Good-bye, Son and Other Stories. Janet Lewis
to the edge of the dock with his right hand. A door at the back of the post office opened, and the son of the postmaster came out, bare-headed. He was a big blond fellow. He came down the dock toward them in a half run, lurching with a sort of heavy grace. His feet, in the brown canvas shoes, made little noise, but the planks of the dock sprang slightly under his step. When he saw what they had brought, he drew his breath in between his teeth and lower lip in a whistling sound and swore softly.
He said, “Just moor the old boy to the dock, Perfessor, and I’ll take care of him—telephone the Soo and all that. Think I’d better get into my waders before I try to take him ashore, though.”
“You can keep the stringer,” the Dominie said.
The stone pile hid the dock from sight quickly as they rowed away. The Dominie asked Edith if she was cold, and she said no.
In the cabin they hurried out of their wet clothes and into dry ones. Their shoes were set in a row on the brick hearth to dry, and they all ran around barefoot. The collie puppy got in everyone’s way, his cold nose and soft warm fur touching the bare ankles. He was brown with white feet as if he had just stepped out of a pan of milk. The Dominie decided to make pancakes and the children’s mother turned the kitchen over to him. She sat by the lamp, rocking and knitting, and the Dominie shouted remarks to her from the kitchen. He was very gay and gentle, looking at the children with a sort of whimsical concern and teasing them.
In the morning the sun was out and the world glistened. Edith ran along the sand in her bathing suit. Her feet did not dent the sand, but where she stepped the pressure of her foot brought a film of water to the surface, which shone and disappeared. The sun was high and hot. The boys were already diving from the end of the government dock. The dock and the red-and-yellow warehouse were reflected upside down, almost inch for inch. Edith stood looking into the clear water, letting the ripples nibble at her toes. The Dominie sauntered along the shore, smoking, and kicking at the pale drift of wet rushes. He said gently, “Afraid of the river this morning?”
“No,” she answered, looking up in surprise. “Ought I to be?”
“No,” he said. “I think not.”
Summer Parties
THEY WENT THERE because they liked to go someplace after supper, and because they liked Merle and because Mrs. Butler never seemed to mind how much noise they made or how they mussed up the house. The Butlers were living that summer in the old red cottage with the outside stairway. There were only the three of them—Mrs. Butler, Merle, and Claudine, who was just nine. Merle was eighteen, a drowsy, good-natured girl with a pretty oval face and drooping shoulders. She never seemed quite awake or quite aware of herself except when she was dancing. Even then she danced in a sort of dream. She had soft brown hair that curled about her cheeks and was pinned up in a loose bun at the back of her neck. She didn’t like to fish and not very much to swim. As for hiking, the thought never entered her head. She spent hours in the hammock on the porch, or she helped her mother with the housework. She did anything you asked her to quite willingly, but she almost never thought of anything to do herself. She never got sunburned or tanned, but at the end of the summer the color in her face was a little deeper, a little warmer. She sang all the popular songs, knowing the words about halfway through.
Rummy Blake and the two Atwood boys and Maretta Hotchkiss were the regular gang, and sometimes the young man from the inn whom they called Morpheus.
After supper while Maretta was still doing the dishes Rummy Blake would whistle from the river and come into the house to wait for her, amusing himself by chinning himself on the porch rafters while she washed her hands and smoothed her hair. They’d go in the canoe, not because the Butlers were on the other side of the river, but because it was pleasant to be on the water at that hour.
At the Butlers’ there’d be a fire in the living room, and some new dance records. They punched holes in the old records and put them on off center. The phonograph was an old one with a tin horn like a morning glory. They used the loud steel needles and put a pillow in the horn to muffle the noise. Rummy was learning to stand on his head that summer. They danced some, and when the matting made the floor seem too slow they engaged in acrobatics and pillow fights. The Atwood boys were ex-servicemen, one of them with the Croix de Guerre. They were both very handsome and up on all the latest steps. The Croix de Guerre was the better-looking. He was lithe and dark with a little black mustache, and he used to dance cheek to cheek with Merle, who was exactly the right size and complexion for him. They looked charming together. Rummy was huge and bearlike, with large good-looking features still in an unfinished stage, but roughly blocked out; pleased with being so strong and still exploring the possibilities of his strength. His feet, which were so often in the air, were clothed in blunt Canadian shoepacks. His father was rich, having made a fortune in paper tags, and Rummy would inherit the business.
Mrs. Butler was a woman of considerable energy and direction. She went berrying constantly, and put down quantities of wild strawberry and raspberry jam, and her nose was always red and peeling from long hours in the hot berry patches. In the evenings she sat by the fire, leaning her elbow on her knee, her chin in her hand, the blunt strong fingers curving up over her mouth. She gazed into the fire or watched the children, never interfering, but ready to talk if one of them sat down near her. Often she made them hot chocolate or had ice cream for them in the freezer. She was not a pretty woman, but her dark eyes were bright, and she smiled in a generous friendly way, having no secrets.
People occasionally said that she was trying to catch Rummy for Merle, and Maretta Hotchkiss, when she heard this, thought such people vulgar.
Morpheus was loafing on the built-in bench by the fireplace, one foot on the floor and one on the edge of the bench, his knee propping up an illustrated magazine. Maretta borrowed a cigarette from him and sat down beside him. She wore khaki riding breeches and a slipover sweater. Her collar, which had been freshly starched, was very crumpled, and she was hot and mussed from wrestling with Rummy. She made herself comfortable and lighted the cigarette, and Claudine came across the room and leaned against her knee heavily.
“Leave Maretta alone, babe,” said Mrs. Butler. Claudine sighed and went around beside Morph, put her arm around his neck, and pretended to look at the magazine with him. He took no notice of her save to blow his tobacco smoke in her direction. She fanned it away with her free hand, leaning hard on his shoulder. She looked very much like Merle, except that her hair was a pale brown, almost a gold, and her face browner. It was a smooth oval, the features somewhat larger and fuller than Merle’s, but the same features. Her eyes were a cloudy gray, with long honey-colored lashes. She was really very pretty. Her hands were dirty, and she was wearing four or five of the little solder rings that used to come on sticks of candy. The gang had no objection to her, except that she was often sulky and was always grabbing ahold of their hands when they were busy, or wanting to sit on their knees. She was getting too heavy to be such a baby, they thought.
“Leave Morph alone, Claudine,” her mother said. “Morph, if she bothers you, shove her away.”
“D’you hear that, Claudine?” said Morph casually.
Mrs. Butler moved her chair nearer the bench and said, “Maretta, what would you think of me buying the old Hodges place?”
“What for?” said Maretta.
“So we could have more room for parties—this is an ugly old hole—it’d be nice to ask some of Merle’s friends from Detroit to come up for a few weeks during the summer. We could have grand house parties over there.”
“It’s so far away,” objected Maretta.
“Oh, but you’ve all got boats. I can get it quite cheap. There’s the cutest little playhouse in the yard, with a real fireplace.”
“That’s for me,” said Claudine.
“Shut up, Claudine,” said Mrs. Butler. “It would make a nice guesthouse.”
“It’s