"A friend? Is your friend downstairs,, too? Is my house full of strangers?"
"No, I sent her away."
"And how do you intend to get home then? Go walking on the highways so I hear about it?"
"I thought maybe if Raymond were here--"
"He's not. He's running errands. And of course Samuel is down at the docks wasting time with fishermen. Damn your insolence," she muttered. "Hand me my pocketbook and I'll give you taxi fare," she said.
"I don't need your money. I've been working and have my own," I said.
"Suit yourself. Actually, that's good. I'm glad you have some independence. I have a feeling you're going to need it. Go downstairs and call your taxi and take yourself and Belinda's idiocy home," she ordered.
She fell back against her pillow and put her hand over her forehead.
"Loretta!" she cried.
I turned and went out the door. Loretta must have been waiting at the bottom of the steps, for she heard Grandma Olivia's cry and was already coming up quickly.
"I told you not to go up," she said. "I told you. Now she'll be furious at me." She glared angrily at me as we passed each other on the stairs.
I hurried down and went to the phone in the kitchen where the telephone numbers for various services were posted on the wall. I found the number for the taxicab company and called for a car. Then I went out front and sat on a stone bench and waited. As I sat there, I thought about Grandma Belinda. She didn't seem mean enough to make up a story about Judge Childs just to get back at him. How I wished there was someone else to talk to, someone who had been around at the time. Grandpa Samuel was there, but he wouldn't contradict Grandma Olivia. That was certain. There was no point in asking him anything.
I longed to be with people like Papa George and Mama Arlene again, people who had no affectations, who didn't connive and plot against people they supposedly loved. I longed for people who meant what they said, people who didn't hide behind innuendo and double meanings, whose pasts weren't cloaked in shadows, simpler people who wore their hearts on their sleeves and whose smiles had nothing behind them but love and affection. They weren't rich and they didn't live in big, luxurious homes. They had no political power and influence. No one feared them, but they were more content and they could sleep with crystal-clear consciences.
Everyone had some regrets, some choices they wished they hadn't made. Everyone's life was stained with mistakes and blotched with sadness, but simple, honest people had more smiles and more laughter in their hearts. Their wealth wasn't as easily counted, but it was there, and I longed to be with them again. Maybe I really should leave, I thought. Maybe I should welcome being thrown out on the street. Grandma Olivia's threats could be rewards in my way of thinking.
The taxi arrived and I got in quickly. The driver was an older man with curly, gray hair and a round, red face.
"Where to, Miss?" he asked as we moved down the driveway.
I thought a moment.
"Do you know Judge Childs?" I asked.
"Nelson Childs? Sure do. Everyone who's lived here most of his life knows the judge, Miss."
"Good. You know where he lives then?"
"Sure. Post Hill Road, about a mile from here. You can't miss his house. It's one of the biggest on the Cape. Is that where you want me to take you?" he asked.
I hesitated.
"Yes," I said firmly. "That's where I want to go."
"Then we'll pull up anchor and set sail," he said and turned left instead of right, which was the way back home.
The jovial taxi driver was full of questions, but if he had hoped to make a meal of my answers, he was going to starve. I answered everything with a yes or a no or a maybe. When it came to being
closed- mouthed, I had many models to learn from in this New England community.
Post Hill Road was a paved street that turned for a quarter of a mile or so up a rise and then toward the beach. There were only two other homes on the street, both small Cape Cod houses. But the judge's home was a true New England mansion, even more impressive than Grandma Olivia and Grandpa Samuel's home.
"You know this is a historical house, don't you?" the taxi driver asked.
"No."
"The judge bought it for a song and then he and his wife restored it. It's even been featured in a few magazines. My wife knows all about that stuff," he added. "It's a three-story colonial," he said as we drew closer. The house had been restored in a weathered grey cladding and had a semicircular entry porch. What made it even more unusual was its large octagonal cupola.