The Point of Vanishing

by Maryka Biaggio

  Barbara reached an arm around and shoved her mother’s hand away. “Don’t give him a divorce.”

  “Bar, please don’t be like this. I wish I could make him come home.”

  Barbara turned her back on her mother and curled into a ball. “I hate you, too. Leave me alone.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BARBARA AT FOURTEEN

  New Haven, May–June 1928

  Queasiness descended on Barbara as she dressed. She traipsed down to the kitchen, drawn by a repugnant ache for the company of another.

  Her mother turned from gazing out the kitchen window. “Good morning, dear.”

  Barbara mumbled, “Morning.”

  “Bar, I need to talk to you.” Her mother motioned to Barbara’s seat at the table. “Before Sabra wakes up.”

  “By gosh, Mother wants a talk.” Barbara crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. Mornings were the worst. She hated facing the awful void her life had become: none of her father’s footsteps clomping around the house; no smell of coffee brewing for his thermos; none of her parents’ muted breakfast conversation.

  “Don’t be that way,” said her mother. “I’m serious.”

  All her mother did lately was sulk or fuss over her and Sabra; it aggravated her beyond words. And as for her father, why bother hoping for a letter from the reprobate?

  She looked past her mother, through the kitchen’s gauzy window curtains, at May’s brooding overcast sky. “You? Serious? Why not try funny for a change?”

  “I won’t allow you to speak to me like that.” Her mother braced a hand on her hip. “I know you’re upset. We’re all upset, but you mustn’t take it out on me.”

  “You’re the only one who can do anything about it.”

  “I’m trying, but I can only do so much.” Her mother tugged Barbara’s chair out. “Now sit.”

  Barbara shuffled to the chair and plopped down. Even the house seemed different lately—as if its foundation had come unmoored. In the middle of the night, when spring’s strong winds blasted the walls and windows, she often woke in a panic, alone and adrift. And the early-morning groans of the furnace sounded like a brutish bear growling in its den.

  Her mother opened a cupboard. “How about some cereal?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You need to eat something.”

  Her stomach clenched at the thought of food. “I will. When Sabra’s up.”

  Her mother sat down across from her and poured their tea. “I had a letter from Gordon yesterday.”

  “I saw it. Addressed only to you.”

  “Yes, and for good reason. He’s concerned about you.”

  “I’m concerned about me. Why shouldn’t he be?”

  “He doesn’t understand some of the things you’re writing.”

  Barbara wrapped her hands around her cup to warm her cold fingertips. “I only asked him to explain some things.”

  “He’s never seen this from you—morbid drawings and abbreviations that don’t make sense.”

  “Then he doesn’t know me very well.” It wasn’t Barbara’s fault if Gordon hadn’t taken the time to decipher such simple acronyms as WFF (for Wilson Follett’s Folly) or glean the meaning of a dripping sword.

  Her mother sipped her tea and eyed Barbara over the rim. “He spent all those days at sea with you. I’d say he knows you well enough.”

  “Then I don’t know him—for the stool pigeon he is.”

  “Bar, this isn’t like you.” Her mother plunked her cup onto its saucer. “Of all the fourteen-year-olds I taught, you’re the most trusting and optimistic I’ve ever known.”

  “I’ve obviously been wrong. To have trusted you and Daddy.”

  “It’s only natural you’re upset. But we have to find a way for you to get through this.”

  “I know the way through it. Apologize to him. Make him come home.”

  Her mother snorted. “What exactly should I apologize for?”

  Barbara looked down and studied the knots on the pine tabletop. Her mother had driven her father away—with her spiteful ways. She couldn’t shake the memory of the hateful ring in her mother’s voice when Daddy was home for Christmas. Although she couldn’t make out her mother’s words through their closed bedroom door, her tone was unmistakable, as savage as a clawing beast. And her father, who rarely raised his voice, had yelled back, and Barbara had heard some of what he said: “I can’t abide your possessiveness . . . Leave me alone . . . Try and stop me.” The next day, her father packed up and left, two days earlier than planned, and that was the last time she’d seen him.

  Her mother slapped a hand flat on the table. “I have asked him to come back. I can’t make him come home any more than you can. He won’t even write to you.”

  “Because he knows he’s wrong. And because . . .” But Barbara couldn’t finish, couldn’t bring herself to tell her mother: Because you drove him away with your viciousness.

  “I want our family back together more than anything in the world,” said her mother. “But he says he’ll not compromise one millimeter. For now, we have to go on without him.”

  Barbara took a sip of tea. Its tannins needled her saliva glands. She swallowed hard. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want to feel this way. She only wanted her old life back.

  Her mother reached out and cupped a hand over her shoulder.

  That only made it worse. Barbara sloughed her hand off. “Don’t, Mother.”

  “It’s my job to take care of you. I’ve tried, but I can’t seem to get through to you. You won’t even let me comfort you.”

  She looked up at the pouty sympathy in her mother’s upraised brow. Angry words crowded her mind. She clenched her lips and clamped her eyes shut to stanch them.

  Her mother said, “I hate seeing you suffer so. I’m making an appointment for you with Dr. Lowry.”

  ✭

  Anticipating her visit to Dr. Lowry conjured old memories: his wrinkly black bag opened wide as crocodile jaws; her annoying bout with whooping cough just at age nine; and the Norman Rockwell in his office—a round picture of a mother tucking two rosy-cheeked children into bed. Barbara had always fancied the way the lamp beside the bed cast a golden glow on the scene and how the mother gazed lovingly at her children’s sleepy faces.

  Only now, upon entering the doctor’s cluttered office, the sight of the picture irked her: to think she’d ever delighted in such a dotty scene. And Dr. Lowry put her in mind of a sugar-sweet Norman Rockwell character, his black hair streaked with silver and his manner everlastingly affable. Except she feared he wouldn’t be as genial as usual since her mother had complained to him about her grouchiness.

  “Well, well, Barbara,” he said as he closed his office door, “You’ve certainly sprouted up since I last saw you.”

  “Almost as quickly as Alice in Wonderland.” She smiled, hoping he’d just check her height, weight, ears, and throat and send her on her way.

  Barbara followed him to the patch of white wall marked in feet and inches and stood against it.

  “You’re going to be tall, Barbara.” Dr. Lowry placed a ruler on her head perpendicular to the wall. “Sixty-four inches. You are growing up. And looking more like your lovely mother every day.”

  Barbara gazed at her arms: How alien and gangly they seemed. During the schooner trip, she’d delighted in the length of her reach and her prowess climbing the rigging. But now, when she looked in the mirror, she flinched at the sight of her rangy limbs.

  With a wag of his head, Dr. Lowry said, “Why, I remember when you were a plump-cheeked girl little more than knee-high.”

  “My hair reached to my waist then.” That reminded Barbara of the photograph of her at five nestled on her father’s lap with a book. If only she could once again be the little girl her parents and Grandma Ding had smothered in hugs and kisses. But Grandma Ding had moved back to Hanover, and now hardly anyone hugged her, except her mother, which made her squirmy.

  Dr. Lowry walked to
the examining table and patted it. “Step up, and I’ll have a look at you.”

  Barbara hopped onto the leather table and gripped the thick corner folds. He looked down her throat and into her ears.

  “All shipshape, Barbara. Now, hop on down and make yourself comfortable.”

  Barbara seated herself on the wooden chair beside the examining table, and Dr. Lowry wheeled his chair to within three feet of her.

  “You know, you can talk to me about anything, Barbara. And I’ll keep it to myself.”

  “I appreciate that, Dr. Lowry.” Barbara studied the green-and-white checkered linoleum floor, wondering what he expected her to say—and what good it could do to say anything.

  He leaned forward and braced his hands on his knee tops—as if his manner were all the medicine she needed. “Your mother did tell me how distressed you are about your father leaving.”

  “Don’t you think any girl who’s lost her father would be distressed?”

  “Unquestionably. I’d think something was wrong if she weren’t.”

  “And I suppose Mother wants you to make me all sunny again.”

  Dr. Lowry sat back and smoothed his hands together. “I wish that were in my power. But I can only try to understand.”

  Barbara dropped her head and bit her bottom lip. The room’s scents of Lysol, iodine, and whatever else made her sinuses ache. She didn’t like being here, but she couldn’t think where she’d rather be.

  Dr. Lowry angled his head, trying to catch her eye. “I am concerned, Barbara. About you drawing things like crossed daggers and dripping swords.”

  “That was meant only for Gordon, my companion on the high seas. It’s just pirate language.”

  “Yes, but it’s rather gruesome, don’t you think?”

  “Mother says blood is perfectly natural.”

  “I expect she’s referring to your menses. Yes, that is natural. You’re growing into a woman.”

  “I can’t help that.”

  Dr. Lowry clasped his hands and leaned toward her. “Of course not. But what concerns me is the meaning of these drawings. I wonder if you’re thinking about doing something drastic.”

  “Like what?”

  “Sometimes, when people are upset, they try to escape. For instance, by running away.”

  “I’d certainly like to escape my hellish family situation. My parents are being mean and selfish, thinking only of themselves and turning their backs on Sabra and me.”

  “I’m sure that, at some point, your father will reestablish ties with you.”

  “How can you be sure of that?”

  “You’re his daughter. He loves you.”

  “My father has betrayed me. I believed he’d always be there to inspire me. If I can’t rely on him, how can I rely on anybody?

  “I don’t blame you for being hurt, but you mustn’t let that ruin your life. You have other things to live for, don’t you?”

  “He’s been my inspiration, my companion on the hiking trail, the editor for my books. Those are the things I live for.”

  “I’m sure your mother can do all those things for you until your father is back in your life.”

  “No, she can’t. That’s not how it is with Mother and me.”

  “I’ll be happy to help in any way I can.”

  “You can’t very well bring my father back or mend their marriage.”

  “No, I can’t. Only your parents can determine what will happen to their marriage.”

  “They’ve behaved like spoiled children.”

  “You mustn’t blame them. There are mysteries to marriage that elude even husbands and wives.”

  “But I do blame them.” Barbara jutted her jaw and tilted her head back. “It’s simply nightmarish how my father has behaved.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it’s difficult to understand.”

  “Why should I try to understand such revolting behavior?”

  “You should at least understand your reaction to it.”

  “I don’t see why. I’m not the one causing the problem.”

  “Hmm.” Dr. Lowry brushed his brow and then showed a palm. “What would you like to have happen?”

  “I’d like my father to realize how terribly wrong he is and come back and make it all up to us.”

  “Have you told him this?”

  “I told him he wasn’t making sense, that he’s deluding himself.” She might as well reveal all the awful details. “Miss Whipple visited and tried to convince us she could make him happy, so I wrote him she’s not an honorable person, and he shouldn’t take up with someone who would come between him and his family.”

  “Then you’ve done what you could. It must be awful for you—waiting and hoping and hearing nothing.”

  Dang it, she felt worse now than she had before. “Perhaps you should speak to my father.”

  Dr. Lowry stroked a finger over his chin for a moment. “I can only do that if he seeks me out. And even then, I can’t tell him how to live his life.”

  “Just telephone him. Tell him how ridiculous he’s being. What a fool he’s making of himself.”

  “I’m not in the business of offering advice when it’s not asked for.”

  “Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”

  Dr. Lowry patted his fingertips together. “I’m offering an ear because I’m concerned. If there’s anything I can do, I’d like to. Sometimes talking about our unhappiness helps.”

  “I really don’t see how. You’re a doctor, and you can’t or won’t try to convince my father to come back to the family. And my mother can’t, either. So, you see, I’m all alone. None of you grown-ups can help in the most important and essential way. Why should I trust any of you?”

  “Because we care.”

  “I’m sorry, I just don’t see what good all this talk is.”

  Dr. Lowry leaned toward her, cupping his hands over his knees and stiffening his arms. “Tell me, what was the last thing you did that gave you sheer joy?”

  “Sailed to Nova Scotia on a square-rigger. But that was before my father left us.”

  “Ah, so sailing’s the thing for you?”

  “Why, yes.” She looked up at him. Her stomach fluttered. “That it is.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  HELEN

  New Haven, July–August 1928

  Helen cringed at the thick envelope addressed in Wilson’s craggy handwriting. Might he be abandoning his ludicrous position that she be the one to grant him the “freedom to divorce”? Had he hired an attorney to draw up divorce papers? She elbowed the mailbox closed, tucked the envelope into her apron pocket, and marched up the walkway.

  “No,” she said upon meeting Barbara’s searching eyes, “nothing in the mail for you. Why don’t you take Sabra out to play so I can finish the canning in peace.”

  The screen door swung shut on Barbara and Sabra. Sitting down at the kitchen table, she shoved the pile of green beans aside and tore the envelope open.

  Dear Helen, the letter began. I will not drivel on with empty niceties before announcing the news I must lamentably convey. I have lost my job at Knopf.

  My God, not this. If only it’d been divorce papers. Those she could have burned. She clamped a hand to her forehead. Oh, Lord, what will become of us?

  She raced through the letter, pausing at the most weighty passages: It seems that Alfred, who could hardly wait for me to join the company, now can’t see me gone soon enough . . . A cheque will arrive for you next week as usual, but it will be the last from Knopf . . . There are several writing projects which I will with all vigor pursue in hopes of procuring some stream of income . . . I don’t care a jot about my personal comfort. I’d rather live as a wharf rat than use any of the money you’ll need for the girls . . . You may hit on the notion of my selling the Lincoln, but it’s still chugging along, and I’m loath to sacrifice it unless the situation becomes dire . . . There’s bound to be some work for me in New York, and though I’m not well at present, I shall turn all my meager energ
ies toward finding it . . . Meantime, I know you’ll manage the house and bills with your usual diligence . . . I will stay here in the City in my shabby apartment with Margaret, for we will bear this hardship together.

  Was he living with that girl? She’d suspected it. Did he have no decency? How despicable—visiting scandal and misfortune on his innocent daughters. And that Margaret Whipple: Didn’t she have parents to warn her about the impropriety of cohabiting with a married man? What kind of people did she come from, anyway?

  By the next morning, she’d decided she must act. She and her girls couldn’t survive without Wilson’s cheques, and she was dubious of his plans to provide for them (as well as for himself and that vamp). She arranged for the girls to visit a neighbor and called Alfred Knopf. She knew Wilson would disapprove. But someone had to take care of their children, especially now that his rash actions imperiled them.

  She asked Mr. Knopf: Hadn’t Wilson been a hard-working and talented editor? Yes, but he’d shown dreadfully poor judgment. Alfred had put Wilson in charge of the office while he and his wife spent a month in Europe. And Wilson had rewarded his confidence by installing Miss Whipple at the desk next to his, throwing the office into disarray from which it still hadn’t recovered, to say nothing of fueling the rumor mill with his rakish conduct. But couldn’t he, she pleaded, admonish Wilson and give him another chance? No, it was impossible; he’d lost all esteem for him. Furthermore, if Wilson chose to run around with that girl, how could he ever again count on him?

  “No, my dear,” Knopf said, “though I sympathize with your plight, I won’t take Wilson back. I can only advise you in the strongest terms not to let him off the hook when it comes to supporting his family.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Knopf. I can certainly appreciate your position.”

  She sat there, stunned. It was stupefying—Wilson destroying his reputation with Knopf by cavorting with a girl only six years older than Barbara.

  She hurried out the front door to retrieve Barbara and Sabra from Adele Tyler. Adele lived only two blocks away, but Helen ended up zigzagging nearly a mile to clear her mind, railing the whole time: The man’s utterly contemptible. I cannot believe his depravity. May he get what he deserves with that girl. She’s young enough to be his daughter. Does he imagine she’ll stay with him when he’s feeble and crotchety? He’ll be in for a big surprise if he comes crying to me that he was wrong about her.