“Marcus, it grieves me to think how many more unhappy stories you are sitting on.” And Aunt Charlotte did look grieved. She spoke like someone who was hurting because she cared for me. Heartened by this, I was able to recall something else.
“Believe it or not there was a good part to that night. When Mom came upstairs and told me about Mrs. Wicket’s meanness, we both flew into a rage—well, a mixture of rage and despair. I really lost it and called our landlady every disgusting name I could think of, and then I started calling down curses, all the horrible things I wished on her, and after a while Mom came over and hugged me and told me that was enough. Then she said, ‘Because we are poor, shall we be vicious?’ and went to make us some cocoa. At first I thought it was a question she had addressed to me, but when she came back with the cocoa she said it was out of some violent play written even before Shakespeare’s time. She hadn’t read the play, but this night school teacher she admired so much was always giving them famous quotes that might help them on future tests. And Mom said the quote stayed with her because it gave her a morale boost when she was beating up on herself for being poor. She said maybe it had been selfish to bring me into the world when she had so little to offer, but nevertheless she had wanted me more than anything in her whole life. She said I was her great prize.”
Aunt Charlotte and I had moved outside to the porch. A balmy evening breeze was blowing across the dunes and the tide was on its way out. The sunbathers and families had packed up their things and departed, leaving only strollers and owners walking their dogs. There was no leash-free “dog hour” in the evening, which I thought was a shame. Barrett was probably back at the Navy brig where his prisoner-trainer would be putting the final touches on his skills. I had been down to check on the turtles: the thermocouple stuck in the sand had registered no rise in temperature. Aunt Charlotte had said to leave the dishes for later and hopped on ahead to the porch, calling over her shoulder for me to bring out another bottle of wine. Ordinarily, since she had begun her secret project, she hopped straight back to her studio immediately after supper, but tonight she was being sociable. Maybe she felt sorry for me after my sad story.
“Oh, I forgot,” she said when I joined her with the fresh bottle. She had arranged herself to accommodate her casts: the little table that held her bottle and glass on the left where she could reach them, her left leg propped straight ahead on a stool. “Lachicotte phoned while you were next door. He said to tell you he’s booked you for the school bus. School starts the third Monday in August. Do you realize, Marcus, you’ll be in school before my casts are off.”
“We’ll have a celebration.”
“Let’s wait until we’re sure I have something to celebrate.”
My heart clenched at the mention of school. So far I had stayed on top of the first summer of my new life. Though recent days had been demanding, I had so far been able to handle everything on the schedule: turtle check, followed by early morning bike ride to Grief Cottage, where I worked at building back my credibility with the ghost-boy, then home to do general housework, get the shopping list from Roberta, bike to the store, deliver order to Roberta in the kitchen, a solitary lunch, sometimes eaten on the beach beside the turtles, then laundry—if any. (I did worry about the state of Aunt Charlotte’s sheets inside the off-limit studio, but refrained from inquiring.) Next came my afternoon visit with Coral Upchurch, if she was feeling up to it, then supper with Aunt Charlotte, washing up and putting away, evening meditation beside the turtle clutch, unpacking more boxes (if in the mood), then bed, thoughts, dreams, sleeping, and waking to the tides. I was managing everything on the list, and so far keeping enough of a wary balance between inner and outer happenings to stay in the realm people called sanity.
School would be another thing. School would mean judgment again. It was one thing to try to please a great-aunt who was more or less stuck with me, and visit an old lady who fascinated me, and pursue a precarious relationship with a dead boy, but being reminded that soon I would be thrown back into that cauldron of merciless peers made my spirit shrink.
“You know,” Aunt Charlotte mused, “the Internet has its upside and its downside. The upside is I can sit in front of my laptop and go room by room through the great museums of the world. I can loiter in front of a picture as long as I please without someone blocking my view or saying something stupid or hurrying me on. I can replenish my wine and art supplies without leaving the house. The downside is that all I have to do to spoil a day is to type ‘wrist sprain, stage 3’ into that little rectangle on the screen and have instant access to all the less than ideal ways the rest of my life can turn out.”
XXVIII.
When I had been going through airport security before my flight to Aunt Charlotte’s—the first airplane ride of my life—the lady in front of me got into an argument with the official who wanted her to open her suitcase. Something inside it had looked suspicious when it passed through the x-ray machine. The suitcase was now open on the counter, and the official asked her to take everything out. “You mean I am to lay out my personal items in front of everybody?” “Yes, ma’am, it will be neater if you do it.” “This is highly irregular,” she said, “I have never been asked to do this before in my life. I can assure you there is nothing dangerous in this bag. Do I look like a terrorist?” “Please, ma’am, just remove the items and we’ll locate the problem.” “What if I refuse?” she asked. “Then I can’t let you into the boarding area for your flight.” He had tuned his patience down a notch. “Very well,” she conceded, and in exaggerated slow motion began to lay out the contents of the bag. Faded pink nightgown and worn terrycloth slippers, a yellowing white bra, underpants also in yellowing white, a scruffy stuffed animal that looked like a rat in a red vest, a magnifying glass, a hairbrush with hairs in it, a toiletry bag—“Wait,” he stopped her, “Can we have a look in that bag?” “You’re running this show,” she said with a scornful smile, handing it over for him to ferret out the culprit. “I’m afraid we’ll have to confiscate these, ma’am.” “Be my guest,” she said, repacking her suitcase as slowly as she could. “They are harmless embroidery scissors. Maybe your wife will enjoy them.”