February arrived with an unusual stillness to the air and warmth to the sun. To add to that rare gift, Ida looked out to see Henry coming up the track on his bicycle, singing. What was that song? Not “Arkansas Traveler.” Not “Shenandoah.” It blew across the still air with the tempo of a rollicking sea chanty, but just as Ida recognized the tune—Buffalo Gals, won’t you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight —the song broke off hard as Henry neared the door, and it occurred to Ida that there was something private about Henry’s singing, something he held to himself that was not to be invaded. But he’d come on a mission. Or rather two missions. First he held out the photograph of his father.
Ida took the photo and studied it. Henry’s father stood to the left of two others, one arm extended to lean against an old apple tree, one leg crossed over the other. She noted the fair hair, like Henry’s, the dark eyes, like Henry’s, the long nose balanced by the high cheekbones, also like Henry’s. She took note of the same long torso, the same narrow hips, but something more workmanlike in the father’s legs. Ida had never attempted a portrait from a photograph before, but she’d have help with this one; she need only look at Henry.
“I’ll try,” she said.
Henry exhaled happily.
“Now to my next question. West Chop Light. By bicycle. It’s only a mile and a half, a flat shell road with few houses along it.” He appeared ready to say more but Ida was already off for the stairs. She changed into her shortened skirt and warmest jacket, adding hat, mittens, scarf. Sun or no sun, it was still February.
They rode side by side, away from town, Henry keeping a wheel’s distance back to allow Ida to set her pace. They passed sun-and-salt-bleached grass and farmhouses closed down tight against February, their chimneys puffing translucent smoke. They passed the occasional wagon or carriage, and Ida noted the bend in the necks as the occupants struggled to identify the odd pair out recreating in winter. Ida wobbled, of course, but grew steadier as she rode, feeling her muscles and her nerves and yes, her balance; feeling the sun and the air and the pure joy of it.
At the lighthouse they stopped to rest, leaning against the sun-warmed lee side. They didn’t speak, Ida content in the silence—so oddly content in the presence of this little-known man who felt so known. That contentment lasted until she looked at Henry’s profile.
“What do you think of so intently?” she asked.
Henry shook out a smile. “How nice it is.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think it nice?”
“I don’t think that’s what you’re thinking.”
Henry said nothing for a time. “The lawyer handling the estate is compiling papers,” he tried. “But I must urge patience. It may take some time.”
“Mr. Littlefield warned me. But you don’t mean to pretend that pondering estate lawyers’ papers has turned you so glum.”
“I’m married,” Henry burst out.
“I know that. And I can’t think why you feel it necessary—”
“My wife’s in Newport with another man.”
Well, Ida didn’t know that.
“I’m to go there and discover them so she can get a divorce. Apparently Newport is the place one goes for that.”
“But you don’t want to go?”
Henry paused. “I confess I didn’t want a divorce. I don’t know why. It hasn’t been . . . happy. It just seems to me people should keep their promises. But I suppose when there are no promises left to keep—” He fell silent.
Ida thought of the woman who’d wanted her portrait painted in the “Sargent style,” who attributed Ida’s artistic accomplishments to nothing more than an abundance of free time. She’d taken no liking to her, but she couldn’t say that now, didn’t dare say that now, especially not while the sight of Henry’s anguished face, of his careful hands retying his scarf, caused a physical pain somewhere just above her breastbone.
“Sometimes it’s hard to give up what one knows for something one doesn’t,” she said.
Henry swung around to face her. “Like Boston? You’re thinking of Boston. Or . . . of course. You’re speaking of Ezra.”
“I’m speaking of your wife.” All right, yes, her tone was . . . well, a tone. Ezra was right about that. She pondered this, then added, “I wonder if I’d ever have found the nerve to leave Ezra.”
“Divorce isn’t an easy thing to accomplish.”
“Leaving is.”
Henry swiveled to stare at her.
“I only mean to say, thinking to myself that is, thinking of myself, that at the basest level, what could be easier? You open the door and walk through it. But of course I’ve already admitted to the thing I lacked in order to open that door. Nerve.”
“And then there’s the question of what you would do for food and clothing and shelter. Thinking of yourself, that is.”
“Well, yes. That. It turns out I was better positioned in that regard before my marriage.”
“And if there are children—”
Well, of course. How foolish of Ida not to guess that. “How many?” she asked.
“Two girls.” Henry looked out at the February sea and could not have been warmed by the sight. Ida shivered. Beside her, Henry felt it and jackknifed away from the lighthouse wall.
“You’re cold.” He began to remove his coat, but Ida waved him still. She didn’t want his coat. She didn’t want Henry.
That night Ida felt parts of her legs she didn’t know she owned; she woke to the throb and stayed awake to the rest of it—Henry, married Henry, with a wife he was reluctant to divorce, a wife Ida doubted he would divorce. And two children. But what did it matter to Ida? She was a new widow still attempting to grieve for her husband; she had no business riding around the island with a married man. She had no business accepting the loan of his wife’s bicycle.
So Ida decided the thing in the middle of the night—neatly, painlessly—and woke in the morning again thinking of Henry. She didn’t understand all that it was that drew her, what it was that had drawn her to him that first day when he’d arrived at the gallery with his wife. With his wife. Did she hear herself? But why shouldn’t her mind return again and again to that day, that day of her first exhibit at the Guild, that day Mr. Morris had told her she’d gotten it just right, that day a stranger had called her work extraordinary . . .
Yes, there was that. But in truth he might have finished that sentence in any number of ways: Extraordinary the way that painting says nothing. Extraordinary the way a prominent subject can get a third-rate work into a prestigious gallery. Extraordinary the way the ground overtakes the whole, no matter that Mr. Morris had decreed it just right. Ida knew nothing of Henry’s views on art. She knew nothing of Henry. But even so, she couldn’t picture any of those words escaping his mouth. Even so, he’d told her to paint the next Russell, which told Ida that even if he knew nothing about art, he knew something about artists. He knew something about her.
And he was married. And Ida was newly widowed. Enough of it.
Ida got out the bicycle the next morning and rode it into town to return it to Henry, return it to his wife, but she couldn’t help relishing that last moment of freedom. Before their marriage Ezra had spoken, not only of “his” farm, but of “his” horse and carriage. In truth it was Ruth’s horse and carriage, and Ruth had not proved amenable to lending it; if Ida wanted to go anywhere she walked, another strong contribution to her sense of feeling trapped. The freedom Ida felt now, with the two simple wheels under her, drew her to ride past the salvage company and out along the beach road, feeling everything ease in her as she felt the pull in her muscles, the wind against her face. She hadn’t realized how trapped, how strangled she’d felt until these few moments when she was free of it. Until she was about to lose the bicycle.
Ida turned around. Back in town she saw that the Addie Todd had still not risen from the sea, and a group of workmen who should have been on the salvage lighter now stood idly on shore. She pulled up alongside the beach and wandered over; again, Chester Luce was among the crowd and she approached him as she had before; she imagined (or did she?) that he looked at her differently this time, but she refused to let it divert her.
“A dispute with the owners over funds,” Luce explained. “They don’t want to leave in case word comes that it’s been resolved, but they don’t want to work if they won’t get paid.”
Ida turned around to head back to her bicycle but behind her she heard a shout. She turned again and saw John Cottle stride up to George Amaral where he stood at the edge of the group, clamp a hand on his shoulder, and haul him around.
“I told you, Amaral, you keep your wife out of my kitchen.”
“And I told you, Cottle, my wife can go where she wants.”
“And say what she wants?”
“And damn well say what she wants.” Ida edged closer. This was George Amaral, the man who’d tried to shush his wife at Ezra’s funeral?
“You want them voting, is that what you’re telling me?”
Amaral laughed. “Never happen.”
“Oh, you think not, do you? Have you heard your wife?”
“I’ve heard her. And it looks like you think more of her talents than I do.”
“I think plenty about her talents. She’s got my wife yapping at me across the dinner table, enough to curdle my chowder. This from a woman who never dared a cross word to me in all our marriage. What are you thinking, man? Letting your wife’s mouth run like that? You put a stop to it, or I will.”
George Amaral took a step closer to Cottle. “Are you threatening my wife?”
“I’m protecting my home! My peace! My—” Cottle lifted his head and saw Ida. “And what are you glaring at? Are you one of those too? One of those sufferages?”
“I’m one of those who believes a wife should be free to speak without her husband’s permission,” Ida said. “Just as you should be free to speak without hers.”
George Amaral pivoted to face Ida. He didn’t look all that thrilled with her defense, if that’s what it was, and after that one quick look to put the face to the voice he turned back to Cottle. “You leave my wife alone.” He strode off.
Cottle hollered after him. “That’s what I’m saying! You leave my wife alone!”
That’s done it, thought Ida, as every head in the group behind them swung around—Mrs. Cottle’s reputation ruined, and Rose Amaral about to become the victim of those patronizing whispers that always drift after a woman but never before her. She would have tea with Rose, she decided. Soon.
But Cottle wasn’t yet through. As he turned back to the group of men on the beach it appeared that not a few were laughing at him, picking up on Amaral’s theme of women’s suffrage as a doomed cause. It took less than a minute for Cottle’s hackles to rise once more. He poked the nearest sniggering gentleman in the back. “Can you count, Chidwell?”
“Can I count!”
“Utah. Idaho. Colorado. Wyoming. Women vote in all those states already. If we don’t watch out, we’ll be peeling the potatoes while our wives are out running the country.” He whirled on Ida. “What are you smiling about? You think any bunch of fools can run the United States government?”
“They’ve done it before.” More shouts, more laughs, again at Cottle’s expense.
So Ida had made no friend that day.
Ida returned to her bicycle, thoughts back on salvage now. Henry wasn’t in the office but his bicycle was; she recalled he’d mentioned inventorying the warehouse and tried there next, but still no Henry. She stood in the door and looked around; some order had risen from disorder, items now grouped into categories, unclaimed salvaged items separated from salvage equipment. Ida went over to the salvage equipment and poked around, wondering if the salvage company on the beach might want to purchase it, but she didn’t see much of anything that could possibly be worth anything. She was about to leave when she paused; why didn’t she see much of anything worth anything? For example, where was Mose’s dive suit? Ida rolled her eyes toward the ceiling; the salvage equipment was on the Cormorant, of course.
Ida left the warehouse, returned to the office, and climbed the stairs to the apartment. From outside the door she could hear singing:
Hot is the lava tide that pours
Adown Vesuvius’ mountain
And hot the stream that bubbles out
From Iceland’s gushing fountain.
And hot the boy’s ears boxed for doing
That which he hadn’t oughter,
But hotter still the love I feel
For Squire Jones’s daughter.
Ida rested her forehead against the door and listened until the song ended before knocking. When Henry opened the door her face inexplicably heated; being inside a single man’s apartment sat high on her mother’s things one never does list. Soon enough though she was distracted by how much the apartment had changed; or more precisely, how much it had been cleaned: no dust and dirt and mouse droppings, no clothes festooning the chairs, no stray boots on the kitchen table; a kettle actually simmered on the tiny stove and an attenuated gray tiger cat skirted the perimeter of the room. Curiously, a newspaper image of the Newburgh impaling the Union Wharf had been tacked to the wall.
Henry pointed to the cat. “I lured her in with a piece of bacon. I’m now down four mice.” He pointed again. The lower right-hand light on the pane of windows nearest the door had been knocked out and a thick piece of canvas hung over it. “So she can come and go as she pleases.”
“You’re really settling in.”
Henry peered at her. “This makes for a difficulty?”
“No. No. I saw you’d sorted the warehouse and thought you might be finishing up, moving on.”
“I’ve barely begun to sort the warehouse.”
“I didn’t see Mose’s dive gear. It would be on the Cormorant?”
“I’m sure.”
“That burned boat may not be worth the expense of raising, but what of the gear?” Ida explained about the lull in the Addie Todd project. “Maybe they could use another job to fill in the time. We could give them a percentage of the salvage.” She had learned something from Ezra, after all.
Henry insisted they take their bicycles to cross the street and coast down the single block to the shore, but since it was likely Ida’s last ride, she didn’t argue. They transacted the deal in fifteen minutes, a half-and-half split, settled on a handshake between Henry and Morgan, while Ida, the one whose idea it was, stood aside and watched with her hands hanging limp. When they returned to the bicycles, Henry pointed the other way, toward the beach road, and again Ida didn’t argue.
They rode all the way to Cottage City, the smooth concrete roads a treat after the rougher going in Vineyard Haven. On the way back they stopped to rest on the lee side of a dune, against a piece of a wrecked dory no doubt washed up there during the gale.
“Oliver on your mind?” Henry asked, pointing to Ida’s boot, which had begun to dig its own hole in the sand.
“You’re the big expert, digging yourself all those holes. Or so you said.”
Henry began to dig his own hole in silence. It was that silence that drew Ida to persist.
“What holes have you dug yourself into, Mr. Barstow?”
Without looking up, Henry spewed out one long string: a certain night at Duffy’s with Mose; another night at Duffy’s with Mose; a trip on the Cormorant in a storm; the carriage shop; the job of executor; he supposed he should now include his marriage . . . He stopped digging and looked hard at Ida. “But no, I can’t consider the job of executor as a hole.” He stood up and held out a hand for Ida.
They rode back, Henry leading the way, continuing past the shop and up the hill to Ida’s, which meant that she couldn’t return the bicycle unless they rode back to the shop and Ida walked home. Ida pictured the scene: her pushing the bike at Henry, Henry pushing it back, an argument igniting; Ida had enjoyed the afternoon too much to end it in argument. If life with Ezra had taught her one thing it was that another day for arguing was always around the corner.