bunched in his fist. “What’s your business?” he said. “Or is it the old bitch?”
“You got any pliers?” Oliver blurted.
“What for?”
“Never mind.”
“Damnation. You come all this way, ask me if I have pliers, and say never mind?” He took Oliver’s arm in his other hand and squeezed hard.
“Tammy needs a tooth yanked.”
Stanwood let go and sat down again. “She’ll pay something for that, I expect.”
Oliver recalled the time Tammy had nothing to give the carpenter for his efforts, but said, “Sure. She’s got some nice honey.”
“How about rum?” Stanwood said. “Or some of that hard cider?”
Oliver shrugged. “She don’t tell me everything she’s got.”
“Time you grew yourself some balls.” He tipped his chair back against the rock. “You go tell Tammy I’ll be there shortly.”
“You don’t want to come with me now?”
“I’ll be by shortly.”
“Today?”
“Today.”
“Soon?”
“I’ll be there!” Stanwood grabbed a long twig from the ground and said, “Get out of here, or I’ll thrash you and then leave that old horror to suffer like she deserves.”
Oliver rushed back to the path. But as he had no desire to see Tammy before Stanwood showed up, he slowed down, shuffling and kicking at pebbles. He stopped at a pile of rubble that used to be a well, picked up a rock the size of his fist, and dropped it down the hole, listening to the quick, sad click as it landed on other long-dry stones.
God, he was hungry.
When Tammy finally died, he thought, and the property came to him, as surely it must, he’d sell it to the first bidder and eat until he could hold no more. Chicken and biscuits and a whole damned cake.
The next house he passed was still occupied, and only a little better off than Stanwood’s. It belonged to John Wharf, a distant relation of Abraham’s and the last of the line left in Dogtown. The Gloucester Wharfs had never tired of telling John what a born embarrassment he was — a failed cooper, a failed fisherman, and a failed farmer. So after his wife died and his daughter married, he’d retreated to the hills, where no one would remind him of his disappointments.
The door to the cottage was open. Oliver peered in and smiled.
“Why, hello, Polly,” he said, and ducked his head, remembering that she was Mrs. Boynton now, and that he had no right to be so familiar. Oliver had spent part of one winter in school with her. Four years his senior, she’d helped him with his letters and numbers, and she hadn’t forgotten her manners around him. He’d heard that she married a widower from Riverview last summer. “You back for a visit?” he asked.
Polly shook her head.
“No?”
“Mr. Boynton died last week,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” said Oliver, and took off his hat.
“I’m not.”
She was much changed from the pretty, well-dressed girl he remembered. This Polly was pale, her eyes swollen, and her blonde hair lay lank and tangled on a dirty collar.
“You staying here now?” Oliver asked.
“Nowhere else for me to go.”
Oliver knew that wasn’t so. There were plenty of Wharfs living near the harbor, even a few rich ones with daughters close to Polly’s age.
“I’m better off here,” she said.
“Aw, now.”
They both studied their shoes for a while.
Unable to think of anything else to say, Oliver shrugged. “I better go.”
She nodded.
“Would it be…I mean,” he stammered, “could I come by to see you sometime?”
Polly’s red-rimmed eyes were so full of gratitude, Oliver thought he’d bawl if he didn’t take off.
“All right then,” he said and hurried off, trying to remember everything he could about Polly. She used to blush crimson whenever the teacher had asked her to recite. And she’d been gentle in correcting Oliver’s mistakes on the slate. Once she’d given him a whole biscuit, cold and hard, but smeared with enough bacon fat to make it eat like a whole meal.
He’d only learned
“You got any pliers?” Oliver blurted.
“What for?”
“Never mind.”
“Damnation. You come all this way, ask me if I have pliers, and say never mind?” He took Oliver’s arm in his other hand and squeezed hard.
“Tammy needs a tooth yanked.”
Stanwood let go and sat down again. “She’ll pay something for that, I expect.”
Oliver recalled the time Tammy had nothing to give the carpenter for his efforts, but said, “Sure. She’s got some nice honey.”
“How about rum?” Stanwood said. “Or some of that hard cider?”
Oliver shrugged. “She don’t tell me everything she’s got.”
“Time you grew yourself some balls.” He tipped his chair back against the rock. “You go tell Tammy I’ll be there shortly.”
“You don’t want to come with me now?”
“I’ll be by shortly.”
“Today?”
“Today.”
“Soon?”
“I’ll be there!” Stanwood grabbed a long twig from the ground and said, “Get out of here, or I’ll thrash you and then leave that old horror to suffer like she deserves.”
Oliver rushed back to the path. But as he had no desire to see Tammy before Stanwood showed up, he slowed down, shuffling and kicking at pebbles. He stopped at a pile of rubble that used to be a well, picked up a rock the size of his fist, and dropped it down the hole, listening to the quick, sad click as it landed on other long-dry stones.
God, he was hungry.
When Tammy finally died, he thought, and the property came to him, as surely it must, he’d sell it to the first bidder and eat until he could hold no more. Chicken and biscuits and a whole damned cake.
The next house he passed was still occupied, and only a little better off than Stanwood’s. It belonged to John Wharf, a distant relation of Abraham’s and the last of the line left in Dogtown. The Gloucester Wharfs had never tired of telling John what a born embarrassment he was — a failed cooper, a failed fisherman, and a failed farmer. So after his wife died and his daughter married, he’d retreated to the hills, where no one would remind him of his disappointments.
The door to the cottage was open. Oliver peered in and smiled.
“Why, hello, Polly,” he said, and ducked his head, remembering that she was Mrs. Boynton now, and that he had no right to be so familiar. Oliver had spent part of one winter in school with her. Four years his senior, she’d helped him with his letters and numbers, and she hadn’t forgotten her manners around him. He’d heard that she married a widower from Riverview last summer. “You back for a visit?” he asked.
Polly shook her head.
“No?”
“Mr. Boynton died last week,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” said Oliver, and took off his hat.
“I’m not.”
She was much changed from the pretty, well-dressed girl he remembered. This Polly was pale, her eyes swollen, and her blonde hair lay lank and tangled on a dirty collar.
“You staying here now?” Oliver asked.
“Nowhere else for me to go.”
Oliver knew that wasn’t so. There were plenty of Wharfs living near the harbor, even a few rich ones with daughters close to Polly’s age.
“I’m better off here,” she said.
“Aw, now.”
They both studied their shoes for a while.
Unable to think of anything else to say, Oliver shrugged. “I better go.”
She nodded.
“Would it be…I mean,” he stammered, “could I come by to see you sometime?”
Polly’s red-rimmed eyes were so full of gratitude, Oliver thought he’d bawl if he didn’t take off.
“All right then,” he said and hurried off, trying to remember everything he could about Polly. She used to blush crimson whenever the teacher had asked her to recite. And she’d been gentle in correcting Oliver’s mistakes on the slate. Once she’d given him a whole biscuit, cold and hard, but smeared with enough bacon fat to make it eat like a whole meal.
He’d only learned
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