Island Page 16

  I got back on my bike and started for home, but then I remembered my cakes, and since I didn’t have enough to share, I decided to eat them along the way. I stopped in front of a shop called Isadora’s where there was a nice green lawn and a tree I could sit under, out of the sun. From what I could see through the two small windows—the shop was a smallish clapboard cape—Isadora’s seemed to be an antique shop. Since there were no cars in the driveway and no one was about, I assumed it was closed. But as I was finishing my meal, the proprietor, a white-haired woman with a cane, hobbled out and looked at me with her eyebrows drawn down hard together. I jumpd to my feet and apologized for making myself at home on her property. She looked at me for a moment longer and then apparently reached some decision concerning my person, for she smiled and lifted her face to the sky and said, “Did you hear about the storm?” I said I had, and that I was surprised that there wasn’t more activity because of it. Nobody was boarding anything up. There hadn’t been any lines at the general store. She said that was because it was Sunday and most folks were at services. She herself had just returned. They’d be out boarding things up soon enough. I asked her if she was intending to leave if things got bad. She said, “Oh, no. I got my paintings to protect.” And then we got to talking about painting, and she invited me into her shop to see hers for myself.

  If all the grandmothers in any given town were to come together to deposit their most beloved possessions in one place, that place could not be as cluttered or as fascinating as Isadora’s shop. There were things everywhere. There were boxes and boxes of old buttons, beautiful ones in every conceivable size, shape, and color. There were dresses that belonged in a museum, dishes trimmed in gold, and lovely deep-colored vases. There was jewelry, cutlery, baskets, carpets, keorsene lamps, quill pens, decorative pillows … And every time I stopped to admire something, Isadora told me which of her relatives it had come from and how it had served on that person or in his or her home. “It must bother you to sell these things,” I said, for it was obvious that she was sentimentally attached to each and every object; each represented a chapter in her life or in the life of someone she had known and loved. She told me it wasn’t difficult at all because she only sold things to people she liked. I laughed and said, “How do you ward off the ones you don’t like?” She winked and smiled, and I could see she had been very beautiful at one time. She said, “That’s my secret,” and then she took my arm and led me into the back room.

  Her paintings were wonderful, simplistic things, not unlike those of Grandma Moses. They depicted the most ordinary settings—people working together in gardens, families gathering for coffee in the evenings on big white front porches, women sitting in circles with needles and yarn, children playing catch on the beach. They were rendered with a stroke which was just short of being awkward, in colors more vibrant than natural. The scenes were panoramic, with elaborate backgrounds as prominent as the foregrounds. There was about them all a silence, a hushed love of daily life, an innocence, so that when I looked at them I felt like I was looking through a window and observing the best mankind has to offer—good will among men.

  Isadora told me that she had only begun to paint ten years ago, when she was sixty. She said at that time she had a little jewelry chest, a gift from her mother, that she wanted to pass down to her granddaughter on the occasion of her granddaughter’s high school graduation. But one of the painted flowers on its wooden surface had been worn away by time. So she bought some paints and attempted to recreate that flower and freshen up the others. The results of her labors surprised and pleased her. She’d been painting ever since. Like the other articles in her shop, her paintings represented real people and real incidents in her life or in the lives of her loved ones. And she was quite willing to tell me the particular stories about the ones that interested me most. My favorite, I decided after almost two hours of listening to her soft, steady voice and her wonderful tales, was a painting of a dining room, her mother’s dining room. In the center of the room, Isadora had painted a large oak table, childishly rendered in composition, but invitingly laid out with a simple but accurate replica of the same beautiful china she had shown me in the front room. A little girl was carrying a bowl to the table, and through the door left open behind her you could see a woman busily preparing the meal at a large, black, coal-burning stove. A calico cat lay curled on a rug beneath the table. The first guests could be seen arriving through a window beyond the table. One was carrying a bouquet of flowers. The empty vase on the center of the table—which was proportionately larger than anything surrounding it—suggested that the flowers were expected, and that this was therefore a traditional dinner, a Sunday gathering or a Thanksgiving feast.

  The painting was priced at $175, much less than it was worth, I thought, but much more than I could afford. And certainly it was not the right time to ask Donald if he would like to have a new painting for the house. I was thinking about how much I would have liked to purchase it when Isadora turned to me and said, “Take it. It’s a gift.” Of course I protested. But then she asked me if I intended to leave the island before the storm, and when I said that I did, she said, “Good. Then take the painting as a favor to me. If somehow the storm is worse than I’m thinking it will be and my shop gets flooded, then at least I’ll know that one of my paintings is safe on the mainland with someone who loves it as much as I do.” What could I say to that? We embraced before I left, and I prayed very hard that the storm would stay far away from Isadora’s shop.

  I made one more stop on the way home. I went to the phone booth near the Visitor’s Center and tried to get Charlie. We had agreed that I wouldn’t call until I got back to New York, at which time he would have only a few days before coming home too. But I was afraid that he’d heard about the hurricane—how could he avoid hearing about a hurricane bearing his name?—and that he would be worried about me. I wanted to let him know that I planned to leave the island well before it arrived. But no one answered the phone.

  As I pulled up alongside the porch on my bike, full of both the good feelings that had come from viewing Isadora’s paintings and, just beneath them, the bad feelings that had come from the hurricane and the confusion from the night before, I heard Donald’s voice in the kitchen. He seemed to be reading something. This was a surprise. I expected a flurry of activity to be going on in preparation for our evacuation. But when I went in I saw that they were all sitting around the table—everyone but Meredith—and that Donald hadn’t been reading at all. He didn’t have a book. He was reciting from memory. He stopped short when he saw me. “We’re talking about the hurricane,” Belinda said. I said, “Yes, everybody is.” Roscoe said, “Sit down. Donald is telling us about Schopenhauer and the sublime.” I glanced at the table and noted that the poem was no longer there. I said that I’d sit down in a minute and tell them about my conversation with the Coast Guard, but that first I wanted to speak to Meredith. Roscoe said she was in her room. I could feel Donald looking at me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. I backed towards the hall so that they wouldn’t see the painting behind my back.

  Meredith was sitting in her chair, staring out the window at the backyard. “Look,” I said, and I handed her the painting. I expected her to nod and hand it back to me like she does when I try to show her my work, but she didn’t. She studied it for a long time. While she was doing so, I told her all about Isadora’s shop and how Isadora had given me the painting so it would be safe. “She was wise,” Meredith said. I pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. I said, “Look at the expression on the little girl’s face. And the way the cat is sleeping on the rug. Every time I look at it I feel like I’ve left this world and entered another one, a kinder one. Does it make you feel like that too?” She nodded and handed the painting back to me. Then she went back to looking out the window. I said, “Meredith, did you mention the poem last night on purpose, to start trouble?” She nodded again.

  I kicked off my sandals and lay down on her bed. �
�The last ferry today leaves at six,” I said. “We should start packing up soon.” She said, “We’re not leaving.” In the other room I could hear someone fiddling with a radio. News of the hurricane seemed to be on every station. In a while I heard a man’s voice announcing the storm’s present coordinates. He said people in low-lying areas were being urged to evacuate. The broadcast was from the mainland. He talked about the moon and the influence it could have on the tides. Donald and Belinda and Roscoe had stopped talking to listen to him. When he was done, they went back to conversing in low tones. I asked Meredith where the radio had come from. As far as I had known, her Walkman was the only one in the house. She said it was a transistor Roscoe had had in his van. Then I asked her what she meant when she said that they weren’t leaving. “I don’t want to leave and neither do the others,” she said.

  I told her that was nonsense, of course we had to leave. And I said I didn’t believe her anyway. Surely Belinda had made it clear last night that she would leave in advance of a storm. Meredith said, “Now she wants to stay. Father and Roscoe convinced her that if she faces up to it this time, she’ll never be afraid of a storm again.” I still didn’t believe her and told her to start packing her things because we were going on the six o’clock ferry. I felt very certain that that would be the right thing to do and didn’t want to risk having to leave the cars behind. Besides that, I couldn’t bear to wait for the last minute, for the sound of the sirens screaming.

  I got up and went into the kitchen. Roscoe patted the empty chair beside him. I said to Belinda, “Meredith tells me you’ve decided to stay.” She took a deep breath. “It’s okay,” she said. “Roscoe went out this morning and talked to a bunch of the locals. They’re all staying. They say ninety-five mile an hour winds are nothing here. And they should know.” I said, “But what about your phobia?” She said, “I’m dealing with it. I feel better already. I feel like if I make it through this without cracking up, I’ll be a new person. I’ll be able to do anything. I’ve never had enough will to make things happen in my life like some people do. I’ve always been sort of like a leaf blowing around in the wind. Well this time the wind is not going to budge me.” She realized that her metaphor could be taken literally and barked a laugh. I told them what the Coast Guard official had said about the tidal surge. Of course they had heard about it on the radio already. The media exaggerates things, they said. And the Coast Guard has to err on the side of caution in order to protect itself. Their decision to stay had exhilarated them. Belinda and Roscoe were both talking at the same time about the hurricane party they were going to have. It was terrible to see and made me think of men going to war, men who have been coaxed to exchange their fears for an irrational enthusiasm so that they won’t have any trouble doing things that would otherwise be repulsive to them.

  I went to my room and lay down on the bed. I was tired from having slept so badly the night before. And I was also hoping Donald would come in so I could speak to him alone. I felt certain that I could talk some sense into him, if not for his sake, then for mine and Meredith’s and Charlie’s … and … But Donald didn’t come in. The voices continued in the kitchen, mingling with the softer but more adamant ones on the radio. After awhile I got up enough energy to get up and close the door.

  Late in the afternoon I roused myself. Donald and Belinda and Roscoe were still in the kitchen, not talking anymore but still excited, if I read their expressions correctly. Donald was cooking dinner, more bluefish. He was humming while he worked. Belinda was helping Roscoe to make a list of things they would need in order to wait out the storm. I said, “Look, a ferry leaves in one hour. We can leave all our things here and go to the mainland. Then, if the storm curves and doesn’t hit, we’ll drive back in a few days. And we don’t have to drive too far west, only far enough to be safe. Ten miles maybe. Then, if the storm does hit, Belinda will still be able to confront it, but from a safer place where we don’t have to worry about a tidal surge.” Belinda got up and put her hands on my shoulders. She said, “Come on. Don’t be a party pooper. We’re safe here. It’s going to be so exciting. It’s a once-in-a-life-time opportunity. And I have plenty of Valiums. If things get really bad, we’ll take Valiums and we won’t know a thing.” I said, “You don’t understand. We could be killed!” “But what a way to go!” Belinda cried. “With lightning flashing and the seas roaring wildly.” “What did you do to her with your Schopenhauer?” I shouted at Donald. He turned from the stove and looked at me. I think it was the first time we had really looked at each other all day. There was a sadness in his eyes, as if he was in pain in spite of all his tuneless humming.

  I marched back to my room and started packing my duffel bag. I was planning to be on the six o’clock ferry with or without them. But then I got to wondering if maybe they were right and I was wrong. Maybe I was overreacting. People have told me all my life that I overreact. And if even Belinda thought it was safe to stay … And the old men on the porch … And Isadora. But then I thought about how the old men and Isadora had something to protect. In my opinion it wasn’t as important as their lives, but it was something. Donald and the others were staying, if I understood them correctly, for the sake of experience.

  My thoughts went back and forth like this so that one minute I thought it was Donald and Belinda and Roscoe and Meredith who were crazy, and the next I was certain it was me. My head felt like a basketball court, and beyond the sound of the ball bouncing from one side of my mind to the other, I heard the voice of the Coast Guard official reminding me that I was safe until the siren blew, that I need not make any decisions until then. I wished so much that you would awaken because I thought maybe you would have some insight into the matter. Maybe you have some foresight now that you’ll lose when … if … you come fully into this world and leave the other behind. If you could just say to me, Don’t worry. The storm will curve around during the night. No need to leave the island. Just go along with the others and don’t make trouble. But you wouldn’t awaken … Standing in front of the mirror, looking at my little bit of a belly, it was easy to imagine that there was no you, that somehow it had all been a dream, that this hurricane business was a dream too, that nothing was real, nothing mattered.

  I went into the kitchen promptly when Belinda called me for dinner and sat at the side of the table nearest the porch. I could see the clock while I ate. I saw it strike six. And then a strange thing happened. The anxiety I had felt up to that point suddenly vanished. I felt entirely at ease.

  After dinner and clean-up I took my bike and rode to the sound to watch the sun set, singing to myself while I peddled. When I got to the sound, I sat down on a log and laughed aloud. My stepdaughter had betrayed me. My husband, in some sense, had too, and now he was betraying himself with some crazy notion that I didn’t fully understand. My son was visiting with the father who had abandoned him and would probably want him back when he saw what a wonderful kid he was.… And a hurricane was threatening. It had been well over a full day since you had last moved, and I didn’t know if that was good or bad. And there I was, sitting on a log watching the sun set over the sound, feeling perfectly calm and so detached from my worries that they might have belonged to someone else.

  I thought about what Donald had said earlier in the week, how he loved writing in conventional verse forms—like the sonnet—because they were restricting, and how it’s only when you become aware of your restrictions that you’re able to conceive of your freedom within them clearly. You had to know exactly what kind of space you were dealing with. I hadn’t understood because it seemed a contradiction that freedom should be defined by restrictions. But now I got to thinking that the island was a sonnet, then, for the same reasons. The sea and the sound defined the spacial restrictions. The island’s lack of cinemas, department stores, etc., and our house’s lack of television and phone provided another kind of restriction. And then there was what the Coast Guard official had said about the difference between the Christmas lines and the storm lin
es. The hurricane would be the ultimate restriction. Surely that was what Donald had told Belinda. Surely that was why the people on the storm lines were so pleasant. We would all be set free.

  On the way back I stopped at the phone booth again, but there was still no answer. They must be very busy, I thought. They must be having a wonderful time together, a regular family. I mounted my bike and rode calmly on.

  Of course they were all in the kitchen, talking. Roscoe was sipping wine, Belinda and Donald coffee. Meredith was braiding the fringe at the edge of the tablecloth. They all seemed so serene they might have been characters in one of Isadora’s paintings. I wondered again who had taken the poem and where it was now, and whether it had caused the confiscator a moment’s pain. “Meredith showed us the painting you bought. It’s lovely,” Belinda said. She was pleasant and perfectly calm, just like me. It occurred to me that maybe they put something in the water around here, to calm everyone in the event of an emergency. But then I remembered that the water was lousy and smelled. We had been buying bottled water from the general store.