Читать книгу Providence Island - Gregor Robinson - Страница 11

| Chapter 5 |

In the days following I was invited to Providence Island often, to make up a fourth for tennis or complete a round robin. They would phone and ask me to be there at two o’clock, occasionally in the morning, and to always wear whites; that was a rule I broke only once — they wouldn’t let me on the court. Someone would be sent to pick me up from the government wharf at Merrick Bay, or I would chug over in our little outboard. A couple of times I arrived to find that there had been a change in plans; they had gone golfing or sailing, and I would return home half an hour later.

“Are you at their beck and call?” Aunt Beth would ask.

The answer to which was yes. I was glad to be away from our house: the click of my aunt’s knitting needles as she studied the crossword puzzles, her tea and bridge; my father, when he was there, reading, fiddling with the radio and railing on about the government. There was none of that kind of talk at the Millers. There was very little serious talk at all on Providence Island, mostly plans for activities and meals and who was coming and going, gossip about the members of the Bellisle Club. Everybody seemed to be having affairs.

One morning Jack took me on a boat tour of the grand houses of Bellisle. “Millionaires’ Row,” it was of course called. He stopped in front of one of the few newer places, a sprawling palace of glass and steel. A blond woman in a short terry-cloth robe appeared on the front terrace. She waved at us. “My father’s having an affair with her,” Jack said.

They were always listening to Frank Sinatra records. (I asked my father about this: “Do all your generation like Frank Sinatra?” “No,” he answered. “The man’s some kind of racketeer, isn’t he?”) They never talked about politics. Old J.D. Miller had been in the U.S. Senate and Jack’s father was already preparing to run for Congress. One day Jack would run for office.

I explained this to my father. “The Millers never talk about politics,” I said. “They don’t have to. They’re in politics.”

My father put down his book and stared at me. On the radio they were in the final act of La Bohème. “I see,” he said.

The Millers started asking me to stay — for a swim, for a glass of lemonade, sometimes for lunch. I would occasionally see Mrs. Applewood, bringing food out from the pantry or guiding old J.D. up and down the path to the dock, or on his afternoon walk around the island. He was strong, but the paths through the woods were up-and-down, rocky, and ungroomed, and he needed help there. He used a single black cane. With his other hand he held on to Mrs. Applewood, either by her shoulder or by the arm just above her elbow. Mrs. Applewood nodded to me when she passed, as though she hardly knew me, meaning to avoid embarrassing us both, I suppose. J.D.’s gnarled grip was a large claw on her arm.

One July afternoon, when the sun was high and the tennis balls fell lifeless on the baked red clay of the court, Jack, Radley, and I decided that we would go for a swim while we waited for the court and the day to cool down enough to play.

On the way to the boathouse to change, Jack took me aside. “Do you know this girl, Marjorie Applewood?”

I nodded. “I know who you mean,” I said, distancing myself.

“I met her at the start of the summer,” Jack continued. “Some god-awful party in the boonies. Her mother works here, you know, and she set it up with my mother. Big mistake, I guess. Anyway, I’ve been out there a few times to see her. You know — these farm girls.” He winked. “Now she won’t talk to me. I haven’t seen her in over a week. Maybe you can find out something about it. You know these people? That French guy who pumps gas at the Shell station, and his buddy Havelock, the bald guy? They’re friends of Marjorie’s. Maybe you could ask them, see if she’s gone away somewhere?”

For some reason I wasn’t very keen on asking around about Marjorie on Jack’s behalf.

“You could go to Ault’s store,” I said. “Marjorie works there most mornings.”

“I’ve tried that. Apparently she’s quit.”

“Why don’t you just ask her mother? She’s out here nearly every day, isn’t she?”

“I would, but the thing is, she doesn’t know about Marjorie and me. It’s kind of a secret.” He stared at me. “So, are you going to do it? Find out what’s going on for me?”

“If it’s such a secret, I better ask Marjorie myself.”

“Great.” He slapped me on the shoulder.

Suddenly I needed a break from the Millers. I changed my mind and declined the offer of a swim with Jack and Radley. “I think I’ll walk up to the tower. See if I can’t find that liquor that’s supposed to hidden up there.”

“Watch yourself around that tower. Thing’s rotting through,” Jack said.

On the flat, high hill in the middle of the island there were a couple of small ponds from which in spring freshets flowed through the woods and stony gullies to the lake. In summer the runnels were dry and fringed by ferns, like ruins of ancient steps carved from stone. It was hard work climbing the hill. The footing was unsteady. Near the top I disturbed a bird, a grouse perhaps, which shot up with a clatter.

It was hard to tell where the cache of liquor might be, near what stump, what pile of stone. If it ever really was there. Unlikely, anyway, that the bottles could have survived these long winters. I gave up and headed toward a plateau, and the woods opened up, a glade with oaks and maple and white pine. The ground became soft and damp, and the smell of the earth was rich, almost rotten. There were several ways to turn. I heard the gurgle of water, then a woman’s voice. A sigh, a moan. I turned away, but I had seen them through the maple leaves as through a jalousie, dappled by sun and shadow.

I didn’t recognize the man. But there was no doubt about the girl. Her blond hair. Her voice.