An Acceptable Time (3 page)

As they climbed the stairs her grandmother said, “We’ve spruced up Charles Wallace’s room. It isn’t big, but I think you might like it.”

Charles Wallace’s room had been more than spruced up. It looked to Polly as though her grandparents had known she was coming, though the decision had been made abruptly only three days before she was put on the plane. When action was necessary, her parents did not procrastinate.

But the room, as she stepped over the threshold, seemed to invite her in. There was a wide window which looked onto the vegetable garden, then on past a big mowed field to the woods, and then the softly hunched shoulders of the mountains. It was a peaceful view, not spectacular, but gentle to live with, and wide and deep enough to give perspective. The other window looked east, across the apple orchard to more woods. The wallpaper was old-fashioned, soft blue with a sprinkling of daisies almost like stars, with an occasional bright butterfly, and the window curtains matched, though there were more butterflies than in the wallpaper.

Under the window of the east wall were bookshelves filled with books, and a rocking chair. The books were an eclectic collection, several volumes of myths and fairy tales, some Greek and Roman history, an assortment of novels, from Henry Fielding’s
Tom Jones
to Matthew Maddox’s
The Horn of Joy
, and on up to contemporary novels. Polly pulled out a book on constellations, with lines drawn between the stars to show the signs of the zodiac. Someone had to have a vivid imagination, she thought, to see a Great and Little Bear, or Sagittarius with his bow and arrow. There was going to be plenty to read, and she was grateful for that.

The floor was made of wide cherrywood boards, and there were small hooked rugs on either side of the big white-pine bed, which had a patchwork quilt in blues and yellows. What Polly liked most was that although the room was pretty it wasn’t pretty-pretty. Charles, she thought, would have liked it.

She had turned to her grandmother. “Oh, it’s lovely! When did you do all this?”

“Last summer.”

Last summer her grandparents had had no idea that Polly would be coming to live with them. Nevertheless, she felt that the room was uniquely hers. “I love it! Oh, Grand, I love it!”

She had called her parents, described the room. Her grandparents had left her to talk in privacy, and she said, “I love Grand and Granddad. You should see Granddad out on his red tractor. He’s not intimidating at all.”

There was laughter at that. “Did you expect him to be?”

“Well—I mean, he knows so much about astrophysics and space travel, and he gets consulted by presidents and important people. But he’s easy to talk to—well, he’s my grandfather and I think he’s terrific.”

“I gather it’s mutual.”

“And Grand isn’t intimidating, either.”

Her parents (she could visualize them, her mother lying on her stomach across the bed, her father perched on a stool in the lab, surrounded by tanks of starfish and octopus) both laughed.

Polly was slightly defensive. “We do call her Grand and that sounds pretty imposing.”

“That’s only because you couldn’t say Grandmother when you started to talk.”

“Well, and she did win a Nobel Prize.”

Her father said, reasonably, “She’s pretty terrific, Polly. But she’d much rather have you love her than be impressed at her accomplishments.”

Polly nodded at the telephone. “I do love her. But remember, I’ve never really had a chance to know Grand and Granddad. We lived in Portugal for so long, and Benne Seed Island might have been just as far away. A few visits now and then hasn’t been enough. I’ve been in awe of them.”

“They’re good people,” her father said. “Talented, maybe a touch of genius. But human. They were good to me, incredibly good, when I was young.”

“It’s time you got to know them,” her mother added. “Be happy, Polly.”

She was. Happy as a small child. Not that she wanted to regress, to lose any of the things she had learned from experience, but with her grandparents she could relax, completely free to be herself.

She grabbed her bathing suit from the bathroom and went along to her room. Downstairs she could hear people moving about, and then someone put on music, Schubert’s “Trout” Quintet, and the charming music floated up to her.

She left her jeans and sweatshirt in a small heap on the floor, slipped into her bathing suit and a terry-cloth robe, and went downstairs and out to the pool. She hung her robe on the towel tree, waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, then slid into the water and began swimming laps. She swam tidily, displacing little water, back and forth, back and forth. She flipped onto her back, looking up at the skylights, and welcoming first one star, then another. Turned from her back to her side, swimming dreamily. A faint sound made her slow down, a small scratching. She floated, listening. It came from one of the windows which lined the north wall from the floor up to the slant of the roof.

She could not see anything. The scratching turned into a gentle tapping. She pulled herself up onto the side of the pool, went to the window. There was a drop of about five feet from the window to the ground. In the last light, she could just see a girl standing on tiptoe looking up at her, a girl about her own age, with black hair braided into a long rope which was flung over her shoulder. At her neck was a band of silver with a stone, like a teardrop, in the center.

“Hi,” Polly called through the dark glass.

The girl smiled and reached up to knock again. Polly slid the window open. “May I come in?” the girl asked.

Polly tugged at the screen till it, too, opened.

The girl sprang up and caught the sill, pulling herself into the room, followed by a gust of wind. Polly shut the screen and the window. The girl appeared to be about Polly’s age, and she was exotically beautiful, with honey-colored skin and eyes so dark the pupils could barely be distinguished.

“Forgive me,” the girl said formally, “for coming like this. Karralys saw you this afternoon.” She spoke with a slight accent which Polly could not distinguish.

“Karralys?”

“Yes. At the oak tree, with his dog.”

“Why didn’t he say hello?” Polly asked.

The girl shook her head. “It is not often given to see the other circles of time. But then Karralys and I talked, and thought I should come here to the place of power. It seemed to us that you must have been sent to us in this strange and difficult—” She broke off as a door slammed somewhere in the house. She put her hand to her mouth. Whispered, “I must go. Please—” She seemed so frightened that Polly opened the window for her.

“Who are you?”

But the girl jumped down, landing lightly, and was off across the field toward the woods, running as swiftly as a wild animal.

The whole incident made no sense whatsoever. Polly put on her robe and headed for the kitchen, looking for explanations, but saw no one. Probably everybody was out in the lab, where it was definitely too chilly for a swamp blossom in a wet bathing suit and a damp terry-cloth robe.

Her parents had worried that she might be lonely with no people her own age around, and in one day she had seen three, the blue-eyed young man by the oak—though he was probably several years older than she; Zachary; and now this unknown girl.

Upstairs in her room, the stripy cat was lying curled in the center of the bed, one of his favorite places. She picked him up and held him and he purred, pleased with her damp warmth.

“Who on earth was that girl?” she demanded. “And what was she talking about?” She squeezed the cat too tightly and he jumped from her arms and stalked out of the room, brown-and-amber tail erect.

She dressed and went downstairs. The bishop was in the kitchen, sitting in one of the shabby but comfortable chairs by the fireplace. She joined him.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I’m just puzzled. While I was swimming there was a knock on one of the windows, and I got out of the pool to look, and there was this girl, about my age, with a long black braid and sort of exotic eyes, and I let her in, and she—well, she made absolutely no sense at all.”

“Go on.” The bishop was alert, totally focused on her words.

“This afternoon by the Grandfather Oak—you know the tree I mean?”

“Yes.”

“I saw a young man and a dog. The girl said the man with the dog had seen me, and then something about circles of time, and then she heard a noise and got frightened and ran away. Who do you suppose she was?”

The bishop looked at Polly without answering, simply staring at her with a strange, almost shocked look on his face.

“Bishop?”

“Well, my dear—” He cleared his throat. “Yes. It is indeed strange. Strange indeed.”

“Should I tell my grandparents?”

He hesitated. Cleared his throat. “Probably.”

She nodded. She trusted him. He hadn’t had a cushy job as bishop. Her grandparents had told her that he’d been in the Amazon for years, taught seminary in China, had a price on his head in Peru. When he was with so-called primitive people he listened to them, rather than imposing his own views. He honored others.

She was so concerned with her own story that she was not aware that what she had told him had upset him.

“Polly,” he said, “tell me about the young man with the dog.” His voice trembled slightly.

“He was standing by the Grandfather Oak. He had these intensely blue eyes.”

“What was the dog like?”

“Just a big dog with large ears. Not any particular breed. I didn’t see them for more than a few seconds.”

“And the girl. Can you describe her?”

“Well—not much more than I just did. Long black braid, and dark eyes. She was beautiful and strange.”

“Yes,” the bishop said. “Oh, yes.” His voice was soft and troubled.

Now she saw that something had disturbed him. “Do you know who she is?”

“Perhaps. How can I be sure?” He paused, then spoke briskly. “Yes, it’s strange, strange indeed. Your grandfather is right to discourage trespassers.” His eyes were suddenly veiled.

Mr. Murry came in from the pantry, heard the bishop’s last words. “Right, Nase. I’m quite happy to have deer and foxes leaping over the stone walls, but not snoopers. We’ve had to put a horrendously expensive warning system in the lab. Louise is correct, most of Kate’s equipment hasn’t been used in decades. But the computers are another story.” He headed for the wood stove, turned to Polly. “The lab has been broken into twice. Once a useless microscope was taken, and once your grandmother lost a week’s work because someone—probably local kids, rather than anyone who knew anything about her work—played around with the computer.” He opened the small oven of the wood stove and the odor of freshly baked bread filled the kitchen. “Bread is something Kate can’t make on the Bunsen burner, so this is my contribution, as well as therapy. Kneading bread is wonderful for rheumatic fingers.”

Mrs. Murry and Dr. Louise followed him into the kitchen. Mrs. Murry lit candles in addition to the oil lamps, and turned out the lights. Dr. Louise put a large casserole of Mrs. Murry’s chicken concoction on the table, and Mr. Murry took a bowl of autumn vegetables from the stove, broccoli, cauliflower, sprouts, onions, carrots, leeks. The bishop sniffed appreciatively.

Mrs. Murry said, “The twins used to have a vast vegetable garden. Ours isn’t nearly as impressive, but Alex does amazingly well.”

“For an old man, you mean,” Mr. Murry said.

“Except for your arthritis,” Dr. Louise said, “you’re in remarkably good shape. I wish some of my patients ten or more years younger than you did as well.”

After they were seated, and the meal blessed and served, Polly looked at the bishop. His eyes met hers briefly. Then he glanced away, and his expression was withdrawn. But she thought he had barely perceptibly nodded at her. She said, “I’ve seen a couple of odd people today.”

“Who?” her grandfather asked.

“You’re not talking about Zachary!” Dr. Louise laughed.

She shook her head and described both the young man with the dog, and the girl. “Zachary thought he was a caretaker, maybe.”

The bishop choked slightly, got up, and poured himself some water. Recovering himself, he asked, “You say that Zachary saw this young man?”

“Sure. He was right there. But he didn’t talk to either of us.”

“I hope he wasn’t a hunter,” Mr. Murry said. “Our land is very visibly posted.”

“He didn’t have a gun. I’m positive. Is it hunting season here or something?”

“It’s never hunting season on our land,” her grandfather said. “Did you speak to him? Ask him what he was doing?”

“I didn’t get a chance. I just saw him looking at me, and when I got to the tree he was gone.”

“What about the girl?” Mrs. Murry probed.

Polly looked at the bishop. His eyes were once again veiled, his expression noncommittal. Polly repeated her description of the girl. “I really don’t think they were poachers or vandals or anything bad. They were just mysterious.”

Her grandfather’s voice was unexpectedly harsh. “I don’t want any more mysteries.”

The bishop was staring at the Ogam stone sitting on the kitchen dresser, along with assorted mugs, bowls, a gravy boat, a hammer, a roll of stamps.

Mrs. Murry’s voice was light. “Perhaps they’ll be friends for Polly?”

“The girl’s about my age, I think,” Polly said. “She had gorgeous soft leather clothes that would cost a fortune in a boutique, and she wore a sort of silver collar with a beautiful stone.”

Mrs. Murry laughed. “Your mother said you were finally showing some interest in clothes. I’m glad to note evidence of it.”

Polly was slightly defensive. “There hasn’t been any reason for me to wear anything but jeans.”

“Silver collar.” The bishop spoke as though to himself. “A torque—” He was busily helping himself to vegetables.

Mrs. Murry had heard. “A torque?” She turned to Polly. “Nason has a book on early metalwork with beautiful photographs. The early druids may have lived among Stone Age people, but there were metalworkers at least passing through Britain, and the druids were already sophisticated astronomers. They, and the tribal leaders, wore intricately designed torques.”

“The wheel of fashion keeps coming full circle,” Dr. Louise said. “And how much have we learned since the Stone Age as far as living peaceably is concerned?”

Mr. Murry regarded his wife. “There’s a picture of a superb silver torque in Nason’s book that I wish I could get for you, Kate. It would eminently suit you.”

Polly looked at her grandmother’s sensible country clothes and tried to visualize her in a beautiful torque. It was not impossible. She had been told that her grandmother was a beauty, and as she looked at the older woman’s fine bones, the short, well-cut silver hair, the graceful curve of the slender neck, the fine eyes surrounded by lines made from smiles and pain and generous living, she thought that her grandmother was still beautiful, and she was glad that her grandfather’s response was to want to get his wife a torque.

Mrs. Murry had taken a blueberry pie from the freezer for dessert, and brought it bubbling from the oven. “I didn’t make it,” she explained. “There’s a blueberry festival at the church every summer, and I always buy half a dozen unbaked pies to have on hand.” She cut into it, and purple juice streamed out with summer fragrance. “Polly, I can’t tell you how pleased I am that your Zachary turned up. It must have been hard for you to leave your friends.”

Polly accepted a slice of pie. “Island kids tend to be isolated. My friends are sort of scattered.”

“I’ve been lucky to have Louise living only a few miles away. We’ve been friends ever since college.”

Yes, her grandmother was lucky to have Dr. Louise, Polly thought. She had never had a real female friend her own age. She thought fleetingly of the girl at the pool.

Polly and the bishop did the dishes together, and the others went to sit by the fire in the living room, urged on by Mrs. Murry, who said they all spent too much time in the kitchen.

“So, island girl,” the bishop said, “is all well here?”

“Very well, thank you, Bishop.” She wanted to ask him more about the man with the dog and the girl at the pool, but it was clear to her that the bishop was guiding the conversation away from them. She took a rinsed plate from him and put it in the dishwasher.

“My sister has taught me to wash everything with soap, even if it’s going in the dishwasher. Be careful. The plates are slippery.”

“Okay.”

“Your young man—”

“Zachary. Zachary Gray.”

“He didn’t look well.”

“He’s always pale. Last summer in Greece when everybody was tan, Zachary’s skin was white. Of course, I don’t think he goes out in the sun much. He isn’t the athletic type.”

“How was last summer?” The bishop wrung out a sponge.

Polly was putting silverware in the dishwasher basket. “It was a wonderful experience. I loved Athens, and the conference on Cyprus was worth a year at school. Max—Maximiliana Horne—arranged it all. And she died just before I got home.”

He nodded. “Your grandparents told me. You’re still grieving.”

She dried the knives, which were old silver ones with the handles glued on and could not be put in the dishwasher. “It was harder at home, where everything reminded me of Max. Did you know her?”

The bishop let soapy water out of the sink. “Your Uncle Sandy told me about her. They were great friends.”

“Yes. Sandy introduced me to her.” Unexpectedly her throat tightened.

The bishop led the way to one of the shabby chairs by the kitchen fireplace, rather than joining the others in the living room. Polly followed him, and as she sat down Hadron appeared and jumped into her lap, purring.

“Bishop, about the young man and the girl—”

But at that moment Dr. Louise came into the kitchen, yawning. “Dishes all done?”

“And with soap,” the bishop assured her.

“Time for us to be getting on home.”

Polly and her grandparents went outside to wave the Colubras off, and the stars were brilliant amid small wisps of cloud. The moon was tangled in the branches of a large Norway maple.

The bishop climbed into the driver’s seat of the blue pickup truck and they took off with a squeal of tires.

Polly’s grandmother turned to go back into the house. “We’re going for a quick swim. I’ll come and say good night in a while.” It had already become a comfortable habit that after Polly was in bed her grandmother would come in and they would talk for a few minutes.

She took a hurried bath—the bathroom was frigid—and slipped into a flannel nightgown, then into bed, pulling the quilt about her. She read a few pages of the book her grandfather had given her on white holes, cosmic gushers, the opposite of black holes. Her grandparents were certainly seeing to her education. But perhaps it was no wonder that her grandfather had not noticed stones in his walls that had strange markings.

When her grandmother came in, she put the book down on the nightstand, and Mrs. Murry sat on the side of the bed. “Lovely evening. It’s good that Nase is living with Louise. Your grandfather and I feel as though we’ve known him forever. He was a fine bishop. He’s tender and compassionate and he knows how to listen.”

Polly pushed up higher against the pillows. “Yes, I feel I could tell him anything and he wouldn’t be shocked.”

“And he’d never betray a confidence.”

“Grand.” Polly sat up straight. “Something’s been bothering me.”

“What, my dear?”

“I sort of just got dumped on you, didn’t I?”

“Oh, Polly, your grandfather and I have enough sense of self-protection so that if we hadn’t wanted you to come we’d have said no. We’ve felt very deprived, seeing so little of our grandchildren. We love having you. It’s a very different life from what you’ve been used to—”

“Oh, Grand, I love it. I’m happy here. Grand, why did Mother have so many kids?”

“Would you want any of you not to have been born?”

“No, but—”

“But it doesn’t answer your question.” Mrs. Murry pushed her fingers through her still damp hair. “If a woman is free to choose a career, she’s also free to choose the care of a family as her primary vocation.”

“Was it that with Mother?”

“Partly.” Her grandmother sighed. “But it was probably partly because of me.”

“You? Why?”

“I’m a scientist, Polly, and well known in my field.”

“Well, but Mother—” She stopped. “You mean maybe she didn’t want to compete with you?”

“That could be part of it.”

“You mean, she was afraid she couldn’t compete?”

“Your mother’s estimation of herself has always been low. Your father has been wonderful for her and so, in many ways, have you children. But…” Her voice drifted off.

“But you did your work and had kids.”

“Not seven of them.” Her grandmother’s hands were tightly clasped together. Then, deliberately, she relaxed them, placed them over her knees.