gold embossed title of which remained just visible in the gloom: Legends of the New Jersey Coast by Charlotte Otis Taylor. “Wasn’t it about this time of year that your husband passed away?”
“Yes, perhaps that’s all it is.” Sudden tension flitted across her face. “The time of year. Forgive me. I know you’re not accustomed to seeing me like this.”
“Charlotte, I’m so sorry.”
“Perhaps I’m only getting even older—though it’s difficult to imagine—entering some final dimming stage.”
“Never.”
“It comes for all of us. No matter how you overestimate me—and you know I adore that you do—sometimes I am just an old woman alone here. Mourning can become a sort of habit, a shield from life. I saw so many women, my contemporaries, retreat into propriety, removed from any real pain, from any passionate sense of loss.” Her voice rose sharply. “I swore I’d never be reduced to such hypocrisy.” With a slow grip, she wheeled herself forward, then carefully folded back the fire screen and poked at the embers. She did this with reasonable efficiency, despite being barely strong enough to wield the poker. “Forgive me, my dear friend, this wasn’t a good time for you to come—I hate to have you witness my gloom. It’s simply that…” Winded by the slight exertion, she let the poker clatter back into its place. “I’ve seen something. No, I won’t tell you what. Not yet. Not this evening when you must already suspect my mind to be going. No? Then perhaps you should. I sit here some nights, and I listen to the sea. I always told my Nathan that he built this house too close to the water.” She paused. “Perhaps I knew even then that I would wind up like this…alone and listening for voices in the waves, hearing their words much too clearly. Forgive me. I know you hate it when I talk like this.”
“I just…”
“You’re such a mass of contradictions, my dear. It’s one of your most attractive qualities—a dreamer who tries to be a cynic, a skeptic in a landscape of ghosts. Are you familiar with the legend of the widow on the beach? It’s one of my favorites. I always meant to do a book on it. You see, she waits for her husband’s ship.”
“Charlotte, don’t.”
“They say on stormy nights one can still see her, walking by the rocks near the lighthouse, her white tresses blowing behind her like a bridal veil. Can’t you feel how close the dead are to us here?”
“Are you going to be all right tonight?” Kit watched flame spurt blue from the end of a log. “I hate leaving you like this. You won’t change your mind about letting me sleep here?”
“On quiet nights like this…”
“I want to be sure this door is kept locked. Do you understand? And I really don’t like your sitting by that drafty window all night.”
The old woman seemed to surface from a great depth. “What is all this, Katherine?”
“If you call me, I’ll come over right away.”
“Of course. I’ve kept you far too long as it is. You told me you could only stop a moment.” “Well, it’s just that I’m working.” “Old people become such gluttons for attention.” “I’ll come by later, if you want. Is there anything else you need, before I make my rounds? Are you sure? I hate to think of you all alone here at night.”
IX
Icy and urgent, a secret tide lifted through the room, swirling the murky desolation that clouded his sleep into a deeper tumult. It seemed he stumbled on a bank of frozen mud. Heavy with the fecund reek of the marsh, sour winds sprang from the water, wafting the sad stench of death around him. He stared down. A pinkish film spread thinly across the surface while men with hooks dragged things dripping from the depths. Gulls skimmed the turbid bay, and their reflections wheeled with squealing cries, their cruel wings curved like hooks…
“No.” He woke in darkness to the sound of his own voice.
He lay soaked against the sheets, listening. Such silence.
“Yes, perhaps that’s all it is.” Sudden tension flitted across her face. “The time of year. Forgive me. I know you’re not accustomed to seeing me like this.”
“Charlotte, I’m so sorry.”
“Perhaps I’m only getting even older—though it’s difficult to imagine—entering some final dimming stage.”
“Never.”
“It comes for all of us. No matter how you overestimate me—and you know I adore that you do—sometimes I am just an old woman alone here. Mourning can become a sort of habit, a shield from life. I saw so many women, my contemporaries, retreat into propriety, removed from any real pain, from any passionate sense of loss.” Her voice rose sharply. “I swore I’d never be reduced to such hypocrisy.” With a slow grip, she wheeled herself forward, then carefully folded back the fire screen and poked at the embers. She did this with reasonable efficiency, despite being barely strong enough to wield the poker. “Forgive me, my dear friend, this wasn’t a good time for you to come—I hate to have you witness my gloom. It’s simply that…” Winded by the slight exertion, she let the poker clatter back into its place. “I’ve seen something. No, I won’t tell you what. Not yet. Not this evening when you must already suspect my mind to be going. No? Then perhaps you should. I sit here some nights, and I listen to the sea. I always told my Nathan that he built this house too close to the water.” She paused. “Perhaps I knew even then that I would wind up like this…alone and listening for voices in the waves, hearing their words much too clearly. Forgive me. I know you hate it when I talk like this.”
“I just…”
“You’re such a mass of contradictions, my dear. It’s one of your most attractive qualities—a dreamer who tries to be a cynic, a skeptic in a landscape of ghosts. Are you familiar with the legend of the widow on the beach? It’s one of my favorites. I always meant to do a book on it. You see, she waits for her husband’s ship.”
“Charlotte, don’t.”
“They say on stormy nights one can still see her, walking by the rocks near the lighthouse, her white tresses blowing behind her like a bridal veil. Can’t you feel how close the dead are to us here?”
“Are you going to be all right tonight?” Kit watched flame spurt blue from the end of a log. “I hate leaving you like this. You won’t change your mind about letting me sleep here?”
“On quiet nights like this…”
“I want to be sure this door is kept locked. Do you understand? And I really don’t like your sitting by that drafty window all night.”
The old woman seemed to surface from a great depth. “What is all this, Katherine?”
“If you call me, I’ll come over right away.”
“Of course. I’ve kept you far too long as it is. You told me you could only stop a moment.” “Well, it’s just that I’m working.” “Old people become such gluttons for attention.” “I’ll come by later, if you want. Is there anything else you need, before I make my rounds? Are you sure? I hate to think of you all alone here at night.”
IX
Icy and urgent, a secret tide lifted through the room, swirling the murky desolation that clouded his sleep into a deeper tumult. It seemed he stumbled on a bank of frozen mud. Heavy with the fecund reek of the marsh, sour winds sprang from the water, wafting the sad stench of death around him. He stared down. A pinkish film spread thinly across the surface while men with hooks dragged things dripping from the depths. Gulls skimmed the turbid bay, and their reflections wheeled with squealing cries, their cruel wings curved like hooks…
“No.” He woke in darkness to the sound of his own voice.
He lay soaked against the sheets, listening. Such silence.
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