Mary woke up on a Tuesday morning that was like the rest, clear and bright. Outside her bedroom window the fully-globed maple trees stood glittering like jeweler's work. In the elm tree a hoarse-throated bird had sprung a leak in his kettle and was dripping rusty splashes of song on the lawn. Mary got out of bed and pulled on her clothes, reflecting. It was the combination of things, perhaps, that had made it inevitable. Given a crop of young men with classical educations and given a succession of nurturing springtimes, how could New England not have produced a rash of transcendentalists? Or even so rare a flower as a Thoreau? Perhaps you shouldn't wonder at genius. Sometimes, maybe, it grew as naturally as weeds.
Gwen put her head in the door. "Mary, I don't suppose you have any white elephants for the church bazaar?"
"Oh, I don't know. Let me think."
"Anything will do, you know, absolutely anything. Old worn-out pieces of electrical equipment, toasters and irons. Remember the hair-dryer that John bought once? The heating unit didn't work, but he used it for a fan and gave himself chilblains all summer."
"I'll look around. Isn't that Mrs. Bewley vacuuming? Why don't you ask her? You know, she's got a whole houseful of white elephants."
"Oh, you bet I'm going to. She's our old reliable."
Gwen had graduated to little maternity jackets. She was keeping her weight down with difficulty, and already found the stairs hard going. Mrs. Bewley, who loved babies and motherhood, had offered to come in on her day off and help out. Now she stood in John's room, pushing the vacuum cleaner back and forth. Gwen came up behind her and turned off the switch. Mrs. Bewley didn't realize it was turned off, and she continued to push it back and forth dreamily. Gwen had to pull on the paw of her squirrel neckpiece. "MRS. BEWLEY," shouted Gwen, "I HOPE YOU'LL HAVE SOMETHING FOR ME AGAIN THIS YEAR FOR THE WHITE ELEPHANT TABLE?"
"TABLE?" bawled Mrs. Bewley. She patted her neckpiece. "NO, DEAR, IT'S SQUIRREL."
"TABLE, TABLE," bellowed Gwen. "DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING FOR THE WHITE ELEPHANT TABLE?"
"WHAT SAY?"
Gwen took a deep breath and tried again. "WHITE ELEPHANT," she shrieked. "WHITE ELEPHANT."
At last Mrs. Bewley understood. She vaulted with her scrawny old legs over a small chair and stuck her head out the window. "WHERE? WHERE?"
Gwen thought it over. If she screamed any louder she would have a miscarriage on the spot. She picked up a piece of John's drawing paper and a crayon and beckoned to Mrs. Bewley. It was no good writing, because Mrs. Bewley couldn't read. So Gwen drew a rough picture of the First Parish church. Then she outlined a table with some chipped dishes on it and a sign on a stick. Carefully she made the sign in the shape of an elephant, with a long trunk in front. Mrs. Bewley began to smile all over her gaunt old face. "OH. YOU MEAN WHITE ELEPHANT TABLE. YES, YES. I'M SURE I CAN SPARE A FEW THINGS FROM MY COLLECTION."
"THAT'S NICE. YOU'RE ALWAYS SO GENEROUS, MRS. BEWLEY."
Mrs. Bewley nodded and smiled. It was true, she was.
Downstairs Mary was ready to go. But at the front door she blanched. That Granville-Galsworthy fellow had taken to hanging around in the morning. He had a room on Belknap Street but some mornings Mary had suspected that he had been lurking outside all night. Grandmaw had complained of prowlers, and the other night Tom had nearly caught someone in the barn. It gave Mary the shivers. She opened the door a crack, thinking to dodge out the back way if he was there, and try driving off as if she hadn't seen him. But his sallow face swam up to the crack in the door. She jumped. He had been standing on the great granite step before the door.
"Oh, hello. Good morning."
"Good morning tew yew."
Mary walked quickly toward her car. Roland came, too. There was nothing for it but to ask if he'd like a lift. Where did he want to go?
"I'm going tew dew some research," he said. "Just let me out wherever you're going."
Research, my eye. "Well, I'm going to the police station. Is that all right?"
That was all right. Mary parked her car beside the station, and he got out and followed her to the door. She despaired. Was there no way she could rid herself of this limpet? Then he collided with someone who was hurrying around the corner of the building. It was Homer Kelly.
"G'morning," said Homer, scowling. Roland lifted his hat and faded away.
Mary silently thanked God. "Nice day," she said meekly. Homer glared at her, opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it. Instead he opened the door for her. went in and leaned on the counter.
"Shrubsole," he said, "it's June."
"That's right, sir; lovely day."
"Miss Morgan and I will be out all day. Mind the store."
"Working on the case, are you, Mr. Kelly?"
"Naturally. You didn't think we would take a day off, and go boating on the river, or some frivolous thing like that, did you? We're just going to be doing some miscellaneous—ah—"
"Research," suggested Mary.
"That's it."
Sergeant Shrubsole was looking curiously at Homer. He lifted up his forefinger, rubbed it on his superior's cheek and looked at it. It came away pink with lipstick. Shrubsole shook his head, winked at Mary and drew an obvious conclusion. Homer hastily pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed his face. Mary blushed, and, trying hard not to look unhappy, succeeded in looking guilty. But it wasn't her lipstick.
"Come on," he said testily to Mary, pushing her out the door ahead of him. He slammed the door. "Impertinent young fool."
"You've got some on your collar, too," said Mary. She licked her handkerchief and wiped at the smudge. Homer looked down at her and growled, "Where can we hire a canoe?"
"A canoe? Oh, I see. Our research is going to be..."
"Naturally. Boating on the river."
*39*
I left the village and paddled up the river to Fair Haven Pond ... 1 was soothed with an infinite stillness. I got the world, as it were, by the nape of the neck, and held it under in the tide of its own events, till it was drowned, and then I let it go downstream like a dead dog. —Henry Thoreau
"Wish I could go with you," said Tom. "I sure love this river. But what with crating asparagus and one thing and another a man hasn't a moment's peace this season. Here, why don't you use the outboard? See, it has its own battery. Doesn't make any noise at all."
Homer looked at the motor doubtfully. "Maybe we'd better just paddle," he said. "I don't know a thing about making motors work."
"Nonsense. You don't have to. This one's good for ten, eleven hours. Here, I'll start her up."
Gwen had made them a lunch in Annie's old plastic lunch-box. She came down to the edge of the river with Freddy to see them off. Freddy wanted to go, too. He wept as they shoved off from the shore into the middle of the dark stream. "Goodby, Freddy," shouted Homer. "Don't cry, and we'll bring you a turtle."
Freddy stopped crying right away. "Big," he said. "Big."
Out in the middle of the Assabet Mary could feel the sun drawing all the slivers from her mind. She knelt facing forward in the bow of the canoe and stared straight ahead so that Homer wouldn't see her smile. Grind away, hurdy-gurdy. (Henry Thoreau had spent half his life on the rivers.) Homer sat still in the stern, his hand on the tiller of the motor, his eyes on Mary's back. She was wearing a white dress. Unbidden, a quotation from Emerson floated into his head. Beauty is the mark God sets upon virtue. There was an asinine remark if ever there was one.