He made no sign. It was up to her now.
* * *
In May, soon after Polly arrived on the Point and with the help of Shirley McQuellan, Polly updated and added touches to one of the houses in the Rookerie. Robert wouldn’t live at Meadowlea itself, but the Rookerie made sense; he’d do repairs to pay his way. There was no use in arguing with him about that, and repairs were needed. The house was rarely used anymore, and the neglect showed, as neglect always does. Robert wrote that he was excited to do it. His hands ached with disuse.
The morning he was to be released she got up early and checked the house again. The plan, since she’d made it, had been so important that she’d never considered that she’d be an old woman driving up alone to a prison. This is crazy, she thought. A thousand things could go wrong. But as she drove the route she relaxed. The roads leading there were like other Maine roads, lined with white clapboard houses and old barns, some fit for use, some rotting and tilted to the side, improbably still standing. What did they look like to other people? Tourists? To Polly’s eyes they were beautiful, and no wonder they were subjects of many paintings. She noted the roadside stands, not yet selling but getting ready, and fields of lupines and hay. She drove well if she didn’t say so herself. It was preposterous that Dick had thought he might make the drive. That whole last morning he’d been fading in and out. It was clear to her now that he was losing blood to his brain, and his speech and actions reflected that. It had worried her at the time, but for the wrong reasons. Wasn’t that often the case?
She’d expected to feel awkward and uncomfortable at the Supermax. What kind of a word was that for a prison? Instead, she wanted to tear the place apart. She wished she were better with words so she could explain even to herself how such an impersonal edifice made her feel. There was cruelty in its conception. It represented exile. It wasn’t just one person or one mind that had created this place and all the others like it. It was an entire system. Robert was not the only innocent person here, surely. Not only that—how many of the guilty really belonged in such an environment? What good would it do them or their families? The mistake of an instant being amortized over years. Nonsensical.
She waited a long time. Apparently there was a lot of paperwork that went along with being let go. There was a fair amount of activity around her, but she had no interest in observing it. The thing was to get away and never return. Robert was finally let through and they shook hands and embraced awkwardly. His appearance had changed to thinner and older but not vastly different. She smiled at him warmly, willing him to make the transition back to the kinder world—though it was the kind world that had sent him here. He smelled antiseptic, and his clothes—what clothes were they? They were indignities.
“The house is ready for you.”
But he already knew that. Every detail had been discussed through the mail. He’d already let her know that Agnew knew, too. “Thank you,” he said. He touched the dashboard, and the seat. He touched the door handle, and rubbed his feet against the mat on the floor. “I’m grateful.”
“Please let that be the last time you say so.”
Robert dropped his head and nodded. He kept his head down for a long time, and it occurred to Polly he might be weeping. To afford him privacy she turned on the radio. After a decent amount of time had passed, she pulled into a roadside restaurant and parked. “I was too excited to eat breakfast.” Not wholly true, but true enough.
Robert gave a shy smile. “Me too.”
They settled into a booth and ordered. Robert asked for a tuna melt. “None of those in prison,” he teased. Polly looked at the table with an appreciation for everything on it—utensils, ketchup, sugar packets, a small vase with flowers—as if she’d been deprived as well.
“I have a lot for you to do,” she said, reeling slightly from all the sensations of color and light.
“Didn’t the guys do a good job?” He opened his mouth wide to take a huge bite, then remembered Polly and minimized his attack.
“Yes, but I held off on making changes until you were back.”
Robert made a small groan. He loved his sandwich.
“Have another.”
“If you have time, I will.” He ordered a roast beef on rye and a vanilla milkshake. She wondered if he were going to get sick. Was it better to drive fast or slow under the circumstances?
“Are you still planning on the walkway?” he asked.
“I want to discuss it with you. I have some new ideas, too.”
He grinned. “I bet you do.”
When they reached Cape Deel, she purposely avoided the route that would go past his old house and he didn’t correct her. They would get to that eventually.
“There was another eagle killed last week,” Polly said. “Shot and plucked.”
“Hmm,” Robert said. “I’ll work on it.”
“I know you will. There’s something else I need to tell you. I didn’t want to put it in a letter. Agnes and I had a fight. We haven’t spoken since September. She may have told you.”
“No, she didn’t. I’m sorry to hear it.”
When they turned down Point Path, he twisted his hands around and around in his lap. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Yes. Should I drive all the way down before stopping at the Rookerie?”
He nodded. On the way, he took a look at Agnes’s beds and bushes.
“You must take care of her as always,” Polly said. “You can’t let our issue get in the way.”
“Thank you. I hope it doesn’t last much longer, though.”
“You know Agnes. So stubborn.”
“I know both of you.” He raised his eyebrows.
“Very funny. Well, we’ll see. You’ll be good luck, I imagine.”
“I don’t even have a joke for that.”
They lingered by the Sank and crawled slowly back up to the Rookerie. She showed him the house and was careful not to point out the little luxuries she’d added, like a TV and a reading chair and bookshelf, and left him to set up. She had to walk off her extra energy from having him back. This was good. This was very, very good.
CHAPTER 33 Agnes, Leeward Cottage, July 2002
AGNES GATHERED THE PAGES SHE’D written that morning and placed them under the pink-and-gray speckled beach rock she used as a paperweight. She made a note in her writing log about what and how much she’d accomplished, and a note about what she wanted to write the following day. It was excellent to be back at work. Bless Maud Silver, girl detective. Agnes had been at it for nearly seven months now, and The Franklin Square Girls Talk to the Hand was taking shape.
It wasn’t what she’d expected to come of having Maud stay in the Rittenhouse Square apartment alone over Thanksgiving. Agnes wanted to help Maud. Guide her. But she didn’t want to write the memoir.
It had been many decades since Agnes had met anyone she liked enough to think about, but Maud had aroused her interest. Agnes had done what she could for her mother—Agnes admired Maud’s ferocity about Heidi’s care. It was also gratifying to picture Maud luxuriating in her apartment alone, with all food supplied. Agnes tracked the hours of the visit closely. She cared more than she’d known about what Maud would think. She’d been careful to remove pages in the notebooks where she’d written about writing, but she hadn’t considered the set of Franklin Square books in her guest room bookcase.