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“Wouldn’t you two be more comfortable, each in your own bed?” Phillipe said, waking the cuddled twosome at sunrise.
“Perhaps we should retire to the barn,” Marin said, winking at Opaline.
Opaline gave him a playful, soft slap on the face, stood up, gathered her things and went to her room. Marin re-stoked the fire and rebuilt it into a healthy flame, while Phillipe put the kettle on and began to prepare breakfast.
“What are we having?” Marin asked.
“I am making ham and eggs for Phoebe, Jude and myself. Would you like for me to make enough for you and Opaline as well?”
“Make a double helping for me, if you would, Phillipe. I haven’t eaten in a while,” Marin said.
“I take it all went according to ...whatever your plans were.”
“Yes, we have things squared away.”
“I see, speaking of which, why did you lie to me ...and why would she go all the way to Providence to buy—”
“I didn’t lie to you, and why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?” Marin interjected.
“I wanted to make sure that you knew,” Phillipe said with a satisfied smile.
“Phillipe, before you get too involved in preparing breakfast, I have some sobering news that I must share with you,” Marin said. He pulled out the transcription Emily had given him and held it out to Phillipe.
Phillipe gave it a suspicious look, accepted the document, and sat down to read it.
Jude Prince came to a halt before entering the kitchen and bellowed out, “AYE, CAPTAIN! WELCOME HOME.”
Marin put a single finger to his lips and turned his attention back to Phillipe.
After Phillipe had finished reading the document, he sat staring at it as if he were looking into a deep pool of water.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“Emily copied the letter and gave it to me.”
Phillipe read the letter again as Marin and Jude stood silently by. After a while, Phillipe began tapping his fingers on the table. He looked up and appealed to Marin.
“What does all this mean? What are we to do? And what do they mean by, ‘First Mate Erik Carpenter’?”
Marin took the note from the table and handed it to Mister Prince. “I don’t know any more than you do, Phillipe.”
“Should we go to Boston?” Phillipe asked.
Marin didn’t answer, but turned his attention to Mister Prince. When Jude had finished reading the letter, he looked up at Marin and Phillipe, both obviously awaiting comment.
“This is a hell-uv-a way to start a Thursday morning,” Jude remarked. “But I’m afraid you may not have time to venture off to Boston.” he added.
“What news is this?” Marin asked.
“The Magister Maris should be back in harbor as soon as tomorrow.”
“What?” Marin said, surrendering most of his breath, “How can that be? Is Mister Oscar aware of this?”
“Yes sir. Mister Oscar and I visited dry dock together, and we were told the Magister Maris would be finished with repairs by tomorrow.”
“And what did Mister Oscar say?”
“I believe his words were, ‘That’s fucking impossible’.”
“What in the name of Neptune are their intensions?” Marin asked, receiving the letter back from Jude.
“So then, her intentions were honorable, after all.” Phillipe said.
“What are you talking about, Phillipe?” Marin asked.
“Emily. Her motives were purely platonic.”
“Not purely,” Marin confessed.
“Aaah, so there’s more to the story,” Jude coaxed, “and did the young lady offer the captain her chest of hidden treasures?”
Marin shot a challenging glance toward Jude and caught sight of someone coming up behind him. Jude, sensing a presence, stepped into the kitchen, revealing Opaline, standing firm with her arms crossed in front of her.
“There’s someone at the door,” Phoebe called from the foyer. “I’m so glad you’re back, Ma’am,” she said to Opaline, as Opaline breezed past her on the way to the door.
The three men listened to the stream of murmurs coming from the foyer. Opaline came back to the kitchen accompanied by a buttoned-up gentleman holding a folded piece of paper in one hand and a briefcase in the other.
“Good morning, gentleman. My name is James Winton Bailey. I am an Officer of the Court of the City of Newport, Rhode Island. I have in my hand a summons for a Mister Marin Carpenter.”
“That would be me,” Marin said, stepping forward and reaching out for the summons. “What is this all about?”
Mister Bailey first explained that a Mister Talmadge Berry has filed suit against Marin and had requested a change of venue from the city of Warwick to the city of Newport; he then asked if Marin had any objections to the change. Marin gave a slight shake of his head. Mister Bailey then unfolded the document and read from it.
“You are hereby summoned to appear before the Magistrate Court of Newport, Rhode Island at Ten o’clock in the morning hour of Monday the Twenty-Third of December in the year of Our Lord, Eighteen-Hundred and Eleven, to face damages on the charges of Assault and Battery being brought forth against you by a Mister Talmadge Berry. You are advised to bring forth any documents or witnesses to support your defense against the charges.” He handed the document to Marin, gave a polite bow and said, “I can find my way out.”
Phillipe and Jude, standing wax figure still, stared at Marin. Opaline came to his side and scanned through the document.
“Is that ham and eggs I smell?” asked Phoebe.
“Oh dear,” blurted Phillipe, scurrying to the hearth to tend to the ham and eggs. “Assault and Battery?” Phillipe flung at Marin, while stirring the ham and eggs.
“What’s battery?” Phoebe asked Jude.
Without providing a great deal of detail, Marin explained the incident in Warwick, and noted everyone’s reaction. Phillipe seemed more concerned with the ham and eggs; Opaline pulled herself close to Marin’s side; Jude mumbled something unpleasant.
Phoebe, crossing one arm over her breasts while covering her lower torso with the other, asked Marin, “You hit him because he called Opaline a whore?” and she backed out of the kitchen like an oft punished and frightened child. “I’m a whore,” she uttered, as if surrendering any right to human dignity, and hurried toward the bedroom.
Opaline was quicker than Jude to follow Phoebe into the bedroom, closing the door behind them before Jude could enter.
Phoebe sat on the edge of the bed crying and muttering, “If I were called a whore, no one would have cause to defend me,” she sobbed.
“Phoebe, listen to me,” Opaline pleaded, kneeling before her. “No man has a right to sling the stones of sexual shame at a woman. ‘Let him without sin be the first’ ...you know ...what Jesus said. Little they know, we have all punished ourselves enough.”
“But I am a whore,” Phoebe recited.
“And I have given it away for free,” Opaline declared. “What does that make me? I have teased men to their knees, and dangled my permission over them just to watch them squirm. And sometimes I have lent myself to them, but only for my own pleasure, not giving a whit for their own.”
Phoebe managed a smile and released brief chuckle. Opaline laid her head in Phoebe’s lap, and said, “And there was once a man I loved, but I never laid with him for fear of losing that control.”
Phoebe wove the fingers of her left hand through Opaline’s thick red hair.
“Whore is a terrible word, Phoebe, meant only to defame women. If you feel your behavior is shameful, change your behavior; I have had to change mine. Either way, stand proud and let no man define you.”
Marin had come to Jude’s side outside the door in time to hear most of Opaline’s tête-à-tête with Phoebe.
“BREAKFAST,” Phillipe yelled from the kitchen.
Jude and Marin turned and scurried toward the kitchen, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping.
Opaline opened the bedroom door in time to witness them slinking across the foyer; she couldn’t help but wonder how much they had heard.
Breakfast was mostly a quiet affair, with the exception of Phillipe’s cascade of inquiries, none garnering a single response. Opaline sat rummaging through everything she had recently said to Phoebe. If Marin had heard it, would it affect his proposal ...which she still had not accepted? Marin was preoccupied, tossing Opaline’s confession around in his head, and occasionally glancing across the table to see if anything had changed in the way he looks at her. Jude sat amid the turbulent silence wondering if he shouldn’t just bonk Marin over the head, kidnap him, and abscond to Martinique. Phoebe had stayed in the bedroom.
After Phillipe had grown tired of asking questions without response, he asked one more.
“Why didn’t Phoebe come to breakfast? Am I the only one who cares whether or not she is fed?” he huffed, and stormed out of the room.
“And we’re about to be cramped up in tight quarters with that one?” Jude asked of Marin.
After breakfast, Mister Prince stole away to find Mister Oscar. Opaline, tired from the long journey and the brief sleep on the hard floor in front of the hearth, sought out the comfort and solitude of her own bed for a mid-morning nap. Phillipe finally emerged from MaMa’s room long enough to make an incessantly hungry Phoebe a bowl of oatmeal with chopped nuts and raisins.
Marin was relaxing in the parlor, on the verge of nodding off, when he heard three knocks at the front door. He froze in place, afraid to stir; hoping someone else would answer it. Then came a series of four knocks, followed by an even quieter silence. Maybe they will just go away, he thought ...but no. An extended impatient rapping brought an aggravated sea captain out of his comfy chair, charging toward the door. He slung it open to find Mister Stacey Reynolds from the Department of the Navy standing ill at ease.
Marin steadied his composure and asked Mister Reynolds, “Why do you suppose it is, that the people who bring the worst news always knock the loudest?”
Mister Reynolds’ expression made it clear he had no intention of replying to the question.
“I suppose you want to come in...” Marin allowed. Mister Reynolds eased in through the opening just far enough for Marin to close the door behind him.
“I won’t take much of your time, Mister Carpenter, but there are a few things I need to discuss with you. Your ship, the...” and he paused.
“The Magister Maris,” Marin cued him.
“Yes ...the Magister Maris. She will be back in harbor tomorrow, December Twentieth, at eight a.m. The Navy is asking that you report dockside for her arrival. She will, at that time, be dressed in the emblems of the United States Navy, and she will fly the flag of the United States of America on her mainmast. She will take on cargo under the supervision of the United States Navy on Saturday, December the Twenty-First. There will be no manifest, and the holds will be secured, sealed and locked, not subject to inspection. This is standard procedure when the Navy hires a privateer. You and your crew will set sail for Passamaquoddy Bay on Sunday, December Twenty-Second, at eight a.m. Are there any questions?”
Marin aimed a steady eye on Mister Reynolds, and fired. “Questions. You want to know if I have any questions. Alright, here’s a question for you. Are you out of your fucking mind? Here is another one. What crew are you talking about? I don’t have a crew. Are you serious? Do you believe for a moment that a rag tag pack of sea dogs would sit around with a pocket full of lint, waiting to ship out into the North Atlantic in the dead of winter on a ship not fit to sail twenty miles over to Martha’s Vineyard? Those lads are long gone, Mister Reynolds, spending their Christmas basking on the beaches of the Bahamas. You are aware this coming Wednesday is Christmas, are you not? Not that I’m a Christian man, but I am beholdin’ to tradition.” Marin stepped around Mister Reynolds and opened the door, inviting him to leave. “Oh,” he added, “I also feel I should inform you, I will be busy this coming Monday answering to the charge of Assault and Battery, resulting from my absolute lack of patience with inconsiderate people.”
“Tomorrow morning, Captain Carpenter. Eight a.m.,” Mister Reynolds said, on his way out.
***
Jude Prince met up with Mister Oscar at The Red Boar Tavern. Mister Oscar had brought along a not so gentlemanly gentleman who called himself ‘Stitch’. Mister Prince had a way of keeping a suspecting eye on Stitch without so much as looking at him.
“Stitch is a demolition expert,” Mister Oscar whispered across the table to Jude.
“Demolishes stuff, does he?” Jude asked.
“He’s an explosion expert.”
“He blows things up, then?”
Mister Oscar nodded.
“So, your proposin’ that we blow ‘er up?” Jude asked, louder than he had intended.
Mister Oscar and Stitch both sat straight up and scanned the room in search of an unwelcome audience. “That’s not what I had in mind,” Mister Prince informed them, in a much more private voice. He glanced over at Stitch, held it for an attention gathering moment, and then turning back to Mister Oscar, he formed a circle with his index finger and thumb, closed one eye and looked through the aperture with other, saying, “A couple-a-holes would do the job.”
***
Phillipe sat in a chair beside MaMa’s bed, watching Phoebe nap. The shades were closed against an overcast day and the gas lantern had burned itself out. In the resulting darkness, it didn’t take much imagination for Phillipe to convert Phoebe’s covered up body and half-hidden face into a shadowed image of MaMa. Phillipe remembered crawling into bed with his MaMa on cold, windy, brumal nights, and a remnant of childhood fright crept up within him.
Succumbing to a mixture of grief, loneliness, and vulnerability, he kicked off his shoes, removed his pants and crawled into bed with Phoebe. Not wanting to destroy the illusion, he turned his back to her and spooned up against her warm motherly body. Phoebe reflexively wrapped her arm around - she knew not whom.
Marin took refuge in his father’s old room, wrapping himself, clothes and all, in an old quilt Maria had made with swaths of cloth from long discarded family fabric.
Outside, an elderly couple, huddled together against the wind, paused in front of the dark house with the fallen porch roof. The man turned to his wife and said, “With a little work, that could be quite the cozy family home.”
***
A rapping on the front door woke Phoebe from a deep sleep. Seeing the back of Phillipe’s head a breath away, she jerked back in alarm. She tried to stir him, but he pulled the covers up to his chin and curled into a fetal position in defiance. She wrapped herself in a robe and attended to the door.
“And who might you be?” asked Aunt Belle, scanning Phoebe from head to toe.
“I’m nobody,” trembled Phoebe, and shut the door in Aunt Belle’s face.
Aunt Belle began banging furiously on the door. Phoebe ran into the bedroom and roused a bleary-eyed Phillipe.
“There’s an old woman at the door and you’re going to have to answer it,” she said, crawling back under the covers.
Phillipe scuttled to the front door, and was startled to find a distraught Great Aunt Belle standing alone in the twilight, arms folded and her right foot tapping an impatient tempo.
“Aunt Belle. What ...what a surprise.”
“Where are your pants, Phillipe?” she asked, first things first.
“Oh,” he said, shame-faced. He scurried back to the bedroom to retrieve his britches with Aunt Belle quick on his heels.
When her eyes again met Phoebe’s, Phoebe threw the covers over her head and curled up in a ball. Phillipe was fumbling with his pants, seemingly unsure which leg went where, as Aunt Belle turned and went back into the foyer.
“Where is Marin?” she demanded.
“I’m not sure,” Phillipe answered, stumbling to pull up his pants as he came from the bedroom.
“Why is this house so damn dark? And who is that woman with whom you were sharing Maria’s bed?”
“Let me put the kettle on,” Phillipe replied, marching past her into the kitchen.
Aunt Belle closed the bedroom door and peeled off her winter coat, hat, and gloves, as if she were about to begin a task. She went first into the parlor, then into the library, lighting the gas lanterns and opening the curtains.
“When did you leave Boston?” Phillipe called from the kitchen.
Aunt Belle announced her swift appearance into the kitchen by demanding to know, “How did you know I was in Boston?”
“Marin showed me the letter,” he explained.
“What letter?”
“The one saying they found Erik’s ship.”
Aunt Belle dug into her purse and produced the original copy of the letter from the U.S. Revenue Marine.
“This letter?” she asked, shaking the document for emphasis. Phillipe stood scarecrow still. “How could Marin show you a letter that was in my purse?” she asked, calculating the answer to her own question all the while. “Never mind. I know the answer to that question. He has been to Providence, hasn’t he? Goddamn it!” She turned and filled the house with her voice. “MARIN.”
Opaline’s footsteps on the stairs answered Aunt Belle’s call, and they were soon face to face at the bottom of the stairs.
“Where is Marin?” Aunt Belle insisted.
“I am not certain,” Opaline said. “What is the problem?”
“He went to Providence, didn’t he?”
“We went to Providence,” Opaline amended. “And yes, Marin went to see Emily, but—”
“I can answer for myself,” Marin said from the top of the stairway. “Hello Aunt Belle. Thanks for coming; you have saved me a trip to Boston. Your precious Emily is safe in her castle, and no more or less chaste than she was before my visit.”
“You pledged to keep your distance,” she reminded him.
“And in a manner of speaking, I have,” Marin assured her, as he descended the stairs. He kissed Opaline on the cheek while looking at Aunt Belle. Opaline blushed and cut a small smile. “I think there are more important matters to discuss,” Marin said, leading the two ladies into the kitchen where Phillipe stood, rock still, as if he were awaiting his punishment. “Phillipe, where are your shoes?” Marin asked.
Phillipe dashed from the kitchen, fleeing to the bedroom.
The kettle began to boil and Opaline started to leave Marin’s side, but Marin grabbed her by the sleeve, holding her in place.
“Who is that woman? And what, in the name of all that is holy, was Phillipe doing in bed with her?” Aunt Belle demanded.
“What?” Marin asked, more amused than curious.
“The little pregnant tart lying in Maria’s bed.”
“I beg your pardon?” Opaline objected, “How dare you.”
Marin gave a toothy grin and sat down at the table, waiting for the staring match between Opaline and Aunt Belle to game out.
Phillipe returned to the kitchen with his bare feet tucked into his untied shoes. “Why is no one attending to the kettle?” he asked.
“Aunt Belle was wondering about the pregnant little tart with whom you were sharing MaMa’s bed,” Marin teased.
“She isn’t a tart,” Phillipe insisted, “...whatever that means. She is a prostitute.”
Aunt Belle’s own gasp knocked her backward into Opaline, who grabbed her, saving them both from stumbling into the hearth.
Marin laughed silently, but heartily.
“No, I mean ...well ...yes, she’s a prostitute, but I was not sleeping with her. Well, I was sleeping with her, but not in the vulgar sense of the word. You see ... Opaline brought her here—”
“What in the hell is going on here?” Aunt Belle fumed as she twisted herself from Opaline’s grasp. “Are you running a whorehouse, Marin?”
“SHE’S NOT A WHORE,” Phillipe shouted, bringing everything to a standstill, and then crumbling into a chair, he uttered, “She’s just Phoebe ...that’s all ...just Phoebe.”
Marin lifted the kettle from the hearth, and asked, “Tea anyone?” but no one responded. Following a gray silence, he said, “Aunt Belle, I think I can explain.”
He told her the story of Opaline setting up a midwifery service and Phoebe’s coming to stay at the house, and how that led them going to Providence. He ended with, “...but how and why Phillipe ended up in bed with Phoebe?” ... and he spread his arms out, palms up.
“I was lonely, and I missed MaMa,” Phillipe muttered.
“I believe it is your turn, Aunt Belle. What news have you brought from Boston?” Marin asked.
Aunt Belle offered herself a chair at the table, and said, “Seeing as how my business in Boston is already common knowledge,” and she paused to give a sarcastic nod of thanks to Marin, “I think I can dispense with that detail. Your father,” she said, looking at Marin, and then addressing Phillipe, “Erik, set sail on the Coriolis on October 5th, 1781 at 6 a.m., serving as First Mate to Captain Willis B. Mead. They were bound for Newfoundland, smuggling cargo consisting mainly of rum and sugar. They were, more than likely, going to smuggle something back, but never mind that, because they never made it past Nova Scotia. The British Frigate, ‘The Holigost’, surprised the Coriolis, sneaking up on her on the dark night of October 11th. They executed Captain Mead, making Erik the ship’s captain. The Coriolis was put undertow of the Holigost, but, as would be your father’s luck, a storm intervened and he took advantage of the situation, somehow over-powering the British bastards aboard and breaking free from the Holigost and setting sail east. The Holigost gave chase, and evidently wounded the Coriolis, but having already confiscated the bounty, and probably believing The Coriolis not much longer sea worthy, gave up pursuit. Erik’s ship sank seven miles off the Coast of Sable Island. I was told there was no evidence of the crew having gone down with her. The ship’s log was discovered intact in a locked strongbox in the Captain’s quarters. The officials in Boston showed me the logbook, but would not allow me to read it.”
“I knew it,” Phillipe yelled. “And MaMa knew it as well. Erik survived.”
Everyone turned to Marin, whose eyes remained placed on Aunt Belle’s as he spoke.
“I would like to believe that father knew he was within reach of Sable Island, but there is no way of knowing. Odds are, he had no idea where he was, and even if he did, several miles of stormy Atlantic waters, on a foggy night in a rowboat, would test the sinew of any man.”
“Admit it, Marin ...you have been wrong all these years. Aunt Belle just said there was no evidence of the men having gone down with the ship.”
Marin glanced at Phillipe just long enough to begin his rebuttal. “Absence of evidence is not proof of anything, Phillipe. I would like to believe father survived the ordeal, but given that thirty years have passed, I would also have to believe that he either abandoned us ...or died of starvation, or any number of other unsavory conclusions.”
“We must go to Sable Island,” Phillipe submitted to Marin.
“Or to Boston...” Marin concluded, staring at Aunt Belle until she turned her head away.
Everyone else held their stare on Marin, who held news of his own behind closed lips. He had wanted Opaline to be the first to hear of Mister Reynold’s appearance earlier that day. It was his anticipation of her reaction that begged for the private moment. But with everyone gawking at him, he wondered if perhaps the moment hadn’t chosen him.
Phoebe, wrapped in one of Maria’s robes, sauntered into the room and announced, “I think Jude is at the door.”
“Well then, let him in,” Marin instructed.
As soon as Jude and Phoebe came into the kitchen, everyone’s attention turned again to Marin.
“Well...” he began, “I have some news that I had hoped to discuss with each of you individually, but since we are all gathered here together, it may as well be an announcement.” He found it impossible to look at anyone, especially Opaline, so he stared at his own shoes before continuing. “Mister Reynolds stopped by this morning to tell me we are to set sail for Passamaquoddy Bay this Sunday at 6 a.m.” Everyone drew in a quick breath, except for Mister Prince who was hiding an addendum of his own behind the hand draped across his mouth. “I told him I thought ...” and Marin held his words as Opaline whisked by him and Jude, while Phoebe quickly turned aside to let her pass. Marin continued, “...I told him, I thought that was impossible.” He gave a quick nod to the group and said, “Excuse me,” and he started to go after Opaline.
Phoebe stood fast in the doorway, and as Marin began to brush her aside, Mister Prince intervened by gently placing his outstretched hand against Marin’s chest.
“Let her go, Mister Carpenter,” Phoebe said as gently as she could command it, adding, “Give her time...”
***
Marin sat in a darkening corner of the library waiting for Opaline to return from wherever it was she had gone. As the last glimmers of the day’s passing pulled light from the room, the darkness rushed in stirring his anxiety. Aunt Belle sat across the room beside the fireplace, marking time in a creaking rocking chair and knitting to the beat. The repetitive squeak of the chair had a way of making Marin even more aware of the passing time, until, at long last, it was more than he could endure.
“I have to go find her,” he said.
“It is much more important that she find herself first,” Aunt Belle offered.
“Is that what she is doing?” Marin asked.
“It is quite obvious to everyone but you, Marin. But of course, you are in love with her, so you are to be forgiven your lack of vision.”
Marin let that settle over him for a moment before saying, “I wouldn’t think she would abandon Phoebe.”
“No, one wouldn’t think so. But then leaving has a certain momentum all its own. If anyone were to understand that, I would think it would be you.”
“Or father,” Marin shot back.
Aunt Belle said nothing, but the tempo and pitch of the creaking rocking chair increased and her knitting needles wagged back and forth as if powered by steam.
“Speaking of father, your description of the capture, escape and sinking of the Coriolis by the Holigost is remarkably detailed,” Marin probed. “I wouldn’t think the folks in Boston could have gathered all that information from a ship’s log, especially considering the ship was under siege at the time ...and, I believe you mentioned them finding it in a locked strong box in the Captain’s quarters.”
“That is what they told me, yes.” Aunt Belle replied, accompanied by the rapid rhythm of her rocking.
“So, the Captain, being dead, couldn’t have made entries into the log. And the British captors aboard the Coriolis, while she was under-tow, wouldn’t have felt compelled to make any remarks. I would also imagine that the business of mutineering his own ship, breaking free from the Holigost and racing away while under fire, during a storm ...well ...that would have occupied the come-lately Captain Carpenter’s every moment. And, of course, the taking on of water, out-pacing the effort to bail it out, would have required all-hands-on deck. So, I seriously doubt my father would have taken pause to break into a locked strongbox in order to make entries into the ship’s log while she was sinking. And even if he did, why would he have put it back? If they abandoned ship, wouldn’t he have taken the log with him?”
Aunt Belle’s rocker came to a sudden stop. She turned in Marin’s direction and said, “What is it you are insinuating, Marin?”
“Simply this: your story doesn’t float, Auntie.”
***
After Opaline had left, she journeyed down to the boardwalk along the harbor where she and Marin had boarded Mister Walter’s boat. The twilight spread a thousand shades of orange out to where the world appeared to end, and the ocean echoed the sky’s light like a liquid painting. The vast stretch of nothing to hold on to brought her long held fears of abandon to the surface. She knew that some people, Marin, for instance, stared out at the endless nothing and saw adventure, opportunity, and purpose; she saw only water ...deep, undrinkable, and stone sinkable, water. Looking down at her feet planted firmly on the ground returned her sense of calm.
As she began to walk away she spotted a sail, unfurled and full of breeze, working its way toward shore. The grace with which it moved across the water gave her pause. She watched hypnotically as it came closer to shore. As the sail revealed the image of the blue mermaid, holding a mirror in her left hand and a bird released from her right, Opaline realized it was Mister Walter’s boat, the Merry Maiden. She hoisted herself up onto a pier post and waited for his arrival.
As he guided the boat into the slip, he kept glancing up at Opaline, thinking maybe he might know her. After releasing the sail, he cracked a big smile of recognition and waved for Opaline to approach the boat. He threw her a bowline and it hit the deck right below her dangling feet.
“Well ...pick it up,” he commanded.
She hopped off the pier post, picked up the end of the rope and pulled it taught, but the boat, dancing in the choppy water, wrestled her for possession of the line. Mister Walter jumped from the boat, grabbed the line, and wrapped it around the cleat. “She wants ta go back out. She’s a cantankerous one,” he shouted.
Two men ran up and assisted him in securing the boat before they climbed aboard to unload the catch.
Mister Walter lit his pipe and escorted Opaline to a bench on the pier. “Sea’s so rough of a winter, an old man’s scarcely welcome,” he said.
“Why do you do it?” she asked, studying his deep-sea-blue eyes, and the crest and troughs of his face.
He gave her a careful look, covered the bowl of his pipe with one hand and began puffing hard, building up a good fire inside. He pulled the pipe out of his mouth, blew out a long stream of smoke while pointing the stem out to sea, and said, “Look at her, lapping up against the land, remindin’ the earth that she controls the shoreline. Listen to her. She calls out to us, day an’ night, an’ through the curve-a-the seasons. We come from her, ya know. The world is awash with her. Without her, there is no life. Why do I do it, you ask? I don’t believe ya become a sailor. I believe, when ya first lay eyes on her, stretching out unknown before ya like your own life, when ya first catch a lung full-a sea air as she rushes in callin’ out to ya, and then recedes whisperin’, ‘follow’ ...nah, it’s not a matter a choice - yer a sailor.”
Opaline wondered what it must be like to view the sea through Mister Walter’s eyes.
As two men passed by pulling a cart hauling Mister Walter’s catch, he called out to them, “Gimme an honest weight, lads.” He turned to Opaline and said, “Hard ta get an honest weight these days.”
She smiled and braved a question. “Mister Walter, what would you say to a young woman who was wondering whether or not she should marry a sea-faring man?”
“That’s a good one, that is,” he said, shifting from his other side to the one favoring her. “I take it yer referring ta Mister Carpenter, the younger,” he added, as if the world were eavesdropping. When she didn’t react, he shifted back to his other side. “I never took a wife, so...” and he placed his pipe back into his mouth as a way of finishing his statement.
“But what would you tell her?” Opaline nudged.
He rolled his eyes out to sea. “I told her, ‘Ya had better love the ocean, ‘cause yer gonna be spendin’ an awful lotta time staring out at her’.” His pipe had burned out, so he took it from his mouth, tamped down the partially spent tobacco, and relit it.
Opaline watched him from the corner of her eye as his past and her present collided.
“Her name was Meriam,” he said faintly, not wanting to stir the past. A stiff wind came blowing off the land and the gulls spread their wings out full, catching a ride out to sea. “Gettin’ a might nippy,” Mister Walter said.
“...and dark,” Opaline added.
“Would ya care to step aboard for a cup a coffee, er somethin’ a little stronger?”
“No, but thank you, Mister Walter. I need to be getting along,” she said.
“Sorry I couldn’t be much help to ya, but ya seem a wise soul ...you’ll figure it out.” Opaline held out her hand to him as if to shake hands goodbye. He took her hand, turned it, and patted the backside, saying, “Ya need be careful ‘round the harbor at night. There are some pretty randy boys about.” Opaline laid her other hand atop his and thanked him again.
She strolled along the harbor for a while as the last vestiges of sunlight drained from the sky. Several men whistled at her, and one man approached her and asked about her ‘services’.
“Have a go ma’am? In and out? What’ll ya take ta weave a basket?” Opaline dropped her head and picked up her pace. “Snotty little Molly, aren’t cha then?” he called out after her.
She left the harbor and followed her memory back to the Maison Des Plaisirs. Arriving, she knocked on the door, but no one answered, so she banged a little harder.
Aja opened the door and peered around Opaline as if to find Marin.
“I have come alone,” Opaline said. Aja stepped aside to let her pass. “I take it Miss Ruth is in,” Opaline said, and Aja simply nodded. As Opaline walked through the front parlor, a few gentlemen clients ogled her as she walked by.
“Never mind, gentlemen,” Aja said.
Opaline stood outside Ruth’s office door, wondering for a moment why she had come.
Aja stepped up beside her, knocked once on the door, opened it, and said to Ruth, “Madam, you have a visitor.”
Opaline stood fast as Ruth greeted her.
“Come in, come in. Have you brought me news of Phoebe?”
“Yes. Yes, I have,” Opaline said.
“That will be all, Aja,” Ruth instructed, closing the door. “And how is my Phoebe?”
“She is due any day now and is in remarkably good spirits.”
“Good to hear. And how, may I ask, is Marin?”
“He is not in the best of spirits, but I did not come by to talk about Marin.”
Ruth sat down at her desk, and in a business-like tone, she asked, “Well then, what’s on your mind, dearie?”
“Phoebe wishes to keep the baby.”
Ruth folded her hands-on top of her desk and said, “I am afraid that is out of the question.”
“Well, that is her decision,” Opaline submitted.
“Her decision?” Ruth countered.
Opaline nodded.
“I find it hard to believe that Phoebe is capable of making any such decision without someone prodding her.”
“I can assure you, I had nothing to do with it.”
“Well, no matter. I am confident she will change her mind.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she can’t work here with a baby. A brothel is no place for a child.”
Opaline took a moment to catch herself, before saying, “I just passed by a couple of children in the lobby, sitting half-robed in the laps of middle-aged men.”
“All my girls are at least thirteen years of age,” Ruth said sternly. “Most are in their twenties. The legal age of consent in Rhode Island, Miss Downing, is ten.”
“M-m-m ...you are to be commended on your progressive stance,” Opaline scoffed.
“Is that all, Miss?” Ruth concluded.
Opaline folded her hands into her lap as if she had just sat down, and said, “No.”
“Well then, what is it? I am a busy woman.”
“I was wondering...” and she paused.
“Yes?” Ruth urged.
“I was wondering if you might help me understand something.”
Ruth, almost breaking a smile, sat waiting.
“My mother was a prostitute,” Opaline began. “She gave me away ...no, that is euphemism ...she deserted me, leaving me with the midwife who delivered me. I have often wondered, had my mother kept me, would I have become a prostitute?” She paused for a moment, but not as if for a reply.
Ruth, however, felt compelled to reply. “Almost assuredly,” she said.
Hesitant, but forging on, Opaline asked, “Is that how you came by the profession?”
“Never mind about me, but I’ll say this ...women have been bartering what most men believe to be our most valuable asset for as long as men have had a cock in their pants. And why shouldn’t we? What else do we own and have permission over? What else can we aspire to? A woman could do a lot worse; she could end up a slave to some bastard she hardly knows, living out her life in a dollhouse, an unpaid maid. My girls are well cared for. They’re safe and clean and well fed. And, I might add, they can leave any time they please. So now, come to the point, what is it you don’t understand?”
“All of it. Why do men feel a need to see a prostitute?”
“Any man in particular?” Ruth said with a wry smile, turning Opaline’s head sidelong. Ruth continued, “They come for many reasons; some are lonely, some for adventure, some for variety, and some...” and she paused, waiting for Opaline to turn and face her. Opaline knew the meaning of the pause, and with her head still turned away, her eyes came to Ruth. “...and some, for comfort,” Ruth delivered.
Opaline turned to face Ruth. “Is that what Marin finds with Aja?” she asked.
“I won’t betray the confidences of one of my girls, but when Marin came to me, it was always for comfort ...just like his father.”
Opaline fell back into her chair and grabbed a breath. “You f...” and she paused to change the verbiage, “...have been with Marin?”
“Does that surprise you, my dear?”
“Does he know that you have also...” this time her pause was futile, “fucked his father?”
“No, of course not,” Ruth fired back. “And no good can come from him knowing. I don’t choose my customers; they choose me. And anyway, it was a long, long time ago, and I am hardly a threat to you. If you are troubled that Marin may not be true, as the vow goes, ‘only unto you’, I am hardly the person to offer assurance to the contrary.”
Opaline soberly confessed, “I am troubled about anyone being untrue unto anyone,”
“It’s only sex, my dear ...and it sometimes offers comfort ...sometimes ...comfort,” Ruth said softly.
Opaline bowed her head. “Marin has asked me to marry him,” she said, as if she had just grasped the reality of his proposal. “He deserves an answer, but I need time to think.” Her voice thinned. “He is leaving Monday on what he believes to be a dangerous voyage, and I know he would like an answer before he sails...” she paused, turned her head and closed her eyes as if the gesture could grant her invisibility before surrendering, “but everything has been such a stir of emotions.”
“Perhaps while he is away, everything will become clear to you.” Ruth offered.
“And should he not return?”
Ruth left enough space so that her reply wouldn’t sound quite so cruel. “Well then, your decision wouldn’t matter.”
Opaline, surrendering to every emotion she had been holding inside, bowed her head and wept.
Ruth slipped out of the office, and after a respectful absence, returned. She put an arm around Opaline, and said, “My dear, why don’t you stay here for the evening? You can sleep in Phoebe’s room.”
“I should be getting back,” Opaline replied.
“No,” Ruth said in earnest, “you should give this night to yourself, and see what the morning brings.”
She lent her hand to Opaline and escorted her down the hallway to the last room on the right. She lit an oil lamp, gave it to Opaline, and said, “I’m down the hall should you need anything.”
Opening the door to Phoebe’s room, Opaline held the lantern inside the door before entering. The light from the lamp crept around in the darkness, painting swaths of light mixed with large shadows across the pink walls, revealing what looked to be a child’s room.
At the back of the room there appeared to be a window with lace curtains draped down in folds, but as Opaline inched closer, it startled to find it was only an elaborate wall drawing. Scanning the room, she saw a small, pale blue dresser with a stuffed bear poised on top, waiting for Phoebe to return. A nightstand with a candle sat beside a small, neatly made up bed, and an overstuffed pillow rest against the headboard. Opaline gently closed the door. She approached the bed in small steps, as if she were afraid of waking someone. The closer she got, one thought came to the fore, ‘I wonder how many men...’, and without finishing the thought, she sat down on the edge of the thin mattress and placed the lantern on the nightstand.
A calendar, turned to the month of November, sat on the stand. The first few days of the month had an X or two marked in them, but the remaining days were blank. Opaline flipped the calendar ahead to December; all the days were blank. She turned back to October, and almost every day was marked with X. Some had two, a few had three, and October 1st had four. Opaline began to suspect the obvious; each X represented a customer. Paging back to September, almost every day had a multiple number of X’s, some as many as six or seven. Scribbled in wobbly handwriting on September 12th was the note, ‘me and sissy’s b-day.’ Opaline wondered if Phoebe had a twin sister. She flipped quickly back through August, July and June - all were littered with X’s.
Not wanting to venture any further into Phoebe’s past, she folded the calendar back to November and returned it to the nightstand, precisely as she had found it. She opened the single drawer and found a pen and a bottle of ink, a small copy of the New Testament, a knife without a sheath, a comb, lipstick, and a small bottle containing some sort of oil. Underneath these items lay a leather-bound journal.
Opaline picked up each item, one at a time, and carefully noting its place, arranged them on the nightstand in the same order they had occupied in the drawer. She took the booklet out and hesitated before opening it, but losing the battle with her own curiosity, she peeled open the cover. Inside, on the first page, was an elegant drawing of a young girl wearing a floppy, wide brimmed and oversized ladies’ hat. The front brim of the chapeau rested at the base of her eyebrows, leaving a sharp line to emphasize her eyes, which were clearly the focal point of the drawing. Her eyes, soft and sentient, looking out from the page with a certain loss of trust, as if the observer had violated the child’s privacy, caused Opaline to quickly close the book, but just as quickly, she opened it again to marvel at the detail of the drawing. She turned the page and saw a drawing of an old dilapidated house set among tall weeds. Again, the detail was astonishing. She perused through the book of drawings, page after page, each one as ornate as the last. Could Phoebe have drawn these? How could she inquire without first confessing to have violated Phoebe’s privacy? She placed the book back into the drawer and carefully returned each item precisely back into place. She slid the drawer closed and lay back on the bed. Gazing up at the ceiling, she noticed it was overlaid with a crosshatch wooden lattice, and she wondered, what would a young woman think about as she stared at the ceiling, minute after drawn out minute, while yet another lustful stranger lay heavily atop her repeatedly thrusting himself inside of her? How do you divorce yourself from what is happening? Would she count the squares in the crosshatch lattice? Was it ever a pleasing experience? What must it be like to take surrender yourself to a stranger, just for the money?
She was surprised to feel a tingle of excitement at the thought of it, but it waned at once. Straight away, she realized that her quick spark of a fantasy could not shed any light on the reality of doing it time after time after time, all day long, day after day. She thought it odd that Phoebe would keep count of her ‘encounters’. Would she honestly want to know how many men had paid for her favors? Had Marin been one of them? Could he be the father of Phoebe’s child? The very thought brought her straight up into a sitting position. She thought about Ruth saying that when Marin came to her, it was always for comfort. Did that also involve sex, or did he come simply for companionship?
The sound of laughter coming from the front lobby, and a sudden rhythmic banging noise coming from the other side of the wall, broke into her thoughts.
She removed her coat, laid it on the bed, and ventured out into the lobby. A couple of the girls were sidled up against two men, wooing, and pretending to be wooed.
Sophie was sitting on a small red sofa, wearing only a scanty white silk under garment with stockings. Her right leg was hoisted over her left thigh in such a manner as to provide ample view of her brief, open crotch pantaloons. Opaline, somewhat more fashionably adorned, averted her eyes while approaching Sophie, and pointing to the blank space beside her, asked,
“May I?”
Sophie sized Opaline up and down, one or twice, before scooching over half-a-hip width so that Opaline could squeeze in beside her.
“New here?” she asked, and before Opaline could answer, she added, “You’re bundled up pretty tight all over for a workin’ girl. You like ta make ‘em work for it, huh?”
Sophie’s humor struck a chord with Opaline, and she began to laugh.
Grabbing a handful of Opaline’s gown, she asked, “How many layers ya got there? You’ll have earned half yer money before they catch a glimpse o’ the goods.”
Opaline’s laughter deepened, making it difficult for her to speak, so she simply shook her head.
“O-h-h-h, I see ...me thinks you’re here for pleasure. You should be sittin’ with Annie. She’s a, ‘stick it or lick it’. I’m strictly a ‘stick it’.” Sophie looked on with amusement as Opaline tried to curtail her laughter.
“No, no, please forgive me,” Opaline said. “I am Opaline Downing. I am Phoebe’s midwife. I’m here because ...well, I am not really sure why it is I am here,” and she laughed again.
Sophie rearranged her posture on the sofa and looked across the room to see if anyone was paying attention. Everyone was otherwise engaged.
Opaline cleared her throat and asked, “Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”
“What sort o’ questions?” Sophie asked, cocking one eyelid.
“Do some men come here just for the company, you know, someone to lend them an ear?”
“I don’t lend anythin’, Ma’am, not even an ear. Still, there’s been a few lonely boys come for the company. Why do ya ask?”
“I was just wondering.”
Opaline suddenly felt at a loss for words. She had other questions, but they all seemed so inappropriate.
Sophie filled the awkward gap by asking, “How’s our Phoebe?”
“She is fine,” Opaline quickly replied. “She should be delivering her baby any time now.”
“Shouldn’t ya be with her?”
“Well, she is not quite ready.”
Again, there was a difficult silence. It was broken when a tall, well-dressed man approached Opaline and extended his hand to her. Without thinking, she took his hand, and he pulled her to her feet.
Realizing what was happening, she blurted, “Oh no, I am so sorry. I am not ...for hire.” The gentleman let go of her hand and backed away. She sat back down beside Sophie and said in jest, “My first customer.”
Sophie laughed, and said playfully, “Ya handled it well.”
Opaline laughed again and asked, “What was your first customer like?”
Sophie paused to chuckle. “I shagged him because I felt a spark for him. I didn’t know he thought I was a strumpet. Rattled me a bit when he thanked me and handed me the money.”
With eyes wide, Opaline asked, “What did you say?”
Sophie strutted a smile and said, “I told him it wasn’t enough.”
They both laughed, and Opaline asked, “How much does a ...working girl—,”
“Whore,” Sophie corrected.
“Alright then, whore. What is the going rate?”
“Depends on the girl and the menu. A stroll through my peaches is to cost ya a half dollar - silver. Aja, sittin’ over there with a man on either side, will cost ya a Gold Eagle. I’d have ta screw the crew of a small schooner ta match that.”
Opaline laughed, but kept eye contact with Sophie for the slightest sign of annoyance. There was none. They continued chatting like two old friends until a customer approached them. Opaline sat mute as the customer studied the one and then the other. He moved in front of Opaline and nodded. Sophie intervened and said to the gentleman,
“Dearie, ya can’t afford her.”
The man left, and the two of them laughed as sisters sometimes do at an inside joke.
Opaline excused herself and walked down the hall to Phoebe’s room. Lying on the bed watching the shadows dance to the low light of the lantern’s flickering glow, she counted the squares in the crosshatch lattice and wondered about Phoebe’s life as a whore ...until sleep took her away.