Beneficence

  beneficence

  Published in 2020 by

  David R. Godine, Publisher

  Boston, Massachusetts

  www.godine.com

  Copyright 2020 © by Meredith Hall

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, please write to the address above.

  library of congress cataloging-in-publication data

  Names: Hall, Meredith, 1949- author.

  Title: Beneficence : a novel / Meredith Hall.

  Description: 1st. | Boston : David R. Godine, Publisher, [2020] |

  Identifiers: lccn 2020019029 |

  isbn 9781567926699 (hardcover) |

  isbn 9781567926750 (ebook)

  Classification: lcc ps3608.a5474 b46 2020 | ddc 813/.6--dc23

  lc record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020019029

  To my children

  Alstead, Maine

  part one

  ...............................

  before

  I have loved, O Lord, the beauty of thy house

  and the place where dwelleth thy glory.

  Psalm 26:8

  [ 1947 ]

  Doris

  Every morning, early, when Tup and I get up to start our chores, the whole house still quiet and the children asleep, I turn and pull the bed together, tugging at the sheets to make them tight and smooth. They are warm with our heat. I slide my hand across the place my husband slept, drawing the blankets up and closing in the warmth, like a memory of us, until night comes when we will lie down together again.

  Our room has big windows on the back of the house, looking out on the near pasture and the creek running through it. It is very nice to stand first thing every morning looking out over the land. The trees along the hayfields look like ghosts some summer mornings when the ground fog hugs the warm earth. And then the mist slowly drifts up and away, so that, by the time I am doing breakfast dishes, the sun makes sharp shadows of the fence wire, like long neat stitches binding us to this place. Tup and I have enough sense to know that we are blessed people.

  You cannot know what will come. Once, when Sonny and Dodie were just toddlers, both of them locked themselves in the milk room by mistake. Tup was busy in the north pasture. I could hear the tractor in the distance working—that must have been the year he bought the new tractor, 1938—and I was the one who was supposed to keep an eye on the children. I always did. I learned as soon as Sonny was born that when you have a child your own life diminishes to just about nothing, and willingly so. Growing up, you are so full of dreams of what your life will be and how you will use all those years that sit like a promise, and always it is you at the center. And then you get married and those dreams change, but still you have big ideas about it all—maybe the farm will extend or you will have enough money to take the train to Sarasota one winter or you will be paid by folks to cut and sew dresses and skirts you’ve learned how to copy from the magazines.

  We can’t ever know what will come. You meet a man and marry him and find out whether you made a good choice or not. If you did, you love each other and work hard, and then you have your first baby and whatever it was you ever dreamed about changes the first time you hold him and feed him and watch him study your face. Sonny came when I was nineteen years old and I forgot forever any of those things I had ever thought I wanted. I felt as if I were God, making such a good world for our children. When Sonny came, and then Dodie, and later Beston, I was willing to leave the life Tup and I had and let my children take that place. I am more than willing.

  So that morning the children were out back with me while I hung out the clothes. This was before Beston was born, and about the last year before we got the washer. I heated water on the woodstove in the kitchen and lugged it out to the back dooryard and did the washing on the pump platform. The kids liked laundry day. It was all play for them, dipping little cups into the water and pouring it out on the dry gravel. On a warm morning, you could watch the water disappear like a stain from cloth. I pumped cold water for rinsing and poured it into the tub, and Sonny and Dodie would beg me to dump some over their heads, with them shrieking and running away. It was a game we played every laundry day all summer. The kids would get soaked and muddy, so it was all a good morning for them.

  Well, that day they got bored, I guess, and wandered off without my realizing. I never even noticed they were gone. I had carried the basket of wrung clothes over to the lines and was pinning them up when I suddenly heard nothing but the breeze rustling the wet cloth, and the soft sound of the distant tractor. Like a terrible dream, your worst dream—that moment of inattention when you had forgotten for one minute that you were the mother, the one whose single purpose it was to keep your children safe, and that awful silence that jolted you back. I remember feeling so helpless, as if I couldn’t fix this no matter what I might do. I ran to the kitchen door and then back to the pump and then turned toward the noise of the tractor so far off in the field, as if Tup could pluck my children out of the air. I needed Tup to give me a shake and tell me to think. And then I was back inside myself again and I could say, They can’t have gotten to the creek yet so wherever they are they are all right. After that it was just a story like all mothers have, that cold fear when your child takes off from your sight for just long enough to scare you into thinking you have lost him forever, and you know you are a terrible mother who cannot keep your children safe.

  I called and called, “Sonny! Dodie!” turning slowly in place so my voice would carry across the whole yard, and then I heard Sonny’s little yell from the milk room, “Mumma! Mumma!” As scared as I was, I heard the panic children feel when they have moved beyond the reach of their mother’s protection.

  “I’m coming. I’m coming!” I called, running to the barn. “You silly ducks! Where are you?” I called in a false and cheerful voice to reassure them and to dispel the terror that had caught me, to assert that this was just an incident, a small event Tup and I would laugh over with relief when we shared supper.

  I could hear the door to the milk room rattle, and when I lifted the latch and pushed the door open, my children pressed their tearful faces into my apron, their arms clasped around my legs, the sweet animal smell of fresh milk tumbling out the door around us. “My silly ducks,” I said, stroking their tight little shoulders and hair wet from our laundry-day game. “It’s all right.” But I still remember the sound of my cries out into that sudden silence, and of Tup’s tractor off in the north pasture, so far away.

  Tup is very smart. He keeps a beautiful dairy farm. He works harder than any man I know and can still come to the table at night ready to tease his children with his jokes and listen to their chatter. It’s a magic he has, this energy to love the land and love his family, this intelligence, this big personality that makes people notice him. He creates something around himself I can’t describe, something that draws people to him, makes them want him, want to be with him, want his attention and his affection. Tup has a fire that burns in him that I have never known in any other person.

  He is a tall man, with long legs and arms and fingers and toes. He is so thin I am sure people in town think I don’t feed him enough. It’s that fire, I think, burning so hot that nothing will ever feed it enough to let a little flesh stick to his bones. He is a graceful man, for all the hard work he does. He tells me not to say that about him, that a man doesn’t want to be graceful. But I think he likes it, and likes that I watch him move. That is the first thing I ever noticed about him the day I met him, the way his body hangs together
so loose and easy. He was twenty years old, and I was only eighteen, just graduating that spring from school. My parents and I lived in town in Colebrook, in the hills west of Portland, in the neat little house on Clay Street. Tup was a student at the state college in Claremont studying engineering. My cousin, Fred Canton, kept telling me he knew a fellow at school I should meet, so Fred and I concocted a plan for them to stop by my father’s store one day after school when I would be working. Nothing about it felt like a coincidence, though, and we all stood around looking at our feet.

  Then my father called me to help a customer and I turned to Tup and said, “Well, it was very nice to meet you.”

  And he blurted out, “I’d like to stop by again on Saturday.”

  After he left I kept trying to bring Tup into my mind. The one thing I kept seeing was his grace. His hair was jet black. Sometimes it would slip over his eyes and he would reach up and push it out of the way, the tendons in his wrist and arm tight against the skin. His eyes were blue, clear and shining. Sonny got those eyes. And Tup’s big mind that keeps everyone wanting to be near him.

  We knew right away that it was just right and we got married on a hot sunny day in August at the Methodist church. That was in 1933, a hard time for anyone to start a life. We rented an apartment on Benton Hill in Claremont that fall. Tup was a good student, and a very quick study. His father paid for Tup’s schooling, the oldest son. The farm was a dying enterprise by then, after thriving in the hands of five generations of Senters. The Depression hit the farms in Maine very hard. No one could get any kind of money for milk or meat or vegetables. Everything was barter, and barter didn’t pay the taxes or put a new roof on the house. Tup’s father had saved all his life to send his first son to college. The younger boys would stay on the place when they grew up if they wanted to, but it was a real gift Dad Senter wanted to give to Tup—freedom from the farm.

  Dad Senter was a good man, but he was not a happy or satisfied man, nothing like Tup. He was gruff and short-tempered. I think he was just tired. His wife died when Tup was only eleven, just the age Dodie is now. Dad was left with four children and two hundred thirty-six acres of land he couldn’t get to produce a cent. It was too much work, too much worry with no one to take up part of the load. Tup insists his father wasn’t always so grim. He remembers his mother and father laughing at the kitchen table. He has no memory of what their pleasure was, but carries still a sense of that real joy children feel when their parents are joined in a separate happiness. That would have been right here in this kitchen, at this same old table. Hard for me to realize that. All the generations that have lived in this house. All the words said that should never have been uttered, all the laughter, the births and the deaths.

  After Dad was left alone, he came to hate the farm. All he wanted was for Tup to get away from it. Tup may have been the only boy in all of Alstead who went off to school at that time. He was going to be an engineer for the state, planning all the new bridges and roads the government was building. Tup, I think, loved the farm, but maybe only in the way children love home, every detail sweet and nostalgic just because it belonged to childhood. He certainly knew what it meant to work like a man, even when he was little. Dad asked a lot of all four children after his wife died. It was unhappy work, real drudgery, with nothing working right, everything breaking with age and overuse. Not enough hours in the day. Dad wanted one thing: for Tup, at least one of his sons, to have work that didn’t break him.

  Tup knew what that cost his father in cash and in lost labor, and he took his studies very seriously. He read until late every night, taking notes in his big, bold, up and down handwriting. We had a plan. When Tup was finished in two more years, I’d go to school myself and prepare to teach. It was a happy time for us, in spite of the Depression and Tup’s long hours and both of us living away from home. I worked doing filing for the Chipman Agency. We had our first home, and it was enough for me to fix it up and cook good food for my skinny husband at the end of the day. And then Dad Senter died that first winter we were married. Tup’s brothers told him there was no more money for school. They weren’t willing. He had nearly two more years to go and couldn’t figure out any way to pay for it. So he went back to the farm. He made his claim as the oldest son and took over the whole place. His brothers didn’t complain. They split between them the money Dad had intended for Tup’s education, giving nothing to their sister, May, and they left. So Tup and I suddenly owned a dairy farm with no hands to help out. And we had a big surprise that spring—Sonny was on his way.

  Those first few years were hard, there’s no question about it. It was a big change for me, after growing up in town. I think I speak for both of us when I say that we have been very happy here. That we have come to love this place. Of course, Tup has brought the place back to life so it’s easy to be happy here.

  I was talking about Tup’s grace. We’ve been here for thirteen years now. Tup works hard every day of the week. And still he walks like a boy, all loose and easy. Still I love to watch him. When he sits, he crosses his long legs at the knee and sits back, his arm across his lap, his fingers working together at the tips. He is a beautiful man. And for all that work, his smile flashes like a light. Like a spark from that fire inside he stokes so hot.

  Our children all like to read books. Tup has been determined about that. And I can see that somehow each of them has that fire inside that their father has. I don’t know if it was inherited or they just somehow were ignited by Tup, like sparks jumping across gaps in a wildfire. But it is lovely to see, for Tup and for me. I live with people who seem bigger than the world. I hope that a little bit of that fire has found its tinder in me.

  Good work has drawn this place from the battered, has-been place it was during those hard years to the place it is now. It is a handsome farm, but simple. The house is quite big, with four bedrooms upstairs and the big kitchen downstairs, and in the front, the dining room we never use and the front room where we sit in the evening. It’s a lived-in house. You can tell that a lot of generations have made their lives here. The wood floors are dented and scratched, and so smooth and dark from a hundred years of feet and scrubbing they look like soft old shoes. When I moved here in 1933, the place was clean but so dreary. Everything needed paint, the wallpaper was yellowed and peeling, the ceilings were smudged with soot from the woodstoves. I was pretty discouraged at first. I taught myself fast how to scrape and paint the wood trim and hang wallpaper. Tup did the ceilings. By the time Sonny came, we had a good room waiting for him, and our room was done, and all the rooms downstairs. I got to Dodie’s room just in time for her to come, and Beston went in with Sonny.

  Those were busy years. My arms and legs shook with the wobbles at the end of each day, a nursing baby and all the farm chores and the house and cooking and not enough sleep for Tup or me. You forget between babies how hard it is. But we felt good about the farm. The house was a home again. Tup says to me once in a while, “You make a nice house, Miss Doris.” It makes me proud and satisfied. He’s right. I make a very nice house. I am a good wife.

  The big round table and chairs in the middle of the front room are scratched and worn with such long use, but the children and Tup do their projects there in the evening and are comfortable. I reupholstered the sofa and chairs, and I get Tup to help me lay the rug out in a good snowstorm once every winter so the snow can work it clean. The furniture is what we inherited when we moved in, so it’s old, but Tup is attached to it and I don’t care as long it’s polished and dusted.

  Somehow Tup finds the time to keep white paint on the clapboards and green on the doors and window trim, house and barn. The house is nice from the front. There are two big elms Tup’s great-great-grandfather planted when he settled the farm in 1834, one on each side of the walkway that comes in off the road. That was tradition, planting two trees, and you see it still at all the old farms. It was to welcome the bride and the groom, two people, as they walked to the do
or of their new home. The trees tower over the house now and keep it shaded from the sun in the summer. I’ve always told the children that the elms are like guardians, protecting us from harm. Although there are a lot of farms with old elms sheltering them that have sons and husbands who never came home from the war, so maybe there’s nothing that can keep us from that kind of trouble. My mind can’t approach such thoughts.

  On the north side is the porch, screened in against the mosquitoes and midges that can make you crazy on a spring morning or evening. It’s cool and dark there on a hot day. Once the warm nights come, we move from the front room to the porch and watch the fireflies over the fields, tiny green lights that blink on and off. Beston likes to walk through the grass with a coffee can and catch them. He brings them onto the porch and lets them go. They fly straight to the screens, trying to get back out to the open land. They seem a bit forlorn to me as they blink on and off, like a distress signal to the ones still outside, but the children only see the magic of it. Tup doesn’t explain to them how everything in the world works. He lets them just look and dream. The truth is never as interesting as what we imagine.

  And running back off the kitchen is the shed, and beyond that, the outhouse. We have electric now and plumbing in the kitchen, but we have never built a real bathroom in the house. It just hasn’t seemed necessary. Tup plumbed water to a good bathtub in the shed by the kitchen door and that’s where we take our baths. The hot water comes from the copper tank behind the cookstove, so there’s always plenty. And Tup and I keep the outhouse sparkling clean and fresh, dug out and limed and painted shiny white, not smelly and frightening like the old outhouse that was here. We never even think of it. The school in town, in fact, still has boys’ and girls’ outhouses. Lots of schools do. Dodie has learned that people feel good in a pleasant house, and sometimes, all on her own, she picks flowers and puts them in the house, maybe on the kitchen table or my little sewing table in the front room. And sometimes she picks a few little sprigs of violets or forget-me-nots and puts them on the bench in the outhouse.