A Piece of the World(40)

My heart skitters ahead of my words. “What—what do they mean by that?”

“It’s absurd,” he says. “Keeping up appearances. Harvard, all that. The right job. The right wife.”

“Meaning . . .” I ask in as neutral a tone as I can muster.

He shrugs. “Oh, who knows. They want me to marry someone”—he lifts forked fingers to convey that he’s quoting—“‘educated’ and ‘from a good family.’ Which means, naturally, a family they’ve heard of. A Boston family, preferably. A family that will bolster their social standing. Because that’s the important thing.”

I find myself shrinking into silence. Of course Walton’s parents don’t want their Harvard-educated son marrying a girl who didn’t even go to secondary school.

“You’re upset,” Walton says, patting my arm. “But you shouldn’t be. This isn’t about you. They don’t really know about you.”

This shocks me into words. “You’ve never mentioned me?”

“Of course I’ve mentioned you,” he says quickly. “I just don’t think they realize quite what . . . quite how much you mean to me.”

“Do they know that we are . . .” The word sweethearts springs to mind, but I’m afraid it will sound cloying, presumptuous.

He shrugs. “I try not to talk to my parents about much of anything.”

“So they don’t know that we’ve been . . . seeing each other for four years?”

“I’m not sure what they know, and I don’t care,” he says dismissively. “Let’s put this aside and enjoy the morning, shall we? I’m sorry I brought it up.”

I nod, but the conversation has dampened my mood. It’s only later, going over it in my head, that I realize he didn’t answer my question.





THE DAY BEFORE Walton and the Carles are to return to Massachusetts, we make a plan to go to the Acorn Grange Hall in Cushing for a dance. Walton shows up earlier than expected with Eloise and Ramona and finds me in the yard behind the house, struggling with a load of laundry. It’s wash day, and I can’t leave until all the clothes are on the line.

“Go ahead, I’ll be along soon,” I tell them. I’m hot and perspiring, still wearing my old frock and apron.

“I’ll help her finish,” he says to the others. “We’ll catch up with you.”

Eloise and Ramona leave the house with Al and Sam in a clamorous gaggle. I watch them as they make their way down the road—Al and Sam tall and awkward, bending like reeds toward the pretty sisters.

Walton helps me wring the damp pieces, his strong hands far more efficient than mine. He hoists the straw basket to his hip and we make our way to the clothesline; then, crouching, he takes each piece of damp clothing from the basket, shakes it, and hands it to me, and I pin it to the rope. The intimacy of this ordinary task feels bittersweet.

Walton waits on the back stoop while I go inside to change into a clean white blouse and navy skirt. “You look nice,” he says when I appear. As we stroll toward the Grange Hall, he rummages in his pocket. I hear the familiar crinkle of wax paper. He pops a butterscotch candy into his mouth.

“Do you have one for me?” I ask.

“Of course.” He stops and takes out another, unwraps it, and puts it on my tongue. He rubs my arms. “Autumn in the air already,” he muses. “Are you cold? Do you need my jacket?”

“I’m perfect,” I say a little stiffly.

“I know you’re perfect. I was asking if you’re chilly.” He smiles, and I can tell he’s trying to lighten my mood.

I suck on the candy for a moment. “You’re leaving.”

“Not for a few days.”

“Soon.”

“Too soon,” he concedes, lacing his fingers through mine.

For a few minutes we walk along in silence. Then I venture, “Teachers are needed all over. Even in Maine.”

He squeezes my hand gently but says nothing. Above our heads a riot of birdsong erupts, piercing the quiet. We both look up. The dense tree cover, leaf lush, gives nothing away. Then, suddenly swooping across the road, a dark flurry.

“I’ve never seen so many crows,” he remarks.

“Actually, they’re blackbirds.”

“Ah. What would I do without you to correct me?” He pulls on my hand playfully, and then, realizing he’s yanking me off balance, tucks his arm around my waist. “Such a clever girl,” he murmurs in my ear. Then he slows and stops in the road.

I’m not sure what he’s doing. “What is it?”

He puts a finger to his lips and tugs me gently down the embankment into a copse of blue-black spruce. In the shadows he cups my warm face in his cool hands. “You are truly something, Christina.”

I look into his pale eyes, trying to decipher what he’s saying. He gazes back implacably. “I can’t tell if you’re sad to be leaving,” I say, a petulant tone creeping into my voice.

“Of course I am. But admit it—you’ll be a bit relieved. ‘Finally summer’s over, I have my life back.’”

I shake my head.

He shakes his head, mimicking me. “No?”

“No. I—”