The weight of water - Anita Shreve [64]
“We may talk about that at some other time.”
Karen turned her head away, and appeared once again to be examining the cottage. “You cannot keep your windows clean?”
“The sea spray,” I said. “It is continual.”
“At home, I like to use the vinegar.”
“I would like to know what has brought you here,” I said, interrupting her. “Of course, you are entirely welcome, whatever the reasons, but I do think John and I have a right to know. I hope it is not some dread illness.”
“No, nothing like that.”
Karen stood up and walked to the window. She folded her arms across her breast and appeared to contemplate the north-west view for some time. Then, with a sigh of, I believe, resignation, she began to tell her story. There had been a man in Laurvig by the name of Knut Eng, she said, who was a widower of fifty four years, who had courted Karen for seven months with the implicit promise of an engagement not long in the future as they were neither of them young, and then suddenly, after a particularly silly quarrel between them, had broken off their relations, and there was no longer any talk of marriage. So abrupt and shaming was this cessation of his affections, and so widespread the gossip surrounding the affair, that Karen found she could no longer walk with any confidence into town or attend services at our church. Thus the thought of voyaging to America to join John and myself suddenly became appealing to her.
I felt sorry for her loss, though I could not help but think that Karen had most likely done her part to alienate her suitor. Nor was it altogether flattering to know that my sister had come to us only because she was embarrassed to have been spurned. But as it was our custom to welcome all visitors, and particularly those who were family, I tried to make her comfortable and showed her to the upstairs bedroom so that she might have privacy. She found the room uncheerful, and had the poor manners to say so, and, in addition, appeared not to see the star quilt at all. But I forgave her, as she was still in a state of irritation and tiredness owing to her sea-journey.
“What was the nature of the quarrel?” I asked her when she was settled and sitting on the bed.
“I had observed that he was growing more and more stout as the months progressed,” she said, “and one afternoon I told him so.”
“Oh,” I said. I confess I had then to suppress a smile, and I turned away from my sister so that she could not see this effort. “I am sorry that this has happened to you,” I said. “I trust you will be able to put all your sadness behind you now that you are in a new world.”
“And do you suppose,” she asked, “that there is any life for Karen Christensen here on this dreadful island?”
“I am sure there must be,” I said.
“Then you, Maren, are possessed of an optimism I cannot share.”
And with that, she made a fluttering motion with her hand, a motion I knew well, which dismissed me from her bedroom.
For a time, Karen was my companion during the days when John was at sea, though I cannot say that this was an easy or comfortable companionship, as Karen had grown sorry for herself, and as a result, had become somewhat tedious and dull. She would sit at her spinning wheel and sing the very saddest of tunes, whilst I went about my domestic chores in her presence. I did not like constantly to ask for information about Evan, as Karen had a curious way of regarding me when I did, which always made the blood come into my face, and so I would sometimes have to sit for hours in her company to catch one casual word of my brother, which she gave only sparingly. Sometimes I believe she deliberately withheld information about Evan, and at other times I could see that she was pleased to reveal a confidence I hadn’t shared with my brother. These are harsh things to say about one’s sibling, but I believe them to be true. When one night I could bear it no longer, and I blurted out to her that I believed in my heart that Evan would eventually join John and me in America, she laughed