stage at the Opera House and deliver it for you while you recline on the cool grass with your toes bare and your throat lifted to the sky." She turned to her mother in appeal. "I know it looks bad now, but we don't care. We love it. We want to stay. "
"We've already picked out our room," Susan put in.
Roberta studied her daughters a moment. If there was one force that could stop Roberta on a dime, it was her girls. She was here. She had bought this rattletrap. They - bless their ignorance - thought it could be a home for them. Suddenly she bent back from the waist and laughed. "Who says I'm poor when I have riches like you? Come here, girls." She opened her arms. They came and nestled up against her and linked their arms around her waist. There they stood, like three fishermen's knots in the same rope, watching a lacework of rain skim off
A r%
the porch roof and peck into the sodden earth below. The scent of fecund soil was primal, and the touch of the air rich and damp with the promise of summer's green. The mountain at their backs protected them from the prevailing southwest winds. The earth dropped before them., and with it the houses and trees and commerce between them and Penobscot Bay. Below and to the right a section of roof on the Knox Woolen Mill presented a sheeny sheet of slate, and beside it the brick smokestack knifed up into the drear heavens where rain-mist shifted like smoke.
A mackerel gull banked past, bleating a series of raucous yells, then flapped wings while settling onto the weather vane of a shed roof in a yard below. Roberta watched it all the way, till it perched and stopped shifting its tail. In Boston they had lived too far from the water. Gulls spoke differently inland than they did within sight of the ocean. The Atlantic's presence gave these gulls a brashness she loved. Nobody could tell a Camden gull it must be quiet, or obedient, or proper, or that it must conform, or that it could not fly singly.
Maybe she'd taken her cue from the gulls. "I'll need some help from you if we stay," Roberta told her two older girls.
"Sure, Mother."
"Of course, Mother."
"And we won't have much, I can tell you that right now. But neither will you be working in that mill." She looked down on the dark gray slate roof.
AA
"We don't need much.," Rebecca assured her.
"You'll be alone a lot. Do you mind?" "Who's the one who taught us 'When you have imagination, you're never alone'?"
"That's my girl." She jostled Rebecca, then both girls at once.
The mackerel gull came back, still alone, still scolding. She watched its black eye gleam and its head twist in curiosity as it balanced above them, looking them over.
"Houses have never been very important to me," she commented. "Long as they're warm and dry and have a modicum of laughter in them, and maybe some books and music, that's enough, right?"
"Right," the girls replied in unison. "So we'll stay."
Rebecca's and Susan's grips tightened on her waist, and Roberta fixed in her mind that she'd made the right decision. That's all it took was deciding it was so, and from that moment on she'd be content with her decision.
"Where's Lydia?" "Upstairs exploring." "Shall we go find her?"
Smiling, the three went to do just that.
Lydia was indeed exploring the house. She had read some of the newspaper headlines on the wall from as long ago as thirty years. She had culled some colorful glass floats from
A7
the flotsam left behind by Sebastian Dougal. They were scarlet and aqua blue and saffron yellow and would look just dandy hanging on the porch rail in the summer. She set her favorite one at the bottom of the stairs, then looked up, daydreaming, humming. "Sorry her lot who loves too well . . . " Earlier that year, at her school in Boston, she had played the part of Josephine in H.M.S Pinafore and was transported now to a ship on the briny sea. Dreaming of it, she doubled over with her forehead on her elbow and ran her entire arm up the gouged handrail, humming
"We've already picked out our room," Susan put in.
Roberta studied her daughters a moment. If there was one force that could stop Roberta on a dime, it was her girls. She was here. She had bought this rattletrap. They - bless their ignorance - thought it could be a home for them. Suddenly she bent back from the waist and laughed. "Who says I'm poor when I have riches like you? Come here, girls." She opened her arms. They came and nestled up against her and linked their arms around her waist. There they stood, like three fishermen's knots in the same rope, watching a lacework of rain skim off
A r%
the porch roof and peck into the sodden earth below. The scent of fecund soil was primal, and the touch of the air rich and damp with the promise of summer's green. The mountain at their backs protected them from the prevailing southwest winds. The earth dropped before them., and with it the houses and trees and commerce between them and Penobscot Bay. Below and to the right a section of roof on the Knox Woolen Mill presented a sheeny sheet of slate, and beside it the brick smokestack knifed up into the drear heavens where rain-mist shifted like smoke.
A mackerel gull banked past, bleating a series of raucous yells, then flapped wings while settling onto the weather vane of a shed roof in a yard below. Roberta watched it all the way, till it perched and stopped shifting its tail. In Boston they had lived too far from the water. Gulls spoke differently inland than they did within sight of the ocean. The Atlantic's presence gave these gulls a brashness she loved. Nobody could tell a Camden gull it must be quiet, or obedient, or proper, or that it must conform, or that it could not fly singly.
Maybe she'd taken her cue from the gulls. "I'll need some help from you if we stay," Roberta told her two older girls.
"Sure, Mother."
"Of course, Mother."
"And we won't have much, I can tell you that right now. But neither will you be working in that mill." She looked down on the dark gray slate roof.
AA
"We don't need much.," Rebecca assured her.
"You'll be alone a lot. Do you mind?" "Who's the one who taught us 'When you have imagination, you're never alone'?"
"That's my girl." She jostled Rebecca, then both girls at once.
The mackerel gull came back, still alone, still scolding. She watched its black eye gleam and its head twist in curiosity as it balanced above them, looking them over.
"Houses have never been very important to me," she commented. "Long as they're warm and dry and have a modicum of laughter in them, and maybe some books and music, that's enough, right?"
"Right," the girls replied in unison. "So we'll stay."
Rebecca's and Susan's grips tightened on her waist, and Roberta fixed in her mind that she'd made the right decision. That's all it took was deciding it was so, and from that moment on she'd be content with her decision.
"Where's Lydia?" "Upstairs exploring." "Shall we go find her?"
Smiling, the three went to do just that.
Lydia was indeed exploring the house. She had read some of the newspaper headlines on the wall from as long ago as thirty years. She had culled some colorful glass floats from
A7
the flotsam left behind by Sebastian Dougal. They were scarlet and aqua blue and saffron yellow and would look just dandy hanging on the porch rail in the summer. She set her favorite one at the bottom of the stairs, then looked up, daydreaming, humming. "Sorry her lot who loves too well . . . " Earlier that year, at her school in Boston, she had played the part of Josephine in H.M.S Pinafore and was transported now to a ship on the briny sea. Dreaming of it, she doubled over with her forehead on her elbow and ran her entire arm up the gouged handrail, humming
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