She knew when she woke up that Barry hadn’t been in bed all night. It wasn’t the first time that he’d slept in damp blankets in the little cuddy of his boat; he’d come home with a streaming cold, and be sheepish and sorry. The sun was shining, and a strong wind tore at the tree tops and sent the slaty clouds bellying along. The restless brilliance of the day penetrated the house, and Vanessa was affected as cats and children are. Stimulated by the prospect of Barry’s repentance, she felt a powerful urge to clean and cook. When he showed up she would have a proper meal ready, hot water for a bath, clean clothes. The Bennett’s Island myth would have dissolved overnight, and would never be mentioned again.
She made a chowder with the haddock, and baked a custard pie. Then she began to tidy the bedroom. Its shabbiness offended her today, and she decided to take some of the saved-up rent money and buy paint and new curtains. As she filled a box with rubbish, the old-fashioned doorbell jangled in the kitchen, and she left off with annoyance; she wanted to work fast and hard until she was finished, she couldn’t bear to be interrupted. In a rage she ran through the front hall and pulled open the front door. Mr. Burrage was on the doorstep.
Her rage went as they smiled at one another and exclaimed “Good morning!” Mentally she reviewed the house behind her; silence from Mooney’s room, Brig long since stumbled out in search of breakfast, the roomers quiet upstairs. “Come into the kitchen,” she invited “You’re just in time for a cup of coffee.” She hoped Barry wouldn’t show up in the middle of the visit, looking as if he’d been dragged through a knot-hole.
“No coffee, Mrs. Barton,” the lawyer said as he followed her down the hall. “I can’t stay long enough. . . . These old places smell, no matter how well you take care of them, don’t they? But this was a great house in its day.”
“It still is for me,” said Vanessa. “It’s still the most elegant house in Limerock. Won’t you sit down?”
“Only for a moment.” He was graying and soldierly, with a shrewd youthful eye and a taste in clothes that always gave her pleasure and a sense of luxury. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed, “how do you stand this kitchen? “
She laughed. “I’m very fond of it. It has real charm. I was never in love with these modern kitchens, they look too cold and heartless.”
He seemed preoccupied as he offered her a cigarette and lit it. “How’s your husband doing?”
“Pretty well. The lobsters are starting to come now. But better than that, he’s got a chance to go out on one of the Universal Sea foods draggers.”
“Fine, fine! Nice chap, Barry.”
“How about a piece of fresh custard pie?” she asked.
“No, no, I couldn’t.” With an air of having suddenly come to a decision, he crushed out his cigarette. “Mrs. Barton, I don’t like the news I’m bringing, because I know how much you love this house But change comes to all of us, and you’re young, so it’s good for you, and necessary.”
She felt a sick shivering in her and couldn’t control her facial muscles; she felt that her chin was shaking and her mouth loose as she faced him. “It’s about the huh—huh—” She could not say house. She could only try, and hate him for his obvious pity as he took the word away from her.
“Yes, the house. The estate has sold this land and the parcel across the street. The house will be torn down, and new buildings put up, four-apartment houses. If you’d like, I’ll give your name to the new owner so you can get one of the flats—they’ll be moderate in rent.”
The kitchen was quiet, and yet his words seemed to come through a great deal of interference. “You have two weeks’ notice,” he went on. “I wish it could be longer, but I heard about this only yesterday. The heirs conducted the business in Boston,” he said dryly. He stood up. “If I were you I’d waste no time getting settled somewhere else, at least until the new places are ready. It’s not pleasant to see anything old knocked down—a tree, a house, or a man.” He touched her arm lightly. “I’ll let myself out, and you’d better have that coffee.”
She was humiliated to think that she looked upset. “Oh, I was just thinking of my lodgers,” she said airily. She walked down the hall with him. “They’ll survive, I imagine. They were getting to be a bother, anyway.”
She said goodbye like a hostess and went back to sit by the kitchen table, her knees drawn up and her body hunched over them as if to shelter a deep pain. She tried to think, but she could not. Wherever she looked she saw something to push her mind further into chaos. She was aware of a great formless fury, like a black cloud mass blotting out light and landscape, directed against the company of destroyers and murderers. Distantly she heard someone rap at the kitchen door. She didn’t move, and heard footsteps going away, and a mutter of voices; Brenda going to work had just encountered Mooney on the way out, and they would walk up Water Street together, unaware.
She was still sitting there when Barry came in. He stood by the table looking down at her. “You sick?” he said finally.
“Cramps.”
“Oh.” He waited, and she gazed at his rubber boots. Now she felt neither kindness nor hatred for him. After a moment of silence he said politely, “Well, I don’t like to bother you when you don’t feel good, but I’m going out to Bennett’s Island on the mail boat tomorrow. If you want to come along with me or on the next boat, I’ll be pleased to have you. If you don’t want to, I’m going anyway.”
“All right,” she murmured. The boots moved away from the table toward the sink, and she knew by the sounds that he was stripping to the waist to wash and shave. This calm and positive Barry wasn’t the man she’d expected home, but by now she was too numb to be affronted. Let him go, she thought, let him go, and for an instant she was dazzled by the old vision of all the hours in the day completely hers. Then she remembered that the house was dying, and she had nowhere to go. She stared at Barry’s back as he leaned over the sink, splashing cold water onto his skin. She wouldn’t even have the rents now. She swallowed and swallowed, trying to raise enough saliva to wet her throat, so that her voice would not creak rustily.
“I’ve been thinking all night, Barry. I think I’d like to go out there.” Any faint quaver could have been caused by the cramps.
He stopped splashing and was motionless, still bent over the sink. “Change comes to all of us,” she said. “Sometimes it’s good for us, and necessary.” Her long mouth twisted. “I’ve got lazy, that’s all.”
He straightened up, reaching for the towel, and dried his head. His face was flushed and happy. “You won’t be sorry, Van, I promise you! Kee-rist! I haven’t been this happy since I was ten years old and got my first skiff!”
And you look about ten, she thought in contempt. She shut her eyes and he said penitently, “Hey, I forgot about your guts-ache. I’ll fix you a good hot cup of tea. Want something in it? Mooney’s always got a bottle—”
“He’s gone out. No tea, Barry, thanks. I guess I’ll go lie down a while and plan out what I have to do.”