Idle hands, my grandmother announces briskly over breakfast, are the devil's workshop. It's a fine day to wash windows and stack wood.
The sunporch, glassed in on three sides, faces the ocean and it's my job to keep the windows clean. Nana fills a bucket with soap and water and pulls out the long handled scrub brush. She begins cleaning the inside glass and I start on the outside. It's a beautiful summer day with sunlight sparkling on the waves - the high grass sways in the morning breeze and the flag snaps smartly each time it catches the wind. Seagulls soar overhead and I hear the familiar chug-a-lug of the ferry making the crossing. My mother is in the kitchen and I can smell the warm sweetness of bread just out of the old oven - Uncle Eddie and Aunt Helen are to arrive later today and there is to be fresh bread and fish chowder waiting for lunch - and in the backyard, my brothers are resentfully carrying armload after armload of cord wood from the new woodpile to the woodshed, stopping every now and again to sneak a forbidden cigarette out of a stolen pack of Kent 100's. They think, wrongly, that Nana hasn't noticed, a fact that will be painfully clarified before the day is out.
After the windows are soaped and rinsed once then twice, they gleam and dry in the sun. Nana pronounces the job well done and rewards me with a shiny new quarter and a strawberry tart then sends me upstairs to begin the process of stripping the beds. She spends the remainder of the morning with the wringer washer until every sheet and pillow case has been fed through and hung out to dry, stopping at regular intervals to inspect the woodshed and make sure that the boys are stacking the wood neatly.
If it's worth doing, she reminds them, it's worth doing well. They grumble under their breaths but pick up their pace, eager to be done and released. My mother moves on to pie making, two apple with sugar coated crusts and one blueberry with a delicate patchwork of crisscrossed pastry strips. The kitchen fairly reeks with the smells of good country cooking - I may not like my mother much but on days like this I can't help but admire her skills - and I like the fact that with company coming, she and my grandmother have too much to do to quarrel.
Nana sets the finished pies on the window sill to cool. Couldn't have done better myself, Jan, she says and my mother shrugs, trying to be self deprecating, but I can tell by her face that she's ridiculously pleased. We are not a family that gives or accepts compliments often or well.
Not long after the noon whistle blows, a shiny new Cadillac makes the turn into the driveway and the dogs commence to barking. My Uncle Eddie, wearing a tweed vest, with his handlebar mustache meticulously twirled and carrying a white handled walking stick - he looks startlingly like Mr. Monopoly - emerges with an ear to ear grin.
Put the kettle on, Alice! he shouts, We have arrived! My Aunt Helen sits primly in the passenger seat, giving one last pat of powder to her nose and waiting expectantly for her car door to be opened as she considers it unladylike to do it herself. She is very nearly forgotten in the rush of people and dogs and luggage and is forced to clear her throat - twice - before anyone notices and my uncle obediently returns to the Caddy, opens her door and offers her his hand. She steps out, wrinkling her nose at the dust and gravel and clutching a delicate, lace edged handkerchief with her initials prominently embroidered in the corner in one pale hand and a Gucci purse in the other.
Take my arm, old girl, Uncle Eddie says with an extravagant bow, I'll see you through this foreign land.
Alice, dear, she tells my grandmother, I'm simply done in by this primitive travel. I could simply die for a cup of tea.
I'm sure, Helen, dear, Nana replies with her best company smile, Go right in.
My least favorite aunt walks a little unsteadily across the uneven gravel drive and through the grass, each step in her polished low heeled pumps and nylon clad legs a challenge.
What is that vile smell, Edgecomb? she demands halfway to the back door.
Salt fish, old girl, he tells her cheerfully, Nothing like it on a grand summer afternoon!
Aunt Helen shivers with distaste and my grandmother, several steps behind, can only shake her head.
Only woman I know still wears seamed stockings, she mutters dismally, How did I get myself into this?
Lunch is a stilted and uncomfortable affair. In hushed tones and only when my grandmother and mother leave the table, Helen finds the chowder too salty, the bread overdone, the butter too soft.
Apple or blueberry? my mother inquires in a saccharine sweet semi-growl.
How agreeable it must be not to have to worry about one's figure, my aunt comments, shaking her head when passed a slice of blueberry pie smothered in real whip cream. My mother's hand pauses, the dessert plate trembles and tips ever so slightly toward Helen's lap until Uncle Eddie smoothly slips a hand beneath it.
I'll take one of each, Jan, he says heartily and winks - my mother surrenders the dessert with obvious reluctance - and Helen obliviously continues to prattle on about the menace of sugar and improper nutrition while my grandmother does her best to hide a slightly sly smile.
More coffee, Helen, dear? she asks so sweetly it almost makes my teeth hurt.
Oh, I think not, Alice, Aunt Helen says airily, I've had quite enough.
You have no idea, I think to myself.
It is then that Nana quite calmly pulls out a pack of Kent 100's from her apron pocket and offers one to each of my brothers. A few seconds of stunned silence ensue then the boys regroup, exchange glances, and put on their misunderstood, wrongly accused faces, each trying - not very convincingly- to appear bewildered. My grandmother smiles but there's no humor in it.
Oh, but I insist, she says firmly when they shake their heads in unison and try to back away. They look desperately to my mother but there's no help there - she just shrugs indifferently - meanwhile, Nana takes a second pack from her pocket and places one each in front of each brother along with a book of matches. Light up, she says encouragingly, We all know you know how.
The boys scuffle and look away but by then Uncle Eddie is standing behind them, hands gripping the backs of their chairs and holding them in place. Aunt Helen is staring open mouthed and quite prepared to faint, I suspect but Nana ignores her and deliberately lights two cigarettes and hands them across the table. Finally grasping that there's no escape, my brothers take them with badly shaking hands and very pale faces - the older inhales and blows smoke with a defiant smirk, the younger hesitantly follows suit but without the bravado - and Nana nods with a kind of grim satisfaction. When both cigarettes are smoked to the filter, she hands them each other.
Good, she says and now there is absolute malice in her tone and ice in her eyes, One down, nineteen to go.
Smoke'em if you got'em, boys. Let's see how grown up you really are.
She never gave an inch, not when their eyes began to water, not when they coughed, not when both were greenish and sick and begging. My mother left the table, Aunt Helen and Uncle Eddie excused themselves to unpack and change clothes, I slipped away unnoticed, but Nana sat quietly until both cigarette packs were empty and my brothers were nearly comatose with nicotine. Harsh as it was, the lesson was short lived, but for the remainder of that summer at least, no more Kent 100's went missing.
Well, Alice, Aunt Helen remarked, I suppose you think they'll never smoke after that little debacle.
Don't be an idiot, Helen, Uncle Eddie said mildly, It was never about smoking.
Helen blinked in surprise and he patted her cashmere'd shoulder gently. Then what? she asked in genuine bewilderment.
Uncle Eddie gave my grandmother a knowing grin. It was about taking things that aren't yours, he said kindly, It was about stealing, wouldn't you say, Alice?
But Nana just smiled and reached for her knitting.
At the time I didn't know who she was - an old woman bundled up in a heavy coat, sitting on a blanket in a neighborhood park on a cold mid-November day, listening to music. I was up and moving partly to capture the faces in the crowd, partly to keep warm and it was her face that drew me - her life was written on it and she'd clearly done some hard traveling - the deeply etched lines and wrinkles and the small signs of skin cancer gave it away. When I pointed my camera at her, she instinctively tilted her head and gave me a hint of a smile, but her eyes flashed as if they were dancing. I snapped the shutter, having no idea how important this single photo would be be one day, until yesterday when I saw that she'd died. At 76, she'd earned her rest.
warm.jpg)
