The Whore's Child

deck billowing their clothes, they both cheered up. Out on the open water there was, of course, no evidence of the recent hurricane, nor hint of autumn, much less of winter. Here, as the early September sun warmed their skin, the Snows compared notes on what they remembered, what they’d forgotten and what had changed in the nearly thirty years since their last visit to the island. “The main biggest difference,” the professor remarked, “is that we now have enough money to stay at an inn.” On that previous trip— poor as a young assistant professor and his new, even younger graduate-student wife could be—they’d rented the cheapest cottage they could find in Oak Bluffs and still had to leave three days early because they’d run out of money.
    In truth, Snow thought he’d forgotten all the details of that visit until many came rushing back to him: the way the cars were loaded, bumper-to-bumper, into the dark belly of the ferry; the gulls that sailed effortlessly along the upper deck, patiently awaiting a handout; the coin-operated viewfinders still mounted on both the port and starboard railings, promising to bring into focus the place you were going to, as well as the one you’d left behind.
    Halfway across, June pulled a pale yellow sweater over her head so she could feel the sun on her arms, and her husband felt his heart go into his throat—imagining for an instant that she’d forgotten herself, that she intended to sun herself in her brassiere there on the upper deck, and instinctively he reached out to prevent her.
    How foolish, he thought, remembering too late that she’d pulled the sweater on over a blouse as they left the house that morning. This of course meant that he’d also momentarily forgotten exactly who she was, this woman, his wife.
    But fate was kind and offered him an opportunity to save face. “I seem to be snagged,” June said, her voice muffled inside the sweater, its fabric having caught on a button, and there, even as she spoke, was his helpful hand, already extended, as if to suggest that he was capable of anticipating her every need.
    When they arrived at the Captain Clement House, the front entrance was locked, with an elegantly printed note affixed to the inside of the glass:
Please Enter Through
Garden.
They went around back, passing through a trellised archway into a manicured green world miraculously untouched by the storm. The giant oak on the terrace outside had been stripped bare, but the garden, surrounded and protected on three sides, was unscathed. And perhaps because several dozen varieties of perennials were in defiant bloom, there were yellow bees everywhere. The Snows did not linger.
    â€œI’m so glad you’re here,” said the small, trim woman who greeted them inside, introducing herself as Mrs. Childress, the owner. She was of difficult-to-read middle age, with a not-quite-British accent and dark circles under her eyes. “For the moment you have the inn to yourselves. I’m rather concerned about the Robbins party. They’re sailing up from Newport and I was given to expect them several hours ago, but I’m sure they’ll be docking presently.” She gave an elegant, sweeping gesture in the direction of the garden, as if to suggest that the schooner in question might this very second be tying up just beyond the French doors. “We islanders are all prey to a certain foreboding these days,” she confided to June as the professor signed the guest register. “A remnant of the storm, no doubt. I’m sure they’ll arrive safely.”
    Snow agreed, remarking that nothing untoward ever happened to people from Newport who owned sailboats.
    â€œWell, I don’t know these particular people,” Mrs. Childress said, as if to suggest that therefore she had no idea whether they might be susceptible to sudden squalls at sea, “but they were quite delighted to learn we’d have a distinguished professor of American history in our midst. I warn you in advance that we’re all bracing for a weekend of scintillating conversation.”
    â€œAh,” said Snow, whose discipline in fact was literature, “I’m retired, I’m afraid.”
    Mrs. Childress blinked, seemingly confused.
    â€œI no longer scintillate,” he explained, “though of course I used to.”
    The woman clapped her hands appreciatively and turned to June.