His gaze froze into a glare. “No, it is not.”
He’d moved the family several times: from Hanover to Providence in 1916; to New Haven in 1919; and, as the whim struck him, from one home to another—four different places just in New Haven. Each time, she set aside her writing projects, dutifully packed up the household, and resettled the family. She’d made only halting progress on her book about home educating, all because of the disruptions. And now he wouldn’t budge?
She unbuckled her hose and rolled them down her legs and over her ankles and feet. She stood, padded to her dresser, and placed her hosiery there. She watched Wilson unzip and slip out of his pants. He used to sleep in the nude, but nowadays, he wore his Topkis to bed. She pulled her dress up over her head and faced him. “Wilson, I love you. I want you with me.”
He shot her a begrudging glance. “You don’t act like it. All you do is nag.”
God, she was trying. She was trying as hard as she could. But all he did was blame her. “I can’t do it by myself. I don’t feel any sort of love or warmth from you. And I haven’t for months.”
“It’s a bad time. You can’t imagine the pressure I’m under.”
“How could I? You never tell me. I learned more about your job eavesdropping at the party than you’ve told me all year.”
“I don’t want to burden you.”
“Burden me? You’re shutting me out. And don’t deny it.”
He hissed, “Can’t you keep your voice down? You’ll wake the girls.”
“Can’t you be honest with me? Why don’t you come home on Fridays anymore? Are you part of this family or not?”
“Don’t push me, Helen. That’s the last thing you should do.”
“I shouldn’t push? But you can push me away? Do you call this a marriage?”
“That does it.” He grabbed his pillow. “I’m not putting up with this.”
“Don’t, Wilson, please. Can’t you just tell me you love me?”
“Damn you and your badgering,” he said, stomping out.
Oh, God, what was happening to her marriage?
CHAPTER EIGHT
BARBARA AT FOURTEEN
New Haven, March 1928
Barbara caught her mother’s eye across the table corner and shoved her father’s letter aside. “I’ve read it, Mother. I’ve read it twice, and I still can’t make sense of it.”
Her mother flopped back in her kitchen chair. “He’s beyond reason.”
“On the telephone, he told me to keep my shirt on, that everything would be all right.”
“What else can he say? He knows what he’s doing is wrong.”
“Then he’s a coward.” Barbara wished she could tell him so to his face. “How can I ever trust him again?”
Her mother reached out and patted her hand. “Yes, he’s betrayed you, betrayed all of us.”
“Miss Whipple is taking advantage of him. He’s exhausted from working too hard.”
“It’s beyond disgraceful. A forty-year-old taking up with a girl half his age.”
Barbara studied her mother—her intense mahogany-brown eyes, the solid, broad nose, and the comely dip at the middle of her top lip—features so like hers that strangers often remarked on the resemblance. Only now, her mother looked beaten down, her eyes glassy, shoulders slumped, and mouth droopy. For weeks she’d eaten little and cried at odd times. Whenever Barbara asked her what the matter was, she mumbled something about feeling lonely. But now that she’d read her father’s letter, Barbara knew the real reason: He’d asked her for a divorce.
Barbara said, “If only he’d come home and spend the summer with us. Or take us to Maine for a real vacation.”
Her mother shook her head. “He insists on staying in New York.”
“He claims to treasure the times we spent exploring.” Barbara had recorded all their outings, some in story form and others in letters she’d kept drafts of, tales of mountain treks in New Hampshire, a rip-roaring canoe ride down the Ossipee, and hikes around Lake Sunapee and through Maine’s woods. “But if he can kick those aside now, it’s as good as saying he never treasured them.”
“I know, dear, he’s upset your whole world.”
“He’s not himself—claiming my life has been a jumble of two persons poisonous and destructive to each other.”
“It’s like he declared war on me,” her mother said. “He simply refuses to listen to my side of things.”
“I won’t believe all my fourteen years have been that way. Except lately. And that’s because of her.”
“What a hold she must have over him. Only I don’t see how it can last.”
“Listen to what he says here.” Barbara peeled off the first two pages of the letter and read from the last page. “‘You’re the staunchest, most dauntless person I know, and I refer not only to children but adults as well. You have the pluck of Charles Lindbergh, and I count on you now more than ever. Your mother needs you, and Sabra needs you.’”
Her mother clamped her lips together and dropped her gaze.
Barbara slapped the letter down. “But that’s not fair. I need him, too. And there can’t be two of me.”
“I can hardly bear it—you and Sabra abandoned like this,” said her mother.
“I’m going to write him and point out the fallacies in his letter.”
The basement furnace lumbered to life, belching cold air through the register and chilling her ankles. At first, she’d been terribly excited about their modern and roomy two-story home. But without her father treading its halls, discussing his editing projects over dinner, or beckoning her from his office, a hollow stillness engulfed it. The solid floors creaked not one bit, and her mother’s voice and even Sabra’s squeals barely carried through doors or up and down the stairs.
Her mother threw an arm over her chair back. “Certainly, write to him if you wish.”
“I’ll tell him he must take up the anchor of our rudderless family again.”
“Perhaps you can get through to him.”
“I’ll never speak to him again if he insists on a divorce.”
“He’ll always be your father, even if he’s not . . .”
“Don’t say that, Mother. You mustn’t give him a divorce.”
Her mother tugged a corner of her mouth into a wan smile. “You’re so strong-willed, Bar. I love that about you.”
“I know just what I’m going to write: Do you really want to be a dastardly scoundrel? You must consider Sabra. She’ll drown in the vortex of misery you’re creating. Your shoulders are the strongest in the family, and we need your steady hand.”
After all, he was her father. She could speak honestly with him about anything and everything, and he’d always respected her opinion. She’d wrestle his attention away from that beastly Miss Whipple.
Barbara bounced her head in a sure nod. “I’ll tell him how irrational he’s being.”
✭
Two weeks later, Miss Whipple invited herself for a “private conversation” with her mother. Barbara begged her mother to let her stay home, so outraged was she by Miss Whipple’s audacity—visiting the very family she was tearing apart. But her mother insisted she and Sabra spend the afternoon with their neighbor, Mrs. Tyler.
Then, during Miss Whipple’s visit, her mother telephoned her at the Tylers’. “Barbara, Miss Whipple has asked to speak with you. But it’s completely up to you.”
Barbara paused not one bit. “Do you honestly think I’d turn down this chance?”
She hurried home and found Miss Whipple sitting stiff-backed on the sitting room sofa, ankles crossed, and gloved hands cupped over a knee. Such gall: Miss Whipple making herself at home on their velvet sofa, Barbara’s favorite reading spot. She refused to sit in her presence, nor would she utter the first word. She planted herself in a wide-legged stance across the room from Miss Whipple.
“I’ll just excuse myself,” said her mother, drifting up the stairs.
Miss Whipple wore a stylish burgundy dress an
d matching narrow-brimmed hat. “I’m sorry, Barbara, for all the upset,” she said. “I understand this is difficult for you.”
“I don’t need your sympathy.” Barbara crossed her arms. She was not impressed by Miss Whipple’s porcelain-pink complexion and stiffly coifed blond hair. And her perfume—some artificially sweet floral scent—had swamped the room. “Not when you’re behaving so dishonorably.”
“What I most want to tell you is I can make your father happy.”
“He has a family, you know. And we’ve all been quite content together.”
“What makes people happy changes. That’s what your mother and I’ve been discussing.”
“There’s no reason a happy family should change. I certainly haven’t changed. Nor has my mother.”
Miss Whipple folded her palms together and angled her head. “I’ve fallen in love with your father. And that pleases him very much.”
“Then you’d better fall out of love.” Barbara drew herself up to her full height and looked down on Miss Whipple. “He even forgot my birthday, which proves how much you’re distracting him with this so-called love.”
“Your father and I wish to marry.”
“What you’re doing is wrong and hurtful. Can’t you see that?”
“I can see it’s hurtful, and I’m sorry about that.” Miss Whipple wove her fingers into a prayerful pose. “Still, I’ve come to ask you and your mother to allow him to divorce.”
“I’m glad you see the wrong in what you’re doing, Miss Whipple.”
“Your mother has said she won’t grant a divorce. But it’s essential to your father’s happiness.”
“Well, he’s essential to my happiness. And Mother’s.”
“Your father and I want to build a future together. He won’t stay with your mother, but he’ll always love and cherish you.”
“I think it’s outrageous of you to barge in like this.”
“Love has its own ways, Barbara. You’ll understand better when you’re older.”
“Don’t treat me like a child. I know right from wrong.”
“Love isn’t right or wrong; it just is.”
Barbara clenched her fists. “Your authority on that subject is not what I’d call impeccable.”
Miss Whipple widened her eyes and dropped her jaw like she’d just swallowed a gob of cotton.
Through the picture window behind the sofa, Barbara spotted a taxi turning into their driveway. As it came nearer, its wheels crunched over the mash of gravel and snow. Miss Whipple had obviously planned her escape in advance. But Barbara wasn’t finished with her. “Do you have anything more to say for yourself, Miss Whipple?”
At the sound of the car, Miss Whipple twisted around, glanced out the window, and turned back to Barbara. “Your mother claims your life will be ruined if your father leaves. But I can see you’re a brilliant and strong-willed girl.”
“I can’t say how my life will turn out now, can I? But your plot to take my father away from us is despicable.”
Barbara heard her mother stepping down the stairs. She’d probably been listening all along, which was fine with Barbara. Let her mother hear exactly what she’d said to this impudent creature.
Miss Whipple cupped her hands over her knees as she looked to her mother. “Barbara’s been giving me some advice.”
Her mother leaned against the bottom stair post. “Are you surprised? You’re trying to steal her father and closest companion.”
Miss Whipple stood. “Well, I’ve said all I wished to say.”
“I haven’t.” Barbara stiffened her arms at her sides. “If I were doing the vile thing you’re doing, I wouldn’t visit this family and act so very unashamed of myself.”
“Yes, you’ve made yourself clear. And I see my taxi has arrived.”
Her mother said, “I’m sorry you couldn’t meet my darling Sabra, but I do hope you’ll take Wilson’s children into consideration.”
Barbara’s blood had reached a boil, and she blurted, “Goodbye, Miss Whipple. I will swear about you after you’ve left.”
“I’ll say good day, then.” Miss Whipple held her head high as if she were the queen taking her leave and walked out. Barbara watched her open the taxi door and swivel into the back seat.
Her mother came up beside her and draped a hand over her shoulder. “She’s a nervy thing, isn’t she?”
Barbara stared at the gaudy yellow taxi backing out of their driveway. “Damn her. What did you tell her, Mother?”
“Oh, a great many things. That she ought to think very carefully about what she’s doing. And that it’s not her place to ask me to give your father a divorce.”
“How insolent of her to claim Daddy as hers. I’m going to write and tell him how brazen and impudent she was.”
CHAPTER NINE
TWO-AND-A-HALF YEARS EARLIER—
BARBARA AT ELEVEN
Mount Moosilauke, September 1925
Gloomy clouds roiled the late-day sky. Barbara’s father planted his walking stick on the rocky trail and looked to the northeast. “I don’t like the signs.”
Pointing at a dark whorl of clouds, Barbara said, “Look how the sky swirls—like a witch’s brew.”
“Could be wicked all right.” He swiveled around and studied the trail they’d traversed. “We better backtrack.”
“But the summit isn’t far. I can see it.”
“We have to get off the ridge. In case of lightning.”
As they trotted downhill, the weight of their packs jerked them every which way. Barbara’s legs ached from the strain, but she didn’t complain. It’s the wilderness, she thought, and I’m as rugged as any climber who’s ever scaled this mountain.
“We need to get down to tree line.” Her father stopped to survey the land below and pointed at a bevy of lowlying firs. “Down there.”
They beat their way down the rocky path and skittered off-trail into a stand of hemlock and spruce. Her father took the lead, weaving his way among branches as full as the trees were high. Barbara held up her forearms to push aside the branches whooshing in her father’s wake.
“This’ll do,” he said, halting in a space little more than six-by-six and wriggling out of his pack.
“Not very level,” said Barbara.
“No.” He reached into the side compartment of his pack and pulled out the hatchet. “You cut the lower branches off those trees. That’ll give us more room, and we can use the boughs to level the ground.”
Barbara hacked off branches and handed them to her father. He padded the area, laying the branches more thickly at the lower level. They pitched their canvas tent with the opening away from the wind and, using three tree trunks and a sturdy branch, strung their tarp aslant over it.
They usually placed the tarp underneath the tent, so Barbara asked, “Won’t the bottom of the tent get wet?”
“If we don’t protect the top, we’ll get soaked. Hand me the hatchet, and I’ll dig a trench.”
Her father chipped at the ground while Barbara gathered their gear and pitched it into the tent.
He whacked his way around the tent perimeter, completing the trench’s circuit, and stood to study the sky. “Yup, we’re in for a certifiable soaker.”
The wind had reached a roaring pitch. Turning his back on it, he said, “No cooked dinner for us tonight.”
Barbara raised her voice against the howl. “I don’t mind. Bear and moose never use campfires.”
He scrunched up his face as if she’d said something silly. “Better get settled before the skies open.”
They crawled inside and unfurled their sleeping bags.
Barbara surveyed their supplies. “We can have cornbread and cheese.”
“Just what I was thinking,” said her father. “And it sounds mighty good, too.”
As the storm buffeted their tent walls, they donned their wool sweaters and hunkered down. Sitting cross-legged on their sleeping bags, they feasted on a hunk of cheddar and the last of their cornbread.<
br />
Barbara washed down a mouthful of bread with water they’d gathered from a brook. “My friend Lucy keeps begging me to go to her church, but I don’t want to.”
“Then don’t. I sure as hell won’t tell you to go.”
“She says I’ll not go to heaven if I don’t. And she doesn’t want to be responsible for my soul. Or be friends with me if I don’t go.”
“You’ll have to decide about church and your soul on your own.”
“Why don’t you and Mother go to church?”
“Your mother can go if she wants, but it’s not for me.” He switched the cross of his legs. “Have you asked her about this?”
“Daaadddy,” Barbara chided. “You know Mother and I don’t talk about such things. And I want to know what you think.”
“Well, I think religion is bunkum.” He cut off more slabs of cheese for them.
“Did you go to church when you were little?”
“Humph,” he snorted, “every damn Sunday. My parents were genuine Bible thumpers.”
“You don’t believe in the Bible?”
“I consider it a collection of tales and allegories.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“That,” he said, swinging his head in an arc, “is the pivotal question. But first, you must answer it for yourself.”
“Yes, I believe in God.” Barbara grinned and smoothed her hands, greasy from the cheese, on her pants. “But not like Lucy. And I’ll not buckle just so we can stay friends.”
“What sort of God do you believe in?”
Barbara rested her chin on her fist and thought for a moment. “The God that brews mighty storms and turns frost into dazzling feathers and makes butterflies so other-worldly.”
The Point of Vanishing Page 4
