The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (13 page)

“This is it,” he said, placing my trunk at the foot of my bed.

Annie shoved her way past me to the bed on the opposite side of the small room.

“This is
my
bed,” she said petulantly, challenging
me to contradict her. She turned to Walter, her hands on her hips.

“I still don't see why I can't move to
your
room, yours and Georgie's.”

“I've already told you the way things are done—the proper way, that is,” Walter said. “It's girls with girls, boys with boys.”

Annie sighed, folded her arms across her chest, and glared at me.

“I get to sleep with Toby!” she said.

“Toby?” I asked.

“The dog,” said Walter. “Toby is what she named him.”

“His name is Mr. Pugs—” I bit my tongue, I supposed, for the sake of getting along. I could see there would be no reasoning with her.

“All right,” I said, “Mr. Pugs—the dog can sleep with you.” For now, I added, silently, of course. We'd see, after all, who Mr. Pugsley himself preferred to sleep with.

Once I was settled, Marni took us outside, where my education was to begin, my first lesson involving the preparation of the evening meal.

“Chowder tonight,” she said. “We'll need a couple of dozen clams.”

She gave us each a large bucket, a short-handled rake-like tool, and a narrow pointed shovel.

She turned and looked me over, head to toe, a frown forming between her brows. “That frock will never do,” she said. “Walter, bring her a pair of your overalls.”

I felt myself flush at the very suggestion. I'd gotten into enough trouble tucking my skirts up into my bloomers. Imagine what Uncle Victor would say about me wearing boys' work clothes! Georgie snickered as Walter went back into the cottage.

“Go on inside,” she told me, “and put on the overalls and a practical shirt.” I hesitated on the step. Of course, I didn't own a practical shirt. What in the world would I have needed one for? Surmising as much, she nodded.

“Walter,” she called again.

“Yes?” He stuck his head out the door.

“Lucy will need a shirt as well.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, casting George a sour look. I went inside and waited. In an instant he disappeared into his room and returned with a pair of well-worn overalls and a patched cotton work shirt.

“Here you are,” he said, tossing the clothing my way, avoiding my eyes. I, for my part, grabbed the bundle of ragged clothing and turned on my heel toward my room.

I peeled off my dress and petticoats and slipped
self-consciously into Walter's clothing. I had to roll up the shirtsleeves and trouser cuffs several times in order for my hands and feet to emerge. The shirt felt amazingly soft, my body relaxing in the loose comfort of its folds. The overalls, too, had a cottony, worn feel as they brushed against my skin. I found that moving about in my new-old clothing was quite pleasant—the conservatively cut legs and arms afforded me a freedom of movement to which I was unaccustomed.

I stepped out onto the porch slowly, waiting for a comment about my transformation, but they were already walking toward the path, and I had to run to catch up. We were at the shore in no time. Marni rolled the legs of her overalls up over her shins and nodded at me to do the same. Walter and Annie and George were already knee deep in water, raking like crazy.

“Find the low-tide mark,” Marni said to me, “and move just beyond it.” I followed her into the water, cold even in midsummer.

“This is where we find the mature quahogs,” she said, “and that's what we need for chowder. Back on shore, nestled in the sand, you find the smaller quahogs. Those are called littlenecks and cherrystones.”

My first attempts at clamming were dreadful,
raking up nothing more than a few large stones and some seaweed. To my chagrin, this was the source of great amusement for the entire Perkins clan. I was much more successful on the mudflats, under Annie's direction, digging for steamers. First, we'd watch for a small squirt of water spurting up from the sand. That, Annie explained, was the clam spitting in anger before digging itself deeper. We'd watch for the spit, then dig with great diligence. It took a while to get the hang of it, but once I did, I found myself in much better stead with Annie. It seemed that she took credit for my limited success and saw my meager pail of clams as a tribute to her expertise.

Between us we came home with several dozen clams, which we cleaned and shucked and simmered in a great kettle of cream and onions and potatoes.

I could hardly recall a meal I'd enjoyed more.

Yet despite the contented, full feeling of the chowder in my belly, and the satisfaction I'd had in contributing to its preparation, my mood waned with the setting of the sun. The darkness brought along a certain strangeness, a solitary sadness that was different from the loneliness I'd experienced in my own home. My thoughts, filled with longing, turned to Mother and Father and to our days together that would be no more. I missed Addie, and wondered
after my aunt Pru. Then my musings turned to bitter thoughts of Uncle Victor and Aunt Margaret.

I chose not to take part in the quiet games that Walter and George played together in the candlelight—cards and jacks and marbles—and did my best to ignore Annie's high-pitched lullabies that she lovingly sang to a dirty, worn rag doll. Instead I gazed out the window across the bay, hoping to catch a glimpse of a light in the window perhaps, a beacon from the house—
my
house—anything to reassure me that it still stood there waiting for my return. But there was only darkness.

I glanced away from the window finally, to find Marni staring at me intently, her book in her lap, a small pair of round spectacles on the tip of her nose. She removed her glasses, closed her book, and stood.

“Everyone to bed,” she said. “Tomorrow will be an early day.”

A cheer went up from the Perkins clan, and I found myself looking about, from one to the other. What were they so excited about?

“An early day, silly,” said Annie, the
early
coming out more like
uh-ly
. “Don't you know what that means?”

I shook my head, a little tired of having a four-year-old explain everything to me. Marni turned
my way, those pale green eyes of hers fairly boring through me. “An early day,” she said carefully, “is a day when we sail.”

Sail? I looked at her, my mouth agape. She looked away first, and went about clearing up the cards and the marbles and the jacks. “It's only fitting that a sea captain's daughter remain a good sailor.”

To this I said nothing at all, for my voice was lost. I hadn't been out on the water since the accident. The thought of sailing again filled me with panic.

“But,” I began, “I thought we would be studying tomorrow....” My voice was small and tight and ready to crack. I hoped Walter hadn't noticed. I glanced about to find them all—Annie and Georgie and Walter—staring at me.

Marni stared at me as well, not unkindly, but rather with a determination and look of resolve that frightened me. She hesitated before she spoke, as if measuring her words.

“There are many means of studying, many avenues for learning.” She nodded at the Perkins clan, and they lowered their eyes and went off to their rooms. Only Annie remained, half hidden behind the bedroom door, peeking around the doorframe. Marni approached me and leaned in
close. Her peculiar eyes held mine, forbidding me to look away.

“Courage,” she said softly. “I know it will take great courage for you to set foot on that boat.”

A barrage of images tumbled through my mind—of Ulysses on the ship, his agonized face tilted skyward; of the siren in the water beckoning him; of Father and Mother, and the Brute, the water swallowing them up. And what about the curse? The Simmons family curse my aunt had referenced in her letter? It was one thing to pretend, ship's wheel in hand, in the safety of Father's chart room. It was another to actually venture on the treacherous waves. Marni waited and I gulped, squeezing my eyes shut, blocking out the images, fighting for control.

“Look at me, Lucy,” she whispered. I felt her hand beneath my chin, raising my face to hers. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. “It took great courage for your father to do what he did. Remember that.”

I looked away, my uncle's words about the accident taunting me. How I'd wished, a hundred times, that Father
hadn't
been so brave; if he hadn't been courageous, he'd still be here. His courage wasn't something I was ready to give him credit for—not in the face of the tremendous loss it had caused me. Marni turned my face back toward her.

“Once you've learned courage,” she said, “all of the other lessons are easy.”

Hadn't I been courageous thus far? But would courage alone be enough to propel me aboard that boat?

Marni took my hands in hers, her grip amazingly strong.

“Courage is not about being unafraid,” she said. “Courage has to do with moving forward in the face of fear. Do you understand?”

I nodded. I understood. I just hadn't accepted it. Not yet, anyway. She gave my hands one last squeeze and sent me off toward my room. I heard Annie skittering away from the door and diving under her covers. I undressed in the darkness and slipped into bed—a bed that felt nothing like my own bed back home.

What would happen to me out there on the water? I swallowed back my tears, fighting to stifle my crying. The bed shook with my silent sobs.

I became aware of something soft against my cheek. I caught my breath and reached out.

“Mr. Pugsley?” I whispered.

“No,” came a voice. “It's me, Annie.” Her small hand patted my face.

“Everything will be all right, Lucy,” she whispered. The moonlight streaming in the
window illuminated the top of her head, encircling her blond curls like a halo.

I sat up in bed, torn between surprise and embarrassment, touched and amazed that a child so young could recognize the quiet sounds of despair.

“Marni makes everything all right. You'll see.” She sat on the edge of my bed and put her face right up next to mine, her eyes huge and round.

“You'll come on the boat with us,” she said, nodding her head up and down, confirming the plan. “Yes, you will.”

I nodded. “I'll go,” I said, the sound of my own words making me tremble. I knew I was only pacifying her, masking my shame and my terror. “I'll go,” I said again, desperately willing her to get off to bed.

“Do you promise?” she asked.

I swallowed and took a deep breath.

“Promise,” I whispered, doubting even as I made the vow that I would actually be capable of carrying it out.

I
spent a near sleepless night, tossing about in my unfamiliar bed, with thoughts of running off, stealing away home to Addie, where I could continue my quest to find Aunt Pru. Thoughts of escape and my fears tumbled together with the kind of wild, unrealistic plans that only seem reasonable in the darkest hours of the night. By morning I was thoroughly exhausted.

I lay still in bed, hoping against hope that they might leave me behind. Even the aroma of strong coffee, toasted brown bread, and sizzling eggs could not draw me from the cocoon of my bed.

“Breakfast!” Annie called brightly from the doorway. “Come on! Get up!”

I turned my back to her and drew the covers over my head. Mr. Pugsley jumped up and pawed at the lump of my shrouded body. He snuffled, snorted, and scratched with great enthusiasm, thinking my avoidance a new kind of game.

“She isn't gettin' up!” Annie called. I heard her steps retreat to the kitchen, felt Mr. Pugsley jump from the bed. The diminishing sound of his nails clicking on the floor, the snippets of breakfast conversation, and the clink of spoons and forks against plates left me feeling alone and bereft.

I pulled the blanket from my head, rolled over on my back, and stared at the ceiling. The cracks and peeling paint could have been a map—there a peninsula, there a continent, there an ocean. Somewhere out there, my aunt Pru.

A thought poked at the edges of my brain. I closed my eyes, tried to ignore it. But there it was. How could I ever find my aunt Pru out there in this great big world if I refused to sail?

My stomach turned over, recoiled, rumbled. Perhaps it was fear. Terror even. Or, I thought hopefully, perhaps the feeling of my stomach turning inside out was only hunger?

I willed myself out of bed, felt my feet hit the
floor, pulled my overalls up under my nightgown and threw the white garment off over my head. Quickly—my shirt! Quickly—my socks! Quickly, I headed toward the kitchen before this burst of courage left me. I turned back and grabbed Father's spyglass, hung it around my neck, and stopped once again. My flute! I swept it up from the dresser and placed it in the large pocket at my chest. I was rewarded with a flutter and tickle of air, a wisp of melody.
A la dee dah dah....

At the table there was no mention of my reluctance, no mention of my unkempt appearance due to my hasty preparation and lack of grooming. Marni slid a plate of eggs, sunny-side up, before me, followed by a stack of brown bread with butter and a cup of steaming coffee with cream. She nodded and smiled, gave my shoulder a squeeze. “A sailor needs a hearty breakfast!” she said.