Under the Wide and Starry Sky

CHAPTER 76

Fanny smelled the wax on the ?oors, felt it on the pads of her feet. The men had polished the  ?oorboards  in  the  “great  hall”  to  a  high,  slippery  shine,  perfect  for  dancing.  The varnished  redwood  walls—all  forty  by  sixty  feet  of  them—glowed  as  well.  She  could already  see  colorful gowns reeling  around the  room.  Oh,  it  would be  just  the  thing  to christen the new wing. She would hire a ?ddler, Scottish if she could ?nd one, and a cello player. Moors would know whom.

She admired how the room had come together with the silver and crystal, with the dining table  and  long  sideboard  from  Skerryvore;  it  occurred  to  her  that  their  furniture  had traveled more than most of the people she knew. The only thing missing in the new wing was the set of eighteen chairs she’d contracted to be made from Vailima wood. They were nowhere near ready, but who needed chairs for a dancing party?

She would have to break it gently to Louis that a Christmas party was in the making. He’d moan about the expense and say, “The MacRichies are at it again.” He had quashed her idea of a celebration for his birthday on November 13 by reminding her that he’d given away  his  birthday  last  year—bequeathed  it  to  a  young  Apia  girl  who  was  born  on Christmas  Day,  poor  dear.  Louis  had  written  up  a  proclamation  and  handed  over  his birthday to the child. “Quite all right. I’m done with it,” he’d told her.
Fanny knew very well that he would be ecstatic to have a Christmas party. That was one of the contradictions of Louis. He would swear o? a thing and then embrace it. He loved his own birthday and adored seeing R.L.S. in icing on the cake, just as he adored having troops of visitors at all hours, though he complained afterward that they interrupted his work. And  he  did  love  this  house.  In  spite  of  his  contempt  for  ostentation,  he  couldn’t  help enjoying  the  lovely  things  from  Skerryvore.  As  long  as  the  Christmas  a?air  included everyone—and it would, as she’d not plan it any other way—he would go along with it.
The addition, with an apartment of rooms above for Maggie, plus two extra bedrooms, made the main house look modest by comparison. Yet that part was perfectly solid and handsome. What the whole house was not was a mansion, as island gossip had it. Recently, in  Apia,  Fanny  had met  a  British  woman  who  became  excited when  Fanny  mentioned Vailima in their conversation. “Why, it is supposed to be the showplace of the islands!” the woman had exclaimed.

At Moors’s store, the town wags were hanging about, talking nonsense, as usual. “They will kill the whites ?rst,” one English fellow was saying.  “That’s what my boy told me.” When  Fanny  walked  toward  the  back  of  the  store,  she  noticed  that  the  men  stopped speaking. She knew she and her husband were controversial among some of the whites of Apia. If Fanny and Louis agreed on nothing else these days, their political views still lined up. She spoke her mind at dinner parties; he gave speeches at local meetings. His fevered letters to the Times had won them few friends among the German population. And since the publication of A Footnote to History, there was talk—surely among these very gossips— that Louis would be deported for his seditious writings.

“O?hand,” Moors said when Fanny asked, “the name of a Scottish ?ddler doesn’t come to me. You know, the Curacoa may be in harbor then.”

The  H.M.S. Curacoa!  Fanny  nearly  leaped  at  the  prospect. “But  do  they  play  only
marches?” she asked.


“Who?”

“The band of the Curacoa.”

Moors laughed. “I’m sure the band can play anything.”

“Will you invite the captain and the band for me when they get in?” She went toward the front of the store and spoke to Mrs. Moors. “You must come at Christmas, Nimo. You gave us such a memorable feast last year.”

“Of course we will come,” the woman said. She and walked Fanny to her horse. “I have been wanting to talk to you,” she said.

“You look so sad. Is someone sick?”

“We have known something for a while that you should know, Fanny. I’ve struggled over how to tell you …” The woman inhaled deeply. “It’s about Belle’s Joe. He has a Samoan wife. She lives in Apia. All the local people know about it.”

Fanny wavered on her feet. “How long?”

“O? and on for two years. When he came here from Hawaii on business, that’s when it started. And now that he lives here … well, he is in Apia often.”

Fanny grabbed hold of her saddle. “Is there a child?” “No.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

Riding back home, she pictured the pearl-handled revolver the Shelleys had given them

in Bournemouth. Louis had been assembling weapons up at the house, in case there was a war. The revolver had come out of the big safe. She could almost feel the cool, smooth handle in her palm.

By the time she reached Vailima, telling Belle was her foremost thought. Fanny had been on the receiving end of such news more than once. There was but one humane way to do it: immediately and directly.

When Fanny got into the paddock, her heart leaped to see Joe tying up his horse. “Joe!” He looked up, startled by her sharp tone.

“I heard something about you today.”

Joe’s mouth pressed in upon itself. He patted his horse to calm it.

Fanny walked near to him.  “I heard you have a Samoan wife. If it is not true, tell me now.”

He fiddled with a stirrup. Didn’t meet her eyes.

“You pathetic little cankerworm. You look at me when I speak! After all I’ve done for you —be glad I don’t have a revolver in my hand, because if I did, I would not be responsible for my actions. How can you do that to my girl? To your own son? You go in there with what little manhood you have, and you tell your wife—your legal wife—the truth.”
Fanny took a step toward him, and he moved back. “Do you hear me?” she shouted. Joe turned and went inside.

Once it was out in the open, the stories came to her from the natives who worked at Vailima. Joe had made a copy of the key to the storeroom and had been stealing liquor for some while. He’d been feeding the chickens lime to take a cut of the money allocated for their feed. The chickens had been dying, and yet she had not seen what was happening. The natives said she had eyes in the back of her head, and she was rather pleased that they thought it. But the whole family had been duped by Joe Strong, and she was ashamed of herself. She, of all of them, should have known better.

On December 24, Fanny hurried through the household, overseeing preparations for the party. Belle was sequestered with her sewing machine, as she had been since the day Joe walked in and confessed. She had wept for days, until she learned he was going about Apia in retaliation, spreading lies that she had her own lover, among other untruths. Now Belle appeared mostly relieved to be free of Joe Strong. She soberly stitched plaid lavalavas for Vailima’s natives to wear at Christmas.

Fanny had taken Belle down to Apia and gotten divorce papers drawn up. Some things were easier in Samoa than the States. Now Louis was a legal guardian of Austin, who had been sent back to California to live with his aunt in Monterey and attend boarding school. In a heartbeat, the world could and did change. Joe was gone, Austin was gone, and so was Henry, who had returned to his island to be among family.

She missed Henry as much as she missed her beloved grandson. Henry Simele was a real chief on his own land to his own people, yet a servant at Vailima. If that discrepancy ever disturbed him, he had never shown  it. He was a  man  of  such  self-possession, he could empty  the  slops  buckets  of  the  sick  household  during  an  in?uenza  outbreak,  or  light lanterns to please Louis, and never once lose his royal dignity.

Christmas Day arrived and the work continued. While hanging Henry James’s mirror in the hall, Fanny caught a glimpse of herself. Not long ago, in San Francisco, before the Casco cruise, she’d crowed to her friend Dora, “Thank God I’ve kept my appearance.” She couldn’t  say  that  anymore.  She  looked  terrible,  and  there  was  no  time  to  spend  on primping. There was a pig on the coals to watch, and gifts to wrap.

By ?ve, the house was ready for the feast. Guests were due in an hour, but Samoans were always early. She paused to scan the room. She might not look good, but the tree was a triumph. Anyone familiar with Christmas trees would wonder at her cleverness, for there wasn’t an appropriate tree to be had on Upolu. She’d instructed Talolo, the sweet young man  they’d hired as  cook,  to  bore  holes  through  a  post.  Lafayette  had collected longneedled branches of ironwood that came close to the look of a white pine. After the post was sunk in a container of hard dirt and rocks, Fanny and Lafaele stuck the branches into the holes. They rigged candles on the  “tree” and decorated it with red hibiscus ?owers. Voilà! Louis seemed pleased indeed.

Up in her bedroom, Fanny went through her wardrobe. Her eyes fell upon a deep blue dress she had worn … when? Five years ago? Not since Boston, just before they’d gone up to Saranac. It had a ?attering empire waist from which tiny pleats ?owed to the ?oor. Across the bodice were tiers of white lace, and at the elbows, too. At the neck was a satin arti?cial ?ower, crushed only a little. How she’d loved this dress! She threw it over her head now and was pleased it still ?t, then remembered the hat she’d worn with it. She found it at the top of the wardrobe, battered a bit, the brim of it misshapen but still stylish. It had enormous black ostrich feathers rising above the crown and a shimmering veil o?

the back. She put it on, admired how it caused her to look taller, tied the velvet ribbon under her chin. The hat made the ensemble. How whimsical a touch for a Christmas party! Sweet girl, Louis would say. You look beautiful tonight.

Out of her trunk she took a toiletry case she hadn’t used in some time. In the dim light, she spread rouge on her cheeks.

“Fanny!” Louis’s look was quizzical when she appeared downstairs.  “You’re wearing a hat.”

“Yes.” She laughed, feeling giddy as a girl. “Isn’t it festive?”

Lafaele and Talolo appeared in their holiday uniforms: plaid lavalavas and white shirts. Behind them trailed Mr. Moors and his wife.

“Light the candles, Louis!” she ordered. “The guests are here.”

When  Maggie  came  downstairs,  she  appeared  taken  aback.  “Oh,”  she  said.  “You’re wearing a hat, dear.”

“So are you!” Fanny shot back.

Belle swooped up and took her hand. “Mama,” she whispered. “Come upstairs with me for a minute. I want to fix your rouge.”

“What’s wrong with my rouge?” “It’s not where it is supposed to be.”

They hurried upstairs. Belle looked around the room. “You need a dressing table. Come, sit on the bed.” She took a washcloth and wiped Fanny’s cheeks.  “I can’t see your face under that hat brim.” Belle removed the hat and tossed it aside. “There you are.” She took up the jar of rouge and lightly applied the rose-colored cream to her mother’s cheeks and lips. “You know, you may need spectacles, Mama.”

“Nonsense. It’s just too dim in here.”

Belle  ran  a  comb  through  Fanny’s  hair. “That  looks  better.  One  more  thing.”  She retrieved a pair of scissors. “I want to snip o? that crumpled silk ?ower. It does nothing for your dress.”

Fanny’s hand went up and grabbed the scissors. “Quit pecking at me! There are people arriving right now!”

Coming  downstairs,  Fanny  took in  a  confusing  blur of  faces.  Talolo was lighting  the candles on the tree. She waded through the crowd, losing names as she greeted people. Lloyd was standing by the Christmas tree, announcing something. Earlier he had strung

into the branches little pouches containing treats, and now he began passing them out.
The scene in front of her was not what she had imagined. The H.M.S. Curacoa’s crew was not  there;  the  ship  never  arrived in  port.  Most  of  their  white  missionary  friends  were absent,  occupied  by  their  congregations.  But  a  smattering  of  white  women  in  holiday gowns had appeared, along with a host of native women in colorful dress. A local English farmer had brought a  nephew who could play piano. Even without the Curacoa’s band, Fanny comforted herself, there would be dancing.

How she loved to dance. Louis was not much of a dancer; because of his bedbound years, he’d never learned properly. Recently, though, Belle had taught him and Lloyd how to do the steps of a  quadrille. Belle and Louis stood now at the center of the glowing room, preparing to lead as the head couple. The farmer’s nephew commenced plunking out a Haydn piece as Fanny’s daughter and husband joined hands at the far end of the room. Two long lines formed quickly, men on one side, women on the other.
Fanny felt a bolt of anger rip through her so abruptly that her head wobbled. She leaped up  from  a  step  on  the  staircase  where  she’d  been  watching  the  young  piano  player. Dashing through the crowd to where they stood, Fanny pulled their hands apart and said, “I shall dance!”

Belle moved to the end of the line and found a stray male for a partner, while Louis, surprised, took hold of Fanny’s hand.

For days after the party, Fanny stayed in her room, where she took her meals. “Tired,” she said when Belle came in to check on her.

“Rest is good for you, Mama. You’ve worked too hard.” “Leave me be.”

Fanny sat at her desk with a pen in her right hand and a cigarette in her left. She felt a story stirring in her. She could hear a woman’s voice telling it: She is a dark woman, and a seer. She has not asked for her gifts; she does not practice them out of pride. Yet she understands the conversations of birds without e?ort. She touches horses where they su?er and cures them with her ?ngertips. She sees inside men and women, sees the very spot where a person is rotting. Sometimes she can do nothing, only watch. One morning she awakens, tastes the air, and knows. “Someone wants to harm me,” she tells people, but no one listens. “Someone has betrayed me.”
Fanny’s hand moved rapidly as she scribbled down thoughts for the beginning of the story. She wrote furiously until Lloyd came with lunch on a tray. She saw immediately that

he did not want to be in the room. He was her sweet boy once, before Louis stole his soul. Now  he  sat  every  day  where  she  once  sat,  laughing,  listening,  helping  Louis  with  his stories.

Fanny left the food untouched.

At night she lay awake as the sound of the waves grew deafening inside her head. Come to Me Thousands, haggard and wise, appeared before her with a shawl around her bony shoulders. She sat on the edge of the mattress.

“I am alone,” Fanny told her.

“Tamo’e, si o’ u afafine,” the old crone said. Run, daughter.