Sherbrookes: Possession / Sherbrookes / Stillness (American Literature Series) by Nicholas Delbanco Page B
Authors: Nicholas Delbanco
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since I saw you last.”
He smiled at her vaguely, obsessed. “But when a whale is sickly,” he continued, “and the herd knows it’s a goner—this is true for dolphins too, mind you, and seals, and anything with the slightest spark of compassion or instinct for decency, mind you—then they shove it in to shore. That way it can go in peace; that way the sharks won’t get at it; it’s the fish equivalent for burial at sea.”
And suddenly she knew she’d answer Judah if he called. Suddenly she made a covenant: The Golden Rule. Do unto others. If somebody watches over my father, anyone, she told herself, I’ll watch out for my husband forever and ever, amen. An ancient Dodge appeared. She heard it the length of the dock away, noticed its shape in the far distance. It made for them; she made out a man at the wheel. He was sitting erect, using both hands to steer down this wide and empty avenue; his car had been repainted, black, and he brought it to a halt. Gulls wheeled above them, dropping and shattering clams. He rolled down the window, rolling it all the way, using his entire arm to crank. Polite, he doffed his cap. “Hey, Harry,” he said. “You fortunate man. Who’s this young lovely with you?” There was rheum at his eyes’ pouches and a red waxed moustache. “Must be your daughter? Afternoon, miss.”
“Not so young,” said Maggie. “But thanks just the same.”
The chromium was pitted; she put her hand on the headlight’s bright abrasions. They “geezerized” for minutes—it was her father’s word for conversation—in the wet wind. She would go to Judah when he called.
Maggie had spied on him once. She had been in Providence but came back unexpectedly, telling Junior Allison who drove the cab to let her off at the gate. The night was dark, and clouds obliterated what she guessed was a half-crescent moon. The mountain ash trees had bloomed in her brief absence; she was thirty-two years old. She believed in psychic age, though she thought her own had shifted and might shift again. Men were born a certain age and stayed that way; Judah, for example, in her mind’s eye was always forty-five.
Dogs barked at her, then quieted. She walked on the driveway’s grass rim. It was not spying exactly, she told herself, stepping out of her shoes. It was looking at the life her husband lived without her, in her absence; it was hunting some new access point to his walled enclosure.
“How long will you be off?” he’d asked.
“A week,” she said. “Maybe less.”
“And maybe more?”
“Maybe, I doubt it. Ten days at the most.”
“Your uncle needs your help?” It was a question really, but she took it as his answer.
“Yes, there’s so much furniture. There’s so much we’ve got to decide.”
“Don’t bring it here,” Hattie warned her. “We don’t need anything else.”
“His ladder-back chair,” said Maggie. “Maybe the rolltop desk.”
“Ship what you like,” Judah said.
She stepped, therefore, secretly onto the porch. The watchdogs wagged their tails. Later she would tell him how the cousins divided up family spoils. She needed nothing and had taken nothing but her uncle’s ladder-back chair. Later she would tell him how she missed him there in Providence, walking in the chill bay wind and seeing the house lamps light up. The living room lamps, here, were lit. Judah sprawled in the green leather chair. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and she saw the white hairs riffle on his arm. He bent above the yellow stoneware plate to eat a sandwich, leaning forward, mouth making swallowing motions, and something about that gesture—a weary domesticity, the time he’d taken to make and arrange his sandwich, adding lettuce, a sweet pickle—touched her, moved her as none of his elaborate courtesy could, nor any of the regal meals she had pictured him consuming.
He was six feet from her, maybe, with glass and gauze intervening, but she saw his head in profile as though he
He smiled at her vaguely, obsessed. “But when a whale is sickly,” he continued, “and the herd knows it’s a goner—this is true for dolphins too, mind you, and seals, and anything with the slightest spark of compassion or instinct for decency, mind you—then they shove it in to shore. That way it can go in peace; that way the sharks won’t get at it; it’s the fish equivalent for burial at sea.”
And suddenly she knew she’d answer Judah if he called. Suddenly she made a covenant: The Golden Rule. Do unto others. If somebody watches over my father, anyone, she told herself, I’ll watch out for my husband forever and ever, amen. An ancient Dodge appeared. She heard it the length of the dock away, noticed its shape in the far distance. It made for them; she made out a man at the wheel. He was sitting erect, using both hands to steer down this wide and empty avenue; his car had been repainted, black, and he brought it to a halt. Gulls wheeled above them, dropping and shattering clams. He rolled down the window, rolling it all the way, using his entire arm to crank. Polite, he doffed his cap. “Hey, Harry,” he said. “You fortunate man. Who’s this young lovely with you?” There was rheum at his eyes’ pouches and a red waxed moustache. “Must be your daughter? Afternoon, miss.”
“Not so young,” said Maggie. “But thanks just the same.”
The chromium was pitted; she put her hand on the headlight’s bright abrasions. They “geezerized” for minutes—it was her father’s word for conversation—in the wet wind. She would go to Judah when he called.
Maggie had spied on him once. She had been in Providence but came back unexpectedly, telling Junior Allison who drove the cab to let her off at the gate. The night was dark, and clouds obliterated what she guessed was a half-crescent moon. The mountain ash trees had bloomed in her brief absence; she was thirty-two years old. She believed in psychic age, though she thought her own had shifted and might shift again. Men were born a certain age and stayed that way; Judah, for example, in her mind’s eye was always forty-five.
Dogs barked at her, then quieted. She walked on the driveway’s grass rim. It was not spying exactly, she told herself, stepping out of her shoes. It was looking at the life her husband lived without her, in her absence; it was hunting some new access point to his walled enclosure.
“How long will you be off?” he’d asked.
“A week,” she said. “Maybe less.”
“And maybe more?”
“Maybe, I doubt it. Ten days at the most.”
“Your uncle needs your help?” It was a question really, but she took it as his answer.
“Yes, there’s so much furniture. There’s so much we’ve got to decide.”
“Don’t bring it here,” Hattie warned her. “We don’t need anything else.”
“His ladder-back chair,” said Maggie. “Maybe the rolltop desk.”
“Ship what you like,” Judah said.
She stepped, therefore, secretly onto the porch. The watchdogs wagged their tails. Later she would tell him how the cousins divided up family spoils. She needed nothing and had taken nothing but her uncle’s ladder-back chair. Later she would tell him how she missed him there in Providence, walking in the chill bay wind and seeing the house lamps light up. The living room lamps, here, were lit. Judah sprawled in the green leather chair. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and she saw the white hairs riffle on his arm. He bent above the yellow stoneware plate to eat a sandwich, leaning forward, mouth making swallowing motions, and something about that gesture—a weary domesticity, the time he’d taken to make and arrange his sandwich, adding lettuce, a sweet pickle—touched her, moved her as none of his elaborate courtesy could, nor any of the regal meals she had pictured him consuming.
He was six feet from her, maybe, with glass and gauze intervening, but she saw his head in profile as though he
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