The House on Oyster Creek Page 32

  EAT WHERE THE LOCALS DO! the sign proclaimed, though the locals couldn’t really afford it, especially after it was hailed as “a taste of the authentic Wellfleet” in the New York Times.

  Charlotte and Fiona frequented the clam shack at the Wharf Grill, because Desiree worked behind the counter. As she wrote up the orders and strung them on the line over the grill, she moved like Darryl, her face showing the same concentration. Tim and Carrie had sold Ada’s house and were building their own on a lot beside the highway, while Desiree and her little family moved into Darryl’s old place in Driftwood Cottages. One evening when Charlotte was waiting for a scallop roll and there was no one in line behind her, she asked what Desiree heard from her uncle.

  “They like it out there—lotta construction work,” Desiree said, looking down at her pad.

  A job opened up at the Oracle, covering “land use and environmental issues.” Charlotte wasn’t sure how she would convince them that her study of celebrity style trends had prepared her for it, but no one even looked at her clippings. “Wow, Celeb magazine,” the editor said when she went for the interview. “The salary for this position would be twenty-five thousand dollars.” There was an awkward moment while he waited for Charlotte to pack up and go; then, realizing he had a living person who was willing to do the work, he added eagerly: “We do have a pair of chest waders for you; no need to spring for those.”

  “Oh, that’s okay; I still have a pair from my last job.”

  He blinked.

  “Joke.”

  “Right.”

  And she fastened her suspenders, pulling all ten pounds of this uniquely cumbersome garment up as high as she could. It felt like struggling into someone else’s skin. Then it was out onto the tide flats to meet a team from the aquarium who’d come to do an autopsy on a beached whale. Her fingers froze as she noted down the findings, trying to angle upwind of the whale-gut stench. She was developing bursitis, which the doctor said was exacerbated by the cold fog. But she loved the cold fog. She loved coming to know Wellfleet, down to who had bitten off whose earlobe, the salinity of the water in parts per million, and how to answer Reggie’s cheerful, “Telegram.” And Fiona would grow up knowing her mother was one thread in the weave of this town.

  “That’s the true work of journalism,” Henry said, with honest pride. “The environment, climate change—most important issues out there right now. And you’re right on the front line.”

  Henry. Her husband. A man so racked with grief, so steadfast in its face, that he seemed beyond reach of feeling, while his wife registered the emotional temperature as if there were mercury in her veins. Quite a couple, fast asleep with Bunbury tucked into the wide gap between them one night when Fiona ran in screaming as if her bed were on fire.

  “What is it, what is it!” Charlotte said, and Henry jumped up, battle-ready, and hit his head on the lamp.

  “They’re going to steal me, take me away, the little lizard people!”

  “It’s okay, honey; it’s just a dream,” Charlotte said. “Here, come in with your mama and daddy.”

  Fiona got in between them, and Charlotte kissed her, seeing on Henry’s face an unfamiliar expression—the look of a lonely child standing outside the circle, hoping for an invitation. “We’re right here, sweetie, both of us,” Charlotte said, not sure whether she was talking to her daughter or her husband. Henry kissed Fiona’s forehead once, twice, three times—possessed by a tenderness that had to be gotten rid of, like an itch. Outside the coyote started howling and was joined by a whole yipping pack, but Fiona, safe between her parents, Bunbury curled at her feet, was sound asleep.

  Charlotte was shaking out the tablecloth one night after dinner, and having folded it over her arm, stood a minute looking over the bay in the last light, feeling the history and beauty of the place, undiminished by time (she was looking west, away from the Narville house), feeling as she would have in 1898, alone and strong here, facing into the wind. Though in 1898, Billingsgate Light would been flashing a slow, steady guiding signal over the water. As she turned back toward the house she saw Henry watching her from the top step.

  “You look like you belong here,” he said.

  No one has ever received a better compliment than this. Under the layers of fury and sorrow and longing and distrust, her heart stirred, and she gave him a crooked little smile. What she dreamed of, yearned for, was so far outside the circle of Henry’s understanding, it might have been the custom in some galaxy light-years away. She was here with him, warm and laughing; she made the spaghetti with clams, she came home with odd stories, she could alleviate some of his dread. Loneliness was natural, as familiar to him as the photograph of the Kingfisher among the towering waves. This . . . this wife, and the daughter no less . . . he could hardly believe it. His instinct was to stand back, keep a little distance, for fear they’d turn out to be a mirage.

  Charlotte went up the steps and kissed him. Of all the kisses in her lifetime, she was least certain about this one, but she wasn’t leaving, so she had to try to stay with her whole heart. When Fiona saw them hugging, she had to squeeze in between. “We’re the best family ever,” she said, causing a good laugh between her parents.

  “Henry, if I get like your father when I’m old, so I’m living in a home and I don’t really understand anything anymore—will you bring me things to smell? Basil and rosemary . . . and lemon oil. . . . and seaweed . . . and open an ear of corn right under my nose, okay? I think that would make me happy.”

  “Of course I will,” he said, somber, touching his forehead to hers. After a long moment, he added, “And . . . you’d see the book gets printed? I mean, if anything happened to me. Just a hundred copies.”

  “Absolutely,” Charlotte promised. “I’ll make a thousand.

  “I wonder what Joyce would have written next, if he’d lived?” she asked, to break the ceremonial mood.

  “Well, I suppose . . .” Henry said, looking almost lighthearted, as if he knew his answer could go on for years.

  Since the day her father admired her jump-rope skills, Fiona had started really working at them. A certain grace grew up alongside her clumsiness: She still fell off her chair at dinner, but she could do this while holding full a glass of milk, without spilling a single drop. Alexis, who could jump rope so easily, had lost interest, but Fiona needed to know she could master it and worked single- mindedly, always preparing a new trick to show Henry when he came up from his office. She’d convinced the school gym teacher to start a double-dutch team, and Charlotte was standing at the edge of the woods one winter evening, waiting for their practice to end, when she realized she was hearing the sound Darryl had once worked to re-create. Snow, the ocean-effect snow that the Boston weathermen never mentioned because they didn’t believe there was really anyone out here, had been sifting over the town all day. Nothing was plowed, and from the hill beside the school she could see out over the harbor, the boats at anchor, the spires set among the hills around the bay. There was a thrill just to making a footprint—everything was so pure and smooth. A single car—Rob Welch’s cruiser—was driving out onto the pier, but otherwise nothing moved. The storm was starting to pull away, leaving a sharp line where the clouds ended and the sky showed a deep evening blue. Charlotte felt a gentle blow at the back of her neck, as if someone had lobbed a soft snowball out of the woods. Not someone—Darryl. For the edge of a second she felt the old bliss rise in her chest, and she turned around, smiling, ready to reach out, as if she had known all along he’d be there.

  Of course it was only a clump of snow that had slipped from a bough overhead. There was nothing but the forest behind her, stretching over the hill to the back shore: scrub oak with dry leaves still clinging; jack pine; a sassafras fallen crossways in one sharp, contrary stroke. Deeper in, she made out the silhouette of a hawk on a high branch, head tucked under and covered with snow like everything else around it. Otherwise, she was alone, without even a sound except the quiet patter as each flake touched d
own, and the wind sighing in the trees.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many, many thanks to my oyster advisers: William Walton of the Cape Cod Cooperative Extension Service; Andy Koch of the Wellfleet Shellfish Department; Provincetown Shellfish Constable Tony Jackett; and aquaculturists Laura Adams; Chip, Felicia, and Joel Benton; Richard Blakely; Nate Johnson; Meg Shields; and Pat and Barbara Woodbury. Attorney Marion Hobbs introduced me to the byzantine complexity of “littoral rights,” and Tom Lindsay led me on a strangely exciting chase through the Barnstable County Registry of Deeds. I’m sure I’ve made mistakes in spite of all the good counsel; where I get it right, the thanks are due above.

  No character or event here is intended to represent any actual person or story. Tradescome Point, Oyster Creek, all the surrounding area, and its citizens, its shops and organizations, and even some of its geology, are invented, an imaginary hamlet within the real town of Wellfleet, Massachusetts.

  “Waiting on Gramma” is copyrighted by Jerry Beckham and used by permission.

  HEIDI JON SCHMIDT is the author of The Rose Thieves, Darling?, and The Bride of Catastrophe. Her stories have been widely published, anthologized, and featured on National Public Radio. She has been a guest teacher of creative writing at many colleges and universities, and teaches in the summer program at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. She has lived on Cape Cod for twenty- five years. www.heidijonschmidt.com.

  CONVERSATION GUIDE

  The House on Oyster Creek

  HEIDI JON SCHMIDT

  This Conversation Guide is intended to enrich the

  individual reading experience, as well as encourage us

  to explore these topics together—because books,

  and life, are meant for sharing.

  A CONVERSATION WITH HEIDI JON SCHMIDT

  Q. Why oysters?

  A. My sister is a shellfish farmer. I envy her life and admire it: She’s out on the water all day and has the intimate knowledge of the natural world that can come only through hands-on, daily effort. It’s backbreaking labor, and I feel sort of sheepish about having such a soft job myself. In one way, though, a day at the desk is like a day on the tide flats: You’ve felt a vital connection to life; you’ve worked at something worthwhile.

  And Cape Cod is my home. I’ve been greatly affected by the struggles here between those who’ve been here for generations and those who’ve just moved in. So many people are barely scraping by, while others pop in, buy a house that costs a few million dollars, renovate it for a few million more, then decide they’d rather have a place in Provence. The estuaries, salt marshes, and the tide flats where oysters are farmed are the most fertile, beautiful places on earth, and it’s painful to see them turned into a commodity, into “million-dollar views.” I was excited to work on this book and think about it all in depth.

  Q. Is there really anything new to be said about love?

  A. My guess is that everyone alive has something new to say about love. Every love has so many layers—the hopes and dreams and fears of both lovers, their different experiences, the complications of class and culture and belief. Oyster Creek is centered on a marriage full of love and difficulty, like most marriages, and on a love affair that has great meaning even though it’s unlikely to end well. And, of course, Fiona grows according to her parents’ love, like a vine scrambling up a trellis.

  Q. Yes, maternal love is as important as romantic love here.

  A. The minute my daughter was alive in the world I became braver, more capable. Like Charlotte Tradescome, I wanted to “walk toward the light, keeping the little hand tight in mine.” I saw that a huge part of motherhood was just being myself—the most honest self I could be—so my daughter could learn by osmosis. As I focused on that, I started taking more chances as a writer. I was truer to my own perceptions, less afraid to make mistakes. I want my daughter to feel comfortable being herself, and to dare to try things, even things that might not work out. In other words, I think a lot about motherhood, so I naturally end up writing about it.

  Q. Why do you call this an ecological novel?

  A. Every novel is its own ecosystem; it documents the immense effect each person has on others, and the ways these effects ripple out into the world. In Oyster Creek, one character’s anger brings out the worst in the people around him, setting off a chain of troubling events. Another’s generosity strengthens the community. “As every drop that fell into the sea had its effect on the oysters, everything anyone did here affected the town. Ada’s birth and the story that was made from it, Darryl’s flight and his prodigal return, Charlotte’s arrival, Tim’s bite out of Rob Welch’s ear . . . even such a pale, delicate thing as an embryonic love affair would change the climate here. They needed each other, knew each other; they would become closer to each other whether they wanted to or not.”

  Q. What kind of research did you have to do for Oyster Creek?

  A. I loved the research I had to do for Oyster Creek. I’ve always wanted to know how things work, and at first the idea that you could grow oysters in undersea gardens the way you might grow corn in a field was mind-boggling. I was so glad to have a good excuse to study it! I spent as much time on as many different oyster farms as I could, listening to what the farmers had to say, trying to get an intuitive sense of the work, the experience of it. We went out at sunset on an August evening, and before dawn on a November morning when the wind was as sharp as a knife and we had to work by the light of a miner’s lamp. I’ve never felt so ridiculous, clomping around in a huge pair of waders, trying to maneuver a basket rake, or to pile bags of oysters into a canoe without tipping it. I wanted to really feel the work, in all its beauty and difficulty, and people were very, very kind in helping me do that.

  Q. What’s it like to live on the Outer Cape in the winter?

  A. There’s the strongest sense of community out here, because we’re marooned together all winter when everything’s boarded up. We rely on each other; we have to. Then we stick together to face the inundation of summer visitors. There’s only one main road out here: Route 6. Everyone drives it: to work, to school, to the hospital. If you see someone turning off in an odd spot, you wonder why. Secrets don’t keep very well, and when you can’t keep secrets you’re more aware of everyone’s humanity, their fragility.

  And human life is dwarfed by natural life. We’re on a shifting sandbar, almost surrounded by water; the towns are fitted into the few spots best sheltered from the wind and waves. You learn to tell the temperature of the air by the color of the bay, and to understand what’s going on in the water by the smell of the air. You develop a sixth sense for weather and tides.

  Also, contemporary life is dwarfed by history. The Pilgrims landed here, did their laundry, and moved on. Half of our apple trees washed in from a shipwreck years ago. The towns look very much the same as they did during the Revolutionary War—the streets are so narrow, you can almost feel what it would have been like to live here in whaling times. And our shoreline is still controlled by the “King’s Law.” It makes a difference to be so close to nature, and so close to the past: You see how life is shaped by these immense forces, so much greater than yourself.

  I love it here; I’ve wanted to bottle the experience so everyone could have some.

  Q. Any other experiences you’ve wanted to bottle?

  A. The real surprise of love—the absolute irrationality and deep meaning, and the way, when you look closer, it’s all much more sensible than you’d ever think. The truth is, I want to bottle every experience. I wish I had an apothecary full of little bottles of different senses and feelings and adventures.

  Q. Can you tell us a little about how you came to be a writer, what you’ve written in the past and what you hope to write in the future?

  A. I grew up in a very isolated spot, down a dirt road, miles from anywhere. I was always inventing little societies: towns, families, schools, islands. I’d draw out the school bus routes and plan the menus. You could say it was a bad
habit that got out of hand. I loved novels that had maps as endpapers—I’d pore over them to see how every piece of the imaginary world fit together. As I grew up I loved Faulkner and Jane Austen and the territories they invented based on the places they knew.

  Oyster Creek is my fourth book (the others are: The Rose Thieves, Darling?, and The Bride of Catastrophe), and the first set on Cape Cod. The next will take place out here too. Painters talk about the inspiration they get from “cape light,” the special quality of the light out here. Cape life is just as fertile for a writer. We have fishermen from the Azores and psychiatrists from Manhattan and everyone in between. We all see each other every day; our kids go to school together; we chafe against each other and learn from each other and fall in love with each other, and the stories just come bubbling up.

  QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

  1. What experience would you bottle, and how would you do it? What are the particular details, the sights and sounds and smells that would really make that experience vivid for someone else?