A Piece of the World(49)
Sam knows what I’m thinking. Four long cars. He stands with a flourish and holds out his arm. I take a deep breath and rise to my feet. But now there’s another question: Do we take our things with us so they won’t be stolen, or do we leave them here? An elderly woman with a face like a cellar apple leans forward in her seat across the aisle. “Don’t worry, dears, I’ll watch your bags.”
The swaying of the train actually disguises my infirmity. Accustomed to having to work to keep my balance, I adjust to it more quickly than Sam, who weaves from side to side like a drunkard. In the dining car, we eat ham sandwiches and drink tea with milk and sugar, gazing out at the rushing dark. For years I’ve dreamed of this moment—or rather, a moment like this. How different it is from my imaginings! My ankles are cold, my feet pinched in these new shoes, the air sour with tobacco smoke and body odor, the bread stale, the tea weak and bitter.
And yet—here I am, going somewhere new. How shockingly easy it was to pick up and go, to buy a ticket and board a train and head off into the unknown.
Portland, Portsmouth, Newburyport. We slow into stations one after another that never have meant more to me than words on a map. When we arrive in Salem, I think about our ancestor who lived here. I imagine Bridget Bishop standing on the scaffold, trying desperately to use the sentence against her to her own advantage. If you truly believe I’m a witch, she must have thought, then you must also believe I have the power to harm you. I’ve always assumed that John Hathorne trumped up those charges against rebels and misfits as a way of enforcing social codes. But now I wonder: What if he really did believe those women were capable of ensnaring his soul?
When we pull into South Station, it’s dark and cold and we must take three different trains to get to the Carles’—one of them elevated, which requires dragging our bags up and down stairs. With Sam’s arm under mine I concentrate on my steps, one foot up, the next one down. When I dreamed of a life with Walton, I hadn’t thought about what it would be like to navigate city living. Everything comes back to this body, this faulty carapace. How I wish I could crack it open and leave it behind.
DESPITE MY TREPIDATION about being in Boston, it’s exciting to be in a new place and easy enough to pretend that everything is all right—to chat amiably with Ramona as she fries eggs for breakfast, exclaim over her wedding gifts and the charming view of the cobblestoned street from the apartment window, play card games in the evenings at a square folding table in the living room with her and Harland and Sam. (Though I can’t help flinching when Harland suggests we play Old Maid.)
But just under the surface, my heart feels raw, painful to the touch. Beneath my smiles and nods and exclamations, I drift through each day like a ghost, silently keening for what might have been. Here, in Harvard Yard, Walton and I might have rested on a park bench. At Jordan Marsh Department Store we would have selected furniture and dishes. On the banks of the Charles we’d spread a quilt for a picnic and I’d lean back against his chest, watching the rowers go by. At night I fall into bed exhausted, overwhelmed by a grief so overwhelming that I can hardly breathe.
In spite of my best efforts, Ramona isn’t fooled. One morning she says, apropos of nothing, “It was brave of you to come.” The two of us are sitting at the breakfast nook eating soft-boiled eggs in china cups and toast propped in a silver rack. Sam and Harland have gone for a stroll.
“I’m happy to be here.”
She takes a sip of coffee. “I’m glad. It couldn’t have been an easy decision to make the trip.”
“No,” I admit. “But Sam insisted.”
“I know. He told me. But—you are having a nice time, aren’t you?”
I nod, buttering my toast. “Of course, a lovely time.”
“I want to tell you, Christina . . .” She sets down her spoon. “You must be wondering. Walton lives in Malden. He rarely comes into the city these days.”
I look in her eyes. “I was wondering.”
“I hope that sets your mind at ease.”
“Does he know I’m here?”
“I told him. I felt I had to. In case . . .”
“It makes sense. You’re friends.” I can hear the bitter edge in my voice.
She bites her lip. “Family friends. From childhood. It’s hard to just cut people off . . . even though . . .” Shaking her head, she says, “I don’t know how to explain it. I feel like a traitor. I know how painful it was for you. He behaved abominably.”
Ramona seems so sincerely distressed that I feel a trickle of empathy for her. “You don’t have to explain. I understand.”
“Do you?” she says hopefully.
“The past is past.”
I know it’s what she wants to hear. She smiles, clearly relieved. “I’m so glad you feel that way. I do too! And by the way, I know you said you aren’t interested, but Boston is filled with eligible bachelors.”
“Ramona—”
She flaps her hand. “Yes, yes, I know, you’ve hung up your rod. You can’t blame a girl for trying.”
A FEW DAYS later, Ramona says, “I can’t imagine it’s easy for you, Christina dear, all this perambulating around.”
She’s right. Every inch of Boston has been treacherous for me, from the cobblestoned streets to the crowded sidewalks. She and Sam and even bumbling Harland steer me into the elevator and down the steps, offering steady arms for our afternoon strolls. Even so, I trip and stumble. “I truly appreciate your help,” I tell her.