“Why, hello, Polly,” he said, and ducked his head, remembering that she was Mrs. Boynton now, and that he had no right to be so familiar. Oliver had spent part of one winter in school with her. Four years his senior, she’d helped him with his letters and numbers, and she hadn’t forgotten her manners around him. He’d heard that she married a widower from Riverview last summer. “You back for a visit?” he asked.
Polly shook her head.
“No?”
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“Mr. Boynton died last week,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” said Oliver, and took off his hat.
“I’m not.”
She was much changed from the pretty, well-dressed girl he remembered. This Polly was pale, her eyes swollen, and her blonde hair lay lank and tangled on a dirty collar.
“You staying here now?” Oliver asked.
“Nowhere else for me to go.”
Oliver knew that wasn’t so. There were plenty of Wharfs living near the harbor, even a few rich ones with daughters close to Polly’s age.
“I’m better off here,” she said.
“Aw, now.”
They both studied their shoes for a while.
Unable to think of anything else to say, Oliver
shrugged. “I better go.”
She nodded.
“Would it be . . . I mean,” he stammered, “could I come by to see you sometime?”
Polly’s red-rimmed eyes were so full of gratitude, Oliver thought he’d bawl if he didn’t take off.
“All right then,” he said and hurried off, trying to remember everything he could about Polly. She used to blush crimson whenever the teacher had asked her to recite. And she’d been gentle in correcting Oliver’s mistakes on the slate. Once she’d given him a whole biscuit, cold and hard, but smeared with enough bacon fat to make it eat like a whole meal.
He’d only learned about her marriage to Caleb Boynton after it happened, as had everyone else: not even Tammy knew about it in advance. She’d bet on December for the
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baby, Easter chose January, but neither of them turned out to be right. In fact, Polly had grown thinner, and now Boynton was dead. A man of fifty years or more, he was almost old enough to be Polly’s grandfather, but not quite old enough to be dead. Oliver puzzled over Polly all the way home, where everything seemed quiet.
Tammy was probably asleep, and he was suddenly taken with the idea of sneaking inside, putting the blankets over her face, and pressing down hard enough and long enough for it to be over. He’d empty the larder and eat until he couldn’t swallow another bite. Then he’d take whatever was worth selling—some tools and the knives at least—and head for Riverdale. Steal a rowboat, make his way to Salem and then on to Boston.
It was an old fantasy, but it had never before seemed so easy. He’d sell the tools and buy a suit of clothes. Sleep in a bed at a real inn. Buy passage for New York or Canada. He could get away with it, too.
Oliver’s heart raced at the idea, even though he knew he didn’t have it in him. As much as he hated Tammy, he had never been able to kill so much as a chicken; even fishing made him feel wrong with the world. He would never be able to do murder. That’s what those fellows must have meant when they called him a Dogtown pussy. He was weak as a kitten, all right.