Fortune's Rocks (33 page)
She has known from the moment Philbrick left her house that she will go in search of the child. The days she has lain on her bed have been spent not in indecision but rather in gathering strength for the task ahead. She has had to ask herself many times if she is prepared for such an undertaking: Suppose she finds the child, what then? Can she just simply ask for him back? And if so, will they give him to her? And if she gets him back, will she be able to care for him properly once she does? The boy will be just over three years old by now. She wonders if the child has been well tended, and she prays that he has. She does not know his name.
How, then, will she be able to find him at all? What Christian name was given to him at birth? And what of his surname? Did Olympia’s father allow the name Biddeford, or was he permitted to change the name to something else altogether? How are such things accomplished? Olympia has no idea and certainly cannot ask her father about these matters, since she would risk alerting him to the fact that she has discovered the child’s whereabouts. And risking that, she will further risk his moving the child or journeying up to Fortune’s Rocks to confront her, which she most sincerely does not want him to do.
On the morning of the seventh day, she dresses in a lavender-blue silk moiré suit left behind in her mother’s mahogany wardrobe, and wears with it a broad-brimmed rucked silk hat. Experimenting in a mirror, she discovers that if she angles the hat just so, most of her face is hidden. It is not so much that she fears discovery as that she does not want yet to admit any other persons who might know her into the fragile universe she has created.
The trolley to Ely Falls can be boarded at Ely, which is three and a half miles from the beach at Fortune’s Rocks. She has thought about walking but has reasoned that she might sully her skirts and boots were she to try it, and such a disheveled appearance might not serve her well in her mission. Thus Ezra, with whom she has spoken the day before, comes to fetch her and takes her to the trolley.
The lobsterman, whom she now knows is in his late thirties, is amiable company for her on the short ride into Ely.
“Was your father a fisherman as well?” she asks along the way.
“He was. And his father before him,” Ezra answers plainly.
“And you like the life?” she asks.
“I have two hundred pots in the water, and that keeps me busy,” he says. “I check them at daybreak before the sun is over the horizon. I have three sons, and I expect one or more of them will follow in my footsteps, though I have tried to discourage them from such a future. And I guess there’s your answer. It’s a hard life.” He says this without self-pity, the broad vowels of his accent soothing to Olympia’s ears. And indeed, when she looks down, she can see the text of many harsh incidents written upon the back of his hands. Without thinking, she reaches over and touches one of the scars, the touch startling both him and her.
She apologizes for her boldness, an apology he waves off as he explains that the deep cuts were made by lobster claws in the few seconds before he was able to peg them. She wants to ask about his wife, about what her life is like; and more, she wants to know, but will not ask — no, never would she ask this — if he loves his wife, if he thinks his wife loves him; if, in their way, they are happy together. For though her experience is limited, she knows that love is often inscrutable, indecipherable to observers, and yet it is that intimacy she most craves some understanding of. When they reach the trolley, he bids her a good journey and says that he will return for her at four o’clock.
The trolley is crowded with both natives and summerfolk, many of whom have come up from Rye, doubtless thinking to have a day of shopping in Ely Falls. There are no seats when she boards the dusty vehicle, and all the heat of the day seems to have concentrated itself within the wooden walls of the conveyance. The passengers are jostled and knocked about because of the unevenness of the track bed, and the smell of all those overheated persons is quite unpleasant. If it were not necessary to hold on to the grip with both hands to keep from falling over, she would cover her nose with a scented handkerchief.
Occasionally, through the crowd, she catches a glimpse of scenery. New houses have been built, and it seems the outer limits of the city of Ely Falls begin sooner than they did four summers earlier. They pass business signs that read
PATENT MEDICINES
and
LIBRAIRIE FRANÇAISE
and
H. P. POISSON, PHOTOGRAPHER.
Then
FANCY GOODS, PARADAY’S SMOKE HOUSE,
and
BOYNOINS PHARMACY
next to a sign that reads only
LEWIS POLAKEWICH.
There are striped awnings of many colors and tall department stores that either she did not notice on previous trips to the city or were not there before. The streets and sidewalks are thick with people and with carriages, and an air of business seems to have infected the crowd on the trolley. She gets off the trolley when most of the others do, though she has no idea where she is.
PATENT MEDICINES
and
LIBRAIRIE FRANÇAISE
and
H. P. POISSON, PHOTOGRAPHER.
Then
FANCY GOODS, PARADAY’S SMOKE HOUSE,
and
BOYNOINS PHARMACY
next to a sign that reads only
LEWIS POLAKEWICH.
There are striped awnings of many colors and tall department stores that either she did not notice on previous trips to the city or were not there before. The streets and sidewalks are thick with people and with carriages, and an air of business seems to have infected the crowd on the trolley. She gets off the trolley when most of the others do, though she has no idea where she is.
She stops a policeman in the street and is given directions to the orphanage. As she walks, the sky overhead takes on a blue-black appearance. In the distance, she can hear thunder. She begins to run but is caught in the sudden downpour and has to shelter in the doorway of a bank. After a few minutes, restless with her mission, she sets out again, only to receive another soaking a block from her destination. Running hard now, she at first mistakes the tall granite structure with its evenly spaced windows on the corner of Merton and Washington for a department store. And then, in passing, she sees above the door the words
The Orphanage of Saint Andre
.
The Orphanage of Saint Andre
.
The floor of the central hallway is made of stone. As she walks to a door marked
OFFICE
,
Olympia’s boots leave small puddles in her wake. After a moment’s hesitation, she knocks on the door.
OFFICE
,
Olympia’s boots leave small puddles in her wake. After a moment’s hesitation, she knocks on the door.
It is opened by a tiny woman in habit and wimple. The woman has small black eyes with many folds at the lids, and her mouth is deeply lined and pursed. She seems at first startled to see Olympia standing there, and then begins to regard her more closely. The sister takes in Olympia’s rucked silk hat, her wet boots, and the lavender-blue skirts that cling to her legs. Her scrutiny is intense, and Olympia thinks the sister will shut the door in her face.
“Forgive me for interrupting you,” Olympia says, “but I wish to speak with someone in charge of the orphanage.”
“For what purpose?” the sister asks. The question is quick, in the manner of a schoolmaster who demands an equally rapid reply. The sister speaks with a French Canadian accent.
Olympia has rehearsed her speech so many times that she has thought nothing could possibly cause her to misspeak it. But so stern is the sister’s countenance that Olympia finds herself stammering, even as she realizes that the stammering will undermine her position.
“I . . . I wish to find a child,” Olympia says. “That is . . . I wish to ascertain the well-being of a certain child. Who will have been brought here three years ago. In the spring.”
“But why?” the sister asks, neglecting still to invite Olympia into the room.
“Because . . .” Olympia draws a breath. “Because he is mine,” she says quickly.
The sister sighs heavily and then steps aside. “Come in,” she says.
The sister walks to a chair behind her desk and sits down. “You young girls are all alike,” she says. “You think that you can just abandon your babies, leave them on our doorstep, and then come back in two or three years and walk away with them. It will not happen that way.”
“No,” Olympia says, moving toward the desk.
With a quick wave of her hand, the sister bids her sit down.
The back of Olympia’s skirts is soaked, and she is certain it will leave a wet mark on the chair. Her hat is so heavy with the rain, she is forced to remove it. The knots she has made in her hair hang low on the back of her neck. She pushes the loosened bits behind her ears.
“What is your name?” the sister asks.
“Olympia Biddeford.”
If the sister knows the name, she gives no indication. She folds her hands and presses them under her nose. “And what is the name of the child?”
“I do not know,” Olympia says.
The sister’s fingers are red and shiny. She wears a wedding band on her left hand.
“You wish only to know the health of this child?” the sister asks.
“I . . .” Olympia looks down into her lap. She has brought her purse, and in it a considerable sum of money. She does not like to think about having to buy her child back, but if it comes to that, she is prepared to do so.
“I am not sure,” Olympia says, not quite truthfully.
“You have a husband?”
Olympia shakes her head.
The sister thrusts her chin out in a quick gesture of disapproval.
“And how do you propose to support such a child?”
“I have means,” she says. “I have a house.”
“Where is this house?”
“At Fortune’s Rocks.”
The sister studies Olympia with the faint disdain of the righteous judging the privileged.
“You have a family? A housekeeper?”
“No, not at the moment. My family, that is, my father and mother, live in Boston.”
“I see. Did you have money at the time the child was abandoned?”
“
Abandoned
is not the proper word,” Olympia says. “The child was taken from me. I was very young.”
Abandoned
is not the proper word,” Olympia says. “The child was taken from me. I was very young.”
“I can see that.” The sister regards her carefully. “How old are you now?”
“Twenty,” she says.
“There are procedures,” the sister explains. “We do not give away children. You understand that.”
“Yes.”
“What name was the child left under?”
“I do not know.”
“This will be difficult then,” the sister says. “Who brought the child?”
“I am not sure. He was taken from me at birth by my father. He himself would not have brought the baby, but I do not know if he would have used his name for the” — she struggles for the right word — “transaction.”
“Exactly,” the sister says.
The nun opens her desk and withdraws a ledger that is stuffed with many papers. She peruses the journal for some time. The pages snap smartly as she turns them.
“I do not see a Biddeford here,” the sister says. “Not for the time you say. Might there be another name?”
Olympia hesitates. She lowers her eyes to the middle distance on the desk. “Haskell,” she answers quietly.
The sister, whose name Olympia still does not know, looks up at her.
“I see,” she says, not consulting her ledger at all now. “First name?”
“John.”
“And why might that name have been used?”
“He was . . . is . . . the father,” she says.
“Yes, I see.” The sister seems to scrutinize her anew. “And might he have brought the child here himself?”
“No, no,” Olympia says. “I do not think so. My father would not speak to Dr. Haskell, nor allow his name to be spoken inside our house. I sincerely doubt he would have had dealings with him.”
“And where might John Haskell be now?”
“I do not know,” Olympia says.
The sister clucks and shakes her head. “You understand that this cannot be done quickly.”
Olympia’s heart leaps. Does that mean that securing the child might be possible? “Yes,” Olympia says, and perhaps she smiles.
“And that the child may not be here at all.”
The sister scowls at Olympia, causing Olympia to recompose her features. “I have prayed that this will not be the case,” Olympia says, realizing at once that the sister will not much credit her Protestant prayers.
“You will almost certainly need legal advice,” the sister says.
“I wish to know if the child is well,” Olympia says. “And I wish to know . . . his name.”
The sister nods her head slowly. What might such a woman’s life be like? Olympia wonders suddenly. A life of celibacy and prayer, of service to others. Would the natural longings for love be so great that one would always feel the loss, or did longings evaporate with religious devotion?
“Many of the children are placed out before the mother can come back for them,” the sister says. “Occasionally they are adopted by legal means. Why have you waited all this time?”
“It is only recently that I could even consider such an action,” she says.
“The gift of a child is a very great treasure,” the sister says. “Do you think that a girl who has sinned should be rewarded for her foolishness with such a gift?”
Olympia opens her mouth to speak, but she cannot answer her.
The sister rises from her chair. “I wish you to remain here,” she says, and leaves the room.
• • •
Olympia sits in her wet skirts and waits for the Catholic nun to return. The room grows chillier, and Olympia shivers, from fear or from the cold or from the aftermath of fright, she cannot tell. She has nothing dry to wrap around her. Rain beats against the tall windows, the sills of which are at the level of her chin. The walls are painted brown, and the paint shines with all its nicks and dents in the electric lights. Behind the sister’s desk is a large ornate cross with a suffering Jesus.
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