Small Plates (23 page)

“The cruel Arctic climate of the aboriginal Inuit reduced the male population significantly as they pursued their traditional hunting and fishing roles, forcing the . . .”

She wrote furiously for a while, and then paused. What if her parents had known the sex of the child they were going to have before she'd been born?

She wouldn't be here.

How old was she when she'd first heard her father say to her mother, “You're worthless. Completely worthless. You couldn't even give me a son,” in that flat, cold voice he used before he would start the rest? Not caring that Miriam was in the doorway—was she six? Or seven?—and could see it all. Could hear it all—her mother's cries.

Miriam shook her head to force the thought to the back of her mind with the rest of the things she didn't want to think about. It was getting pretty crowded in there.

Her father had answered the phone when she'd called after the baby was born. It had been an easy delivery. She could have done it herself, she realized afterward, but she had been frightened at the thought of being alone and had gotten a name. The woman believed in home births and said she was a midwife. Maybe she was. But it had been all right. She'd insisted Miriam stay overnight and brought her cups of green tea. During the delivery she kept lighting fragrant candles and playing that waterfall kind of New Age music that Miriam's yoga teacher in high school had liked so much. It was something they were trying that year, letting students take yoga instead of field hockey or soccer. There were only three kids in the class. Three kids who didn't have to worry about peer pressure, because they didn't have any peers.

The midwife had given Miriam a beautiful baby blanket and Miriam had given her $1,000.

Her father was the only person she could think of to call. She'd just had a baby; shouldn't she call someone? She'd called him last year to tell him she was in school, and he had told her not to come to him for money. It had been a pretty short conversation. She'd heard her stepmother in the background talking rapidly, as usual. Brenda was a very high-maintenance lady. Daniel Carpenter made a good living selling real estate in the Portland area, but Brenda, who was some unspecified number of years younger, decorated their house and herself in extravagantly perfect taste—according to her—and went through money almost as fast as she talked.

“Hi, Dad, it's Miriam,” she'd said.

“Yes?”

“Well, I just, I guess I just wanted to say hi and . . .”

She heard Brenda ask, “Who is it, Dan?”

“It's Miriam.” Her father hadn't bothered to turn away from the receiver.

“What does she want?”

“I don't know yet. What do you want, Miriam?”

What she had wanted at that moment was to hang up, but she hadn't. She'd gotten mad. Why did her mother have to die the way she did, slipping determinedly into a half world of bourbon and despair before Miriam could grow up enough to take care of her—or live without her? And why did her father have to marry Brenda of all people, petite, a perfect size four? Even at age thirteen, Miriam had felt like one of Swift's Brobdingnagians whenever they were in the same room, which wasn't often.

“I don't want anything. I called to tell you you're a grandfather—a bouncing baby boy—and you can tell Brenda she's a grandmother.” Miriam had added the last bit with calculated cruelty. Brenda would not like to be a grandmother.

“I assume your child is a bastard; like mother, like daughter,” her father had said, then Miriam had heard Brenda's voice closer to the phone, “Child, what child? Miriam's had a baby? Boy or girl? Find out where she is.”

It had been those last words that had caused a prickle of fear to run down Miriam's spine. Not the ones about her mother. She knew she was the reason for the marriage or, as her father called it, the entrapment. No, it was Brenda's sudden interest in Miriam's whereabouts that had made her feel more nauseated than her morning sickness ever had.

“Well, good-bye then. I've got to go.”

“Wait. I need to know where—”

Miriam had hung up before he finished the sentence.

She had thought she'd keep Christopher with her until New Year's, which was when Bruce had said he'd be back. But she had been foolhardy to bring the baby back to the apartment—Bruce constantly changed his mind, and he could arrive any minute.

With her father's words echoing in her ears, she'd decided to head for the coast right then, the plan from the beginning. For some reason Brenda wanted the baby. They'd never had one of their own—was it because they couldn't? Miriam had always assumed they didn't want a child, but maybe they did. Or Brenda did. The ultimate soccer mom. Or a little one as the ultimate accessory, a step beyond a bichon frise? In a weird turn of events, she had to keep Christopher away from both his grandfather and his father—one because he wanted the baby, one because he didn't. And in their own way, each would murder the child.

Her essay came into focus and the phone conversation faded. Christopher was safe.

I
t was Boxing Day, and Faith was back in Mary's kitchen. Ben and Amy had been invited to spend the afternoon with friends they'd made at the island day camp they attended during the summer. Tom had urged Faith to go help Mary. He would enjoy the solitude—maybe do some writing—and when she returned they'd walk to The Point. Every day he felt stronger.

Mary had gone over her B and B register. “There were only three couples who could possibly fill the bill—and two mentioned their pregnancies,” she said. “The only single women I had were a young woman from Norway who was ‘seeing America' for the summer and a cousin of the Marshalls they didn't have room for. She was in her sixties, so we can cross her off the list. And it would seem unlikely that a Norwegian girl would come all this way to leave me her baby, although the whole thing is so unlikely perhaps we'd better not eliminate her.”

“I think we can for now,” Faith said. “But what about these couples, especially the two pregnant ones?”

“A first child for each. The Warrens live in Vermont—not that close—but the Tuttles were from Saco and up here vacationing. They're a possibility, although I can't see them giving their child up. They were looking forward to coming back next summer and every summer after that to watch little whoever play with the goats. The nannies are very sweet playmates, you know.”

Faith did know. It occurred to Faith that someone looking for strong maternal instincts would only have had to watch Mary with her herd and listen to her talk about them to conclude she was a natural-born nurturer. Not only did Mary keep her goat house clean and dry—it looked like something from Carl Larsson's
A Farm
—but she also religiously tended to the nannies' every need from physical to psychological. All her goats had had their horn buds removed and Mary gently but firmly discouraged butting from the moment they were born.

She greeted each one by name starting with the queen, stroking and petting them several times a day. After the stress of breeding—and delivering—she read to them and even sang to them, as Faith discovered one day hearing a stirring rendition of “Seventy-Six Trombones” with accompanying bleats issuing from the barn. Their play yard was just that, with several cable spools courtesy of Bangor Hydro for the nannies to climb on. The pasture had a high electric fence, and Faith was pretty sure the Nubians were better fed than Mary, who seemed to exist on whey sweetened with honey (bartered for cheese), rose hips in various forms, and whatever vegetables the garden yielded fresh or put up. Maybe it wasn't such a bad diet; it was the thought of it that repelled Faith's taste buds.

Granted, her charges were ruminants, but if you were looking for “Mother of the Year,” Mary was a contender.

“And the third couple? Who were they?”

“They were young. I started thinking about them right away last night when you said she might be a student. There was a University of Maine Black Bears bumper sticker on their truck. I don't know how they heard about me. You know I don't advertise, just that card at the market in the summer. They stayed a week, and he was gone all the time. Said he was helping a friend whose sternman was sick, but he didn't get up early enough for fishing and he came back late, six or seven o'clock. Then he'd take her off to get something to eat. She helped me with the goats and the garden. So much that I didn't want to charge them full price, but she insisted she'd just been having fun. That it was a vacation for her. Her name was Miriam. His was Bruce. She was the one who wrote in the book. Their last name was Singer and the address was in Calais. I've already checked directory information and there are no Miriam or Bruce Singers in Calais. No street by the name she listed either.”

“How about Orono? Because of the bumper sticker—and the bag the money was in,” Faith suggested.

“Thought of that too and same thing. And directory assistance didn't say the phone was unlisted.”

“You don't ask for a phone number in the register?”

“No—I only started asking for a name and address this summer. Before, I'd leave a guest book for people to sign if they wanted to. I'd introduce myself when they got here and they would tell me who they were. Seemed enough. Nobody ever left without paying, but my cousin Elizabeth told me I should be keeping a record. That you never knew—and she was right, as usual.”

“This is the one who lives out west? And gave you her goats when she moved?”

“That's Elizabeth. I was only a teenager. My sister was already gone and Elizabeth thought her two nannies would be company for me. Dora the First—this Dora is Dora the Second—lived to be twenty, but I lost the other one, Nora, when she was twelve.”

Filing away the interesting notion of two Nubian goats as a substitute for human contact for further thought, Faith mentally thanked Elizabeth for the easier-to-grasp idea of a guest register and got back to work.

“All right. First let's see if we can eliminate the Tuttles from Saco. What could be more natural than for you to call and say you'd like to send some of that jelly of yours or whatever to congratulate them on the new baby? You know what I mean. Say how much you're looking forward to seeing them next summer.”

“Do I have to? What if something went wrong with the pregnancy? I had a toxemic doe once. Oh, Faith, I don't think I could call up strangers, even strangers who have stayed here.”

Mary was tough, but she was also shy. Faith sighed. “Give me the phone.”

She dialed the number and a woman answered.

“Hello, may I speak to Mrs. Tuttle please?”

“Speaking.”

“I'm a supporter of the Sanpere Chamber of Commerce and over the holidays we're trying to reach people who visited our island last summer to plan for next summer. Would you mind answering two quick questions?”

“Not at all. We had a lovely time and plan to return next summer.”

“Well, that answers my first question, which was whether you had had a positive experience, and my second as well, would you return?”

Mrs. Tuttle laughed. “This is the easiest survey I've ever done.”

“Could you tell me if you plan to return to the same accommodations as last year?”

“Why of course. It was ideal. Bethany Farm Bed and Breakfast. I really should have written to Mary. I'm glad you called. It's reminded me to get to it. We had a baby last month and she said to let her know. Little Cecilia will adore Mary's goats next summer.”

“I'm sure she will. Thank you for your time.”

Faith hung up. “Cross out the Tuttles.”

“I don't know how you do it,” Mary said.

After some baby feeding—and baby worship—Faith called the couple from Vermont just to be sure and reported that the Warren family now numbered four. Twins. She decided it wasn't necessary to call Norway and reassured Mary that since Faith hadn't actually said she was from the Chamber of Commerce, only a “supporter” of it, which she was—the Fairchilds contributed every year—no lies had been told or laws broken. Then she went back to her house.

Tom was ready for their walk, and Faith almost didn't answer the phone as they were leaving, but what with two small children of her own plus Mary and Christopher, there was no choice. It was Mary.

“I knew I was leaving something out! Miriam Singer had lovely, long dark hair, just like the strand on Christopher's blanket. She wore it in a braid down her back, but one day she washed it and sat out in the sun to let it dry. She looked, well, she looked like a Madonna.”

I
know you want to help Mary, sweetheart, but isn't there someone else who could go? Or why doesn't she leave the baby here and take our car? That old truck of hers barely makes it to Granville.” The Reverend Fairchild was feeling better. Emerging from the cocoon of his illness, he wanted to spread his wings—with his wife for company.

“There isn't anyone else. And unless she's taught one of the herd to drive, Mary won't go any farther than Blue Hill. I just want to get her the bare necessities—clothes, a Snugli to use when she's milking, diapers, bottles—you remember. The crib we borrowed from Pix for Amy and never gave back is still in the garage here and I want to take that over. I'll have to get some sheets, though. I want to do this for Mary. A belated Christmas present from us.”

“Come here, gift o' mine,” Tom said, reaching for his wife. Outside Ben and Amy were trying to make a snowman from the two inches of fluffy snow that had fallen early in the morning. Tom motioned toward the ceiling. “I thought this might be the perfect occasion for some quality adult time upstairs.”

Faith hugged him hard. “What's that line about having ‘world enough and time'? I know Marvell was addressing his coy mistress and I'm not being coy. There will be time—many times.”