Sam reported for duty to Commodore Vanderbilt and the Rainbow group on the next day, and Laura went aft to their cabin and cried. She wasn't sure why, exactly, but she remained there, subdued and downhearted, for the next three hours as she worked her way through a pile of mending. She was disappointed at having to stay trapped in one harbor for so long, of course. And she was wistfully envious of the compliment to her husband's skills as a mechanic and a seaman.
She lived in a man's world, and in a general way she was frustrated by her inability to control the direction of her life. And Neil's life too: Laura was beginning to feel strongly that he should be in school with other boys his age
But there was something else: she was ashamed of her attraction to a man so carnal.
What they had done the day before struck her as almost coarse. She had felt enslaved during the actual sex, but since then she'd been filled with regret. Where was the love? The deep affection between a man and his wife approaching a decade together? What they shared wasn't even passion; it was simple, animal need.
I'm becoming like him, she realized. Crude, unimaginative, plodding. He'll never change—never aspire. He mocks my education, won't let me read aloud to him, and the only time he pays attention to his appearance is when he's stepping out with his pals for the evening.
She sighed again and surveyed her own carelessly thrown-on clothing: a heavy serge skirt and a man's shirt, loose-cut and good for climbing, rowing, and all the other brawny movements that were part of living aboard a boat. When she was twenty it gave her a thrill to flaunt convention by wearing practical rather than pretty clothes. But now she saw her style of dress as yet more evidence that her brain was turning into porridge.
I haven't pulled him up, she realized, dejected. He's pulled me down.
She'd been on the water for eight years now, and the last four of them had been full of drudgery. They hadn't traveled as far as she'd hoped; the last winter had been crushingly severe; and Neil was becoming more unhappy every day. The boat was an endless circuit of sanding, scrubbing, caulking and—when they could afford it—painting. A coastal schooner was the most unprofitable way imaginable to move cargo, and for years there had been little cargo to move.
Where had the dream gone?
****
"Good news," said Sam at supper on board the Virginia as he flattened a baked potato on his plate with the palm of his hand. "We can tie up the Virginia to a dock for the next few weeks; you won't have to be coming and going in the yawl-boat. I expect you'll like that," he added.
Laura picked up his napkin and handed it to him.
"I see it, girl," he said, annoyed.
Billy and Neil exchanged smiles; it was back to normal at the supper table.
"The dockage is free, of course," Sam continued, slathering his potato with oleomargarine.
"How did you manage that?" asked Laura.
He shrugged. "One of the Rainbow crew knows someone who knows someone. We'll move the Virginia tomorrow morning before the wind comes up. You'll have to keep an eye on her, though; put out a breast hook if it blows from the north. I don't want her bashing up against the dock."
"Good Lord, Sam, you act as if I don't own half interest in the Virginia. I'm not a hired hand, you know," she said, smiling because they'd been kept apart for a week while he trained, and she did miss him.
"That's as may be. Just keep a weather eye, is all I say. I'll be out on the Sound, practicin'. It's not as though I can excuse myself from the company and fly back under my own wings to help you."
When they were first married Sam and Laura used to joke about the Virginia as if she were a well-loved but troublesome offspring who had to be watched every minute. Later Laura's maternal instincts became naturally centered on her son, and she came to regard the boat as simply a constant source of worry. But Sam's tender attitude toward the Virginia had not changed. To him the schooner would forever be a lovely, strong, but rather dim-witted child. Laura was often jealous of the boat, sometimes for her own account, sometimes for Neil's.
But Laura was nothing if she was not diligent. "That boat is as safe with me as if it were an uncut diamond locked in a bank vault," she said with her chin set.
"It's true, Dad," chimed in Neil. "Billy says Mama's practically as strong as he is and a lot smarter about the boat, don't you, Bill?"
Billy, blond and gentle, nodded vigorously and added, "I ain't the only one. Ask anyone on Long Wharf. Everyone knows about Laura."
Laura colored and said, "I guess you mean that as a compliment. Now—if you boys have had your fill of America's Cup gossip and can stop talking nonsense, maybe you'll take the time to listen: isn't that a school of snappers I hear circling the Virginia?"
Neil's eyes opened wide. "By gosh, it is! Get our poles, Bill! I'll bring my dory around!" Neil made a dash for the companionway while his boy-uncle charged forward toward the forecastle.
An amiable reflective silence followed. Then Laura laid her knife and fork across her empty plate as if she were dining at the Ritz—as if she would not be pumping saltwater shortly from a leaky hand pump in the galley to wash the dishes with—and said in a soft voice, "It's warm tonight. Why don't we have our coffee on the quarter-deck?"
"Ay," said Sam, instantly responding to the invitation in her voice. "And bring what's left of the brandy. A bit of a celebration is in order, I'd say."
They settled in on the starboard side of the wheel, Sam with his arm around his wife. "Pretty frock," he said in a quiet voice. "New?"
"For me, anyway," Laura answered. She'd found the dress, a cool cotton summer print, in a second-hand shop on Broadway. She stuck out one leg in front of her. "Like my sandals? On sale, forty-nine cents."
"Hmn, not the most practical footwear. So what ye you been up to, girl, besides spending my money? You well know what I've been at—pushups and sail practice. Damn if them fellers don't know how to take all the fun out of sailing. I never figured it'd be like this, somehow."
"Like what?"
"Like—work. You sign up figurin' to go racing in one of the biggest, fastest boats in the world, and it ends up you feel damn near like you're workin' in a ditch. Same damn thing every damn day: changing jibs, setting spinnakers, tacking and jibing, round and round and round the same buoys. 'Course, the money's good, and the crew are good Maine men. No doubt things will turn exciting when the final trial races begin on the twenty-second; it should be hot and heavy between us and Yankee over who gets to defend the Cup. But for now—well, there's not enough romance in it."
"Romance!" cried Laura, amused. "Since when do you care about romance? I suppose there's more romance in hauling freight?
He buried his face in the curve of her shoulder. "I'd say so," he said, nuzzling her. "For one thing, it's your own boat. You're lord of the sea—until she decides to kick your ass, leastways. No meshing gears with a couple dozen men—is that new perfume? What was I sayin'? Ayuh. Romance ... there's lots of it on the Virginia ...."
In the deepening twilight he kissed her, a kiss rich with yearning and simple desire. Laura was young, a woman, with needs of her own; she could not resist. He expected her not to resist.
Still, she went through the motions. When he said, "Let's go below," she answered faintly, "The boys will be back any time .... How will it look?"
"They know better than to knock on our door. And I don't give a damned hoot, anyway. You're my wife," he said, kissing the little hollow at the base of her throat.
"Neil's at an impressionable age ... he'll be embarrassed ... everything embarrasses him nowadays ...."
"Long as he don't walk in on us, he'll be fine. My folks used a blanket for a wall ... didn't bother me none ...."
Laura resisted a little while longer, afraid of herself, afraid for Neil, but Sam pressed and finally they went below. When they made love it was not with the abandon of the week earlier; Laura was far too much on her guard. Sam, too, seemed a little restrained. Afterward he told her that they would have to get to know one another all over again.
"Every week it'll be like starting over. I reckon it'll keep the marriage fresh," he said contentedly, folding his arms behind his head as he lay on his back, stretched out and relaxed.
Laura was already scrambling for her clothes, afraid that Neil might arrive. "Are you just going to lie there naked?" she said, wondering. "You know Neil will want to show off his catch."
"I can see fine without pants," Sam said amiably.
"You're hopeless!" she said. "You have absolutely no natural modesty."
"Modesty ain't natural."
She scooped up his trousers and tossed them over his crotch. "If I have to dress you like a baby, I will," she threatened.
"Geezuz, girl, you never let up. It's like you're in your change of life."
"I feel as if we're all in a change of life. Neil will never be a baby again, and I'll never be naive, and even you—well, you. Who can say about you?" she asked with a smile of good-natured exasperation.
"I'll never change."
"For sure."
When they were dressed Neil returned and they duly admired his catch. Neil and Billy settled down amidships to gut the small pan fish. Sam, feeling companionable, brought a frayed manila hawser down below and began the slow, hard process of splicing the damaged section, while Laura sewed on half a dozen buttons torn off her husband's shirts and pants. A kerosene lamp flickered over the table at which they both sat, dancing off the browns and golds of Laura's hair and highlighting the gray-white hairs of her husband's shaggy head.
Sam shoved aside a vase of cut wildflowers and opened his ditty bag wide, poking around in it until he found his heavy leather sewing palm. "Dang it," he muttered. "The palm needs restitching. How can I use it to finish off the whipping on the hawser?" he asked rather helplessly, looking at his wife with a forlorn air.
Laura sighed. "Give me the palm. I'll stitch it up for you while you finish your splice."
He flashed her a grateful grin. "We're a team, ain't we, girl?"
"No, we ain't," she answered, looking severe. "Not unless you at least try to straighten up your language."
"Best give up that dream, Laura," he said softly, without looking at her. "I am what I am."
She had begun to drag a length of linen twine through a ball of wax before threading it through a large sailmaker's needle. Now she paused and stared thoughtfully across the width of the heavily scarred pine cabin table at her husband: past fifty, a rock of a man still. Hopefully faithful, almost a homebody, with an unquenchable love of the sea and sailing. Hard-working in an inefficient way; all in all, a decent man. Her heart softened toward him: she could have done so much worse.
"I guess I don't really expect you to change," she said, taking his great, calloused, ham-fisted hand in hers. "But you must understand that I'm not yet thirty. I am changing. I feel so restless .... How can I sit idly on the Virginia, twiddling my thumbs, while you go off on the challenge of a lifetime?"
"It's a very short challenge, girl, a few weeks at most," he pointed out. "You have nothing to occupy yourself until then?"
Laura bit her lower lip as she traced the outlines of his massive knuckles with her forefinger. "As a matter of fact, a thought came to me when you said that the Virginia would be able to stay at a dock for the next several weeks. You know how people always gawk at the boat when she's tied up at a dock, as though she were a dinosaur from another age. Which of course she is. Anyway, I thought we—I—could arrange some sort of dancing parties on board, with simple refreshments. I could charge not too much per person, and people love to see the harbor lights, and I could hang lanterns all around—"
"Nothing doing. I won't have a bunch of drunks tearing up the boat while I'm away," Sam said gruffly.
"Drunks! I meant punch or iced tea, that's all. It would be during the early hours. Billy could play the concertina. And if it makes you feel better, maybe I could hire someone as a sort of—guard."
"And where's your profits in that case?" he asked, the down-easter in him suddenly joining the conversation.
"I can do it, then?" she cried, holding his hand tightly in both of hers. "Oh, Sam—you won't be sorry!"
****
The Virginia was tied securely to the docks, spruced up and ready for a party. After a week of grueling work, her superstructure was a sparkling blend of polished brass, crisp white trim, and soothing pale-green decking. Almost at once word of Laura's project had made it around the docks. Some of the fishermen, usually a stand-offish lot, had came round to offer cast-off material, advice, or, joking, their "lazy, good-for-nothin'" wives. Late in the week one of the men, semi-retired and a self-appointed "wharf rat," had actually brought a plate of oatmeal cookies which he claimed his wife made. He wasn't married, everyone knew that; but Laura had smiled gratefully and stored his offering below.
The dancing was to take place on the deck area between the masts; the deck forward of that, still shabby and unpainted, was roped off. Small old wood chairs, all of them newly acquired and many of them newly glued, lined the bulwarks port and starboard. A deal table covered in blue gingham and holding a large bowl of punch was tucked between the Virginia's two oak water barrels mounted just forward of the cabin house. The rigging was laced with pretty lanterns, which Laura had fashioned from empty gallon paint buckets she'd done up in bright colors and drilled holes through to let out pinpoints of candlelight. All of the material had been begged, borrowed, or possibly—Laura did not always inquire—stolen.
Two anchor lamps, their fresnel lenses magnifying the small kerosene flames inside, hung on each side of the boarding steps which Billy had banged together from scraps of wood. In the August twilight the Virginia looked like what she wasn't: a young and pretty debutante decked out in diamonds, waiting breathlessly to see how popular she was.
Laura was in her best dress, of peach-colored rayon with flowing bell-sleeves and a round-cut neckline which showed her slender neck and shoulders to advantage. She wore no jewelry but had tucked a white rose in her hair, filched from the garden of one of the colonial houses on the Point. Perhaps she was overdressed; she didn't know. Maybe no one would come, in which case what she wore would make no difference.
The signs she had posted around the waterfront announced that the music would begin at eight o'clock sharp. Billy was at his station, ready with the concertina; Laura was ready to strike up the band. Neil was standing (not very still) at his post, ready to wash out glasses for reuse. Everyone was ready.
Eight o'clock came and went; no one showed. Laura glanced repeatedly up the dock toward Thames Street. A strange quiet prevailed.
"Play something nice, Billy," she said nervously. "Maybe they need a special invitation."
Billy thought for a moment, then launched into his best nice song, "The Ballad of Dying Lily." The dirgeful wail of the concertina lifted and fell—Billy could make the thing cry—while Laura made a fuss of adjusting one of the paint-bucket lanterns.
What an idiot idea this was, she thought. Sam will laugh me off the boat when he hears.
"Evening, Mrs. Powers."
Laura swung around. It was the wharf rat, Jake Patchers, standing at the newly constructed steps. Thin hair slicked down, Sunday vest, and—horrors!—a white rose, identical to the one in Laura's hair, stuck into his lapel. "Permission to come aboard?"
He was, after all, a warm body. Laura resisted the urge to laugh out loud at the dimensions of her disaster, and welcomed him aboard. "Please do, Mr. Patchers. I'm so glad you could come."
She led him to the refreshments and they chatted painfully about the weather as he munched freely on his own cookies.
"Now, I don't know a whole lot about shipboard dances," he finally ventured timidly, covering his mouth with his hand as he cleared his throat, "but mightn't it be livelier all around if Billy played something, you know, danceable?"
Shrugging, Laura went up to Billy, who was whispering the lyrics of poor dying Lily to himself as his eyes filled with tears, and said, "Play something sassy, Bill. Anything but Dying Lily."
Billy looked offended—he was an artist, after all—but dutifully switched gears and launched into a rousing version of Fat Annie's Fat, Fat Fanny."
Laura returned to Mr. Patchers, held up her arms, and said, "Will you dance with me, sir?"
They joined company and it turned out that Mr. Patchers possessed a very respectable sense of rhythm. Laura began to enjoy herself as they whirled and twirled while Billy tapped his foot to the beat and Neil, amazed to see his mother in the arms of another man, watched wide-eyed. When the dance ended, Laura dropped into a deep, laughing curtsy which sent Mr. Patchers into a minor convulsion of blushing and stammering. She stood up, and there was applause. A small group of—customers?—stood eagerly on the dock, ready to dance, ready to pay. There were at least one two three four five six. Six! If no one else showed, she'd consider the evening a howling success.