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I hear every word though they hold white-gloved fingertips over eager lips. "Shhh! Not so loud, Janie. That’s Rosie Parsons ahead, the youngest one. They say she’s touched, too," whispers Althea Simmons.
"Touched? With what, Aunty?"
"Hush, Child," scolds Rebecca Coombs, her voice shrill and thin in the Sunday morning stillness. "They say she’s like her mother, Polly, second sight and all."
"Second sight, my foot. She’s mad as a hatter, I tell you," hisses Althea viciously. "You stay away from her, Janie, you hear?
"But why, Aunty? She looks normal to me?"
"See, ‘tis for your own good, Janie. Folks ‘round here don’t mingle much with them Parsons’ kids." Rebecca explains. "You listen to your Aunty. She knows best. No good ever comes from mixin’ with witches."
Feet burning, dragging like wooden blocks along the gravel road. Finger nails throbbing, biting into clammy palms. Neck straining, holding my aching head erect. I taste blood and realize I’m biting my lip. "Oh, God, please make them stop," I pray desperately.
My legs move faster. I glance back over my shoulder. They’re walking faster, too. I catch a glimpse of Janie Simmons’ face, pale and delicate, under her wide-brimmed straw hat. Janie’s curious green eyes sparkle, a mingled look of fascination and horror dancing just below the surface calm. "Witches! Ohhh. Is Rosie a witch, too? Can she do spells and everything? Can she?"
I hurry. Faster and faster. Almost home, there’s the house. Smoke rises from the chimney in little white puffs, then silently disappears on the breeze. The imagined aroma of Sunday chicken makes my mouth water, and I brush salty tears from my eyes.
They’ve caught up again! The sweet, sickening stench of Ben Hur perfume emanating from Rebecca’s bosoms makes me gag. Her voice screams into my head. I will her to be quiet. "Sure, ‘tis scandalous the way Polly’s worn her mourning clothes these last three years, yet never mourned for one second. Watching the harbor every day, thinking Charles is still coming back. Tell her, Rosie! Tell her your father drowned with all the rest of them."
There’s the gate. Fumbling blindly at the latch, I feel it give. I stumble through and slam it shut. The wooden porch steps, safe and familiar, creak and bend as I force shaky legs upward. Janie’s voice, sailing swift and sure through the sunshine finds its mark. "Aunty says your father is dead and your mother is crazy. She can’t see your father and talk to him. If she can, she’s a witch. A witch . . . a witch . . . a witch . . ."
"Rosie! Rosie!"
"What, Ma? What is it?"
"Wake up, Rosie. This is the day."
I sit up shakily, tasting tears on my lips. Ma stands there, big brown eyes bright in her sparrow-like face, her mourning bonnet with the black silk ribbon, perched gaily on her glossy braids.
"What day is it, Ma?" I ask wearily.
She bends down and peers thought my open bedroom window, her eyes eagerly scanning the horizon. "It’s the day your father comes home, Rosie. I spoke with him again last night. This is the day." Her eyes widen now and a look of pure joy spreads across her face.
"What?" I ask. My heart pounds audibly.
"Sails, Rosie! Out on the bay . . . sails!"
I sink back under the covers, pulling the eiderdown firmly over my head. Ma clatters wildly down the stairs singing off-key, something about "White sails in the sunshine." I wonder again—where will it end?
Three years now since that cold November night. Three years since the schooner disappeared on her way home from St. John’s without a trace of Father and the rest of the crew. And three years since the memorial service in the little white church next door. The service that packed the church with every living soul in the harbor. Everyone that is, except Ma.
"Rosie! Hurry and get dressed." Ma is outside my door again. "Come on, Rosie the schooner will be in soon."
"Coming, Ma."
My dream creeps back, piece by piece. I realize it’s Sunday. Maybe today I’ll see Janie. I crave her friendship but it’s no use. Not one girl in the Harbor speaks to me now. Not with Ma the way she is, wandering around muttering and mumbling to herself, always talking to Father. Refusing to go on with her life the way the other widows have.
I get out of bed, the canvas floor cool beneath my feet, and glance out the window. There are sails! A strange schooner gliding slowly into the bay. Down on the wharf across the road several men watch the schooner’s progress. They shift uneasily from foot to foot, shading their eyes and shaking their heads.
Rebecca’s new husband, James, is there. He spits a black stream of tobacco juice neatly over the wharf, then hauls his red handkerchief out of his back pocket and drags it across his mouth.
I hear Ma clattering and banging downstairs. I dress hurriedly and go down. "What are you doing, Ma?" I ask.
"Cooking breakfast, Rosie. Your father will be hungry." I watch Ma bustle around the kitchen humming. Thick slabs of bacon sizzle in the big, black, cast iron pan. The shiny kettle dances and puffs away on the inside stove cover. In front, an enormous pot of oatmeal bubbles joyously sending bursts of steam wafting upward to settle moistly on the wooden beams.
"Rosie!" Ma chirps. "Don’t stand there wool-gathering. Go on down to the wharf and meet Father. I’ll be down directly. Have to go up and change out of this get-up. Don’t want Charles to see me like this." She scurries out of the kitchen tugging at her apron and calling back over her shoulder, "Hurry now, Rosie. Do as you’re told."
I open the back door and step out. The air is cool and damp and strangely quiet. Something feels different. Nothing is moving in the harbor, not even a curtain. The grass is wet and spongy, still laden with early morning dew. The birds are quiet; the church bells silent. The whole harbor seems blanketed in a queer hush.
I push the front gate open and step out onto the gravel road. The sound of my shoes crunching on loose pebbles jolts through the stillness like a shriek. A lone sea gull wheels and dips overhead screeching disapproval. I cross the road and step onto the wooden planks leading from the road down to the edge of the wharf. More men have gathered. They don’t notice me. They’re all watching the schooner. All gazing intently at the mysterious vessel gliding in on the westerly wind.
The schooner’s closer now, sails full in the breeze. I shade my eyes and gaze across the choppy waves. She’s big and ungainly; not smooth and sleek like Father’s. I wonder why none of the women are here. They’re probably all dressing for church—all except Ma. I glance at the strange schooner again and think, poor Ma.
The men are talking, pacing and watching uncertainly. Some are rubbing their eyes as if crying. Their faces look strange and sad. I creep closer and listen.
"Aye, ‘tis them all right," James Coombs is saying. "And we thought they was all on the bottom. We didn’t know, now, did we?"
"That’s right. What’s done is done. Sure, what was I expected to do? See his wife and baby starve? Even if he is my own brother," Says Saul Simmons, Althea’s husband these past two years.
I sidle up beside young Jimmy Green. He’s wiping his eyes on the back of his hand and mumbling out loud, his half-closed eyes squinting at the billowing sails as if to make them disappear. "Sure, Katie’s my wife now. Nothing he can do about it. No, sir, not one thing. Even Rev. Hawkins says we’re legal."
I realize that most of the men, except for a few of the younger ones, have all married in the last three years. I remember Ma saying one time, "All them new babies, I s’pose ‘tis better to have two or three fathers than none at all. At least they’ll have lots of uncles."
Sails are lowering; the vessel glides closer. I see the men on board, strange, foreign looking men, long-haired and bearded. From dark, weather-beaten faces, they flash dazzling white smiles.
One man holds an armful of fruit. He waves and calls to me. I smell confusion. I want to turn and run. The man is looking up at me. Backing away, I crouch down beside Uncle Jake White. "Ah, Rosie. Ah, Rosie," he says, patting my head.
I hear someone say, "Good, God, look at that. We’ll never hear the end of it. Never live it down, not with that one. Won’t be able to live ‘longside a’ her a ‘tall after this." It’s James Coombs. I follow his pointing finger. My heart leaps into my throat.
It’s Ma! She’s marching briskly down the planks! Gone are the widow’s weeds. He head is uncovered, her hair glossy and shining in the sunlight. She wears a dress of dark green, tight fitting and cinched at the waist with a black belt. Black shiny shoes—I’ve never seen them before—adorn her feet.
She steps onto the wharf. The men step aside, clearing a wide path. Swiftly, she moves through the silent throng, head held high and proud, her eyes—unwavering—fixed on the strange vessel.
I look down again at the man in the front of the schooner. He catches my eye and calls to me. "Look, Rosie! Look what I brought you. All the way from Spain." I stare—dumb. I can’t feel my legs, can’t find my voice. It is Father. It is!
Ma reaches the edge of the wharf and bends down on one knee. Father looks up and drops the fruit. It rolls unnoticed around his feet. A rope ladder is heaved over the side. Ma reaches down, takes him by the hand and helps him on to the wharf. "Charles!" she cries. "What took you so long? Breakfast is ready."
I find my legs and run. Up the narrow plank I plunge—headlong! Hot tears scald my eyes. My feet touch the road and I smack blindly into someone. Arms wrap around me comfortingly. I look up into Janie Simmons’ misty green eyes. She looks scared.
"What is it, Rosie?" She asks. "What’s happening? Rebecca’s at Aunty Althea’s house. She’s crying. They’re both crying."
The words won’t come. They stick in my throat.
Janie’s arms enfold me again. She whispers, "Can we be friends, Rosie? Aunty Althea says I don’t have to go to church today."
I look back at the wharf, at Ma walking proudly beside Father. Turning to Janie, I wipe my eyes and force a smile. "Yes, Janie,’ I say, linking my arm through hers, "Now we can be friends."
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