When Barbara paused to roll out a filled-up sheet, her mother asked, “What are you writing?”
She balked at admitting she was composing a letter to her father. Why confess she hoped he’d eventually respond to her? And she did plan to write Toby, her old Norman D mate, at some point; he’d surely appreciate her reflections on the differences between steamers and schooners. So she said, “A letter to Toby. And you?”
“I’m trying to capture that scene between you and the bosun—how you jested about miscalculating our latitude after your sextant lesson.”
This steamer journey couldn’t rival her Norman D adventure, but she’d nevertheless glean what she might about sea travel. That very day she’d borrowed Dutton’s Nautical Navigation from the bosun. She intended to master it all—the sextant, the chronometer, and spherical trigonometry.
“Next,” her mother said, “I’ll write about you emerging from the engine room with grease on your face and hands.”
Barbara sighed. At least her mother wasn’t fretting all day about leaving Sabra behind or agonizing over which renters to choose.
Her mother leaned away from her typewriter. “Why don’t you read me some of what you’ve written.”
“Okay.” Barbara took up a page of her letter. “Here’s what I said about the ship: ‘The Islander is a bulky steamship, cranky and noisy, with its engines roaring away the live-long day. She smells like a factory, all grease and steel, and coal. Sixteen knots she can manage, which gives her an advantage over a schooner since she can steam along even when the trade winds are contrary. Still, I’ll take a square-rigger any day, with its sails billowing and a canny captain applying his know-how, whichever way the wind may blow.’”
“Bar, that’s lovely. But you’re not using carbon paper. You’ll have to retype the final, so you can save a copy. To use for your book.”
“I don’t know.” She wished her mother wouldn’t hound her about keeping a minute-by-minute record of this trip. She had no desire to write another Voyage of the Norman D.
“And you can use my notes, too,” her mother said.
“No, keep them for yourself. It can be your story.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said her mother. “Harper gave us an advance on the strength of your writing. I can’t write about your adventure the way you can.”
“It’s too early to know what story to tell.”
“You should at least keep copies of what you write. So you have material to work from.”
Barbara hoisted her typewriter off her lap and scooted to the edge of her bunk. “If it’s about money, I can contribute my royalties.”
“Don’t you understand? You’ve got to make good on that advance.”
“You can do it. I’ll save copies of what I write for you.”
“I have to sell articles to keep us going. And you’re the one with the reputation.”
Barbara burned with shame at the thought of mentioning her father’s advice about her next writing project. Why admit to honoring his counsel? Besides, explaining that would surely send her mother off on another rant about her father, and then they’d end up in that old tar pit. “I just don’t feel any inspiration,” she told her mother.
“Why do you need inspiration? What you’ve already written is lovely.”
“I need time to think about it.”
“It’s the signed contract you need to think about.”
“I can’t stand you pressuring me, Mother,” she said. “I’m going up top.”
She stepped out of the cabin and climbed the stairs to the deck. Standing at the rail, she gazed to the north. Her father was in New York City. Now that she was far away and out of reach, surely he missed her. Her new adventures would surpass all the hikes and canoe trips she’d shared with him. He’d read her letters and regret all he was missing: Hadn’t he told her their outings never failed to awaken his own carefree, plucky side? And it’d undoubtedly grieve him that it was her mother, and not him, striking out with her on this bold undertaking. Good, let him go green with envy.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NINE MONTHS EARLIER—BARBARA AT THIRTEEN
New Haven, December 1927
Barbara imagined how they looked to others—she and her father skating the ice pond perimeter, their faces thrust into the chill air, arms swinging loosely, legs flexing in unison. Anyone would surmise they were practiced partners. Ah, she liked nothing more than Saturdays with her father.
Only she hadn’t had enough of them lately.
As they eased out of a turn, she asked, “Won’t you stay for the New Year, Daddy?”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t.”
“You never used to work over the Christmas holiday.”
“That’s not true.” Steam puffed out of his mouth and trailed behind him. “I always worked on my articles during breaks.”
“But the house feels dreadfully lonely without you.” Her father had been taking the train back and forth every day for his job in New York, but over the last several months, he’d started staying there full weeks and sometimes weekends, too.
“Editors are expected to be in their offices,” he said. “There’s unending correspondence to manage. Meetings to attend.”
Barbara slowed her pace. “And I don’t see why you and Mother needle each other all the time.”
Her father straightened out of his forward-leaning pitch. “It’s hard to explain. Sometimes people grow apart.”
“If you didn’t spend so much time in New York, you wouldn’t grow apart. I can hear you arguing, you know.”
“I’m sorry. You and Sabra are very dear to me, but marriage has a life of its own.”
“How can you say that? Sabra and I count on both of you. But all you do is bicker.”
“You’re right, of course. This endless arguing is intolerable.”
The Hamilton Park rink resonated with the click and bite of many blades on ice. A chain of youngsters whipped around a curve, squealing with delight. Barbara took her father’s arm. “Then tell me you’ll stay for the New Year.”
He said nothing, and Barbara could tell from his straight-ahead stare that he’d not relent. She dug her skates into the ice and sped ahead, leaning into the turn at the pond’s oblong end.
Her father caught up with her, took her hand, and tucked it under his arm. “I’m so proud of my little author. One book published and another on the way.”
Barbara smiled thinly and slowed to his pace.
He asked, “What’ll you write next?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, it’s time you considered that.”
They skated in silence around the rink. Bare elm branches stood out against the lead-gray sky, clinking in the wind like twisted strips of metal. She’d worked up a warm sweat, but as they slowed, the clamminess of her clothing chilled her. “I’m hungry, Daddy.”
“Okay, sport.” He steered them toward the changing bench. They traded their skates for boots and headed for her father’s Lincoln L. He hooked his arm around her shoulder and said, “Let’s go to Louis’ Lunch for a hamburger.”
✭
Barbara sat across from her father at the diner’s long bar table, relishing the steamy atmosphere. Once they ordered, she leaned over her forearms and asked, “Where do novelists get their ideas?”
“That is one of literature’s great mysteries, my dear, debated by ancients and modernists alike.” In one smooth move, her father shook a Lucky Strike out of its pack. He lit it, drew in, and exhaled a spout of smoke. “Might creativity be the kiss of divinity? Can a pure and god-like love spark inspiration?”
“You make it sound like ideas come from God. That doesn’t sound very agnostic.”
“No, certainly not,” he chuckled. “Let’s simply say from muses.”
“You’re my muse, Daddy.”
“Nonsense, I’m no muse.” He flapped his hand like he was batting a fly. “But I’ll tell you this: What a writer makes of his ideas can’t be slovenly like
a dream. They must be tamed into words and driven by purpose. The novelist should be a sure-footed guide through some sharply conceived world. He must entice the reader to embark on a quest by filling him with wonder and questions, and then he must bring him to some inevitable terminus.”
“Was The House Without Windows slovenly? Because it was like a dream, wasn’t it?”
“I’m speaking of adult writing. You can’t be expected to write as an adult until you are one.”
“But that’s how I want to write. Only I can’t come up with an idea.”
“Sometimes, ideas are borne of necessity or happenstance. The way the hamburger was invented on these premises—all because one man asked for something he could carry away. And quickly.”
Barbara studied her father’s murky-brown eyes. “But how does a writer decide what to write about? How do I decide?”
“The great novelist’s imagination is a wilderness of savage truths. Or, for you, of dreamy enchantment.”
“That doesn’t help. Not with the idea part.”
“Anyway, the writer’s journey is private and subterranean. We only see the results, not the process.” He held his cigarette at arm’s length, regarding it as if it were anything but a stick of tobacco. “I happen to be finding some spark myself. I may yet write a novel.”
“I want to write savage truths, too.”
Her father thumped the ash off his cigarette. “If you don’t have a story in mind, then write letters. I get a bang out of your neatly typed pages.”
“But I want to write novels. More than anything. Only I don’t know what to do next.”
“You have an imagination as rich as any writer. You proved that in The House Without Windows. And I expect more accolades for The Voyage of the Norman D.”
But Barbara wanted to begin the next thing, to keep writing, to keep publishing. “Do you really think we shouldn’t cut my pirate poem?”
“‘Poppy Island’ is precisely the right length. You must have confidence in yourself. I say stand firm on it.”
Yes, she liked it the way it was, regardless of what that Vanity Fair editor said. Only it would have been nice to see it in print—the crowning glory of her work as a child writer. “Still, I’d like to write more than children’s adventures.”
“Nothing wrong with that. Look at Lewis Carroll.”
Barbara cast her glance aside. Winter’s oblique-angled sun streamed through the leaded windowpanes, falling on the floor and tables in trapezoid patterns. “I suppose. Everybody knows Alice in Wonderland. You’ve studied it, haven’t you?”
“It’s my job to know literature of all sorts. But it is a singular work.”
The waitress slid small round plates with hamburgers before them.
Barbara picked up her burger, clamping both hands around its crinkly-warm bun. “How do you suppose Lewis Carroll came up with Alice?”
“As the story goes, he told the tale extemporaneously. Simply to entertain his little friend Alice and her sisters. Only later did he write it down and give it nuance.”
“So, it’s complicated, isn’t it? I mean, why writers write what they do.” Barbara chomped into the burger, training her eyes on her father.
“No question. What Lewis Carroll ended up with is far more than a children’s story. He may have based some of his characters on actual British figures, like the prime minister. No doubt, he was poking fun at them.” His eyes turned soft and dreamy. He still hadn’t taken a bite of his hamburger. “But some write for love or out of trembling devotion to love.”
“What about H.G. Wells?”
“Now, there’s a man with imagination.” He butted out his cigarette. “He’s a didactic writer, but he writes with grace and humility. Look at the worlds he created—all true to the wholeness of expression he strove for. Early on, he studied biology. I suppose that helped him imagine his different worlds.”
“I used my diaries and guides of flowers and butterflies for The House Without Windows.”
“Yes, you’ve learned that lesson well—you must master all the subjects you can if you’re to serve your writing.”
“And does Mr. Wells write savage truths?”
“Most assuredly. He’s a true humanitarian; his writing is all about the democratic urge. He abhors artificial morality.”
“What’s artificial morality?”
“Superficial and ridiculous prohibitions. Rules that fly in the face of deeper truths. Like that damnable prohibition amendment. All it did was drive liquor sales underground. And foment more detestable ills.”
“I read that essay you and Mother wrote about William Dean Howells. The one where you talk about the value of the home.” Her father’s refusal to stay through the New Year still rankled; it made her think of that essay. “Do you believe in that? Or is devotion to family an artificial morality?”
“Not at all,” he said, with a sweep of his head.
“Then you should value your own family by not leaving us for weeks at a time.”
“That’s not what we’re talking about. Here’s another example of false morality—the notion that the sexes aren’t equal, that women should be honored only for birthing and raising children.”
Yes, she was annoyed with him. But he was the most brilliant father a girl could have, and he’d granted her this Saturday, all of it. She must use it to soak up what she could of his advice and wisdom. “So, Wells would say ladies can write, just like men.”
“Absolutely, he’d support the female’s prerogative to do as she pleases.” He edged the ashtray aside and stared off over her shoulder. “Even if it’s to inspire others by her selfless love.”
“I want to write more grown-up pieces, Daddy.” She paused, waiting until his gaze shifted back to her. “Can you help me find my way?”
“What you did in The House Without Windows was quite spectacular—give voice to an impressively natural and innocent imagination.” He pulled his plate closer. “You’re not unlike Wells in that respect. He created a whole new type of writing with his imaginary worlds. And The Voyage of the Norman D is an impressive account of your sea adventure.”
“But I want to write real novels.”
“Of course. Being a writer is about being creative and inventive—not following someone else’s path or even your own over and over.”
“That’s just it. I don’t know what to do next.”
“Well, don’t be like those miserable authors who write the same book time and again.”
“Like who?”
He lifted his hamburger. “Nobody worth talking about. There’s nothing more disgusting than a writer who chases after his own success.”
“What do you mean by writing the same book?”
“Using the same formula or just trading one set of characters for another, but not changing the plot or nature of the content.”
“No, I don’t want to do that.” She must think more about what that meant.
“Remember: Good fiction should be like life itself. The very best novel is one in which the general effect sensed by the reader is that intended by the writer.” He bit into his hamburger and watched a moony-eyed couple slide side by side into a booth.
Barbara watched his gaze wander over the twosome as he ate his hamburger. She wished he weren’t so darn distracted. She wanted him to help her find her savage truth.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BARBARA AT FOURTEEN
Barbados, September–October 1928
She ought to be happy. She had a whole island to explore, with wonder upon wonder to write about. Plopping down in a cane chair in their inn’s parlor, she started a letter to her father.
September 27, 1928
Dear Daddy,
The sights of Barbados would amaze you! I intend to scout every corner of the island, mingle with its colorful inhabitants, and soak up its exotic promise.
Bridgetown itself warrants much wandering—through streets that meander like old pathways, past houses painted in gay pinks, blues, a
nd creams. The pier district is clotted with downcast donkeys hauling rickety carts and buses honking through slow-moving crowds. Black women in long dresses walk the streets, balancing baskets of mangoes, guavas, oranges, and, occasionally, fish or fowl, on their heads.
And the ocean! On our second morning here, Mother and I hiked to the water’s edge, plunged into the pristine sea, and swam out to the reef. Treading and diving, we marveled at the coral—in tubular, perforated-fan, and spine-like clusters, in pastels of ivory, deep green, and blue.
I love everything about swimming in the ocean: the tingle of salt on my tongue; hot breezes swirling over cool surf; and, afterward, hungry and refreshed, the scrumptious smack of fruit and warm bread.
She put down her pen and gazed out the window. Yes, she ought to be happy, but she wasn’t. Pangs of loneliness gripped her, and a dull, throbbing ache beat at her insides like an oversized heart.
It was as if she’d slipped into a well. From deep down, she could see a glimmer of sunlight but, try as she might, she couldn’t claw her way up its slippery walls. How could she ever escape this sickening despair?
Later that day, she and her mother hiked into the hills in search of a good view of the ocean, waving at residents on the porches of their ramshackle homes. They came upon an old man carrying his catch of shimmering blue and pink fish on a bamboo pole and ambled alongside him. When they reached his cabin, he asked where they were going.
“Up the hill to see the ocean,” said her mother.
“Can see the ocean from here, ma’am,” he said.
Barbara said, “We want to see it from way up high.”
“You white folk.” He shook his head. “Always got to be going somewhere.”
That made Barbara think: Perhaps she could find happiness in this simple and leisurely islander life. As she and her mother continued, she said, “He’s right, isn’t he? We should be more aimless. And not worry about what comes next.”
“Oh, Barbara,” her mother muttered, “always with your head in the clouds.”
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