Fortune's rocks_ a novel - Anita Shreve [27]
After they have set up their picnic on the rug, Philbrick and Cote and (reluctantly) her father accompany Martha and the other children, in sailors’ costumes and dark stockings, to the water’s edge, some fifty feet away. Haskell and Olympia are left behind. This is not contrivance on their part, Olympia knows, although she is certain they are both aware of the somewhat awkward circumstances as the others leave them. Haskell sheds his jacket and his shoes, removes his tie and his socks, and rolls the white flannel of his trousers to just below the knees. He leans back on the rug, propped up on one elbow, and watches the bathing party proceed to the ocean.
To busy herself, Olympia prepares a plate of boiled eggs and rolled tongue and bread and butter, and hands it to Haskell, who takes it from her. She makes a plate of food for herself. They eat side by side, Olympia on a small stool that has been brought for the occasion. They do not speak for some time. Occasionally, a gust of wind makes one or the other of them reach forward to anchor a corner of the rug or to lay a hand on a hat that threatens to stray. She pours lemonade into glasses and gives him one.
“What do you do when you are at the clinic?” she asks, her voice sounding strained, at least to her.
“A bit of everything,” he says. “Set broken bones, amputate mangled fingers, treat diphtheria and pneumonia and typhoid and dysentery and influenza and syphilis . . .” He pauses. “But this is not a fit discussion for a young woman,” he says, wiping his mouth with his napkin. His eyes are shaded by the brim of his straw hat.
“Why not?”
“Have you ever been to Ely Falls?”
“Only once,” she confesses. “With my father last summer. But I did not see much. My father made me remain in the carriage while he went about his business.”
“My point exactly. It is a fearful place, Olympia. Overcrowded and filthy and disease-ridden.”
The wind lifts her skirts, which she smooths over her knees. So bright is the glare of the sun on the water that even with her broad-brimmed hat she finds it necessary to squint.
“Do you think,” she asks, “that one day I could accompany you to the clinic? You speak of appalling conditions, and I should like to see them for myself. Perhaps I could help in some way. . . .”
“Poverty is raw, Olympia. And ugly. The people are good enough — I do not mean to suggest that they are not — it is simply that the clinic is not a suitable place for a young woman.”
“Tell me this then,” she says, feeling slightly challenged and unwilling to forfeit the debate so quickly. “Are there fifteen-year-old female workers in the mills?”
She knows perfectly well that there are.
“Yes,” he says reluctantly. “But that does not mean they should be there.”
“And are fifteen-year-old females permitted into the clinic?”
He hesitates. “Sometimes,” he says. “As patients certainly. Or to tend to their mothers.”
“Well, then . . .”
“It is not a good idea,” he insists. “In any event, I should have to ask your father for permission, and I sincerely doubt he would give it.”
“Perhaps not,” she says. “But he may surprise you. He holds unusual views as regards my education.”
Haskell lifts up a handful of sand and watches it fall through his fingers. He takes off his hat, lies back on the rug, and closes his eyes.
Does he know she watches him then? He seems peaceful, as if he were dozing or sleeping.