was found more than a week later, in what state the captain did not say. He buried her remains quickly, saving only her ring, which he returned to my grandfather himself. I dream. I hope. I love.
IN summer the trees are full, but in fall they drop their leaves, and the valley and surrounding land crouches below the house like a cat before it springs. If someone searched very hard, they could just see, from that attic window, the things they hold most dear: the faintest glint of sunlight on water; the white, circling wings of gulls; the remote, unreachable face of the woman they love, telescoping away into darkness.
Andie
IT’S ninety degrees and Andie can feel the sweat dripping down her face as she lifts a stack of newspapers tied with twine. She and Gert are in the shed, a euphemistic name for the small building behind the house. In Andie’s childhood it was used to store wood; today the shed is cluttered with old magazines, clay pots, and glass jars filled with screws and nails.
Andie drops the newspapers in the pile she’s designated for recycling and wipes her hands on her shorts. She lifts her hair off her neck in hopes of a breeze. None comes, and with a sigh she turns to her aunt.
“Is there somebody we could call to come pick up this stuff?” For years, Andie knows, Gert has driven once a month to the town dump. But the flotsam and jetsam that’scollected in the shed over the past forty years is beyond the capacity of one ancient vehicle.
Gert, who is eyeing a box of canning jars, is noncommittal. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever use these?”
Andie just looks at her.
“Fine,” Gert says. “Maybe we can donate them for the church fair. Let’s start a pile for that.”
The shed has a damp, earthy smell. Inside, despite the heat, a coolness comes up from the dirt floor. Andie remembers playing hide-and-seek here, the thrill of waiting in the dimness to be discovered, the almost erotic excitement. And once, the summer before college, she and a date snuck into the shed to escape Clara’s eagle eye and make out.
“Andie!”
She starts and looks at Gert.
“Where were you? I was saying that perhaps we could pay Cort McCallister to take some of these things away. That truck of his is big enough.”
“Maybe.”
Cort isn’t on Andie’s list of favorite topics this morning. She came home from the grocery store yesterday to find Nina curled by the front steps, reeking of manure. It took several scrubbings with Andie’s salon
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