“My dad didn’t ever drink so much.”
“He didn’t talk to her so much, either. She was lonely out here. She couldn’t stand the winters.”
“I think she’s lonely in Concord.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it. Does she want you to move there with her?”
“Yeah. She wants me to go to college. She says that’s what the Ellises want. She says Mr. Ellis’ll pay for it, of course. Vera Ellis thinks if I stay here much longer, I’ll get pregnant. She wants me to move to Concord and then go to some small, respectable women’s college, where the Ellises know the president.”
“People do get pregnant out here, Ruth.”
“I think Opal has a big enough baby to go around for all of us. And besides, a person has to have sex to get pregnant these days. So they say.”
“You should be with your mother if that’s what she wants. There’s nothing keeping you here. People out here, Ruth, they’re not really your people.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’m not going to do a single thing with my life that the Ellises want me to do. That’s my plan.”
“That’s your plan?”
“For now.”
Mrs. Pommeroy took off her shoes and put her feet up on the old wooden lobster trap she used for a table on the porch. She sighed. “Tell me some more about Owney Wishnell,” she said.
“Well, I met him,” Ruth said.
“And?”
“And he’s an unusual person.”
Again, Mrs. Pommeroy waited, and Ruth looked out at the front yard. A seagull standing on a child’s toy truck stared back at her. Mrs. Pommeroy was staring at her, too.
“What?” Ruth asked. “What’s everyone staring at?”
“I think there’s more to tell,” Mrs. Pommeroy said. “Why don’t you tell me, Ruth?”
So Ruth started to tell Mrs. Pommeroy about Owney Wishnell, although it hadn’t been her original intention to tell anyone about him. She told Mrs. Pommeroy about Owney’s clean fisherman’s outfit and his ease with boats and about his rowing her out behind the rock to show her his lobster traps. She told about Pastor Wishnell’s threatening speeches on the evils and immoralities of lobster fishing and about Owney’s nearly crying when he showed her his packed, useless trap of lobsters.
“That poor child,” Mrs. Pommeroy said.
“Not exactly a child. I think he’s about my age.”
“Bless his heart.”
“Can you believe it? He’s got traps all along the coast, and he tosses the lobsters back. You should see how he handles them. It’s the strangest thing. He sort of puts them in a trance.”
“He looks like a Wishnell, right?”
“Yes.”
“Handsome, then?”
“He has a big head.”
“They all do.”
“Owney’s head is really huge. It looks like a weather balloon with ears.”
“I’m sure he’s handsome. They all have big chests, too, the Wishnells, except Toby Wishnell. Lots of muscles.”
“Maybe it’s baby fat,” Ruth said.
“Muscle,” said Mrs. Pommeroy, and smiled. “They’re all big old Swedes. Except the pastor. Oh, how I used to want to marry a Wishnell.”
“Which one?”
“Any of them. Any Wishnell. Ruth, they make so much money. You’ve seen their houses over there. The prettiest houses. The prettiest yards. They always have these sweet little flower gardens… I don’t think I ever talked to a Wishnell, though, when I was a girl. Can you believe that? I’d see them in Rockland sometimes, and they were so handsome.”
“You should have married a Wishnell.”
“How, Ruth? Honestly. Regular people don’t marry Wishnells. Besides, my family would have killed me if I’d married someone from Courne Haven. Besides, I never even met a Wishnell. I couldn’t tell you which one I wanted to marry.”
“You could’ve had your pick of them,” Ruth said. “A sexy looker like you?”
“I loved my Ira,” Mrs. Pommeroy said. But she patted Ruth’s arm for the compliment.
“Sure you loved your Ira. But he was your cousin.”
Mrs. Pommeroy sighed. “I know. But we had a good time. He used to take me over to the sea caves on Boon Rock, you know. With the stalactites, or whatever they were, hanging down everywhere. God, that was pretty.”
“He was your cousin! People shouldn’t marry their cousins! You’re lucky your kids weren’t born with dorsal fins!”
“You’re terrible, Ruth! You’re terrible!” But she laughed.
Ruth said, “You wouldn’t believe how scared of Pastor Wishnell that Owney is.”
“I believe everything. Do you like that Owney Wishnell, Ruth?”
“Do I like him? I don’t know. No. Sure. I don’t know. I think he’s… interesting.”
“You never talk about boys.”
“I never meet any boys to talk about.”
“Is he handsome?” Mrs. Pommeroy asked again.
“I told you. He’s big. He’s blond.”
“Are his eyes very blue?”
“That sounds like the title of a love song.”
“Are they very blue or not, Ruth?” She sounded slightly annoyed.
Ruth changed her tone. “Yes. They are very blue, Mrs. Pommeroy.”
“Do you want to know something funny, Ruth? I always secretly hoped you’d marry one of my boys.”
“Oh, Mrs. Pommeroy, no.”
“I know. I know.”
“It’s just-”
“I know, Ruth. Look at them. What a bunch! You couldn’t end up with any of them. Fagan is a farmer. Can you imagine that? A girl like you could never live on a potato farm. John? Who knows about John? Where is he? We don’t even know. Europe? I can hardly remember what John’s like. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him, I can hardly remember his face. Isn’t that a terrible thing for a mother to say?”
“I can hardly remember John either.”
“You’re not his mother, Ruth. And then there’s Conway. Such a violent person, for some reason. And now he walks with a limp. You’d never marry a man with a limp.”
“No limpers for me!”
“And Chester? Oh, boy.”
“Oh, boy.”
“Thinks he can tell fortunes? Rides around with those hippies?”
“Sells dope.”
“Sells dope?” Mrs. Pommeroy said, surprised.
“Just kidding,” Ruth lied.
“He probably does.” Mrs. Pommeroy sighed. “And Robin. Well, I have to admit I never thought you’d marry Robin. Not even when you were both little. You never thought much of Robin.”
“You probably thought he wouldn’t be able to ask me to marry him. He wouldn’t be able to pronounce it. It’d be like Would you pwease mawwey me, Woof? It would have been embarrassing for everyone.”
Mrs. Pommeroy shook her head and wiped her eyes quickly. Ruth noticed the gesture and stopped laughing.
“What about Webster?” Ruth asked. “That leaves Webster.”
“That’s the thing, Ruth,” Mrs. Pommeroy said, and her voice was sad. “I always thought you’d marry Webster.”
“Oh, Mrs. Pommeroy.” Ruth moved over on the couch and put her arm around her friend.
“What happened to Webster, Ruth?”
“I don’t know.”
“He was the brightest one. He was my brightest son.”
“I know.”
“After his father died…”
“I know.”
“He didn’t even grow any more.”
“I know. I know.”
“He’s so timid. He’s like a child.” Mrs. Pommeroy wiped tears off both cheeks with the back of her hand-a fast, smooth motion. “Me and your mom both have a son that didn’t grow, I guess,” she said. “Oh, brother. I’m such a crybaby. How about that?” She wiped her nose on her sleeve and smiled at Ruth. They brought their foreheads together for a moment. Ruth put her hand on the back of Mrs. Pommeroy’s head, and Mrs. Pommeroy closed her eyes. Then she pulled back and said, “I think something was taken from my sons, Ruthie.”
“Yes.”