with better wages from one of the summer cottages. I’m fifteen, and your mother has paid my wages to me, not to him, so we’ve got a little set aside. And it’s not like having to go back to the mills, Clothilde, it’s not the worst it could be.”
“I don’t care,” Clothilde said. She didn’t get up, and as soon as Lou had closed the door behind her, she turned back to the wall.
Chapter 5
The wall had been painted blue, years and years ago, in her great-aunt’s time, a blue the color of a robin’s egg. The wall angled down from the ceiling and then straightened out just at Clothilde’s eye level. The paint was faded with time, and little cracks ran along it, like pencil lines, making a design she couldn’t see the order of. Clothilde stared at the wall. The feelings—anger and fear and misery—which had carried her up the stairs and given her voice, dropped her. She was like some fish dropped by a wave onto a rock, a rock alone in the middle of the ocean. There was nothing she was going to be able to do about anything.
The window knocked again.
Clothilde turned her face to it, without curiosity. She wasn’t looking at the window, or through it. She just turned her face to it. The frame of wood held flat glass in place; beyond the glass was a view of leaves and branches and sky, as unmoving as a picture.Clothilde turned her face to the wall again, leaned her elbows on the tabletop, and covered her ears with her hands as she stared at the cracks on the wall.
She should have known that the peninsula couldn’t be hers. Children didn’t own things, girls didn’t, people like her family didn’t. People like Grandfather owned things and could decide how to use them. She wished she’d known that all along, because then …
The sound the window made, making it again, was like the knock of a giant hand. If it were a hand, it would be so huge and heavy … the sound was like such a hand making itself as gentle as possible. The sound of that knocking echoed in Clothilde’s bedroom and sounded as if it must be rattling the whole side of the house. If it was a hand, knocking …
Clothilde opened the window. Nothing came in. She hadn’t expected anything to come in. She had probably imagined the sound, too, even though she could still hear it. She was probably going crazy, hearing things that weren’t real. If you were crazy, like Jeb Twohey, then people would take care of you and you’d never have to know anything. You’d just be crazy until you could die and be done with being frightened and helpless.
Clothilde left her room. There had been thatknock and it had to be answered, so she went down the stairs and out the front door. Not that she wanted to go answer, not that she didn’t want to, not that she’d decided to: she went to answer it. She walked to the vegetable garden, where the early peas were growing taller and the lettuces curled delicately in upon themselves. The knocking wasn’t to be answered there, nor among the apple trees of the orchard. It was crazy, she was crazy, the knocking that filled her skull was driving her crazy.
As if she were being pushed from behind, Clothilde moved slowly along the rutted driveway, into the trees. No sound broke the stillness. She walked under the branches of trees, which seemed to wait, listening in the silence. She followed the dirt roadway up beside the fields where Mr. Henderson’s crop of mixed timothy and alfalfa sprouted up through the ground in thin green blades. She kept her shoes on the dirt track, one foot following the other, when the road reentered the woods. There pines stood at attention and even the birches seemed to have halted, in midgesture, like girls photographed at a dance. When the road looped around to the right to go to a ruined cottage, Clothilde left it and went on through thewoods to the headlands. She moved slowly, as if she were being pulled.
When she stepped out onto the headlands, the sky and sea spread out before her,
“I don’t care,” Clothilde said. She didn’t get up, and as soon as Lou had closed the door behind her, she turned back to the wall.
Chapter 5
The wall had been painted blue, years and years ago, in her great-aunt’s time, a blue the color of a robin’s egg. The wall angled down from the ceiling and then straightened out just at Clothilde’s eye level. The paint was faded with time, and little cracks ran along it, like pencil lines, making a design she couldn’t see the order of. Clothilde stared at the wall. The feelings—anger and fear and misery—which had carried her up the stairs and given her voice, dropped her. She was like some fish dropped by a wave onto a rock, a rock alone in the middle of the ocean. There was nothing she was going to be able to do about anything.
The window knocked again.
Clothilde turned her face to it, without curiosity. She wasn’t looking at the window, or through it. She just turned her face to it. The frame of wood held flat glass in place; beyond the glass was a view of leaves and branches and sky, as unmoving as a picture.Clothilde turned her face to the wall again, leaned her elbows on the tabletop, and covered her ears with her hands as she stared at the cracks on the wall.
She should have known that the peninsula couldn’t be hers. Children didn’t own things, girls didn’t, people like her family didn’t. People like Grandfather owned things and could decide how to use them. She wished she’d known that all along, because then …
The sound the window made, making it again, was like the knock of a giant hand. If it were a hand, it would be so huge and heavy … the sound was like such a hand making itself as gentle as possible. The sound of that knocking echoed in Clothilde’s bedroom and sounded as if it must be rattling the whole side of the house. If it was a hand, knocking …
Clothilde opened the window. Nothing came in. She hadn’t expected anything to come in. She had probably imagined the sound, too, even though she could still hear it. She was probably going crazy, hearing things that weren’t real. If you were crazy, like Jeb Twohey, then people would take care of you and you’d never have to know anything. You’d just be crazy until you could die and be done with being frightened and helpless.
Clothilde left her room. There had been thatknock and it had to be answered, so she went down the stairs and out the front door. Not that she wanted to go answer, not that she didn’t want to, not that she’d decided to: she went to answer it. She walked to the vegetable garden, where the early peas were growing taller and the lettuces curled delicately in upon themselves. The knocking wasn’t to be answered there, nor among the apple trees of the orchard. It was crazy, she was crazy, the knocking that filled her skull was driving her crazy.
As if she were being pushed from behind, Clothilde moved slowly along the rutted driveway, into the trees. No sound broke the stillness. She walked under the branches of trees, which seemed to wait, listening in the silence. She followed the dirt roadway up beside the fields where Mr. Henderson’s crop of mixed timothy and alfalfa sprouted up through the ground in thin green blades. She kept her shoes on the dirt track, one foot following the other, when the road reentered the woods. There pines stood at attention and even the birches seemed to have halted, in midgesture, like girls photographed at a dance. When the road looped around to the right to go to a ruined cottage, Clothilde left it and went on through thewoods to the headlands. She moved slowly, as if she were being pulled.
When she stepped out onto the headlands, the sky and sea spread out before her,
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