The Weight of Water (19 page)

I put on the table a bowl of coffee and a meal which I had prepared in advance. Before she ate, however, she studied the room.

“I was not given to understand from your letters, Maren, that you and John were in such unfortunate circumstances,” she said
with a distinct tone of disappointment.

“We have managed,” I said. “John has made the walls tight and the room as warm as he can.”

“But Maren!” she exclaimed. “To have no good furniture, or wallpaper, or pictures on the walls…”

“It wasn’t possible to bring such things on the boat,” I said, “and we have had no money yet for luxuries.”

She scowled. “Your curtains are hastily made,” she observed. “America, I see, has not cured your bad habits. I have always
said that nothing which will be done well can be done in haste. Dear Sister, they are not even lined.”

I remained silent. I did not wish to quarrel with Karen so soon after her arrival.

“And you have not oiled your floorcloth. And what a curious pattern. I have never seen anything quite like it. What is this
I have before me?” She had taken something up in her fork, and now put it down again and studied it.

“It is called dunfish, but it is cold,” I said.

“Cold!” she exclaimed. “But it is the color of mahogany!”

“Yes,” I said. “The people here have the most ingenious way of preserving and drying fish for shipping elsewhere. It is called
dunning and keeps —”

“I cannot eat this,” she said, pushing away the plate. “My appetite is still not keen. Do you have any honey for the bread?
I might be able to get the bread down if you have honey.”

“I do not,” I said.

“But I see that you have grown fat nevertheless,” she said, examining me intently.

I was silent and uncomfortable with such a compliment. Karen sighed again and took a sip from her bowl of coffee. Immediately
she screwed up her mouth in pain, and put her hand to the side of her face.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The toothache,” she said. “I have been plagued with holes in my teeth for these several years now, and have had no good dentistry
for them.”

“We must take you into Portsmouth,” I said.

“And will you have the money for the dentist,” she asked sharply, “if you have no money for wallpaper? When I was at home,
I had money from Evan, though there were no decent dentists to be found near Laurvig, I am sorry to say.”

Across the table from her, I picked up my own bowl and took a sip of the coffee. “And how is our brother?” I asked.

Karen lifted up her head and fastened her eyes upon mine, and as she did so I began to color and to curse myself for this
weakness in my constitution. “He did not write to you?” Karen asked sweetly.

“We have had the one letter,” I said. My forehead was now hot and wet. I stood and went to the stove.

“One letter? In all this time? I am quite surprised. I have always thought our brother bore you a special affection. But I
suppose our Evan was never one for dwelling much in the past.… ”

“I expect that Evan has been too busy to write,” I said quickly, wishing now to put an end to the subject.

“But not too busy to be a comfort to me, you will be glad to hear,” said Karen.

“A comfort?” I asked.

“Oh, most decidedly so.” She opened her mouth and rubbed a back tooth. As she did, I could see that many of her teeth were
blackened and rotted, and (I hope I will not offend the sensibilities of the reader by revealing this) I could as well detect
a terrible smell emanating from the office. “Full of the most stimulating conversation in the evenings,” she went on. “Do
you know that we went together to Kristiania by train over the Easter holiday last year? It was tremendously exciting, Maren.
Evan took me to the theater and to supper and we stayed at a hotel. And he spent one afternoon at the University, and spoke
to some of the professors there quite seriously of admitting himself to a course of study.”

“Evan did?”

“Oh, yes. He has prospered wonderfully and has been able to put some money by. And I do think that now I am gone, he will
go to Kristiania, at least for a term, to see how he fares. And doubtless he will meet there some young woman who will turn
his head. It’s time he settled down, our Evan. Don’t you think so, Maren?”

I tried to calm my hands by stirring the soup that was on the stove. “You don’t think that Evan will come to America too?”
I asked as casually as I could.

“America!” Karen exclaimed. “Whyever for? A man who prospers so well in his own country and has no need to escape will never
think of emigrating to another country. No, Maren, I should think not. It was of course difficult for me to have to leave
him.… ”

“Why exactly did you leave?” I asked, turning to her sharply. I was feeling quite cross with Karen at this point.

“We may talk about that at some other time.”

Karen turned her head away, and appeared once again to be examining the cottage. “You cannot keep your windows clean?”

“The sea spray,” I said. “It is continual.”

“At home, I like to use the vinegar.”

“I would like to know what has brought you here,” I said, interrupting her. “Of course, you are entirely welcome, whatever
the reasons, but I do think John and I have a right to know. I hope it is not some dread illness.”

“No, nothing like that.”

Karen stood up and walked to the window. She folded her arms across her breast and appeared to contemplate the north-west
view for some time. Then, with a sigh of, I believe, resignation, she began to tell her story. There had been a man in Laurvig
by the name of Knut Eng, she said, who was a widower of fifty four years, who had courted Karen for seven months with the
implicit promise of an engagement not long in the future as they were neither of them young, and then suddenly, after a particularly
silly quarrel between them, had broken off their relations, and there was no longer any talk of marriage. So abrupt and shaming
was this cessation of his affections, and so widespread the gossip surrounding the affair, that Karen found she could no longer
walk with any confidence into town or attend services at our church. Thus the thought of voyaging to America to join John
and myself suddenly became appealing to her.

I felt sorry for her loss, though I could not help but think that Karen had most likely done her part to alienate her suitor.
Nor was it altogether flattering to know that my sister had come to us only because she was embarrassed to have been spurned.
But as it was our custom to welcome all visitors, and particularly those who were family, I tried to make her comfortable
and showed her to the upstairs bedroom so that she might have privacy. She found the room uncheerful, and had the poor manners
to say so, and, in addition, appeared not to see the star quilt at all. But I forgave her, as she was still in a state of
irritation and tiredness owing to her sea-journey.

“What was the nature of the quarrel?” I asked her when she was settled and sitting on the bed.

“I had observed that he was growing more and more stout as the months progressed,” she said, “and one afternoon I told him
so.”

“Oh,” I said. I confess I had then to suppress a smile, and I turned away from my sister so that she could not see this effort.
“I am sorry that this has happened to you,” I said. “I trust you will be able to put all your sadness behind you now that
you are in a new world.”

“And do you suppose,” she asked, “that there is any life for Karen Christensen here on this dreadful island?”

“I am sure there must be,” I said.

“Then you, Maren, are possessed of an optimism I cannot share.”

And with that, she made a fluttering motion with her hand, a motion I knew well, which dismissed me from her bedroom.

For a time, Karen was my companion during the days when John was at sea, though I cannot say that this was an easy or comfortable
companionship, as Karen had grown sorry for herself, and as a result, had become somewhat tedious and dull. She would sit
at her spinning wheel and sing the very saddest of tunes, whilst I went about my domestic chores in her presence. I did not
like constantly to ask for information about Evan, as Karen had a curious way of regarding me when I did, which always made
the blood come into my face, and so I would sometimes have to sit for hours in her company to catch one casual word of my
brother, which she gave only sparingly. Sometimes I believe she deliberately withheld information about Evan, and at other
times I could see that she was pleased to reveal a confidence I hadn’t shared with my brother. These are harsh things to say
about one’s sibling, but I believe them to be true. When one night I could bear it no longer, and I blurted out to her that
I believed in my heart that Evan would eventually join John and me in America, she laughed for a long time and said that Evan
had barely mentioned my name in the three years I had been apart from him, and it was her opinion that though one remains
attached to a family member forever, he had quite forgotten me.

I was so enarged by this utterance, which she knew wounded me deeply, I went to my room and did not emerge that day or the
next day, and finally was persuaded to come into the kitchen by John, who declared that he would not tolerate discord in his
house and that my sister and I must make peace between us. In truth, I was embarrassed and eager to put the entire incident,
which had not shown me in my best light, behind me.

Karen and I did not have many quarrels like this, however, as she left Smutty Nose within the month. It shortly became apparent
that my sister must have money for her teeth, and since there was not work on Smutty Nose, and since I did not really need
any help in my domestic routine, nor did we have any extra funds to spare for her, John rowed her across to Appledore, where
she was interviewed and hired as a servant to Eliza Laighton, and installed for the summer in a garret room in the hotel the
Laighton family occupied and managed. In the winter, she was a personal servant to Eliza.

We were to see Karen at regular intervals during the next two years, primarily on Sundays, when John would take the dory to
collect her on her afternoon off so that she might have a meal with us. I did not notice that domestic service improved her
disposition much. Indeed, I would say that as the months passed, she seemed to sink further into melancholy, and it was a
wonder to me how she was able to maintain her position there at all.

Despite Karen’s departure, John and I were almost never to be alone again on the island, as Matthew, John’s brother, came
to us soon after Karen had gone into service. Matthew was quiet and undemanding and used the northeast apartment for his sleeping
quarters. He was a great help to John on the boat. And on 12 April 1872, John brought home a man to board with us, as my husband
needed extra monies in order to save up for a new fishing boat. This man was called Louis Wagner.

I think now, in retrospect, I was struck most by Louis Wagner’s eyes, which were a metallic blue, and were as well quite canny,
and it was difficult to ignore them or to turn one’s head away from them, or, indeed, even to feel comfortable in their gaze.
Wagner, who was an immigrant from Prussia and had about him an arrogance that I have always associated with Prussians, was
large and strongly built. He had coarse hair of a sort that lightens in the elements, so that it was sometimes difficult to
say whether he was fair-haired or brown-haired, but his beard was most striking, a vivid copper color under any circumstances,
and shiny copper in the sun. Louis’s skin was extraordinarily white, which I found surprising in a man of the sea, and his
English was poor. But I will confess that he had the most contagious of smiles and quite excellent teeth, and that when he
was in good humor and sat at table and told his stories, he had a kind of charm that was sometimes a relief from the silence
of Matthew and John.

Louis was lodged in the northeast apartment with Matthew. In the beginning, when Louis was a mate on John’s boat, I hardly
saw our new boarder, as Louis ate his meals quickly and then repaired almost immediately to his bed, owing to the fatigue
the long hours caused in him. But shortly after he had arrived, Mr. Wagner got the rheumatism, which he said had plagued him
chronically nearly all his adult life, and he was rendered so crippled by this ailment that he was forced to stay behind and
take to his bed, and in this way I got to know Louis rather better than I might have.

I had not really ever had the experience of nursing another to health, and at first I found the duties awkward and uncomfortable.
As Louis could not in the beginning rise from his bed without considerable pain, I was compelled to bring him in his meals,
collect his tray when he was done, and clean his room.

One morning, after Louis had been confined to his bed for several weeks, I was surprised in my lounge by a knocking at the
outer door. When I opened it, Louis was standing on the stoop in a state of some disarray, his shirttails outside of his trousers
and his collar missing, but still it was the first time he had been upright in many days, and I was glad to see this. I begged
him to come in and sit down at the table, while I prepared some hot coffee for him.

He made his way limpingly to the chair and sat upon it with a great sigh. When he had been well, I had observed him hoisting
the dory from the water as if it were a child’s plaything; now he seemed barely capable of lifting his arm from the table.
He had lost considerable weight, and his hair was disheveled and in need of a wash. Despite his appearance, however, he seemed
that day pleased with himself, and he smiled when I brought to him the bowl of coffee.

“I am in debt to you for your kindness,” he said after he had taken a swallow.

“It’s nothing,” I said to him in English, as I always did, since neither of us could speak the other’s language. “We hope
only to make you well again.”

“And that I will be, if I remain in your hands.”

“We are all concerned for your health,” I said. “My husband and his brother.”