Barbara flipped to the last page of her manuscript and read. “When the sun again tinged the sky with color, a flock of butterflies—of purple and gold and green—came swooping and alighted on her head in a circle, the largest in front. Others came in myriads and covered her dress with delicate wing touches. Eepersip held out her arms a moment. A gold-and-black one alighted on each wrist. And then she rose into the air, and, hovering an instant over a great laurel bush, vanished.”
Barbara slid the sheet back under the stack.
Sabra grabbed the pages. “Where are pictures? I want pictures.”
Barbara tugged the manuscript out of her hand. “Long stories don’t need pictures, silly. They paint them with words.”
Since Helen and Wilson had fought, she’d done little but fret about it. She tried to tell him it wasn’t fair—not consulting her before entertaining a new position. Instead of apologizing, he’d mounted all manner of justifications: The new house had completely drained the family savings; he couldn’t expect to earn much more at Yale University Press; and, my God, was she oblivious to the honor done him? “For Christ’s sake,” he said, “it’s Alfred A. Knopf.” But she persisted with her complaint, and he finally agreed he’d discuss any offer with her before accepting it.
Sabra squirmed, trying to escape the chair. “I want my Dream Coach book.”
Barbara restrained her little sister. “First, I’ll tell you another secret. After Daddy starts his new job, he’s going to see if Mr. Knopf will publish my novel.”
Helen froze in the middle of folding a towel. “Did Daddy say when he’s starting his new job?”
“In a month or two,” said Barbara.
My God, he’d already accepted the position. And he had the nerve to tell her not to get ahead of herself. His promise to discuss any offer with her before taking it was nothing more than a deceitful, argument-ending ploy. Would they need to sell their new house on short notice and find a home in New York? And if he decided to take the train back and forth, he’d be gone most of the day.
She felt like a spinning top knocked off balance—forced to set aside her writing and again burdened with managing another of Wilson’s disruptions. She should have foreseen this cavalier and dismissive side of him. There’d certainly been signs early on. When they first met, he’d spoken about his position at Dartmouth in that haughty manner intended to impress. And, during their first year of marriage, he’d complained endlessly about his department chair ordering him not to smoke in the classroom, an order he refused to follow.
Still, she’d been taken in by his intellect and impressive knowledge of literature and writers. Heaven knows he wasn’t handsome—gangly, of middling height, and slight in the shoulders. But his face had intrigued, even intimidated: the broad, aristocratic forehead, thick arching eyebrows, and brooding lower lip. He’d told her he admired her keen grasp of Jack London and Ford Madox Ford, and she’d been fool enough to swoon when he flattered. So now she could only take his arrogance in stride and comfort herself with the knowledge that he was a good father. Barbara, at least, felt nothing but admiration and adoration for him.
CHAPTER SIX
BARBARA AT TWELVE
New Haven, February–March 1927
When her father stepped through the door, Barbara flew at him, waving sheets of paper. “Look what came in the mail—The Saturday Review write-up.”
“Whoa,” he said, shucking off his overcoat. “Have you read it yet?”
“Just once.”
“Let me get changed. Then we can all look at it together.” Her father removed his hat and hung it on the hook over his coat. He bent over and kissed her forehead. “How are you, sport?”
“I’m good, Daddy. Glad your train was on time.” Her father took the train to New York every day because he held a prestigious editor position with Alfred A. Knopf.
He asked, “Where’s your mother?”
“Upstairs, making the beds.”
He stepped toward the stairs. “I’ll tell your mother to come down. You get your grandma.”
They all gathered around the dining room table, Barbara sitting beside her father and Grandma Ding and her mother across the table, with Sabra nestled on her mother’s lap.
Barbara spread the sheets out in front of her father.
He read the first line. “‘A strange, delightful, and lovely book, indeed.’”
She sat quietly beside her father, studying his expression.
“I love this part about Eepersip,” Barbara said, pointing at the first column and reading. “‘But she was not a child who could be contented easily. She packed a small lunch basket and ran away to an open glade on the upper slopes of Mount Varcrobis, and the first things she saw in the glade were a doe and her daisied fawn. In literature, as distinguished from the mass production of books, it is the happy gift for putting things like that that makes all the difference. Barbara knows this quite well.’”
Her mother grasped Sabra’s hands, and together they clapped. Sabra unleashed an excited “Yeeeee!”
“Daisied fawn,” said her father. “It is one of the loveliest phrases in the book.”
Her father hunched over the lines, and Barbara mimicked his pose.
“And here he tries to sum it all up,” said her father. He recited: “‘It tells of one little girl’s escape from the tiresome world of grown-up mechanisms and compromises. Eepersip went outdoors and stayed there. This, obviously, was her world, and she saw no reason why she should be asked to give it up. To submit to recapture was unthinkable.’”
Grandma Ding knit her hands over her knee and asked her, “Does Eepersip really want to run away, dear?”
Barbara paused a moment. Her grandma always worried about Eepersip being lonely. “Oh, yes, she was happy to escape. She truly loved nature and was happier there than in any other place. Each time she met a new animal or saw a new mountain or meadow, that became her joy, and she never regretted leaving behind the last wonder once she found a new one.”
Barbara took up the next page and nudged it in front of her father.
“It ends quite poignantly,” he said, picking up the page. “May I?”
Smiling impishly, Barbara nodded.
Her father read, “‘There are moments when, for one reader, this book grows almost unbearably beautiful. It becomes an ache in his throat. Weary middle age and the clear delicacy of a dawn-Utopia beckoning: The contrast sharpens to pain.’”
Her father smiled at her. “I’m proud of you, Barbara. Damn proud.”
Barbara reached for another clipping and slid it toward him. “Let’s look at the New York Times review again.”
“All right,” said her father, adopting a lecturer’s tone. “It’s lengthy, so I’ll just read the highlights.”
He cleared his throat. “‘What is most remarkable in the story of nine-year-old Barbara Follett’s heroine is that recourse is never once made to this order of fairy folk. From the moment of her escape on the foothills of Mount Varcrobis to the last line of the book, Eepersip is the protagonist of her own adventure. The feeling of liberation can grow at times to something very like ecstasy.’”
Her father looked up and winked at her mother. “He’s captured the essence of our wild child, hasn’t he?”
Her mother said, “Probably better than he knows.”
Barbara tapped her fingertips together. “Read some more, Daddy.”
Her father scanned the page. “‘Barbara Follett may live and write to 90. But she will never give us the flight of sea birds more truly and vividly than in these dozen and a half words she wrote at the time: “Strong, narrow wings beat down the air as the birds rose again, to hover and swoop and plunge.” Beat down the air for the motion of a hovering gull is more than an adequate phrase. It is the inevitable word upon which so many words have been spent.’
“I couldn’t be more pleased, Barbara,” he said. “You took my editing to heart and molded your creation into a superb story.”
Her mo
ther rushed in. “You have a gift for description as good as any accomplished writer, Bar. You’ve learned your lessons well.”
Barbara noticed her mother glaring at her father. Uh-oh, Mother was jealous again. Barbara looked at her mother. “Will you read the ending, Mother?”
“Of course.” Her mother reached across the table and took up the newspaper. “‘There can be few who have not at one time or another coveted the secret, innocent, and wild at the same time, of a child’s heart. And here is little Miss Barbara Follett, holding the long-defended gate wide open and letting us enter and roam at our will over the enchanted ground.’”
Holding his head high, her father said, “Author Barbara Newhall Follett has arrived.”
“And the credit is all hers,” said her mother.
Her father turned to her and raised a finger. “But you mustn’t linger over any one success, my dear. You must look ahead, consider what you’ll do next.”
“I know, Daddy. My pirate poem is up to 27 stanzas. And I’m drawing a map to go with it.”
Her mother said, “You needn’t worry about what to do next, Bar. You’ve plenty of time for more stories.”
“Well, now,” her grandma said, “I happen to enjoy your Princess Verbiny stories. I hope you’ll write more of those.”
Barbara looked from her mother to her father. “For my pirate poem, I really must sail on a square-rigger—to get it just right. May I?”
Daddy said, “That’s up to your mother.”
“I don’t know, Barbara.” Her mother rubbed the back of her neck. “Let me think about it.”
✭
On a Saturday morning, three weeks later, Barbara’s father summoned her to his study. She seated herself in his oversized upholstered chair, crossed one leg over the other, and ticked a foot.
He planted his forearms on the desk and braced himself over them. “Mr. Knopf has sent me a comment and review of your book by Anne Carroll Moore in the New York Herald Tribune.”
“Why didn’t he send it to me?”
“I imagine he wanted me to decide whether to show it to you.”
Barbara sat upright, her hands folded on her lap. “Why would you not show it to me?”
“Because it’s not 100 percent positive.”
“That’s no reason to keep it from me.”
“Yes, that’s how I see it, which is why I’m giving it to you.” He swept the newspaper page off his desk and handed it to her.
Barbara perched forward in the chair and read. “Well, it says here, ‘I have only words of praise for the story itself. The House Without Windows is exquisite.’”
Her father thumped a palm on his desk. “I challenge anyone to say otherwise.”
Barbara’s eyes darted over the columns, reading as fast as she could. “Oh, I see now.”
“Which part?”
“Where she says, ‘I can think of no greater handicap for the writer between the ages of nineteen and thirty-nine than to have published a successful book between the ages of nine and twelve.’
“How ridiculous.” Barbara looked to her father with steely eyes. “How can she predict my future?”
He grinned. “This purported expert obviously has no acquaintance with one Barbara Follett.”
Barbara bent over the sheet and read on. Rattling the paper, she said, “She thinks I ought to be out playing with other children and enjoying playgrounds and backyards. Instead of growing up burdened by early fame.”
“And what do you make of that?”
“It’s foolishness. My book is full of joy. I made my own happiness, right there on the page.”
“You know, you don’t have to write if you don’t want to. There are other things you can do.”
“You and Mother have always given me the freedom to do just as I wish, and that’s why I could type away for hours and write my book.”
“You don’t miss playing with other children?”
“I can play with other children whenever I choose. But they’re not nearly as good company as my other friends, like Mr. St. John at Lake Sunapee.”
“Yes, but he’s an adult.”
“Children can be silly. I can tell Mr. St. John about my nature discoveries and my writing and painting.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Yes, well, I wanted to be sure. But I see you’re quite certain yourself.”
“And, what’s more, I’m going to write to Mrs. Moore and tell her just what I think of her ridiculous notions.”
✭
Her father advised her not to just criticize in her letter. He said that the best editors always find something to praise, which helps the criticism wash down more easily. She thought that was excellent advice.
March 31, 1927
Dear Mrs. Moore,
First, I appreciate your flattering review of The House Without Windows, which, as you must know, concurs with all the other wildly complimentary reviews. And I don’t mind telling you I’ve received scores of letters from admiring readers who have thanked me for writing about Eepersip’s frolicking adventures and close escapes.
But I’m nothing less than startled at the claims you make in “When Children Become Authors.” You have judged my circumstances with no knowledge whatsoever of my parents or me. It’s insulting of you to imply my parents have tyrannized me. They have taught me, they have treated me like an equal, and they have brought cultured people into our home for conversation. It has all been highly educational and endlessly stimulating. They never pressured me to publish or even write a novel. I created the story of Eepersip and, entirely on my own, wrote it twice (because a fire destroyed the first draft). There’s no reason in the world I shouldn’t continue to produce novels for years to come. How you can predict my future is beyond me. I think you should refrain from spouting far-fetched conjecture and write what you’re supposed to write, book reviews.
With cordial wishes,
Barbara Follett
CHAPTER SEVEN
HELEN
New Haven, December 1927
Helen perched on her side of the bed, tapping her fingers on her knee tops and wondering how to begin. On their walk home from the neighborhood Christmas social, Wilson’s mood had veered from jovial to somber. He’d even recoiled when she reached for his hand.
She kept her back to Wilson as he undressed, but she could picture his expression—silent and self-absorbed, his brow furrowed, his eyes sullen, his jaw set hard. She dreaded facing him.
Clank, clank. She winced at him dropping his cuff links on the dresser. She knew he intended the clatter to signal her: Keep your distance. But she couldn’t tolerate this standoff any longer. She’d rather force the issue than endure this gnawing purgatory.
“Wilson,” she said, unbuttoning the sleeves of her dress and tempering her voice, “this arrangement isn’t working. Can we please talk about it?”
Fabric snapped. Wilson had flicked his shirt to whip out the wrinkles. “I don’t see how it can be otherwise.”
“You didn’t always spend weeks at a time in the city. Can’t you come home on Fridays, like you used to?”
“I have more responsibilities now. I don’t stop working on Friday. Or even on weekday evenings.” How steely his monotone sounded—as if he plied it as a shield.
“You could bring your work home.”
“It’s not that easy. There are calls to make. Meetings, lunches, even dinners.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. “Surely not on Saturdays and Sundays.”
He stood on his side of the bed, gripping his shirt by the collar. “Are you telling me how to do my job?”
“Of course not.” Patience, she told herself, keep your patience. “Can’t you at least think of Barbara? She misses you terribly.”
Wilson stood there, stoic as stone.
The two hot toddies she’d nursed during the party curdled in her stomach. Bitter bile surged up her gullet. She swallowed it down. “And Sabra’s old enough to miss her father. She’s even turned s
hy around you.”
“It has to be that way for now.”
My God, if his daughters’ distress didn’t budge him, could anything? Dread as heavy as chain metal descended on her. “Do you think I haven’t noticed you’re not keeping your suits here anymore? Not even your Florsheims?”
Wilson thrust his chin out. “What do I need them here for?”
She stopped up the words that came to her: Because you live here, you brute.
Turning away from his icy gaze, she tugged the Bakelite comb from her hair, letting its thick tresses drop. Her hair was the thing Wilson had most complimented her on—its chestnut-brown richness, the waves it expressed when freed. With the back of her hand, she pitched her hair over her shoulder. Of course, the gesture wouldn’t move him. Was there any way to reach him? She edged around the corner of the bed and faced him squarely. “Wilson, this is your home. The girls and I are your family.”
“I’ve been nothing less than a loving father. I’ve provided well for this family—and fostered Barbara’s writing.” Wilson wagged his head from side to side like a dismissive parent. He tramped to the closet and grabbed a hanger for his shirt. “Not that you don’t deserve the lion’s share of credit for her education.”
She certainly deserved the credit. Wasn’t she the one who taught Barbara to type? Didn’t she design the daily lessons she’d studied these many years? Hadn’t she schooled her in biology and calculus, French and Shakespeare? But that wasn’t the point.
She sighed and stared at the wall. The delicate green vines of the ivory wallpaper wrapped around teal poles as if to mock her with their frippery. How could she break out of this prison of unending argument? She wanted to feel the warmth of Wilson’s caress on winter nights. She wanted to hear him coo in her ear. She’d had none of that lately. In bed, he hugged the edge while she tentatively curled against his back. And the only emotion he seemed capable of showing her was irritability or, on occasion, anger. Trapped—that’s how she felt. Trapped in acrimony with her husband.
She slipped off her pump heels and massaged the cramp out of her foot. Wilson passed by her again, over to his side of the bed. She caught the trail of his scent—the stale smell of old smoke that clung to his clothes and hair, the sweeter scent of fresh tobacco, the musk of manly sweat. His smoking used to irritate her; now, she only wanted its familiarity to fill the room. Twisting around to face him, she asked, “Is it time for us to move to the city?”
The Point of Vanishing Page 3
