E.J. Hall - Author: Together

Together

The tide retreated slowly as a high far out to sea pushed a cumulation of moisture-laden clouds into shore. Such weather patterns were not uncommon in the northern climes of Maine in August. The Sun had beat down on the providence for the past three weeks, baking everything it touched with ninety-degree temperatures. Surprisingly, the only respite was the low humidity despite the coastline of the Atlantic Ocean a scant half-mile away. Nevertheless, everyone wore bonnets and hats or sported umbrellas on their shoulders if they needed to depart the protection of shade.

Jane and Martha met at the corner where an occasional customer entered or left Myers Bakery. A youngster with a dark green welder’s cap pulled down to his eyebrows sat in the wide-open window and waved a massive bamboo fan that his thin arms could hardly manage, to force the cooling air from outside into the store. Yesterday, the boy waved the fan the other way.

Martha and Jane embraced without a word. Pulling apart, Jane spoke first. “We both are wearing the same apron today.”

“You, silly goose. You know I only have two aprons, and they’re both the same.”

“I did. Let’s go down to the water and enjoy this cooling spell for a while,” Martha said.

Jane’s bright blue eye’s sparkled. “Nice to leave the bonnet at home. I especially like your fiery red hair, so much like moms. I got dads mousy brown.”

“Listen to you talk. You don’t have to keep this unruly hair in place. Your hair goes right where you put it and stays there.”

“Well, maybe. But we both got grandma’s heftiness.” Martha said. They laughed and stepped up the two grayed wooden planks into the bakery.

“Let’s get a buttered bagel to eat on the way,” Jane said.

“Mr. Myers, how are you this fine day?” Jane asked the tall thin man behind a glass counter displaying croissants, a variety of loaves, and a basket of bagels with the accompanying aroma of bread. He had a long-hooked nose that turned sharply to the left that was doubtful he was born with. A quarter-inch wide pinkish scar ran from the start of his eyebrow, between the base of his nose and left eye before curving out to the middle of his cheek providing a town mystery. He never talked about it. Guesses fell to rumors. Jane figured he most likely got it when he was a cook on whaling ships. A bar fight didn’t fit his demeanor. Yet, one never knew for sure of one’s past.

“Good morning, Ladies. I am well. How are the sisters?”

“We are in fine shape today.”

“What may I get for you today?”

A single bagel ordered and buttered. Jane with half the bread in the right hand and Martha with her portion in the left hand, they threaded their way arm in arm through the dusty narrow walkway between Clemens Feed store and the dark, brooding cobbler that hunched over his sewing machine all day. Jane made Steven go to the cobbler whenever there was a need to stitch a harness or re-sole a shoe.

The heat had baked the mud of wagon tracks into concrete. The ruts crisscrossed in the narrow road that led to the rocky beach and the town five miles away, where a port harbored whalers and merchant ships in a natural deep-water bay. The sisters chatted as they walked along in the short brown grass to the side of the road.

They passed a field of bright red bricks. “Hi, Mr. Anderson,” They called out and waved in unison.

He waved back and returned to stacking bricks on a flat cart.

“I’ll bet he’s been making the most of this heat to dry his bricks,” Martha said.

“Oh, I’m happy for him. I heard he got a commission to supply the brick for the schoolhouse addition.”

“That’s wonderful. Mr. Anderson does make lovely bricks.”

Jane’s eye’s widened. “Isn’t that Mr. McFarland up ahead?”

“Why, yes, it is. Seems he has broken a wheel.” When they got alongside. “Mr. McFarland, do you need a hand? I see you have a cart full of produce.”

“Yes, indeed. It would be most appreciated if you two lovelies could set this new wheel on the axel when I lever the side.” McFarland was of average height and worked as the middle man between the farmers market at the harbor and the outlying providences. “The heats been a terror on my produce this past month, it has indeed. I welcome this cool spell. It’d be nice if it rained a bit.”

Jane immediately grabbed one side of the whole wheel, propped up alongside the yoke. “Martha?”

“Certainly, my dear. It looked as though you wanted to do the task all by yourself. You do realize I need to pull the broken wheel off before we can set the new one.”

“Jane’s eye’s narrowed. “Of course, I knew that.”

Mr. McFarland jammed a thick branch between the bed of the wagon and a dark, greenish stained barrel no more than a foot and a half across and readied himself to lift the cart.

“Mr. McFarland,” Martha asked, “will the barrel hold the weight?”

“Yea, Lass. It’s fire-hardened oak of pickled herring. Are you ready?”

“Yes, lift,” McFarland grunted and rose the wagon to level. Martha jerked the remains of the old wheel off and let it drop to the roadbed with a resounding thunk.

Jane stood up the new wheel straight, and Martha took hold of the rim, and a spoke, and they lifted together. “This a bit heavier when whole,” Martha remarked.

“Ah, this ought not to bother you with all the oats you beat down into meal.”

“Different muscles.” The sisters hung the center of the wheel on the axel and wiggled it into place.

After spinning the on the axel nut, McFarland slipped the locking pin through a hole in the axel and bent the ends over. “You two are right handy gals to have around. I’m thinkin’ your husbands are right proud of you two. Thank you for your timely assistance.” His mouth twisted into a lopsided grin. “Help yourself to whatever you’d like from my cart.”

Martha moved to the back of the cart and slipped on the edge of a rut and almost fell. Jane clamped her by the elbow and kept her steady.

“Thank you,” Martha said.

The cart was replete with all sorts of edibles. Bushels of lettuce, cabbage, and potatoes lined one side. On the other were apples in reds, yellows, and greens. Down the middle were closed barrels. McFarland was hiking the one he used to fix the cart back up into the row.

“Jane, look. I’ve never seen an apple so yellow as these.”

“Neither have I. Mr. McFarland, what kind of apples are these?”

“Those there apples are wonderful. They’re called Golden Delicious. Quite a handful one of them is. Try em out.” McFarland pulled two of the largest, blemish-free apples and handed one to each of the sisters.

By the time, Jane and Martha reached the rocky shoreline, they had finished their fruit and tossed the cores into a patch of wilting reeds.

“Mr. McFarland is right. Those are going to be popular. I don’t think I’ve ever had a sweeter apple,” Jane said.

“I agree. Let’s see if he left any at the General store when we get back.” The light breeze picked up its pace and threatened to toss Martha’s hair under her faded ribbon. “Let’s sit here on the giant’s teeth for a while before we go back.”

“Splendid idea.” They sat. “Where do you suppose the giant’s teeth name came from?

“I don’t know. I supposed it was because this short wall of rock looks like teeth.”

Jane sat quietly as did Martha. The sisters occasionally laughed when some boy tried to grab something out of a tide pool and jumped back with a yelp as though there was a shark in residence.

Martha noticed the fellow first. “Jane, look over there.”

Jane turned her head and cocked it to the side. “Isn’t that Mr. Homer? What’s he doing?”

“That stand he’s sitting at is an easel. He keeps looking our way.”

“Oh, I didn’t know he was a painter. Do you suppose he’s painting us?”
Martha stood. “I don’t know. Let’s go see.”