—
In the kitchen,a woman stands on a footstool, shoving a piece of cloth into a large vat of blue dye. She’s maybe forty, with Asian heritage—third-generation Japanese American, I later learn. Like Meer, a slim build. Even in a high ponytail, her black hair nearly reaches her waist. She’s pretty, with feathery eyebrows and color in her cheeks, an elegant neck. She wears work boots and a sleeveless blue dress underneath an enormous blue apron.
The kitchen floor is covered with canvas tarps. The large table is pushed against the wall. The wooden counters are worn, as if they see a lot of use.
A number of clotheslines have been strung up through the room. Blue-dyed pants, T-shirts, sweaters, and curtains hang, dripping. Buckets and bowls underneath are meant to catch the drips.
“Matilda is here,” says Meer to the woman. “Matilda, this is June. My mother.”
“Thank you so much for having me,” I say.
June keeps looking into the vat, wrangling her fabric. Her hands are stained with blue dye. She has calluses on her fingers and her nails are clipped short. “Meer,” she says. “What did we decide about having people over this summer?”
Heat rises to my face. June didn’t know I was coming.
And they’ve clearly made some kind of family rule not to have visitors.
“Kingsley invited her,” Meer explains.
June stops with the fabric and looks up. “He did? Like a while ago? Or do you mean he invited her just now?”
“A couple days ago,” I clarify.
“She’s going to stay in Parchment Tower,” says Meer.
“She’ssleepinghere?” June doesn’t mask her irritation, but she’s returned her eyes to the vat of indigo fabric, stirring it as they talk. “Meer, be logical.”
“He asked me to set up the Iron Room. It’s all done.”
“No. That can’t…You can’t just ask some new friend to stay here and blame it on your father.”
“I told you, Kingsley invited her. But now he’s off-island,” says Meer.
“He did,” I say. “He emailed.”
“Iknowhe’s off-island,” says June.
“So we have to be welcoming and make up for his sloth or negligence or whatever.” Meer grins at her, like they’re sharing a family joke.
“Meer,” she says.
“What?”
“You’re a very challenging peanut sometimes.”
“Be mad at Kingsley, not at me,” Meer says, laughing. “And be good to her like you are to Brock. You’re great and kind and a wonderful mama with a big heart. I know you are, really, so you don’t need to act grouchy.”
For the first time, June looks up from her work to examine me. As her eyes meet mine, she stops stirring the indigo vat. “Oh,” she says, light dawning in her eyes. “You’re Kingsley’s child.”
15
No more wordson the subject are exchanged between them. Without any trace of her former irritation, June begins explaining that the enormous vat on the stove, which covers several burners, contains an indigo dye. She’s running an “offering” next week at the West Tisbury crafts market. She’ll bring the dye in a smaller vat on a hot plate. There will be clotheslines, tie-dye supplies, and so forth. For a donation, people can come and dye whatever they’d like. Today is a test run.
She hands me an apron. It’s made of white cotton and her hands stain it blue where she touches it. I take off my cream-colored henley and put on the apron over my black tank. Meer ties an apron on himself as well. It hangs over his shorts and looks like a dress. He redoes the elastic that secures his long hair on top of his head.
I begin as June instructs me, by squeezing blue water from fabrics over the sink, twisting them and wringing them. Then they go in another bath to set for a bit. After that, they must be wrung again and hung to dry.
“I could use the clothes dryer,” explains June. “But it’ll stain blue. And anyway, I like to see the color change as the fabric dries.”
