The Village by the Sea by Paula Fox Page B

bottle,” she said to Bertie. “They had a big fight about it.”
    Bertie nodded as though she knew all about that. Emma supposed she did. By now, they knew each other’s feelings about Aunt Bea. They didn’t talk about her much. When they did, Emma didn’t feel uneasy as she had at first. In fact, it was a relief. Yesterday, she had mentioned to Bertie how Aunt Bea only looked really happy when she was watching a television program.
    Bertie had said, “Granny thinks she’s usually happy when she’s watching all her enemies.”
    â€œWho are her enemies?” Emma had asked.
    â€œOh—everybody,” Bertie had said vaguely. “Everybody out there in the world.”
    Remembering that, Emma said, “Your Granny must really hate her.” They were gathering round stones for the library.
    â€œOh, no,” Bertie said. “She thinks she’s funny. But she said she supposed she wouldn’t find her so funny if she had to live with her.”
    â€œWe could use a horseshoe crab for the church,” Emma suggested. “Its tail would make a good spire.”
    They couldn’t find a horseshoe crab so Bertie said they could build a Greek temple for people to go into and be quiet for a while. “That’s a good idea,” Emma said, “and we can use sticks for columns and one of those flat, slatey stones for the roof.”
    They set off on a search. Emma wasn’t cranky anymore. She was thinking only of what they might find, half-buried in the sand, waiting to be discovered.
    On Friday, Aunt Bea was alone when Emma went to the house to get a glass of milk. She insisted Emma look at some things of hers she had been saving for a surprise.
    Moving heavily, panting a little, she led Emma up the stairs to one of the rooms Emma had looked into. Inside it was the old-fashioned trunk.
    â€œIt’s from the Civil War,” Aunt Bea said proudly. “It belonged to my great-grandfather who was an officer, of course. See his initials? K.B.? And here are spots of melted wax from the candles he stuck on it so he could write letters to his wife, whom he adored. Now …” and she flung open the lid. A smell of must and age, of old cloth, filled Emma’s nostrils. Her eyes widened at the quantity of laces and silks, frail as moths’ wings, that billowed up.
    Aunt Bea stared at her triumphantly. “These marvelous things belonged to his wife,” she said. “Look at the tiny stitches! Look!” She held up a garment whose seams were nearly invisible. “No machine could do that,” Aunt Bea said. She picked up a large fan, opened it, fluttered it in front of her face and peered over it at Emma. “This is beyond price,” she said. “Irreplaceable!” Reverently, she put back what she’d taken from the trunk.
    â€œYour grandmother tried to steal this,” she said harshly. “But I wouldn’t let her. This trunk is my one triumph!”
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” Emma said desperately, feeling she might not get out of the room with its dry ghost smell of clothes, the possession of a vanished woman, the trunk sitting there like a tomb. Anger had pinched Aunt Bea’s face. Her eyes narrowed as she looked in a corner of the room as though the person who had enraged her was standing there, visible only to her.
    Suddenly she smiled, not turning her head. “I suppose you want to get back to your mud pies with old Bert,” she said scornfully.
    Emma started to protest that they weren’t making mud pies, that “old Bert” was Bertie, tall and thin and sweet. But she said nothing. She had suddenly noticed that Aunt Bea was wearing not one but two of the old robes she had found in the thrift shop and the buckles were missing from the sandals on her feet. Her face was flushed as though she’d been running. Maybe she didn’t drink brandy anymore, but something in her mind was