B.F.’s Daughter, page 40
He had once visited a lake on the border of Minnesota and Ontario where you could rent an island with a cabin on it. He had been there with some boys when he was in college and he remembered that you got off a train at a place called Three Forks, where an old Swede named Svensen had a general store; and Svensen owned the island with the log cabin. He would write to Svensen. All you needed to do was to bring some groceries and sit on the island, and that was all he wanted, because he was run ragged. His first letter to Mr. Svensen was returned, and when Polly got out a map, Tom said of course, it wasn’t Three Forks, it was Portage Farouche where the old trappers used to camp in the days of the fur trade. That was where Svensen was, at Portage Farouche, except his name wasn’t Svensen either. It was Holmquist, Sigurd Holmquist. Sigurd was quite a character, just an old Swede who bought pelts from Ojibway Indians, and Sigurd would take care of them. All they needed to take from New York were two suitcases. It was lucky that Polly went to the camping department at Abercrombie & Fitch and bought them some warm clothes.
They had a drawing room on the Century, and just as soon as they were inside it, Tom took off his coat and his vest and his tie, and then he took off his shoes.
“Well,” he said, “thank God all that is over. Let’s get some setups for our rye.” And then he looked around him wildly. “Oh, my God,” he said.
“What is it now?” Polly asked.
“The tickets.… I left them in that room where I changed my clothes.”
“You couldn’t have,” Polly said. “Don’t you remember just before we went downstairs, before people started throwing things, I asked you about the tickets?”
“I’ve got a damned good memory,” Tom said. “You never did.”
“I did too,” Polly said. “You went back and got them. I saw you put them in your pocket.”
“Where are my shoes?” he asked. “We’ve got to get off at Harmon.”
“Give me your coat,” Polly said.
The tickets were just where she had seen him put them.
“Well, by God,” he said, “they were there, weren’t they?” Somehow everything on that trip was funny, even the worst parts of it. “Be a good girl and keep those damned things yourself. I’m feeling emotionally unstrung, Poll, and I think I’m going to be ill.”
“Oh, darling,” Polly asked, “where are you feeling sick?”
“Everywhere,” Tom said. “I’m having a very bad reaction. I think I’m going to have a chill.”
“That’s because we’re alone together,” Polly said. “I feel that way too.”
“Well, let’s not be alone,” Tom said. “Let’s get the porter and get those setups, and get out The Oxford Book of Verse and see if there isn’t something by Swinburne.”
“Swinburne?” Polly repeated. “I thought you hated him.”
“I do,” Tom said, “but now I feel exactly like him at his worst.”
When Tom did not feel well ever afterwards, he had her read him works of poets he hated. When he wanted to hear “Hiawatha,” she always knew that he was seriously indisposed. He asked for “Hiawatha” then, but it was not in the Oxford Book. Tom leaned against the window and sighed and closed his eyes when she started Swinburne. He told her to read it more theatrically, and then the buzzer sounded.
It was not only the porter with the ice and ginger ale, but the train conductor and Pullman conductor as well, and a man from the Passenger Agent’s office. They wanted to congratulate Mr. and Mrs. Brett, and they hoped that they had everything they wanted, and nothing was too good for relatives of Mr. Fulton. She was afraid this might upset Tom, but instead, he asked them to sit down and have a drink. The train conductor and the passenger agent began telling anecdotes of other newly married people on the Century, and finally Tom asked if they had some aspirin. You never could tell what would happen next with Tom.
When they got to Chicago, Tom said it was not as bad as it might be, considering it was a honeymoon. They had a room at the Drake where they waited between trains instead of going out, because Tom said that the city reminded him of his boyhood and of the Democratic Convention, and he wanted to get away from memories.
“You just take over, Poll,” he said, “and see about the train and the baggage. This is all a very great strain on me.”
“What about me?” Polly asked.
“Don’t tell me you don’t like it,” he said. “Don’t make things worse than they are. I’m going to lie in a hot bath for a while. I think I’m going to have another chill. Just sit outside the door and read me Rossetti. That’s a good girl, Poll.”
Of course she liked it. She knew he would not have behaved that way unless he really loved her, and unless he knew she liked it.
When they arrived at Portage Farouche late the next afternoon, it turned out to be nothing but a group of unpainted shacks by the side of a lake. A high wind was blowing, and it was so bleak and so far away from everything that Tom was sure it was not the place he had been on his college vacation. He could not even remember where Mr. Holmquist lived until Polly found the name on the front of the General Store.
“Oh, yes,” Tom said, “I remember. He’s got skins and fishhooks inside. I’ll buy you a bearskin if you like. There’s nothing like a good bearskin.”
“For what?” Polly asked.
“So you won’t have a bare skin,” Tom said.
It made her laugh and laugh. Everything was funny. It did not matter what you did or said when you got to Portage Farouche. Her matched luggage looked funny there, but even that was not as funny as some of the things she had bought at Abercrombie & Fitch.
“Now, listen, Poll,” Tom said. “From now on I’m taking over because this is a man’s world. We’re up against primitive forces and you’d better leave everything to me. You let me talk to Svensen.”
“But it isn’t Svensen,” Polly said, “it’s Holmquist.”
“Who said it was Holmquist?”
“You did,” Polly said. “Don’t you remember?”
“Do you see that man down by the dock,” Tom said, “the one in overalls who looks drunk? He’s an Indian.”
“But it’s Holmquist,” Polly said, “it isn’t Svensen.”
“All right,” Tom said. If you were in the right mood nothing mattered.
It was all outside her experience—the air, the weathered buildings, the damp smell of fresh water beating on round rocks, the Indian, who knew where Mr. Holmquist was, and Mr. Holmquist in his patched trousers and frayed sweater. He took them in his dirty white motorboat, several miles down the lake to the island, and helped them unload the canned goods they had bought. The island was a granite, moss-covered ledge sprouting Christmas trees in every crevice. It had a miniature harbor with a beach and a dock and a path leading to the log cabin. There were two bunks in the cabin and a rusty stove, a pot, a frying pan, a pail and a dented axe. Polly had never seen anything that looked so lonely, and she had never felt as lonely as when she saw Tom’s bewildered expression.
“I don’t seem to remember it this way,” he said. “Is this the only island you’ve got, Mr. Svensen?”
“Holmquist,” Polly said.
“Don’t be so bright with names, Poll,” Tom said. “You leave this to me and Mr. Holmquist.”
The mattresses looked dirty, but there were some brown Army blankets.
“How can we get off if we don’t like it?” Polly asked.
“I can come tomorrow morning,” Mr. Holmquist said, “to see if you be all right.”
“But what if your boat breaks down?” Polly asked him.
“You leave this to us,” Tom said. “This is a man’s world, isn’t it, Holmquist?”
It was funny to see Tom in that man’s world trying to light the fire in the stove and going down to the beach for water. It was funny to hear him say that they ought to try to catch a fish, and his expression was excruciating when he finally said he didn’t know it was going to be so bad.
“Oh, darling,” Polly said, “it’s wonderful.”
It was wonderful feeling that it belonged to them and thinking of possible improvements. It was silly for anyone to say that it wasn’t a very good thing to be married to a girl with money.
After Tom got the stove going he was very tired, and next he cut himself opening a can of tomatoes. He looked like an injured Boy Scout when she bandaged his hand from the First Aid box she had bought.
“Let’s see,” he said. “How do we make coffee?”
“You put it in the pot with water and boil it, don’t you?” Polly asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, “I guess so. Mother always made the coffee.”
“I didn’t know you had a mother complex,” Polly said. “Did you marry me because I’m like your mother?”
“Let’s not talk about it now,” Tom said. “It’s getting dark and we’ve got to eat somehow.”
“There must be a lantern somewhere,” Polly said, “and dishes and forks and things. See if you can find them.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere,” Polly said. “Look around, darling, while I try to do this coffee, and you’d better give me that can opener.”
It was a relief that the cabin had only one room so that there were not many places to look for anything. Tom found a rusty lantern in a box and also some tin plates and knives and forks and spoons. He said leave it to him, that he knew how to handle lanterns. He said his father had a horse and buggy, and there used to be a lantern in the barn. He knew all about lanterns. You just pushed something and the chimney went up and then you lighted it, and then you gave a pull and the chimney went down … but he could not find what to push.
“God damn,” he said. “This must be another kind of lantern. Maybe we’d better get a pine knot and light it. There are too many gadgets in the world.”
“Don’t keep hitting it,” Polly said, “you’ll break it.”
“All right,” Tom said, “I want to break it.”
“Give it to me,” Polly said, “and get some more water.”
She had seen several lanterns at Willett, though only at a distance, but she had never known until she examined this one in the dusky cabin that she must have inherited B. F.’s instinct for gadgets. If you looked at a piece of mechanism, without getting mad at it as Tom always did, you could see that it had a principle. She never forgot the soft glow of the kerosene flame through the smoky glass, or the way the light spread over the board table and lost itself in the shadows.
“Look, Tom,” she said. “I’ve done it.” And Tom looked as though he could not believe it.
“Who taught you to do that?” he asked. “It must be a gift. You’re wonderful.”
She never forgot her sense of competence, of being alone with Tom and able to manage things. She never forgot the smell of the coffee, or that she was making coffee She never forgot the sound of the wind and the splash of water on the rocks of the island, or the gathering coolness of the dusk, and she never forgot that Tom was happy.
“Just Mr. and Mrs. Thoreau,” Tom said. “You never knew you’d married a Thoreau, did you? Or maybe I’m Daniel Boone.”
“Yes,” Polly said, “you look more like Boone.” He had thrown his coat onto the bunks and he had unbuttoned his vest. “There’s one of those plaid shirts in the bag.”
“That’s right,” Tom said, “Old Trapper Brett. And there’s some rye in the bag. How about some rye and lake water?” But Polly did not need any. He sat drinking rye out of a tin cup, watching her and talking while she opened the can of tomatoes and began slicing some bread and bacon.
“We should have brought Parkman,” he said. “The Jesuits in North America or The Conspiracy of Pontiac. Of course, Parkman was a Boston snob. He was basically an overprivileged, social misfit on the Oregon Trail, but occasionally he forgot himself. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. You get the supper, and I’ll have another drink and tell you about Parkman.”
“Oh, darling,” Polly said.
“What is it?” Tom asked. “Have we forgotten something?”
“I don’t care if we’ve forgotten everything,” she told him. “Darling, I’m so happy.”
She had never felt so sublimated, getting all over grease and tomato juice and frying bacon for Tom Brett. She had never done so much for anyone, nor had she ever belonged so much to anyone. For a little while at any rate the whole island and the stove and the coffee were only his and hers. His mind and all the things he thought and wanted were hers, and they always would be, no matter where they were. They had bacon, bread and butter, warm tomatoes and that coffee. It was full of grounds, but still it tasted like coffee. She had used so much that it was black as pitch and that must have been why they stayed awake for such a long time. While she lay in Tom’s arms not able to sleep, she still kept making plans for the island. It was theirs to do with as they wanted—for a little while at any rate.
“I’m going to fix this all up for you, darling,” she said. “You won’t know it in another day.”
“That’s all right with me,” Tom said. “I’m Thoreau. I’ll tell you what I’ll do; I’ll tame a chipmunk.” And he told her for the first time about the book he was going to write some day on American literature.
“Oh, darling,” she said, “I’m so happy.”
“That goes for me too,” Tom said. “It’s great to have things simple. It makes you understand what life’s about.”
“Oh, darling,” Polly said, “say it again. Are you really happy? Concentrate on it. Are you really?”
“Of course I am,” Tom said. “Why, you and I have everything.”
They had so much that it almost frightened her. She lay very still, but she could not go to sleep as soon as Tom did because he was used to black coffee. She was thinking about everything that she was going to do for years ahead, everything.
Money never interfered with marriage if you used money right and she was learning how much you could do for someone you loved. When Mr. Holmquist came next morning, Polly had a shopping list all ready and she went back with him to Portage Farouche. There she hired a car and drove to a town called Port Haynes where there were pulp mills and larger stores. Tom did not go with her, which was just as well, because he would have distracted her. He said he would sit in the sun and read a little and perhaps go for a swim.
“But, darling,” she asked, “what are you going to do about lunch?” He had not thought about that, and so she got it ready for him before she left—a cheese sandwich, canned tongue and canned peaches.
He told her to go out and run the world but not to get lost in it because he would miss her, and he stood by the dock while she went away. All that day she thought of things that might happen to Tom alone on the island. He might get a cramp if he went swimming, or ptomaine poisoning, although she had taken that tongue out of the can, or he might cut himself with the axe. It seemed years before she got back, and she had never had so many things to tell him. She could see him waiting on the dock when she was half a mile away.
“My God, Poll,” he said, “you’re like Balto bringing the serum to Nome.”
Considering how hard it had been to get anyone to hurry, she had done a lot in a single day. She had hired a cabin cruiser for their own use with a man named Joe to run it. It had two bunks in case they cared to sleep aboard, and Joe would bring it for orders every morning. She had telephoned New York for books to be sent out by Air Express, and a portable typewriter in case Tom wanted to write. She had bought sneakers for him and a pair of high boots and a sweater. She had bought bedding, brooms, soap, aluminum kitchen things, a gasoline lantern, a hot water bottle, aspirin, cigarettes for Tom, ginger ale, rye that had come from Canada, and some camp chairs and a folding table and finally a canoe. She had arranged with Mr. Holmquist’s son-in-law, Mr. Hansen, to come with his wife Gertrude to clean the whole cabin and to chop some wood. She had bought a new axe, a raincoat, more canned provisions, two dozen eggs, and had arranged for Joe to bring meat, milk, butter and eggs. She, had even bought a cookbook, and everything was aboard that new boat with Joe to unload it.
When the cargo was all in the cabin, it had not disturbed Tom much. He loved the gasoline lantern although he could never work it. He only asked once how much it all had cost, and he only said once that he ought to pay for it himself, because he was paying for the trip; and she only had to tell him once that it was her party, and only to remind him once that he had said he wanted her to be comfortable.
It may have worked so well because money never interested Tom. He never asked for anything, and so it was pleasant to do things for him. He loved the boat and he got on well with Joe. He loved the way she learned to cook. He liked it when they went on overnight trips and had Joe cook for them. The best of it was seeing how much better he looked every day. His color was better and he must have gained five pounds—and Polly had done it all herself. You would not have known that island after a few days, and she had done it all herself.
“None of it would be any fun at all,” she told him, “if you didn’t like it. You’re the boss.”
He told her that it was almost too easy to take, but Tom never took anything without giving more back. Somehow his simply being there with her gave her complete security. There was more and more to marriage, a happy one, all the time. All the things they did together contributed—swimming in the lake, trying to fish, paddling the canoe, talking about his books and his lectures and reading things together. It was hard to believe, and yet every day there was always something more.
That was why, when they went to the little town in Wisconsin where his mother and his sister kept house, it seemed as if they had always been married, and as if everything that had happened before were meaningless. Polly loved Tom’s mother because she told her about Tom when he was a little boy. She loved walking with Tom through that flat, dull town, because, as Polly told him, it was like Willett and she had always wanted to live in Willett. Sometimes when he was quiet and she asked him what he was thinking, he said he was thinking that she was wonderful.
