Or so he came to understand. At first it baffled him to see how she looked at him, as if her face were the representative of a thousand suns, all beaming at him. He wanted to save his thinking for work, and to have a woman for solace and pleasure. She assured him that she was as invested in his work as he was, and she didn’t desire or expect the kind of romance some women did. She believed in the life of the mind, and that to serve as his partner while he advanced the course of human knowledge would be an honor. And he felt that with such a calm, faithful champion beside him he would achieve a significant contribution. It all seemed workable. Yet he still felt squeamish about being loved so much. He wasn’t truly moved by her, and so he held off on asking her formally.
Then one weekend married friends of Polly’s invited them to visit. They took the train down to Cape May, New Jersey, and jumped right into a round of beach mornings and afternoons, boat rides, cocktail parties, dinners with the sun giddily gilding the sky, sleeping to the sound of the waves. They could have shared a bedroom, as no parents were present, but Polly had a sentiment for waiting, which was fine with him. They met at the table each morning. A cook came in for breakfast and dinner, but they were on their own for lunch, free to go into the kitchen and pull out the bowls of chicken salad and tuna salad and egg salad. They were excited by the freedom these lunches represented, the sensation of being in charge in the kind of house their parents owned. They spun around, still salty from the morning swim in spite of a rinse in the outside shower, drunk on the sun and sea, and dipped big spoons into the bowls of mayonnaise salads. Lifting them, lofting them, proffering them for sights and tastes, they enameled the sandwiches and carried them out on the porch, feasting, laughing, showing off tan lines, growing sleepy, seeing sun spots from gazing at the sea. Eventually they decided it would be nice to read for an hour, or walk, or do needlepoint, or nap.
Polly reached for Dick’s plate and carried it back to the kitchen, the others carried their plates out, then everyone returned to the porch, all but Polly. The conversation went on, desultorily, everyone swearing they were about to make a move, but no one did. “Where’s Polly?” Dick asked. “I think she’s in the kitchen,” someone said, so he headed back there, through the quiet empty rooms, brown and cool, noticing the light scents of salt and mildew. He remembered his way through the dining room around the corner and through the swinging doors into the pantry and then a left into the kitchen—and there she was. Standing at the sink. Humming. The water running. Beads of water bouncing off the bottom of the ceramic sink and back up against the side before running down again, circling the drain. She hadn’t heard him come in, so he saw her as she was, without her love coming at him. Her hair in bunches, her nose pink. Shoulders peeling, feet turned out like a ballerina’s, holding a plate in one hand and a sponge in the other, soaping it dreamily, making it look as though being alone in the kitchen washing dishes was the most exquisite thing a person could do. She had a private life, a source of pleasure other than him. He would be able to love her now, and not feel guilty that she loved more. A gentleman loved his wife. He asked her to marry him shortly afterward.
All through this story Polly had wanted to shake him and say, You’re talking about me! I am that same Polly, right beside you! Yet she resisted, she couldn’t help but ask one small question. “And did you always love her, after that?”
He had drifted off. How silly of her anyway. Fishing again. He had. She knew he had. That was the whole point of these predawn musings—to leave his life in the care of someone he trusted. And loved.
* * *
Today he’d been restless and fitful, and Polly had really needed a nap. She slept until a noise interrupted her. A car door?
“Dick! Dick!” Polly called from the bedroom window. What was he doing sitting in the car? He didn’t drive! He never left his study before she went downstairs again and told him to come eat.
He poked his head out and peered up at her. “I’m back already?”
“Back from where?”
“The prison! I went to visit Robert.”
“You did?” For one second she thought he might have. “Come inside! Tell me all about it!” Old fool. “It’s time for lunch!”
She watched to make sure he got out. He moved stiffly, especially after he’d been sitting down. Then she went down to the kitchen, and Dick came in to watch her preparations.
“I miss the girls, don’t you?” she offered.
“There is a season, Polly.” He rustled in a drawer for twine. His discard bundles of mail and papers were thoroughly secured, as if they were to be kept rather than thrown away. He went out the door to put them in the trash, and she prepared two trays, working with her good hand. She chose the lightest plates she owned but she had difficulty lifting them. Her bad arm still hurt.
“Why two?” Dick asked suspiciously.
“Two people?”
“Where’s Robert?”
Polly’s heart thumped. “He’s in the prison at Thomaston.”
Dick computed this, the machinations showing. “I know! Why are you stating the obvious!” He banged his cane. Then he rubbed his forehead. “I have a bad headache,” he said, and slumped against the counter.
“Let me get you some Tylenol.”
She opened a lower cabinet where she kept a shoebox of pills. Knock wood they hadn’t needed many so far. She shook him out two Tylenol and coached him on how to place them on the back of his tongue and swallow. He gulped them down.
“Good!” She applauded him.
“Dammit! It’s stuck in my chest.”
“Swallow again.” She held the glass out to him.
“No! Ouch!” He rubbed at his ribs, making her nervous. But he never could take pills. “Let’s eat. I’ll wash it down with food.”
“I’ll make just one tray.” She turned her back to him so she could breathe.
He carried the tray outside and set it down on the iron table. She followed closely. He teetered for a moment stepping over the door saddle, but he made it and set the tray down. His capabilities and limitations were so confusing.
“We’re getting casual in our old age, Dick.”
“We can file that under it ain’t over ’til it’s over, as Agnes would say.”
He grinned at her. It was hard to keep up.
“I wish the children had stayed for the Point Party. They never do anymore. I’m going to ask them to stay next year. They really should. It might not happen much longer.”
“Why not?” He lifted his sandwich with his wrist curled and shoved it in his mouth. His manners were gone.
“Agnes wants to dissolve the Fellowship, remember?”
He drew back and gasped. “Why?”
It was as if she’d never told him. “To make certain the Sank is preserved.”
“It is preserved. It has always been preserved. She should leave well enough alone.”
Polly looked over at the great hulk of Leeward Cottage and wondered if Agnes were eating with Sylvie. It was so hard to tell if Agnes really preferred eating alone, or if it was her way of not being a burden.
“It can’t be done without Archie, so it can’t be done right now. I hope he doesn’t show up at the party. The thought of seeing him…”