The Last Days of Dogtown (20 page)

“Pigs, cows, chickens, dogs, everything but cats,” said Polly. “They give me the shivers.”

“No cats,” Oliver promised.

Thinking about Polly set him to humming. It was a sunny day and going into town was better than herding Tammy’s damned cows. He might even try to visit Polly again, even though she wasn’t keen on their being seen too much together. Oliver didn’t quite understand why she worried so about her reputation. Widows were above suspicion as far as he could tell, and she was born a Wharf, which set her even higher. But he would never argue the point with Polly, or any other, for that matter. He’d had enough cross words to last the rest of his days and he was determined to keep things between them peaceful.

With Polly to think about, the walk to Gloucester was nearly over before Oliver remembered that he hadn’t eaten breakfast. He wondered what Everett might have on hand.

Everett Mansfield was Oliver’s favorite customer. Even though the ladies at the bakeshop were always good for a free loaf of dayold bread, Everett would set two chairs together and sit down for a friendly man-to-man about business, local politics, and his two little girls. He was sweeping out the shop when Oliver arrived. Reaching for the butter he said, “Well, if it isn’t young Mr. Younger. I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”

“Tammy got a bee up her arse and churning is how she settles herself.”

Everett laughed. “I got someone waiting for this. Too bad it sells so high,” he said, as the two of them headed behind the counter. “I got some of my Susannah’s finger rolls here today and they would do it justice. How about some marmalade instead?”

Oliver grinned. Wouldn’t Tammy turn green if she knew he was eating English jam on her account?

Everett was right to brag about his wife’s rolls and the marmalade was a revelation of tartness within sweetness. Oliver wished there was a way he could save a spoonful for Polly.

His host was quieter than usual, chewing on his pipe instead of regaling him with stories about his Abby and little Ella. Everett pulled on his chin, trying to fix on a way to talk about what William Allen had said to him the other day. Allen had been in the store looking for a log of Tammy Younger’s butter. “The wife wants it,” he explained, as Allen himself was famously tightfisted.

“Why not buy it direct from Tammy?” Everett asked, as Allen was Tammy’s closest neighbor, and he might have saved himself some money that way.

“I haven’t talked to the old bitch in fifteen years.”

“Well, I don’t expect Oliver back here for at least a week.”

“Humph,” Allen snorted, filling the air between them with the smell of strong drink. “Do you think that boy is slow or stupid?”

Everett shrugged. He rarely expressed opinions about people: you agreed with one fellow about the meanness of his neighbor, and the next thing you knew, neither of them would buy from you, nor their wives. With the bakery and a dry goods store on the same block, a general storekeeper had to be careful about losing any trade.

“You mean Oliver Younger?” asked Everett, as though he was trying to place the name.

“Don’t give me that,” said Allen, picking at the dirt under his thumbnail. “I seen the two of you in here, drinking tea like a pair of old ladies.”

Everett knew that Oliver wasn’t dull or lacking in ambition. They had talked about his moving out of Dogtown and debated the various ways a fellow might earn a living in Gloucester. He asked, “What makes you think he’s stupid?”

“What’s he doing her bidding for then? That land belongs to him, not her,” Allen said.

“Well, I expect he’ll come into it when Tammy dies.”

“Nah. It’s been his for a while now. I witnessed that will myself. Poked a hole in the paper when I signed.”

“Oliver’s got a legal claim now?” Everett asked.

“So what?” Allen shrugged. “The place is useless.”

“You ever tell him about this?”

“That was for Tammy to do.”

“You figured Tammy would tell him?” exclaimed Everett, and deciding he could afford to forgo Allen’s trade, added, “And who was it you just called stupid?”

While Oliver licked the last of the marmalade from his fingers, Everett cleared his throat and said, as lightly as he could, “William Allen was in the other day and said he had something for you. Said you should stop by his place.”

“Allen? He’s never given me the time of day.”

“Well, he wants to talk to you now,” Everett said, relieved at the arrival of a customer, who put an end to the conversation.

Oliver pocketed his commission and, with Tammy’s supplies in hand, headed for the Stiles house on High Street. He wondered what on earth Allen would want him for: perhaps he needed an extra pair of hands to pull out a stump or move a boulder.

As he passed the great houses of the city, Oliver’s attention wandered. The bright blue of the harbor blinked in and out of view between clapboards and blossoming bushes. A man on a ladder applied a fresh coat of green paint to some shutters and Oliver was overwhelmed with the desire to give Polly a home as big and elegant as one of these.

Hurrying past the Stiles’s imposing front door, he entered through the kitchen gate and found Polly on a shaded bench, frowning over a snowy napkin. She hated hemming linens, feeling it was beneath her skills. Any ten-year-old child could do it, but if someone was willing to pay top dollar for straight-stitch, she wouldn’t turn it down.

The sight of Oliver’s adoring face lifted her spirits so quickly, she almost felt dizzy. But her happiness was quickly eclipsed by fear when the Stiles’ little dog started yapping. “Oliver. You shouldn’t have come.”

“I was nearby,” he said. “When should I come back for you?”

“I’m staying the night,” Polly said. “And tomorrow, too, most likely. There is so much to do.” She lowered her voice. “Dora needs a bridal trousseau for her Emily. In a hurry.”

“Who’s robbing that cradle?” he asked, as the girl was barely fifteen.

“She’s marrying Thomas Pearce, that colonel’s son. The wedding’s set for Sunday next,” said Polly, who figured there’d likely be a christening well before Christmas. She pointed to the heaped basket at her feet. “There’s a mountain of sheets and tablecloths inside.”

Polly’s stomach pitched, and she realized that her dizziness might be a sign that she was in the same boat as Emily. Her own courses had been due last week, and it was only a matter of time before she and Oliver got caught. She was not afraid for her future. Even though Polly had no hope of a dowry, she counted herself luckier than Emily, who had all the linens a girl could want but did not love her baby’s father. The only question would be how to get her cousins to the wedding. They had been furious when she moved to Dogtown, ignoring their objections that she was too young, pretty, and well connected a widow to live among the degraded females of that neighborhood. As far as she could tell, they still knew nothing about Oliver.

She looked up to see tears in his eyes. “Oh no,” she said, and bit her lip to keep from smiling. “I’m not deserting you, dearheart. I’ll be home tomorrow, or the day after.”

Oliver cleared his throat. “I know,” he said and tried not to dwell on the prospect of waking up alone the next morning. Happiness had made him too tender for his own good.

“You’d best be going,” Polly said. “They don’t approve of my having visitors. Especially not dashing young men.”

Oliver kicked at the gravel and hung his head.

“Just think of our reunion,” she said.

He doffed his hat, brushing it across Polly’s lap, up her chest, and under her chin. She kissed the air in his direction, and he marched himself away.

In the street, Oliver felt newly orphaned. He started back up the road to Dogtown, dragging his feet at the thought of facing Tammy without the reward of Polly’s smile at the end of the day. After a few paces he turned back and started down toward the harbor, kicking at stones until one landed in the water. Oliver looked up to find himself beside a large pile of old planks and pilings at the harbor’s edge.

“What’s all this?” Oliver asked of a man dragging the wood into piles.

“A new wharf,” said the dark-haired fellow, grateful for the chance to stop and mop his brow. “Mr. Bates wants to salt his mackerel right here instead of taking it into Boston. We’re going to make this dock big enough to set up the flakes to dry the fillets right here. See, Bates got burned by the Boston market last year when the price dropped and he had to dump a holdful. Nearly lost his boat. He figures on salting his own fish and shipping it out west in his own barrels.”

“Can he make money on that, do you think?”

“I’m counting on it. My name’s Grady. I’m the foreman,” he said, eyeing the shape of Oliver’s forearms and the weary state of his boots. “I’m going to need a crew. The work ain’t too hard but you got to be able to stand the smell.”

“I might be interested,” said Oliver.

“Well, if you want to get off the farm, you come see me in a couple of months.”

Oliver tipped his hat and wandered back up to Front Street. One trip across the bay in rough seas had cured him of any seafaring dreams, but the smell of fish didn’t bother him. And he thought that Polly might just as soon live in town, closer to her customers and a steady supply of thread and ribbons, and female conversation.

Passing Peg Low’s tavern on Front Street, the smell of bacon snagged Oliver’s attention. In the past, he’d steered clear of public houses. A scant glass of Easter’s weak beer made his head ache, and besides that, Polly hated to see him drink so much as a glass of hard cider. But he was feeling sorry for himself and he knew that taking a drink or two was exactly the thing that men did when they needed cheering up. Then he remembered that Peg put out free crackers for her customers, which was reason enough.

The tavern was a long room with a low ceiling, filled with empty chairs and tables. At midafternoon, there were only two other patrons, who glanced up as he entered. One was an ancient fellow with a marked tremor in his hands and dark clothes that gave no clue to his occupation or status. The other was a sailor whose odd scarf identified him as a foreigner; his leg was propped on a chair beside him, splinted and bandaged from ankle to knee.

After four hard crackers and half a tankard of strong beer, Oliver’s mood had lifted. His talk with the foreman down at the wharf seemed a good omen: with a steady job in town he could marry Polly. They would move out of Dogtown and live in town, like other people of their age. With a drink in his hand, he surveyed the room and felt like a grown man who belonged there. Oliver drained the mug with three gulps and got to his feet — with barely a wobble — fortified to face the empty house and the cold bed.

Just then, the injured sailor called, “Young men.”

Oliver looked toward the door for the incoming crowd.

“You,” he pointed to Oliver. “I vould speak vit’ you.”

He was one of the largest men Oliver had ever seen, tall and broad, with a dark red beard and a gingery fringe of hair around a shining bald dome.

“I am Ladimir,” he announced. “I am only Russian you meet, yes?” he said, with a great rolling of his
R
’s.

“I am Oliver Younger.” He reached out to shake hands.

“You are sailor, Oliwer. Yes?”

“No,” he said. “I am…” What was he? He herded cows for Tammy and hired out at planting and harvest time. “I’m a farmer, I suppose.”

“My father, too. He gots hundred hectare with barley and wheat. Many geese. You got so much land, also, Oliwer?”

“No,” said Oliver. He had nothing. No property, no livestock, no tools. Calling himself a farmer was a lie; he was still nothing but a Dogtown pussy. A joke among men. A failure before he started.

“No land?” Ladimir boomed. “Too bad for you. But I still buy you fleep, yes?” and called for Peg to bring them the drink.

Oliver had never tasted flip, which smelled of rum, lemon, and spice. “Bottom up,” said Ladimir, clinking his glass against Oliver’s, who swallowed the sweet stuff like it was lemonade. When the arrack and brandy hit Oliver’s throat, he was seized by a coughing fit that lifted him out of his seat.

“Farmer Oliwer don’t know how to dreenk the fleep!” said Ladimir, delighted. He ordered another round and launched into the long story of his travels.

Halfway through his second glass of flip, Oliver began to chuckle. “You were on a ‘woyage’?”

“In big wessel,” said Ladimir.

Oliver covered his mouth.

“There was wery big willage,” said the Russian.

“Willage?”

“Yes,” Ladimir said, suddenly suspicious.

“Was…it…in…” Oliver took a breath, “Wirginia?” Laughing out loud he gasped, “Or maybe Wermont?”

“You laugh at me? You are willain.”

“Willain?” Oliver hooted. “I am willain?” He doubled over, holding his sides, repeating, “Willain, I am Oliwer the Willain.”

Ladimir’s face turned purple. He pulled himself up to his elbows and punched Oliver, knocking him off his chair and onto the floor.

“The pup’s a cheap drunk,” croaked the old man in the corner.

Peg materialized above him. “Out,” she hollered. Grabbing Oliver by the ear, she led him to the door and pushed him outside. He staggered into the middle of the street and stood, dizzy and dazzled by the suddenly bright light.