Strange Fits of Passion (19 page)

There was comfort in the darkness of the outer ring, in being a voyeur, muffled in my coat and scarf, although I did occasionally get a knowing look. Probably most had heard already of a new woman in town with a baby; perhaps some thought me a relative who had come to spend Christmas with a family in St. Hilaire. Most of the men and women were wearing bulky car coats, scarves wound around their necks, and knitted caps. The night was frosty with puffs of condensation, warm breath on cold air. Some of the men took occasional nips from bottles concealed in paper bags, and once or twice I passed through the sweet drift of marijuana, but I did not actually see anyone with a joint.

"It's made from wormy wood from the pots."

Startled, I turned to the voice at my shoulder. Willis had a beer can down by his side, the other hand in the pocket of his denim jacket. There was frost on his mustache, and when the fire lit his face, I could see that his eyes were badly bloodshot.

"The fire," he said. "We make a pile of our rotted pots and so on. Makes a blaze, don't it."

He was looking at me, appraising me, while he said this. His leg was jiggling.

"Where's your family?" I asked quickly.

"Jeannine's taken the boys into the church for cider and whatnot. I saw you from across."

He took a last swig of beer, dropped the can onto the ground, and crushed it with his foot.

"So what do you think of our fire here? Wild, huh?"

"It's really something," I said.

"We been doin' this fifty years, anyway. My old man used to talk about it. You want me to get you a beer?"

"No," I said. "I'm fine."

"You want a toke, then? I could get us some joints."

I heard the
us,
didn't like it. I also did not like the picture that came to mind: Willis and myself smoking grass in the shadow of the church.

"I'd like to meet your boys," I said.

He swayed. He seemed confused.

"Yeah, sure. They'll be out soon," he said vaguely.

The singing began from nowhere, at no visible signal. There was a single man's voice for a bar or two, then half a dozen voices joining him, then a crowd, as people heard the carol, stopped chatting with their neighbors. By the end of "Silent Night," the town was in unison, the deep bass of the men offset here and there by the high trilling vibrato of the older women.

They began a heartier tune next—"Hark the Herald" or "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen"—and I was watching the men and women singing. I had begun to sing myself; it forestalled conversation with Willis. He was moving beside me—swaying or jiggling, I couldn't tell. It was in the middle of that carol, or another, that I saw Jack, two or three people in front of me. He had his back to me but was slightly turned and bent toward a teenage girl beside him, so that I saw his face as he spoke to her. She had spilled her cider onto her gloves—that seemed to be the problem. I saw Jack take her gloves off and put them in his pockets, then remove his own gloves and give them to her. He held her cardboard cup of hot cider while she put his gloves on. I couldn't see her face—her back was to me—but I was struck by her hair spilling out from her hat: It was the color of her father's and was long and curly.

Possibly there was a subtle shift in the crowd, or a man in front of me moved and blocked my view, but I must have strained or craned my neck to watch the scene with Jack and his daughter, for I became aware suddenly that Willis was staring at me. He examined my face and then looked at the thing that had caught my attention. Then he turned back toward me. I met his glance; I looked away. I think I was embarrassed. I hadn't been able to read his expression—he'd been thinking—but his eyes had seemed clearer, sharper, than they had before.

"I'm getting some cider," I said quickly, and moved away from him.

The church was warm, brightly lit. People began shedding scarves and hats and gloves as soon as they entered, and those who wore glasses had to take them off and wipe the steam away. The cider was in the parish hall, I was told, a room adjacent to the sanctuary. I followed the others to a long table covered by a red tablecloth. On it were black ironware pots of hot cider, plates of cookies and cakes, and candles wreathed with holly. The tangy scent of the cider was delicious and filled the room. Garlands of silver tinsel had been strung from a green velvet curtain up on a stage, and there was a tall Christmas tree in a corner.

Caroline woke up and looked at me and rubbed her eyes. I thought fleetingly that I might have to nurse her soon and wondered if I should just drive straight home. I was hot in my scarf in the church. The cider smelled good, yet I was too uncomfortable to stay there any longer. I thought, also, that Caroline might begin to sweat, and I didn't relish having to unfasten her from the sling and undress her, just for a cup of cider.

Outside, the cold was almost a relief. I stood on the steps and watched the scene before me. A stiff wind had come up off the ocean, fanning the bonfire, causing it to intensify in brightness and sending even larger plumes of sparks out into the sky. A woman came out of the church, stood beside me on the steps as she put on her gloves, adjusted her hat. They were singing "Joy to the World" now, and I thought both the singing and the fire seemed to have reached a feverish pitch.

The woman beside me appeared to be thinking the same thing.

"I know we do this every year," she said, shaking her head, "but I said to Everett only this morning, one of these years he's goin' to have a fiasco on his hands."

She nodded briskly at me, tugged at her gloves, and marched down the steps and into the crowd.

I may have wanted to stay longer, but I didn't mind the prospect of returning to the cottage, nursing Caroline, and climbing into my high white bed. Caroline's teething was exhausting me, and I knew she would wake early. I made my way down the steps, feeling vaguely pregnant and ungainly again, with Caroline strapped to my belly, and was about to turn the corner to the clearing where I'd parked my car when I heard a shout, then a kind of gruff rumbling. The singing stopped, but the circle remained intact, still facing the bonfire. I edged toward the circle, wondering what the source of the sudden silence was. The wind blew hard across the common and stung my cheeks. I raised my scarf over my face, kept Caroline hunkered down inside my coat.

I reached the crowd, stood on my toes to see. There was fighting near the fire. A group of older boys were pitching back and forth, rolling toward and away from the flames. The "Stop the War" poster was on the ground. Men from the crowd moved forward to contain the fight or to stop it, and those who watched but were not involved had made a space, backing up into the crowd, compressing it. Those in the outer ring had moved forward, and it seemed that everyone was straining toward the center.

There were grunts and shouts, arms flailing, heads thrown back. I saw Everett in the fray. He held a boy by the zippered edge of his leather jacket, and then he was hit or slammed from behind, and the grocer's hat fell off. Willis was in the midst, wild and inarticulate with fury. I couldn't tell which side he was on, but I saw him kick a boy in the groin. Women closest to the scuffle were screaming and shouting, calling out names:
Billy! Brewer! John! John! Stop it! Stop it now!

I backed away from the crowd, wound my arms around the baby. A jostle in the center might ripple outward, and I was afraid that Caroline might get hurt. The fire roared beside the fight, but no one was paying it much attention now.

The crowd parted, and Everett emerged. His face was flushed, his coat torn, and he had not retrieved his hat. He had a boy by the collar, and despite his age, Everett was racing the boy faster than the boy could walk. Other older men, in their forties, had boys in tow too, and the crowd turned to watch the procession. Everett took his charge into the church, and the others followed. Where else would they go? There was no police station.

The crowd then turned inward on itself. There was excited murmuring, the confusion of many witnesses. Someone said a group of kids had wanted to turn the bonfire into an antiwar demonstration. I heard a man near me tell his wife that the boys had been drunk, as if that were all the explanation anyone needed.

The fire burned unheeded; it couldn't compete now with the stories that were being passed from one puzzled or knowing face to the other. I looked over at the white houses lining the common, saw Julia standing on her porch. I thought that I would walk over to her, speak to her, wish her a happy Christmas. But I was reluctant to leave the crowd just at that minute, or to leave the fire. I was concerned about the fire, perhaps more so than I ought to have been. I had the idea that if I left, I would hear in the morning that a building or a tree had ignited, that something had burned down. Then I thought that I should mention my fear, but I didn't want to call attention to myself. I thought that I could say something to Julia Strout; she would know what to do.

I remember standing there, feeling somehow paralyzed with indecision, looking at the fire and the people. Images from the fight began to blur with images of the faces around me. I was sure I saw Willis again, striking a boy on the side of his head, his hand making an arc in the cold air. But the air was thin, leaving us. The fire was sucking the air from around us, and I was having trouble breathing. I looked around me to see if other people were having trouble breathing too. My heartbeat felt shallow, insubstantial. Then I looked up, and the trees began to spin.

After Christmas Eve, of course, everyone in the town got to know who she was, even if they hadn't heard any of the stories earlier. I don't know what caused it, exactly; the fight, I think it was. Maybe she saw things that brought back bad memories to her, don't you know. Or maybe she was just in a lot worse shape than any of us thought. I know Julia Strout blames herself, but she shouldn't. You can't be responsible for a person just because she rents a cottage from you.

Every year at Christmastime, we have a bonfire on the common there. It's a ritual; we been doin' it now, let me see, since probably 1910 or thereabouts. It started one year, the men made a fire outta their rotted gear on the green there, 'n' some folks got to singin' 'n' that, and each year it got a little more elaborate, until now we have a right fire from the traps that are useless—wormy, they are—and the townspeople, they gather 'round the fire and sing carols every Christmas Eve, 'n' the kids run around 'n' drink cider 'n' eat goodies, n' some of the older boys, they get a little wild and drunk, n' it's a way for folks to get together to celebrate 'n', to tell you the truth, to let off a little steam. My wife, she's a doomsayer; she's always tellin' me every year the bonfire is goin' to be a fiasco, but usually I think the bonfire is a good idea—keeps the boys pretty quiet for most of the rest of the winter, till they can go out on the water again—but this year things got a bit out of hand, 'n' we had ourselves a pretty good scuffle.

What happened is that a coupla the kids—Sean Kelly's boy and Hiram Tibbett's son—they had an idea to have a protest, don't you know, and there was this other group of kids—town boys—they got ahold of a couple of fifths of bourbon, 'n' I didn't realize it, they were drinkin' behind the church, 'n' then they come over to the fire, and the two groups, they got to exchanging words and then they got to fightin'—you know how boys are when they been drinkin'—'n' then somehow all hell let loose, 'n' the men were in it too, 'n' I had to go in and lay down the law. So all this is by way of explainin' to you that I was in the church when it happened, 'n' to tell you the truth, I'd been hit pretty bad, 'n' though I pride myself that I didn't let it show, I was feelin' a bit woozy, don't you know, so I didn't react as fast as I ought to have done.

The first I heard is Malcolm Jewett comes tearin' into the church where I got these boys under control 'n' we're sortin' out the damage to each other, 'n' he shouts that it's the woman with the baby, she's on the ground. Right away, I know who he's talkin' about, because I saw Mary earlier in the evenin'. Wanderin' around with the baby. He says she just fell, 'n' one of the women has got the baby off some contraption on the woman, 'n' the baby is OK but cryin'. So I leave the boys with Dick Gibb and hotfoot it out to the common, but already I can see Jack Strout has got her on her feet and is fixin' her scarf. Julia is there too; I think she seen Mary from her porch, where she always stays to watch the bonfire. She worries every year that sparks from the fire is goin' to blow over to her porch, so she stands there with a coupla buckets. I park the fire truck behind the store just in case we ever do lose control of the bonfire, but it never happened yet. We had years where we couldn't get much of a fire goin' because of a snow, but knock on wood, we never had an accident yet. Then Julia, she takes Mary 'n' the baby into her place. Jack, he didn't go inside, I'm pretty sure. But like I say, that's when anyone who didn't know who she was, they all knew by the time the night was done.

She just passed out, apparently. Fainted.

She was damn lucky, you want to know the truth. If she'd a fallen the wrong way, she could have really hurt the baby, don't you know. According to Elna Coffin, who was standin' beside her, she just went. Just like that. One minute she was standin' there, the next minute she was on the ground. At first Elna thought she'd been hit or bumped by the crowd, 'n' then the baby started cryin' 'n' then Jack was there, 'n' she came to. And that's about it, far as I can remember.

The next day people were askin' Julia 'n' me, whenever we saw anybody, and maybe they asked Jack too, I don't know, but he wouldn't have known anything anyway, how she was 'n' all, but Julia, she don't say much, 'n' she never had much to say about Mary Amesbury to people who was just curious or lookin' for a bit of gossip. And I think people, they kind of got the idea that Mary was in trouble.

So when that man come, you know, that fella from New York City—oh, let's see now, it was a coupla weeks later, don't you know, after New Year's—askin' questions about a woman with a baby, nobody would say much of anything. They took their cue from Julia; she carries a lot of weight in this town. If Julia had her reasons, people figured, those reasons would be good enough for them.