Fortune's rocks_ a novel - Anita Shreve [113]
She apologizes for her boldness, an apology he waves off as he explains that the deep cuts were made by lobster claws in the few seconds before he was able to peg them. She wants to ask about his wife, about what her life is like; and more, she wants to know, but will not ask — no, never would she ask this — if he loves his wife, if he thinks his wife loves him; if, in their way, they are happy together. For though her experience is limited, she knows that love is often inscrutable, indecipherable to observers, and yet it is that intimacy she most craves some understanding of. When they reach the trolley, he bids her a good journey and says that he will return for her at four o’clock.
The trolley is crowded with both natives and summerfolk, many of whom have come up from Rye, doubtless thinking to have a day of shopping in Ely Falls. There are no seats when she boards the dusty vehicle, and all the heat of the day seems to have concentrated itself within the wooden walls of the conveyance. The passengers are jostled and knocked about because of the unevenness of the track bed, and the smell of all those overheated persons is quite unpleasant. If it were not necessary to hold on to the grip with both hands to keep from falling over, she would cover her nose with a scented handkerchief.
Occasionally, through the crowd, she catches a glimpse of scenery. New houses have been built, and it seems the outer limits of the city of Ely Falls begin sooner than they did four summers earlier. They pass business signs that read PATENT MEDICINES and LIBRAIRIE FRANÇAISE and H. P. POISSON, PHOTOGRAPHER. Then FANCY GOODS, PARADAY’S SMOKE HOUSE, and BOYNOINS PHARMACY next to a sign that reads only LEWIS POLAKEWICH. There are striped awnings of many colors and tall department stores that either she did not notice on previous trips to the city or were not there before. The streets and sidewalks are thick with people and with carriages, and an air of business seems to have infected the crowd on the trolley. She gets off the trolley when most of the others do, though she has no idea where she is.
She stops a policeman in the street and is given directions to the orphanage. As she walks, the sky overhead takes on a blue-black appearance. In the distance, she can hear thunder. She begins to run but is caught in the sudden downpour and has to shelter in the doorway of a bank. After a few minutes, restless with her mission, she sets out again, only to receive another soaking a block from her destination. Running hard now, she at first mistakes the tall granite structure with its evenly spaced windows on the corner of Merton and Washington for a department store. And then, in passing, she sees above the door the words The Orphanage of Saint Andre.
The floor of the central hallway is made of stone. As she walks to a door marked OFFICE, Olympia’s boots leave small puddles in her wake. After a moment’s hesitation, she knocks on the door.
It is opened by a tiny woman in habit and wimple. The woman has small black eyes with many folds at the lids, and her mouth is deeply lined and pursed. She seems at first startled to see Olympia standing there, and then begins to regard her more closely. The sister takes in Olympia’s rucked silk hat, her wet boots, and the lavender-blue skirts that cling to her legs. Her scrutiny is intense, and Olympia thinks the sister will shut the door in her face.
“Forgive me for interrupting you,” Olympia says, “but I wish to speak with someone in charge of the orphanage.”
“For what purpose?” the sister asks. The question is quick, in the manner of a schoolmaster who demands an equally rapid reply. The sister speaks with a French Canadian accent.
Olympia has