The Weight of Water (28 page)

Karen, during this time, attended to her sewing and her spinning, and I was just as happy not to have her in my way or in
constant attendance. In the beginning of Karen’s stay, Anethe set out to please this sister of Evan’s, rolling the wool that
Karen had spun, feigning enthusiasm for the skill of embroidery and offering to braid Karen’s hair, but it was not long before
I noticed that even Anethe, who previously seemed to have nearly inexhaustible reserves of selflessness, began to tire of
Karen’s constant querulous whine and started to see as well that pleasing Karen was in itself a futile endeavor. There are
some people who simply will not be pleased. After a time, I noticed that Anethe asked me more and more often for chores of
her own to perform. I had more than a few to spare, and I took pity upon her, as enforced idleness in such a claustrophobic
setting will almost certainly begin to erode joy, if not one’s character altogether.

As for me, I had not thought about joy much, and sometimes I felt my character, if not my very soul, to be in jeopardy. I
had not prayed since the day that Evan spoke harshly to me in the kitchen, as I no longer had anything compelling to pray
for. Not his arrival, not his love, not even his kindness or presence. For though he was in that room all the days, though
we were seldom more than a few feet from each other, it was as though we were on separate continents, for he would not acknowledge
me or speak to me unless it was absolutely necessary, and even at those times, I wished that he had not had need to speak
to me at all, for the indifference of his tone chilled my blood and made me colder than I had been before. It was a tone utterly
devoid of warmth or forgiveness, a tone that seeks to keep another being at bay, at a distance. Once, in our bed at night,
John asked me why it was that Evan and I seemed not to enjoy each other’s company as much as we used to, and I answered him
that there was nothing in it, only that Evan was preoccupied and blind to everyone except Anethe.

Since the first day of March, the men had been going out to sea again, and there was something of a sense of relief in this,
not only because we had all survived the gruelling weeks of the hard winter, but also because now there would be some breathing
room. The men, in particular, were cheered by occupation, and I suppose I was a bit more relaxed not to have so many underfoot.
My work did not seem to lighten much, however, since there were the same number of meals to prepare and increased washing
now that the men would come back fouled with fish goory in the afternoons.

On the morning of 5 March, I remember that Karen painstakingly dressed in her city clothes, a silver-gray dress with peacock-blue
trim, and a bonnet to match, and that once outfitted in this manner, she sat straight-backed in a chair, her hands folded
in her lap, and did not move much for hours. I believe she thought that being in city clothes prevented her from taking up
a domestic occupation, even one so benign as sewing. It was extremely annoying to me to observe her that day, so stiff and
grim, her mouth folded in upon itself, arrested in a state of anticipation, and I know that at least once I was unable to
prevent my irritation from slipping out, and that I said to her that it was ludicrous to sit there in my kitchen with her
hat on, when the men would not return for hours yet, but she did not respond to me and set her mouth all the tighter. Anethe,
by contrast, seemed excessively buoyant that morning, and it was as though the two of us, Anethe and myself, were performing
some sort of odd dance around a stationary object. Anethe had a gesture of running the backs of her hands upwards along the
sides of her neck and face and gracefully bringing them together at the top of her head and then spreading her arms wide,
actually quite a lovely, sensuous movement, and she did this several times that day, and I thought it could not just be that
she was glad the men were out of the kitchen, for, in truth, I think she was ambivalent about not being with Evan, and so
I asked her, more in jest really, what secret it was that was making her so happy on that day, and she stunned me by replying,
“Oh, Maren, I had not thought to tell anyone. I have not even told my husband.”

Of course, I knew right away what she meant, and it hit me with so much force that I sat down that instant as though I had
been pushed.

Anethe put her hand to her mouth. “Maren, you look shocked. I should not have said —”

I waved my hand. “No, no…”

“Oh, Maren, are you not pleased?”

“How can you be sure?” I asked.

“I am late two months. January and February.”

“Perhaps it is the cold,” I said. It was an absurd thing to say. I could not collect my thoughts and felt dizzy.

“Do you think I should tell him tonight? Oh, Maren, I am amazed at myself that I have kept it from him all this time. Indeed,
it is surprising that he himself did not notice, although I think that men —”

“No, do not tell him,” I said. “It is too soon. It is bad luck to speak of this so early on. There are so many women who lose
their babies before three months. No, no, I am quite sure. We will keep this to ourselves for now.” And then I collected myself
a bit. “But, my dear, I am happy for you. Our little family will grow bigger now, as it should do.”

And then Karen said from the table, “Where will you keep it?” and Anethe, I think somewhat taken aback by the use of the word
it
rather than
the child
, composed herself and looked steadily at her sister-in-law. “I will keep our baby with myself and Evan in our bedroom,” she
said.

And Karen did not say anything more at that time.

“It is why you have been looking pale,” I said, suddenly comprehending the truth of what Anethe was saying. As I looked at
her, I had no doubt now that she was pregnant.

“I have felt a bit faint from time to time,” she said, “and sometimes there is a bad taste in the back of my mouth, a metallic
taste, as if I had sucked on a nail.”

“I cannot say,” I said, standing up and spreading my hands along my apron skirt. “I have never had the experience.”

And Anethe, silenced by the implications of that statement, picked up the broom by the table and began to sweep the floor.

The coroner missed this fact about Anethe in his examination of her body, and I did not like to tell Evan, as I thought it
would make his agony all the more unendurable.

About two o’clock of that afternoon, I heard a loud hallooing from the water and looked through the window and saw Emil Ingerbretson
waving to me from his schooner just off the cove, and so I ran outside quickly, thinking that perhaps there had been an accident,
and I managed to make out, though the wind kept carrying off the words, that John had decided to go straight in to Portsmouth,
as he could not beat against the wind. When I had got the message, I waved back to Emil, and he went off in his boat. Once
inside, I told the other two women, and Anethe looked immediately disappointed, and I saw that she had meant to tell Evan
that day of her news, despite my admonition not to. Karen was quite vexed, and said so, and asked now what would she do all
dressed up with her city clothes on, and I replied that I had been asking myself that question all morning. She sighed dramatically,
and went to a chair against the wall in the kitchen and lay back upon it.

“They will be back tonight,” I said to Anethe. “Let’s have a portion of the stew now, as I am hungry, and you must eat regular
meals, and we will save the larger share for the men when they return. I have packed them no food, so unless they feed themselves
in Portsmouth, they will be starved when they return.”

I asked Karen if she would take some dinner with us, and she then asked me how she would eat a stew with no teeth, and I replied,
with some exasperation, as we had had this exchange nearly every day since she had had her teeth removed, that she could sip
the broth and gum the bread, and she said in a tired voice that she would eat later and turned her head to the side. I looked
up to see that Anethe was gazing at me with a not unkind expression, and I trust that she was nearly as weary of my sister’s
complaints as I was.

We ate our meal, and I found some rubber boots in the entry-way and put them on and went to the well and saw that the water
had frozen over and so I went into the hen house to look for the axe, and found it lying by a barrel, and brought it to the
well and heaved it up with all my strength and broke the ice with one great crack. I had been used to this chore, since the
water often froze over on that island, even when the temperature of the air was not at freezing level, and this was due to
the wind. I fetched up three buckets of water and took them one by one into the house and poured them into pans, and when
I was done I brought the axe up to the house and laid it by the front door, so that in the morning, I would not have to go
to the hen house to get it.

Dusk came early, as it was still not the equinox, and when it was thoroughly dark, and I noticed, as one will notice not the
continuous sound of voices in the room but rather the cessation of those voices, that the wind had quieted, I turned to Anethe
and said, “So that is that. The men will not be back this night.”

She had a puzzled look on her face. “How can you be sure?” she asked.

“The wind has died,” I said. “Unless they are right at the entrance to the harbor, their sails will not fill, and if they
have not yet left Portsmouth, John will not go out at all.”

“But we have never been alone at night before,” Anethe said.

“Let us wait another half hour before we are sure,” I said.

The moon was in its ascendancy, which had a lovely effect on the harbor and on the snow, outlining in a beautifully stark
manner the Haley House and the Mid-Ocean Hotel, both vacant at that time. I went about the lounge lighting candles and the
oil lamp. When a half hour had elapsed, I said to Anethe, “What harm can possibly come to us on this island? Who on these
neighboring islands would want to hurt us? And anyway, it is not so bad that the men have not come. Without them, our chores
will be lighter.”

Anethe went to the window to listen for the sound of oars. Karen got up from her chair and walked to the stove and began to
spoon broth and soft potatoes into a bowl. I took off my kerchief and stretched my arms.

Anethe wondered aloud where the men would stop to eat. Karen said she thought it likely they would go to a hotel and have
a night for themselves. I disagreed and said I thought they would go to Ira Thaxter’s on Broad Street, for they would have
to beg a meal from a friend, until they sold the catch, the proceeds of which were to have gone for provisions. Karen pointed
out to me that Ringe hadn’t been fed yet, and I rose from the table and put some stew into his dish. All in all, I was quite
amazed that Karen had not muttered something about the men having failed to take her into Portsmouth, but I imagine that even
Karen could tire of her own complaints.

While Anethe washed the pots and dishes, nearly scalding her hand from the kettle water, Karen and I struggled with a mattress
that we dragged downstairs to lay in the kitchen for her. Anethe asked if she could sleep in my bed to keep from being cold
and lonely without Evan that night, and though I was slightly discomfited by the thought of a woman in my bed, and Anethe
at that, I did reason that her body would provide some warmth, as John’s did, and besides, I did not like to refuse such a
personal request. After stoking up the fire for warmth, I believe that the three of us then took off our outer garments and
put on our nightdresses, even Karen, who had thought to stay in her city clothes so that she would not have to dress again
in the morning, but in the end was persuaded to remove them so as not to muss them unduly. And then, just as I was about to
extinguish the lights, Karen took out from the cupboard bread and milk and soft cheese, and said that she was still hungry,
and I will not weary the reader with the silly quarrel that ensued, although I had reason to be annoyed with her as we had
just cleaned up the kitchen, and finally I said to Karen that if she would eat at this time, she could tidy up after herself
and would she please extinguish the light.

Sometimes it is as though I have been transported in my entirety back to that night, for I can feel, as if I were again lying
in that bed, the soft forgiveness of the feather mattress and the heavy weight of the many quilts under which Anethe and I
lay. It was always startling, as the room grew colder, to experience the contrast in temperatures between one’s face, which
was exposed to the frigid air, and one’s body, which was encased in goose down. We had both been still for some time, and
I had seen, through the slit underneath the bedroom door, that the light had been put out, which meant that Karen had finally
gone to bed. I was lying flat on my back with my arms at my sides, looking up at the ceiling, which I could make out only
dimly in the moonlight. Anethe lay facing me, curled into a comma, holding the covers close up to her chin. I had worn a nightcap,
but Anethe had not, and I suppose this was because she had a natural cap in the abundance of her hair. I had thought she was
asleep, but I turned my head quickly toward her and back again and saw that she was staring at me, and I felt a sudden stiffening
all through me, a response no doubt to the awkwardness of lying in my bed with a woman, and this woman my brother’s wife.

“Maren,” she whispered, “are you still awake?”

She knew that I was. I whispered, “Yes.”

“I feel restless and cannot sleep,” she said, “although all day I have felt as though I would sleep on my feet.”

“You are not yourself,” I said.

“I suppose.” She shifted in the bed, bringing her face a little closer to my own.

“Do you think the men are all right? You don’t think anything could have happened to them?”

I had thought once or twice, briefly, not liking to linger on the thought, that perhaps John and Evan had met with an accident
on the way to Portsmouth, although that seemed unlikely to me, and, in any event, hours had passed since Emil had come with
the message, and if some ill had befallen the men, I thought that we would have heard already.