“TELL ME ABOUT the name ‘Theodosia,’” Jeff said as soon as they were seated at the restaurant the next day. Theresa reached for a warm roll. It had sprinkles of vegetables and tomato bits in it and was so soft her fingers left deep prints just picking it up. She held it under her nose, inhaling the yeasty aroma.
“Did you ever bake cookies or bread with your mother or grandmother, Jeff?”
“Not really. I do remember going to Grandma’s at holidays and loving to be in her kitchen. My mom wasn’t much of a cook. Her job had long hours, and she didn’t have time to stir things up in the kitchen. Cooking was work, not pleasure.”
“Stormy obviously loved my grandmother a great deal. And my mother, Emily, was so loved by my father that he never considered another woman. But I have no memories of either woman. My dad did his best at the mom activities. We made cookies that you slice off as you squeeze them out of a refrigerated tube—no measuring, no experimenting, no mistakes. Rolling out dough and feeling flour between my fingers came later from my own desires as a homemaker.” Theresa took a bite of the soft roll.
“Was your grandmother from the South?”
“What a funny question. Why do you ask?”
“Theodosia is a famous name in South Carolina. Theodosia Burr Alston was the daughter of Aaron Burr, vice-president of the United States, and was married to Governor Joseph Alston in the early 1800s. They owned a large rice plantation in the Lowcountry, along the coast, but she is remembered primarily because of tragedy.”
Theresa looked up with full attention; her middle name was Alston. “Just old Southern connections,” her father had once said. “A family thing.” She kept her maiden name when she married Kevin, not because of family history but because it was the identity she was used to. She didn’t want to be repainted with an unfamiliar brush.
“What do you mean, ‘tragedy’? What happened?”
“Well, she was the daughter of a controversial political figure, raised in New York, talented, well-educated. She had excellent prospects for a young woman in society. Then this dashing and wealthy young man from South Carolina crosses her path after spending time at Princeton. Her father was a huge influence in her life, and he encouraged the match.
“I guess it took some smooth talking to woo her to the South and its slower pace, but she finally accepted, and they were married at the turn of the century.”
Theresa listened to the events of happiness that were leading to tragedy, and she felt the parallels building from her own family history.
“A baby boy was soon born to them, and they moved into the Alston family plantation, called The Oaks, when Joseph could legally accept his inheritance—at age twenty-four, I think. Although Theodosia adored her child, her health was not good, and she was depressed and frail from the demands of her new life. The long, hot summers in South Carolina were particularly unpleasant because of the fear of what was called swamp fever. Affluent planters usually left the lowlands during the hot months and retreated to other homes inland or in the mountains to escape what we would probably call malaria. Often the slaves were left in charge of the rice plantations.
“The Alstons spent summers at their property inland, except one year when Theodosia and their son accompanied Joseph for political campaigning. They briefly returned to The Oaks and the surrounding area, where their son was evidently bitten by an infectious mosquito. He died that summer at age ten.
“The parents, of course, were devastated. Their only child and heir.”
Theresa sat spellbound, totally uninterested in the crab cake dinner that cooled in front of her. “What a horrible shock. Their future snapped off like a twig.”
“There’s more,” continued Jeff. “Distressed and seeing no hope for the future, Theodosia wanted to go back to New York to see her father. Aaron Burr had been vindicated from shooting Alexander Hamilton in a duel and later found innocent of treason. He’d had his own series of problems and had gone abroad for awhile. Now his daughter hoped that a visit to her father would give them each needed strength. She wanted Joseph to go with her, but the nation was at war with England; and he was, after all, governor of the state.”
“Oh, no!” Theresa interrupted. “What happened to her?”
Jeff took a deep breath. “She drowned. Her ship was lost at sea in a terrible storm off the coast.”
“Oh, no, no … No!” Theresa put her head in her hands. She leaned forward with her elbows heavy on the table, steadying the slow shaking of her head.
“Theresa, I’m so sorry.” Jeff leaned across the table, reaching out a hand to her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to upset you. What is it?”
She took a deep breath and slowly lowered her hands to her lap. “Maybe it’s a Theodosia curse, a black cloud. It’s the battle of happiness struggling against the overwhelming odds of defeat. It’s my naïve wish for a happy ending to every story. Hollywood can wave a wand, but the rest of us have to accept the roles we’re given.” She paused. “What did Joseph Alston do?”
“He basically became undone. He felt alone, severely ill, uninterested in politics and life. His world had fallen apart, accompanied by floundering rice markets and increasing debts. He and Aaron Burr continued to hope for a miracle, that Theodosia would be found, but he died a broken man several years after his wife.
“Strange tales have passed through the years of a disoriented woman who looked like her wandering to shore and people who swear they saw her or her ghost, but Theodosia’s fame is mostly preserved through the facts of her tragic story. I had never heard of anyone else having that name until you mentioned your grandmother. You’re not going to tell me that she, too, drowned?”
“No, but she did come from South Carolina. She was raised there, married there, and then seems to have run off to Cape Cod to escape an unhappy marriage. She was drowning in life, not death. Her only child was my mother. When I was not quite two, my mother died in her small sailboat in a sudden storm off Chatham. Mother lost her life, and Grandmother gradually lost her mind. I guess my father didn’t have the option of crumbling; he had me to look after. My full name is Theresa Alston Crandall.”
Jeff took in the far-reaching effect of his story. “I’m sorry. I should never have told you all that stuff; I had no idea.”
“No, it’s all right. I’m really glad to know the history. It’s fascinating.” She sat thoughtfully for a moment and then asked, “How do you know all that, anyhow?”
“I guess I’m kind of a history buff. I’ve visited all the Civil War sites in our state and studied a lot of the local history. We are often accused of not catching up to modern times, of living in the past with Confederate flags and rebel yells, but we’re not all barefoot and bitter, lamenting the outcome of ‘the years of unpleasantness.’”
“‘The years of unpleasantness’?”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “That’s what some folks call the Civil War or ‘the War of Northern Aggression.’”
“I guess our viewpoint does color history.” Theresa laughed, tasting a bite of delicious chunk crab. She liked this man, with his Southern drawl that stretched vowels out into separate syllables. He was attentive and caring. He’d had to assume a similar role to her father’s, but his wife was physically present while he took over responsibility for the children. A woman with children who could not be a mother, and Theresa was a woman without children who wanted to be a mother. The irony of life twisted her heart.
“Think we better get going soon?” Jeff asked, finishing the last prawn from his seafood platter. The discarded tails were lined up in a perfect row. Kevin would do that, thought Theresa, and then realized she hadn’t thought of Kevin or called him that day.
“Mind if I make a quick call?” she asked, rising from her seat.
She found a pay phone and tried a collect call. There was no answer.
“I’m ready if you are,” she said to Jeff as she returned and reached down to pick up a box from under the table. “I’m ready for another parting at sea, and I think I’m doing okay with it.”
Stormy was waiting for them on his boat. The teak trim looked particularly shiny, and chrome strips caught the fading sunlight. There were cushions on the wooden storage benches, and all fishing gear had been cleared off. Small colorful flags on the lines flapped in the harbor breeze, and what looked like red bandanas were tied at intervals along the metal guidelines. There was something clean and festive about the old boat. It looked higher in the water than the day before, as if lifted above the current, reaching upward.
Stormy was dressed in corduroy trousers with nap so new it looked as though he’d not yet sat in them. He wore a warm navy turtleneck sweater that matched his navy knit cap. His weathered hands were scrubbed and steady as he helped Theresa and Jeff onboard. She smelled a hint of spice as she passed him and sat down on one of the cushions. She wanted to ask whether her grandmother had ever been on this boat, but she tried to focus her thoughts back to her father and the business at hand. Theodosia could wait another day.
“Thank you for doing this with us, Stormy,” she said. “You’ve really saved the day, and with such a meaningful connection. You, of course, knew my father.”
“Yes, I was around him for several years, and I liked him a lot. He was a very devoted man, Theresa. Thoughtful. Fun. Crazy about your mother and you. We had wonderful times together at the house. You were the center of attention after you were born, and we all felt we’d gone through that pregnancy together!” He laughed, and the wrinkled lines in his face deepened with the joy of remembering.
“We watched Emily’s belly grow, and I recall the day your father told her she shouldn’t disappear alone down the beach anymore. She didn’t much like being told what to do, but she didn’t offer a peep of resistance to the idea. I think she knew it made sense. It was too cold to go sailing, but she loved to walk the beach. Your dad didn’t want her givin’ birth in a sand dune someplace. She was an independent thing, that Em, just like her mama.”
Theresa had a million questions to ask about her mother and grandmother, and here was a man who had the answers, but this special evening was for remembering her father. She wanted to fulfill his wishes with love and gratitude for his devotion to her. He had been her whole family until Kevin, and the voices now creeping from the past would have their own time to be heard.
“Ready to cast off?”
Stormy was already loosening the lines from the pilings. Theresa nodded and held her box tight. It felt heavy on her lap. She was holding her father in a way she had never imagined, and they were traveling together at last to meet her mother.
Jeff sat close to her. He did not offer to hold the box or to help Stormy but sat quietly, allowing them each to reflect on the situation that brought them together. Theresa briefly wondered whether Jeff was taking time away to sort through issues of his marriage as well. Did men think about their marriages—or only about their wives?
Early evening was a quiet time on the water. Tourists had already left the piers to find dinner or other amusement. Fishermen had returned with their catches, washing and readying their boats for the next day’s departure. Nets dried in graceful folds, like shawls draped across a chair after the party. Stars began to appear above the ghostly gray horizon, and bits of somber orange flickered through the darkening trees from a distant sunset behind Provincetown.
Theresa thought for a moment how much cheerier this boat trip would have been in early morning. She daily marveled at the huge, fiery ball that slowly pushed up to the glistening wet surface, revealing itself only in small amounts, teasing the viewer with its majesty. She watched with wonder this special gift of coastal living. Brilliant layers of gold and yellow shattered like fairy dust across the sparkling water as the sunrise took over each day. And then quiet ripples carried the color away.
Stormy was the first to break the silence. “Life preservers are in the benches under you. Anybody feel the need to put one on?”
The two passengers shook their heads, and Theresa realized that Stormy might be trying to gauge her fear as well as being obedient to Coast Guard regulations. Unconsciously, she patted the side of the box on her lap.
“We’ll go a little further out than required,” Stormy continued. “I thought you’d like to be clear of the night fishers and anchored parties. This is a private time, and I want you to feel private. It’s a beautiful night, warmer than we’ve had.”
Theresa turned her face toward the bow and let the wind blow her hair straight back. She was beginning to like being on boats and the feel of the water passing along under her. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine sailing, without the noise of an engine. Sailing must create an incredible closeness to the water, she thought. A closeness and trust.
About twenty minutes passed without further conversation. The gray sky blackened, blurring the line between water and heavens. Scattered stars reached down around them, and a bright moon held its place, not quite full or perhaps no longer full. Theresa was better at observing sunrises.
Stormy slowed the boat and removed his cap. “How about here? The wind is calm, and the ocean is ours. Does it feel okay?”
Theresa wasn’t sure what would ever make this business feel okay, but she sensed that of all the choices she could think of, this was going to be the one.
“Yes … yes, it’s fine. Thank you, Stormy. And thanks for decorating your boat for us. I’m just so grateful we ran into you.”
She knew that tears were about to come and that they were for meeting this man who was so close to her family, as well as for saying goodbye to her father.
“Love takes shape in many ways,” she said softly to herself.
Stormy shut off the engines altogether, letting the small boat drift and bob. The lights on the boat seemed to twinkle, challenging the stars, and the red bandanas fluttered on the lines like butterflies trying to catch their balance. He let his passengers get used to the calm and the feel of being rocked by a great and gentle hand.
“Would you like to say a few words, Theresa?” Jeff asked.
Theresa wiped her eyes and hugged the cardboard box. “Daddy, I love you. Thank you for a beautiful life. Thank you for always being there for me, for loving me even when I probably didn’t deserve it. Thank you for your wonderful sense of humor, your patience, and your orange pancakes.” She laughed through her tears. “We had a lot of fun, and you will always be close to me. I miss you, Dad.”
A muted sound of bells began to echo across the water. Theresa turned and saw Stormy holding a long rack of brass bells wrapped with colorful bits of cloth. He shook them slightly, and joyous, tinkling sounds of celebration filled the air, dancing with the moonbeams.
“I got these when I was in the Pacific years ago. They’ve sent many a cold ash into this ocean, but the hearts always linger with the living. They stay with us always, Theresa.”
She smiled at this wise and curious old man. For a few minutes the bells rang, and grief was postponed.
“Guess we better do what we came for,” Stormy said. “You come around on this side, so you’re workin’ down wind. Not much blowin’ tonight, but we don’t want any surprises. Your dad wouldn’t want to be flyin’ around aimless-like, makin’ a mess. It wasn’t his nature!”
He laughed softly and held onto Theresa to steady her at the railing. She carefully opened the box and leaned out over the dark water, so black and cold-looking she wondered how life could stand to be in there.
The box was awkward in her arms, and Jeff helped her tip the open end toward the water. The first ashes swirled high in the air and blew far out across the surface, landing beyond their view. Together they shook the box lower, and the remainder of the ashes floated like delicate snow, fine and fluffy, before settling on the water. Some blew on wind rows with the current, then slowly sank into the blackness.
Theresa stood watching with the empty box, wondering how the accumulation of so much lightness could have been so heavy. She whispered, “Goodbye,” but knew that the letting go was not over.
“Godspeed, my friend,” Stormy said with such tenderness that Theresa turned to look at him. The tips of his fingers brushed his forehead in a simple salute, and his watery eyes reflected the lights of the boat and the sorrow of many goodbyes. He reached down and picked up a long, curved piece of wood with intricate carvings and thumped it with a padded stick.
The haunting, mellow sound of the gong repeated again and again. Tied butterflies struggled to get loose, and a watchful moon stood guard.