“Look at that ship,” Mr. Styles said, gesturing at the water. “Look at the size of her.”
Still holding her sister, Anna looked. She saw the usual tugs and lighters, a few freighters and tankers that appeared to be stationary. And behind them, on such a scale that her eye didn’t register it at first, a mammoth ship, pale gray, moving with fantastic speed past Breezy Point. Anna was certain it hadn’t been there a minute before. “What is it?” she asked.
“Troopship,” he said. “A liner. The Queen Mary, is my guess. They covered up all that fancy woodwork and packed her full of soldiers. Fifteen thousand she can hold, a whole division.”
He’d crossed the Atlantic in the Queen Mary with Harriet after their wedding—steamed to Southampton in three days to meet the old man, whose aunt, Lady Hewitt, bred racehorses in Kent. Dexter’s job had been to win her blessing, and he’d done it.
“She’s too fast for convoy,” he went on, although she must know these things, working at the Naval Yard. He wanted to explain it—to talk about the liner while she was still in sight. “Convoys have to sail at the speed of the slowest ship: that means eleven knots if it includes a Liberty, even slower for coal burners. But the Queen Mary can make thirty knots. The Gray Ghost, they call her. U-boats can’t catch her.”
He felt an odd yearning toward the ship, as if wishing himself on board. Not with soldiers, though. Before the war? But that wasn’t it, either. Perhaps with soldiers after all.
“Are your businesses doing any war work?” she asked after the ship had steamed out of sight.
“If you include keeping the brass amused and easing the pain of rationing, we’re doing more than our share,” he said.
She laughed. “You’re a profiteer,” she said, apparently without judgment. But he didn’t like the word.
“I prefer ‘morale booster,’?” he said. “I keep people’s spirits up, despite the war.”
“Would you like to do more?”
It appeared to be that rare thing: a genuine question asked from curiosity, nothing else. She stood straight, hands on her sister’s shoulders, and watched him from under those arched eyebrows. Her gaze was bright and clear.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I would like that.” It seemed to him now that this wish was long-standing. He was filled with impatience at not yet having achieved it.
Anna felt a jolt under her hands, like a drawer slamming shut. Alarmed, she looked into Lydia’s face and found her sister’s eyes wide-open, registering the rise and fall of the waves. “Liddy,” she cried. “Do you know where you are?”
See the sea. Sea the sea the sea the sea
“She’s talking,” Anna cried. “Listen!”
Dexter had briefly forgotten Lydia, lost in the question her sister had posed about war work. Now he looked again at Lydia. With just her blue eyes showing above the Landrace, a few strands of hair whirling from its folds, she looked like a veiled beauty, a woman of mystery. He leaned close and heard murmuring through the wool.
“I felt her wake up,” her sister said. “She started, as if someone had shaken her.”
Dexter looked out at the silvery swells. Wind lashed his overcoat and gulls cried overhead. “It is beautiful,” he said. “No wonder she’s paying attention. Everyone should see this once in their lives.”
“I think so, too,” she said.
I wanted you to see the sea.?See the sea the sea the
ishywarmenuf?
Bird ree ree rawk reek rawk you know what birds are, remember the little birds that camrwindosill, remember?
Cree cree?Bird
That wind is picking up.
You can tell she’s watching
Oh yes, she sees. She laughed a minute ago
shelafdamingo.?Flamingo.?Bird cree cree.
Kiss
Oh, Liddy!
Kiss
My darling you haven’t done that in suchalontym. Look, she kisses me if I pull the blanket aside.
Shekissississ.
This is a kiss.?Do you see?
I suppose I do.?Poor kid.
Her lips are so soft.
Anna
Listen, she’s talking.?She’s trying to talk.?Being outside is making her well.
Anna?Papa?Mama?Liddy
She’s talking to you.?She’s looking at you.
She hasn’t any idea who I am.?Probably wondering who this stranger is.
Whothistrangris?Wholyam?Papa
“Thank you for bringing us, Mr. Styles,” Anna cried, suddenly overcome. No one had done this, ever—taken them to the beach together. “Thank you for bringing us. We’re so terribly grateful.” She clasped his hands and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. But she only reached his jaw.
“It’s nothing,” he muttered, though he felt strangely moved. The change in the crippled girl was extraordinary. He’d found her sprawled unconscious, as if she’d been dropped from a height, but now she sat up independently, holding her head away from the stand. The Landrace fell from her face as she confronted the sea, lips moving, like a mythical creature whose imprecations could summon storms and winged gods, her wild blue eyes fixed on eternity.
He’d lost track of the time. Twelve-thirty. Not as late as he’d feared, but too late to meet the old man. Ah well. He didn’t really care—was glad not to have to hurry anywhere else. He stood beside the girls and watched the sea. It was never the same on any two days, not if you really looked. Smart, taking the poor kid to the beach. Good for anyone to breathe this air.
Kiss Anna
Bird?Cree cree
See the waves?hrasha?hrasha?hrasha
Seetheseatheseethesea
Kiss Anna
Blue Bird?Shhh
Breathe
Faaaah laaaaah
Seethseethseathsee thusea seethe
I don’t want to . . . when will she babeltu
Papa
Wholyam?Whothistrangris
Kiss Anna
Kiss Liddy
Papa?Whothistrangris
Afraid to leave she might
Hrasha?hrasha?hrasha
In no hurry.?Stay here as long as you like.
?PART FOUR
The Dark
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
* * *
Anna’s mother returned from her own Sunday expedition in the late afternoon. She flung open the door and ran to Lydia, her visible alarm leaving no doubt that she’d been informed, in the course of ascending five flights, of the car, the strange man, and the lengthy absence. Lydia sat by the window, watching a bird on the fire escape. She turned to their mother and smiled.
“My Lord,” her mother cried, throwing her arms around her. “Where in heaven did you take her?”
“Look,” Anna said.
Her mother’s wonder at the change in Lydia made it easier to unpack, like crockery from a picnic basket, the untruths Anna had spent the ride home carefully assembling: that her supervisor, Mr. Voss, had made an unexpected visit in his car. That he’d taken them for a drive to Prospect Park, where Lydia (well bundled, of course) had sat outdoors. And then a flourish, appended spontaneously: Mr. Voss had a sister like Lydia! That was why he’d cared to come and see her, and why Anna had entrusted him to carry her downstairs.
“It’s cold for the park,” their mother said, touching Lydia’s forehead. “But she seems so alert.”