She felt suddenly grateful. You wake one morning in the howl of a northern Missouri winter, and moments later you are on the deck of a transatlantic cruiser, and then you are alone in Rome, and a week after that you are in Barcelona, or on a train through the French countryside, or back in a hotel in St. John’s watching a plane break the sky, or in a hat shop in St. Louis watching the rain come down outside, and then, just as suddenly, you sit in a hotel in Ireland watching your daughter across the lawn, moving between the ice sculptures, passing a tray of champagne amongst a hundred wedding guests. Emily could sense the skip in her life, almost like the jumping of a pen. The flick of ink across a page. The great surprise of the next stroke. The boundlessness of it all. There was something in it akin to a journey across the sky, she thought, the sudden shock of new weather, a wall of sunshine, or a pelt of hail, or the emergence from a bank of cloud.
She had a sudden urge to write to Teddy Brown and tell him that she understood entirely now, in this raw moment, why he did not want to fly anymore.
Emily rose from the chair and moved across the lawn. Her walking cane sunk into the soft ground. She found herself attended to by a number of Belfast widowers. They leaned in close. She was surprised by their flirtation. They were eager to meet an American, they said. Short, earnest men, well-shaved, teetotalers. She could imagine them easily in their orange sashes and their bowler hats. What would she do now? they asked. What part of the world was she bound for next? They had heard she lived in a hotel in Newfoundland, and not to be rude, but was that any place for a woman? Would she not like to find herself a place to settle down? They’d be quite happy to show her around if she decided to stay in Northern Ireland. There was a fine spot in Portaferry. She should see the glens of Antrim. The windy beaches of Portrush.
The dinner bell rang in the late afternoon. She joined Ambrose’s parents at their table. He was a short man with a generous laugh, she a stout woman under a net of tight hair. They were glad to have a Newfoundland girl in their family, they said. Many of their own had gone west over the years: there weren’t many came in the other direction. They grew curiously quiet when Emily told them the story of Lily Duggan. A maid? From Dublin? Is that so? Her name was Duggan, you say? She thought for a moment that they were interested in the particulars of the story. The details returned to her, sharply — the clothes uncracking upon the warm bar of the stove, the groan of the ice as it was pulled across the lake, a glove slowly blooming with blood, her mother looking up from the body of her father — until Mr. Tuttle leaned across the table and tapped her gently on the forearm and asked if this Lily Duggan went to church, and she launched again into the story, until, finally he leaned across the table in exasperation: Was this Lily Duggan a Protestant, then? It sounded as if it were the only question worth asking. Emily thought a moment that she would leave the answer unsaid, that it didn’t deserve the question, but she was on new turf, and it was her daughter’s wedding, and she told them that Lily had converted to marry, and she saw a quiet relief step into their faces, and a straightforwardness came over the table again. Later she saw Ambrose’s father at the bar singing Soldiers of the Queen. She shuffled her way up the hotel to go to bed. She was stopped on the stairs by Lottie and Ambrose. It was hard to believe: Mr. Ambrose Tuttle and Mrs. Lottie Tuttle. How odd to think that she and Lottie had spent virtually every day of their lives together. This, then, was the moment of release. It was far easier than she had imagined. She kissed her daughter and turned on the staircase, labored her way upwards. Dark drew down. She slept with an abandon, her gray hair splashed around the sheets.
She was taken the following day south to Strangford Lough. A small convoy of motorcars. Out into the countryside. Over the years the Tuttle family had owned a number of islands along the lake. Among the marshlands and tiny islands that they called pladdies. The windbent trees. The curving country roads. For a wedding present Ambrose and Lottie had been given five acres with a cottage that they could use as their summer home. A beautiful, dilapidated affair with a thatched roof and a blue half-door. An overgrown lawn stepped down to the lake. A small fishing shack sagged on the edge of the water. A crew of magpies perched in the swaying lakeside treetops.
They sat for a picnic in the long grass. A cold wind blew in. She could feel it rifling through her.
She could go now, thought Emily. Return to Newfoundland, alone. She would face the days, alone. She would write. Find a small content. A graceful levity.
The lake was tidal. It seemed to stretch forever to the east, rising and falling like a breathing thing. A pair of geese went across the sky, their long necks craned. They soared in over the cottage and away. They looked as if they were pulling the color out of the sky. The movement of clouds shaped out the wind. The waves came in and applauded against the shore. The languid kelp rose and fell with the swells. She could be forgiven the thought that she was already stepping back towards the sea.
1978, darkdown
HE IS, IN ALL RESPECTS, A PRETTY GOOD SHOT. PLENTY OF power. He can whip a forehand from the back of the court. If he wanted to, he could cover the back line in two or three leaps. But he is more of a loper. His lofty head. His mass of blond curls. An advertisement for ease. His shirt hangs off him, his shorts hang off him, his hangdog features, too. Even his socks have a slouch. Missing their Slazenger. Lord, what she would not give for a gentle cattle prod to wake her grandson for a moment, watch him come to life on the other side of the court. When he returns the ball he does so with a fair amount of accuracy. Can put some sting on a ball when he wants to. Not a bad backhand either. Lottie has seen him slice with artful backspin. A natural talent for the game, but a better one for daydreams. She tried once to engage him in the art of tennis as it related to angles, vectors, trajectories, percentages, any sort of arithmetic she could think of, but he wouldn’t take the bait. Nineteen years old and a fine young mathematician, but he will never storm the outer edges of Wimbledon.
She’s not exactly Billie Jean King herself, but she can still stand and knock the ball back and forth near the net. Especially on a late-summer’s evening with the light still lengthy on the northern sky. Nine in the evening. Sunset still a half hour away.
She can feel the rattle through her bones when she catches one of his returns on the volley. All the way up her fingers, along her wrist, through her elbow, into her shoulder. She is not a fan of these new metal racquets. In the old times they had fishtails, fantails, flattops. Wooden presses. Immaculate workmanship. Now it’s all sleek lines and metal heads. One of these days she’ll return to her old trusty Bancroft. She leans backwards and scoops another ball from the bucket, eases it along the middle line towards Tomas, a smidgen to his left. He watches it bounce blithely past. She should tell him to wake his carcass up, but it is enough that he has come out here with his ancient grandmother in her white knee-length skirt, to knock a ball around. The sight of him alone is easy on the eye. He’s a long handsome drink of water, with Hannah’s sweet face and his long-gone father’s Dutch stare. A little slice of Ambrose in him, too. The curls. A hint of chubby cheek. The bottle-green of the eyes. All the more so because he does not know it: if she told him he was a heartbreaker, he’d be stunned. He’d rather write a theorem for desire. There’s not a young lady around who wouldn’t swoon for him, but he’s more likely to be found in the university library, leafing about, trilling figures through his head. He wants to be an actuary of all things, a creature of predictions and possibilities, but this evening she would simply like to know the chance of him hitting another forehand.