them come and go without bias, minnows schooling about his feet? Simply slosh through them and let the waves wash over? He could build on the mainmast a crow’s nest. With his life, with his mind, he would build him a crow’s nest, rope by rope and plank by plank for as long as it took. Ahead dwelt some heart-pure Pete who rode whatever came. So might a seeing white statue, aware and at ease, over whose feet and plinth wash wild seas, guard a greasy harbor.
L ATE ONE BLACKFLY MORNING Maytree was supervising a crane operator smashing with a wrecking ball a house across the marsh. He saw Deary driving her new Buick to the site. Maytree pulled an eight-penny nail. He felt its hot point cool in his fingertips.
Deary brought forks, linen napkins, and a rhubarb pie. She wore a suede jacket and cashmere scarf. She asked, On Cape Cod, did I ever tell you why I liked poverty? Because she could no longer remember. By then Lord & Taylor knew her measurements. She ordered three tailored skirts a year, eight or so small-print McMullen blouses, Papageno (as she said) low heels, navy cable-knit cardigans grosgrain outside…she never dreamed she would remember those things, she told Maytree, who thought, What things? When at a college reunion he saw she resembled and outshone other well-to-do wives, it gave him pause. What impelled her to revert to a lady now? She was sixty-two years old. Years ago she scuttled her palm-of-hand pedestal chair and retrieved her overjoyed mother’s ancestral carved-cherry furniture, and her flatware, linens, and jewelry.
Her old mother subsequently yelled into a telephone, I knew it was just a phase! By then Maytree understood that Deary’s mother adored her in any form or function. She was merely rejoicing over the cherry furniture’s staying in the family—possibly, Maytree thought, as she herself would like to stay in life.
Deary’s mother dwelt at the peak where old Stockbridge families met atop old legacies. She sent Deary to Concord Academy and Smith before MIT. A stoneworker could chisel on the tomb of everyone she knew: GOOD TASTE . Only once did Maytree himself see Deary’s mother. Erect, wearing a slant-brimmed hat, she drove an open car down Commercial Street. She commanded the steering wheel from its bottom. Shortly after the furniture arrived in Maine, Deary’s mother’s final illness came. Deary lived with her in New York for six months to tend her. After she died Deary spent another month emptying the apartment. Deary’s absence felt as if it would kill Maytree.
After she got back, he exchanged Blackwell’s shipments with his Maine friend, an abstract expressionist painter who played Brubeck while he worked. One winter day the men skated on a beaver pond and sliced each other’s shadows.
—We must buy land around those ponds, Deary said that night, and you can build on spec. Where did she get these terms? She continued, We must buy every waterfront lot available. Deary spoke into one of her full-length mirrors. He saw her gauge his reaction.
Keep her happy, Maytree thought.
—Who can afford a waterfront lot?
—We can, if you work full time.
How happy? Maytree thought.
Her curls took well to permanent waves. To Maytree they looked like Peaked Hill Bars at low tide. One evening, over rows of her colored hair’s parallel waves, she was fastening a dot-veiled hat, to go out. She was starting to look like the Queen Mother. A fine figure of a woman, and one to whom he was vowed.
Maytree knew Lou read his letters. Why not? He loved her and had long ago forbidden his deep thoughts to turn back to her. He dreaded learning she hated him. Surely by now would she not have let it all go? Her letter said she had. She even invited them to stay with her. And would she not think of him fondly but not regretfully, as he thought of her fondly and stopped himself? Though surely not so often. Year after year Cornelius urged him back home.
Maytree could no longer find
L ATE ONE BLACKFLY MORNING Maytree was supervising a crane operator smashing with a wrecking ball a house across the marsh. He saw Deary driving her new Buick to the site. Maytree pulled an eight-penny nail. He felt its hot point cool in his fingertips.
Deary brought forks, linen napkins, and a rhubarb pie. She wore a suede jacket and cashmere scarf. She asked, On Cape Cod, did I ever tell you why I liked poverty? Because she could no longer remember. By then Lord & Taylor knew her measurements. She ordered three tailored skirts a year, eight or so small-print McMullen blouses, Papageno (as she said) low heels, navy cable-knit cardigans grosgrain outside…she never dreamed she would remember those things, she told Maytree, who thought, What things? When at a college reunion he saw she resembled and outshone other well-to-do wives, it gave him pause. What impelled her to revert to a lady now? She was sixty-two years old. Years ago she scuttled her palm-of-hand pedestal chair and retrieved her overjoyed mother’s ancestral carved-cherry furniture, and her flatware, linens, and jewelry.
Her old mother subsequently yelled into a telephone, I knew it was just a phase! By then Maytree understood that Deary’s mother adored her in any form or function. She was merely rejoicing over the cherry furniture’s staying in the family—possibly, Maytree thought, as she herself would like to stay in life.
Deary’s mother dwelt at the peak where old Stockbridge families met atop old legacies. She sent Deary to Concord Academy and Smith before MIT. A stoneworker could chisel on the tomb of everyone she knew: GOOD TASTE . Only once did Maytree himself see Deary’s mother. Erect, wearing a slant-brimmed hat, she drove an open car down Commercial Street. She commanded the steering wheel from its bottom. Shortly after the furniture arrived in Maine, Deary’s mother’s final illness came. Deary lived with her in New York for six months to tend her. After she died Deary spent another month emptying the apartment. Deary’s absence felt as if it would kill Maytree.
After she got back, he exchanged Blackwell’s shipments with his Maine friend, an abstract expressionist painter who played Brubeck while he worked. One winter day the men skated on a beaver pond and sliced each other’s shadows.
—We must buy land around those ponds, Deary said that night, and you can build on spec. Where did she get these terms? She continued, We must buy every waterfront lot available. Deary spoke into one of her full-length mirrors. He saw her gauge his reaction.
Keep her happy, Maytree thought.
—Who can afford a waterfront lot?
—We can, if you work full time.
How happy? Maytree thought.
Her curls took well to permanent waves. To Maytree they looked like Peaked Hill Bars at low tide. One evening, over rows of her colored hair’s parallel waves, she was fastening a dot-veiled hat, to go out. She was starting to look like the Queen Mother. A fine figure of a woman, and one to whom he was vowed.
Maytree knew Lou read his letters. Why not? He loved her and had long ago forbidden his deep thoughts to turn back to her. He dreaded learning she hated him. Surely by now would she not have let it all go? Her letter said she had. She even invited them to stay with her. And would she not think of him fondly but not regretfully, as he thought of her fondly and stopped himself? Though surely not so often. Year after year Cornelius urged him back home.
Maytree could no longer find
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