A Piece of the World(36)

SUMMER AGAIN. WHEN I answer the door one June morning in 1915 to find Walton standing there, he gives me a huge smile and presents me with a package of butterscotch candies. “Sweets to the sweet,” he says.

“That’s an old line,” I tell him. “You’ve said it before.”

He laughs. “I obviously have a limited repertoire.”

Soon we fall back into our familiar routines, seeing each other nearly every day. We stroll the property, sail in the afternoon, picnic in early evening with the Carles and my brothers Al and Sam down by the grove. I see Ramona watching as Walton and I go off together to collect driftwood and twigs to make a fire in the circle of rocks, as he pulls me behind a tree and kisses me. At the end of the evening we sit on the rough benches Papa made and watch the cinders crumble and settle. The sky changes from blue to purple to rose to red as the sun sinks like an ember into the sea.

When Walton gets up to talk to Alvah on the other side of the fire pit, Ramona comes to sit beside me. “I need to ask,” she says quietly. “Has Walton discussed the nature of his commitment to you?”

I knew this question was coming. I’ve been dreading it.

“Not exactly,” I tell her. “I think our commitment is—understood.”

“Understood by whom?”

“By both of us.”

“Does he say anything?”

“Well, he needs to establish himself before—”

“I am prying, forgive me. I’ve tried to keep my mouth shut. But my goodness, this is the third year.”

It’s not like she’s articulating anything I haven’t thought myself, but her words feel like a punch in the gut. Walton is a scholar, I want to say, studying the classics and philosophy; he cannot make any decisions until he is done with school. Nobody seems to understand this.

I’m not sure I understand it myself.

“It’s really not your business, Ramona,” I say stiffly.

“It’s not, you’re right.”

We sit in silence, the air between us bristling with words unsaid.

After a few moments, she sighs. “Look, Christina. Be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”

I know Ramona means well. But this is like telling a person who has leapt off a cliff to be careful. I am already in midair.

IN LATE AUGUST, Walton and I make a plan to sail alone to Thomaston. Since my conversation with Ramona I’ve been acutely aware of how deftly he evades any talk of commitment. Maybe she’s right; I need to raise the issue directly.

I resolve to do it on our sail.

It’s early evening, and the air is laced with cool. He stands behind me, unfurling a big wool blanket and wrapping it around our shoulders as I steer.

“Walton—” I begin nervously.

“Christina.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“I don’t want to leave,” he says, wrapping his hand over mine.

I slide my hand out from under his. “But you have things to look forward to. All I have is months of winter. And waiting.”

“Ah, my poor Persephone,” he murmurs, kissing my hair, my shoulder.

This irritates me further. I pull away a bit. For a few moments we are quiet. I listen to the mournful yawp of seagulls overhead, as large as geese.

“I want to ask you something,” I say finally.

“Ask.”

“Or—well—tell you.”

“Go ahead.”

“I love . . .” I start, but my courage fades. “Being with you.”

He pulls the blanket tighter around me, enveloping us in a cocoon. “I love being with you.”

“But . . . what are we—what are you—”

His hands move up my sides, resting on my ribs. I arch my back, leaning into him, and his hands move to the front, cupping my breasts gently through the fabric. “Oh, Christina,” he breathes. “Some things don’t need explanation. Do they?”

I decide I will not ask him, press him, insist. I tell myself it’s not the time. But the fact is, I am afraid. Afraid that I will push him away, and that this—whatever it is—will end.



AL AND I are clearing the dishes from supper one evening when he says, “So what do you think is going to happen?”

“What?”

He’s bent over the plates, scraping leftover potatoes and yams and applesauce into a bucket for the pigs. “You think Walton Hall is going to marry you?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.” But Al must know this is a lie.

“All I’m saying is . . .” He is strained and awkward, unaccustomed to the intimacy of speaking his mind.

“‘All I’m saying is,’” I mock him impatiently. “Stop hemming and hawing. Spit it out.”

“I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Like what.”

“As if reason has left you.”

“Honestly.” Feeling a flare of annoyance, I handle the pots recklessly, clanging them into each other.

“I’m concerned for you,” he says.

“Well, don’t be.”

For a few minutes we work silently, clearing the table, scooping the cutlery into a bowl, pouring warm water from the kettle into a pan for the dishes. As I go through the familiar motions I get even angrier. How dare he—this cautious man-child who has never been in love—pass judgment on Walton’s motives and my own good sense? Al knows as much about the nature of our relationship as he does about sewing a dress.