flood the parched uplands... a"Walden, "Conclusion"

The rocking seesaw of Hope's emotional life went up and down all summer.

Hearing the bang of the screen door and Ananda's light step on the stairs of the back porch, she would run out to say h.e.l.lo, her pulse quickening, and see in his face the bright reflection of her smile.

But Jack Markey was a powerful presence, too, with his obvious competence. There was a forcefulness of argument in his professional success, in knowing that he was an important person in an important concern. Ananda Singh was not, after all, one of the richest bachelors in the world, or he wouldn't be working in a hardware store.

The fact that Ananda was her father's friend and Jack Markey his enemy was upsetting, and Hope preferred not to think about it. But she was her father's daughter. Her mind and heart and lungs, her ankles and knees, were steeped in the essence that was Oliver Fry. It was the element in which she had been raised. Turn against it as she would, she couldn't get rid of it. It was part of her.

But Jack was wearing her down. Lying beside him on the warm gra.s.s of the sloping ground above the North Bridge, Hope felt herself drifting into the acceptance of anything, anything, as he kissed her and kissed her.

"Oh, look," she murmured over his shoulder, "a falling star."

And then to her surprise he stopped kissing her and sat up and stared at the sky.

"There's another one," said Hope.

Jack seemed shaken. "I'll take you home," he said, getting to his feet.

"Well, all right," said Hope, wondering what was the matter.

For a lot of people the first week in August was the beginning of vacation. A great many Concord people went away. They were vacationing on Cape Cod, or sailing in Maine, or cruising among the Norwegian fjords, or digging up pottery shards in Mozambique.

The town was left to the small grubby band Sarah Peel had brought with her from Boston and to tourists in brilliant summer togs.

But one day Mimi Pink stood in the doorway of the Porcelain Parlor and beckoned to Bonnie Glover. "Come here a sec, Bonnie."

Bonnie obeyed.

"What's different today?" said Mimi.

Bonnie looked up and down the street and shrugged her shoulders. "G.o.d, I don't know."

"Can't you tell? Doesn't it look better? They're gone. They're all gone."

"You mean...?" Bonnie brightened. "You're right. I don't see a single homeless person."

"Let's hope they've gone back where they came from."

"How fabulous."

It was true. Sarah Peel was gone, and so were all her friends. They had not gone back to Boston. They too were taking a vacation. Theirs was a holiday from sleeping in Monument Square and bedding down in suburban garages, it was a vacation from barking dogs, a furlough from surviving without help from anyone except the good women of the Open Table, who by now had increased their schedule of free meals from one day a week to three.

On the morning of the first day of August, Marjorie and Roger Bland drove to the airport and flew to Nantucket. On the afternoon of the same day Sarah and her friends moved into the s.p.a.cious house on Musketaquid Road.

It was securely locked, but locks didn't stop Sarah Peel. Sarah had a way of leaking in through the cracks. She could dissolve herself on the outside of a building and rematerialize within.

This time she got in through a cellar window.

There was a washing machine under the window. Sarah heaved herself down to the floor and called to the others, "Wait a minute. I'll open the front door."

Obediently they ran around the house and walked into the front hall as Sarah grandly swung the door open.

"Oh, isn't this nice," said Dolores Mitch.e.l.l. "Look, Christine, they've got a piano."

Christine sat down at once on the piano bench and played Chopsticks. The rest of them dispersed all over the house. It was a dream of sudden possession like the granting of three wishes, like winning the lottery.

Palmer Nifto had a nose for good things. He ferreted out the liquor cabinet right away, because it was locked. The lock was no problem. Palmer went downcellar with Carl Browning to look for a crowbar. In the bas.e.m.e.nt they found Roger Bland's well-appointed workshop, with a drill press, a shaper, a couple of fancy table saws, a band saw, and a planing machine. A row of bins held lumber.

"Hey, this here piece is teak, I'll bet," said Carl. "And look at this one, bird's-eye maple."

The tools hung neatly on a pegboard. Palmer found a crowbar, took it upstairs, inserted it under the padlock of the liquor cabinet, and gave it a couple of strong jerks. The cabinet opened with a wrenching squeal.

"Hey, Carl, look at this," said Palmer, reaching past the wrecked door. "Nothing but the best. Beefeater, Jack Daniel's, real Russian vodka."

There were cries of rapture from upstairs, where Almina Ziblow had unzipped a garment bag in Marjorie Bland's closet and discovered a mink coat. Almina came down the stairs majestically, her hand sweeping the banister, the long coat flopping behind her on the stairs.

Dolores and Christine and Bridgie and Bobbsie settled down in the family room in front of the TV to watch a soap opera. "Oh, I remember her," said Dolores. "That's Vanessa. What's happened? She must be sick."

They all stared avidly at Vanessa, who was lying unconscious on a hospital bed. Her boyfriend, Dirk, was shouting at the doctor, insisting on her right to die, but the handsome doctor refused to pull the plug because he had fallen in love with Vanessa himself. Well, no wonder. She really did look beautiful, lying there with her long lashes sweeping her cheeks and her lovely hair tumbled on the pillow.

The doorbell rang. Everybody froze. Dolores switched off the TV. Sarah went to the door and opened it cautiously.

A little girl stood on the porch. "Oh, hi," she said. "I'm Emily. Hasn't Mrs. Bland gone yet? I'm supposed to take care of her horse."

"Oh," said Sarah, thinking fast, "didn't she tell you? I'm house-sitting for them and taking care of the horse. And, you know, the plants and all."

"Oh, okay." Emily looked pleased. "That's great. My best friend, she invited me to Lake Winnipesaukee, only my mother said I can't go because Mrs. Bland was counting on me. Oh, boy, now I can go after all. Gee, thanks."

Sarah closed the door and grinned at the others in relief. "Hey, everybody," said Palmer Nifto, coming in with a bottle and a tray of gla.s.ses, "how about a little Chivas Regal?" Then he looked up. "Good Lord, who's that?"

Somebody else was coming down the stairs. It was Audrey Beamish, the silent woman. Audrey had discovered a bureau drawer full of Marjorie Bland's nightgowns and negligees. She had torn off all her clothes and gowned herself in the laciest, the filmiest. She had pulled her hair out of its prim little clips.

"Well, say now," breathed Palmer, handing her a gla.s.s.

*49*

What is the price-current of an honest man and

patriot today? a""Civil Disobedience"

"I've got the whole town to myself," said Oliver to Ananda. "My opponent is vacationing in Nantucket. Why don't I start my campaign?"

"Excellent," said Ananda. "What can I do to help?"

"Write a letter for me. We'll get out a town mailing."

So Ananda spent a couple of days composing earnest paragraphs at the dining room table, surrounded by a gloomy sideboard, a wicker plant stand, a tarnished tea service, an iridescent art nouveau vase, and two large brown pictures of the Colosseum and the Roman Forum.

There were helpful interruptions by Oliver. "Hold it," he would cry, running in with another pa.s.sage from Henry Th.o.r.eau. "You've got to get this in."

"Of course," Ananda would say. "How splendid, how appropriate."

In the end they handed the letter to Mary Kelly, who cut it in half. Then Homer got busy on the phone, rounding up signatories, a nicely balanced selection of West Concord and Concord Center citizens, old residents and young professionals, people from the temple and all the churches, a good mix of town employees, and one very special farmer.

The farmer was Paul Rivelli, whose father had come to Concord from Italy in the 1920s. Paul's signature was so valuable, Homer b.u.t.tonholed him in person at his produce stand on Bedford Street. Paul turned out to be an admirer of Oliver Fry's, and he agreed at once. Homer brought the signature back to Oliver's house with a sack of Paul's early corn.

"Here," said Homer, "this is your half. Has Ananda ever tasted corn on the cob?"

Ananda hadn't. At suppertime he sat at the dining room table with Oliver while Hope rushed in with a platter of corn plucked from a pot of boiling water.

"You roll them in b.u.t.ter like this," explained Oliver, "then sprinkle them with salt and pepper."

"How interesting," said Ananda politely, picking up a steaming ear.

Oliver had consumed two preprandial whiskeys. He was euphoric. "I'm going to win this election," he said, brandishing the salt shaker. "You see if I don't."

"Oh, Father, how can you be so sure?" Hope sat down at her place with a thump. It was another hot day. Her face was flushed from bending over the kettle. Her feet were bare. She was wearing shorts. Her plump thighs and long calves were hidden under the table, but Ananda was aware of them. He listened to Oliver's c.o.c.ky exuberance and tried not to think about Hope's legs. When she leaped up to run back to the kitchen for more corn, he got a good look, but when she came back he riveted his attention on Oliver's rubicund face.

"What about the young people, Hopey dear?" said Oliver. "What about all your friends? And Ananda my boy, what's the name of that girlfriend of yours? The one who keeps calling? Bonnie somebody? Do you think she...?"

"She is not my girlfriend," muttered Ananda, casting an agonized glance at Hope.

"But doesn't she work in one of those fancy stores on the Milldam? She could get after all those shopkeepers. That woman Pink, for instance."

Ananda's embarra.s.sment turned to melancholy. "Alas, I fear the woman Pink is hopeless."

Oliver beamed. In his cups he was indomitable. "Oh, my young friend, I love the way you say 'alas.' I haven't heard anybody say alas for thirty or forty years."

The phone rang. Hope leaped up to answer it, and Ananda got another look at the twinkling legs.

It was Bonnie Glover. "It's for you," said Hope, handing him the phone with cool fingers.

After supper Hope went grimly upstairs and opened the door to the sleeping porch. She felt terrible. She batted the hammock. A cloud of dust flew up. Climbing in, she lay on her back, her hands folded over her copy of Walden, her eyes gazing at the big hooks from which the hammock hung. Then she wrenched herself sideways and stared at the porch screens. They were black and bulging.

Languidly she opened the book and turned to the chapter called "Higher Laws."

...the spirit can for the time pervade and control every member and function of the body, and trans.m.u.te what in form is the grossest sensuality into purity and devotion.

Purity and devotion! Hope was filled with bitter cynicism. How much trans.m.u.ting of sensuality into purity and devotion was Ananda practicing, that eager disciple of Henry Th.o.r.eau?

Faintly from the deep well of the stairs the phone rang once again. It rang and rang. Why didn't somebody answer it? Slowly Hope got up and pattered downstairs, expecting to hear Bonnie's voice on the line.

It wasn't Bonnie, it was Jo-Jo Field.

"Hope, this is Jo-Jo. How are you, dear? I'm calling on behalf of Roger Bland. I'm helping with his campaign for the opening on the board of selectmen. You know, in the special election in October."

"Oh, right."

"Now I know, Hopey, that your dear father is running against him. But a little bird told me you might actually be supporting Roger."

"Well, I don't know. I haven't thought about it much."

"Of course not. But we loyal campaign workers have to busy ourselves so early. We have to collect signatures for a town mailing. Now, dear, might I read his letter over the phone? It's not very long."

"Well, okay, I don't see why not."

Roger Bland's letter was very different from the one concocted for Oliver by Ananda Singh and Mary Kelly. Roger's was the standard candidate's letter, reciting his solid qualifications, his devotion to the town and its history, his concern for the preservation of its rural character, his awareness at the same time of the fiscal crisis in the commonwealth, affecting all the cities and towns in Ma.s.sachusetts. It was a time, said Roger's letter, when state support for local needs was at rock bottom. Thus it was a time for imaginative responses to modern pressures. Roger's supporters too quoted Henry Th.o.r.eaua"oh, that was clever of them, thought Hopea""Alert and healthy natures remember that the sun rose clear. It is never too late to give up our prejudices."

"So you see, Hope, dear," said Jo-Jo, "it's really the same things your father stands for, but witha"forgive me, deara"just a bit more practicality. We feel Roger will accomplish more in the long run, if you see what I mean."

"Oh, yes, I see."

"Now, to get to the point," said Jo-Jo, suspecting that Hope's resistance was softening, "we just wondered if by any chance you would lend your name to the others." Swiftly Jo-Jo ran through the list of highly respected Concord citizens who had already agreed to sign Roger's letter.

There was a pause. Hope thought it over. Actually she wasn't thinking of the different points of view of the two candidates. She wasn't even thinking of her father. She was thinking angrily about Ananda Singh. "Well, okay, I guess so."