The Last Days of Dogtown

“No need to fib, son,” Wharf said, laughing. “Though it would all taste a fair sight better if we had something to drink.”

After living with Boynton, who had rarely been sober, Polly refused to permit any spirits in the house. So after dinner her father invariably pronounced himself “parched,”

patted Polly’s cheek, shook hands with Oliver, and hobbled to Easter’s for refreshment. Oliver dried the dishes and lingered while Polly took out her sewing basket; her clever dressmaking earned enough to keep the last two Dogtown Wharfs fed and clothed.

Polly asked Oliver to read aloud from the Bible while she worked, gently guiding him over the words he’d never seen before and helping him to pronounce the impossible Israelite names. It took them two years to work their way through the scripture, both Old and New, and by the end Oliver was as fluent as Polly.

“Should we get another book?” she asked.

“I think we better start over on this one,” he said, trying

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to figure how they might skip right to the Song of Solomon, which did not seem at all pious to him but was a treat to share with Polly, who blushed all the way through it.

Reading wasn’t their only entertainment. Once Oliver’s voice found its bottom, Polly taught him all the hymns and lullabies she knew. One day, he offered up a sea shanty he’d heard at Easter’s, pruned a bit for decency. Polly was delighted. “What a wonderful gift.”

“I’d rather give you some ivory combs for your hair,” he said, thinking of the displays in the dry goods shops in Gloucester. “Or a silk paisley shawl.”

“But a song never wears out,” said Polly.

Oliver believed that was the wisest and sweetest thing he’d ever heard. Indeed, he thought Polly the cleverest and kindest girl who ever lived and agreed with everything she said. Or nearly. When she mentioned her longing to hear the pastor up in Sandy Bay, who was said to have a fine baritone voice, he grimaced and shrugged. He had never been inside a church and was sure that he’d do something stupid and prove himself a backwoods simpleton in front of Polly and the whole congregation. He knew he’d have to go to a church to marry Polly, but that would be worth it.

Oliver brought Polly blueberries whenever he could, knowing they were her favorites. “I should bake a pie,”

she said.

“Why bother,” Oliver said, delighting in her pleasure as she ate them two at a time, no more and no less.

Three years into their friendship, he found a thicket of

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the sweetest blueberries he’d ever tasted and picked a brimming pail of them for her. He hurried to get them to her house while they were still warm from the sun, imagining the bliss on her face as she took the first two into her mouth.

When he arrived, no one answered his knock.

Disappointed, he opened the door, thinking to leave them for her and sad that he would not be there to watch her enjoyment.

But Polly was at home. She was alone, washing her hair, her dress hanging over a chair. Her long blonde tresses dripped over her bare shoulders.

“The berries look wonderful,” she said, as though she wasn’t naked to the waist.

Oliver stared at her small rosebud breasts, and the brown birthmark on her right collarbone.

“Bring them here,” she said. “Put the pail down.”

Oliver did as he was told.

“Take off your shirt.” She dipped the flannel in cool water and lathered it with a small cake of lavender soap.