A Piece of the World(24)

It’s hard to say what’s in my head. It’s been a long time since anyone cared to ask.

He insists. “I want to know.”

So little by little, I open up. I tell him about the trip to Rockland when I refused to see the doctor. The disappearing treasure in Mystery Tunnel. The witches, the sea captains, the ship stranded in ice . . .

What did you miss about going to school?

Why were you so scared of doctors?

He is as gentle as a dog, as curious as a cat.

Who are you, Christina Olson?

In the Shell Room one afternoon Andy finds Papa’s wooden box of keepsakes and opens the lid. He strokes the smooth tines of the whalebone comb. Picks up the tiny tin soldier and raises its arms with his forefinger. “Whose is this?”

“My father’s. This box is the only thing of his I kept after he died.”

“I used to collect toy soldiers,” he muses. “When I was a boy, I created a whole battlefield. I still have a row of them lined up on the windowsill in my studio in Pennsylvania.” He sets the soldier back in the box and runs a finger over the black lump of anthracite. “Why do you think he held on to this?”

“He liked rocks and minerals, he said.”

“This is anthracite, right?”

I nod.

“Coal’s glamorous cousin,” he says. “In the Civil War—did your father tell you this?—anthracite was used by Confederate blockade runners as fuel for their steamships to avoid giving themselves away. It burns clean. No smoke.”

“I’ve never heard that,” I say. But I think: How apt. Papa was never one to give himself away.

“They called them ghost ships. It’s a terrifying image, isn’t it? These ominous ships materializing out of nowhere.” He sets the anthracite back in the box and shuts the lid. “Did he ever go back to Sweden?”

“No. But I’m named after his mother. Anna Christina Olauson.”

“Did you know her?”

I shake my head. “It’s strange, don’t you think—to name your child after a living person you’ve chosen never to see again?”

“Not so strange,” he says. “There’s this great line from The House of the Seven Gables: ‘The world owes all its onward impulses to men ill at ease.’ Your father must have felt he had to forge his own path, even if it meant cutting ties to his family. It’s brave to resist the pull of the familiar. To be selfish about your own needs. I wrestle with that every day.”

SEVERAL MONTHS AFTER Andy and Betsy return to Chadds Ford for the winter, I get a letter from Betsy. In September she gave birth to a sickly child, Nicholas, who needed a lot of special care but seems to be all right. In November Andy was drafted into the army. When he reported for his physical they took one look at his twisted right leg and his flat feet and rejected him on the spot. “He truly feels he’s been given a reprieve and is determined to make the most of it,” she writes.

A reprieve of one sort, I think. But though I may not have a child of my own, I know all too well how the demands of family life can become consuming. I wonder if, as a father, now, Andy will feel even more torn between the pull of the familiar and the creative impulses that drive him.





1913–1914


I’m in the henhouse early on a warm June morning, gathering eggs, when I hear voices coming closer across the field. We’re not expecting visitors. Standing up straight, I lower the warm eggs I’m holding into the pocket of my apron and listen closely.

Ramona Carle—I’d recognize her throaty laugh anywhere.

Ramona, along with her siblings Alvah and Eloise, are summer folk from Massachusetts whose family bought the Seavey homestead down the road several years ago. Alvah is the oldest; Eloise is my age, Ramona a few years younger. They stay in Cushing from Memorial Day to Labor Day. But unlike some other from-aways (with their languid indolence, their impulsive thrill-seeking), the Carles do their best to fit in with the locals. I always look forward to seeing them. They organize egg-in-spoon races at our annual Fourth of July clambake on Hathorn Point, convince everyone to play games like Red Rover and Olly Olly Oxen Free, and bring bags of fireworks to light after dark.

Ramona is my favorite. A friendly, impulsive girl, she is slight and energetic, with hair the color of melted chocolate and eyes as large and shiny as a fawn’s. Once, when I was with her in town, an old lady told her she was as cute as a button. (No one has ever said anything remotely like that to me.)

Ducking out of the henhouse with my bounty of eggs and a big smile of anticipation, I nearly run into a man I’ve never seen before. “Why—hello!” I say.

“Hello!” He’s about my age, I think—I’ve just turned twenty—and about half a foot taller than me, with light-brown hair that flops in front of wide-set blue eyes. He’s wearing thin linen pants and a soft white shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows.

Self-conscious all of a sudden, I smooth my sleep-matted hair, glancing down at the soiled apron I baked bread in this morning and the wooden clogs I wear to wade through mud.

“Walton Hall,” he says, extending his hand.

“Christina Olson.” His hand is surprisingly soft. This is a man who has never handled a plow.

“Walton is visiting from Malden,” Ramona says. “He and Eloise went to high school together. At the end of the summer he’s heading off to Harvard.”