She sighed. She had given herself over to the island’s drifting ways. And still, she felt bogged down in despair. It made her itch for some fresh adventure, anything to rouse her out of dreariness.
After breakfast the next morning, Barbara studied a map at the inn’s front desk. She called her mother over. “Let’s go to North Point. Look here; it’s at the top of Barbados, where the Caribbean and Atlantic meet.”
“Yes, miss,” said the desk clerk, “you can take the train to Saint Andrew’s, but I wouldn’t go any further. Nothing but bone-dry desert up there.”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t,” her mother said, turning from the desk.
“Please, Mother, let’s go. It’ll be another adventure to write about.”
So off they went, with sun hats and billowy cotton dresses. They boarded the steam train’s open-air compartment and chatted with the friendly black people, who seemed to look upon them as objects of curiosity. Along the way, they ate the oranges they had brought for the trip and emptied their canteen.
The train chugged over the island’s hilly interior and deposited them in Saint Andrew at near straight-up noon. Thirsty and hungry, they trudged northward along the dirt road running through the tiny town.
Her mother pointed at a clapboard shop on the village outskirts. “We should replenish our canteen and get something to eat.”
They walked through the wide-open door. A plump black woman sat in the corner of the shop, rocking and fanning herself.
“Hello, folks,” she said. “What you want?”
Barbara scanned the shop: the heap of overripe bananas on the counter; brown bottles of rum on a high shelf; strings of dried fish hanging from the ceiling with flies buzzing around them; and, in the corner, a stack of coconut pods.
Her mother must have already appraised the store’s unappetizing offerings. “We were hoping for some cold water.”
“No water here, but I can open coconuts for you.”
“Thank you kindly,” said her mother. “How much for two?”
Her mother paid three pence for the coconuts. The proprietor took up a machete and, with smooth strokes, hacked the tops off.
Barbara stepped up to take her coconut. “I’m Barbara, and this is my mother, Mrs. Follett. We’re going to North Point.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Mrs. Baker.” She grinned a wide-mouthed smile. “But why you want to go there?”
“To see the Atlantic,” said Barbara.
Mrs. Baker chuckled. “You an explorer?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’ll be hot as Hades up there.”
“We’ll think of how chilly it is in the northeast states, and that’ll cool us off,” said Barbara.
“My heavens, you’re a chirpy girl.” Mrs. Baker wiped a handkerchief over her brow. “I was in New York once, in Harlem.”
Barbara asked, “Did you enjoy your visit, Mrs. Baker?”
“Oh, yes. Got some smelling salts while I was there.” She pulled a little bottle out of her pocket, uncorked it, and sniffed. “Goodness, I’m not at all well today.”
After Mrs. Baker told them about visiting Harlem, which she claimed was just as hot as Barbados, her mother announced, “Well, we’d better be going.”
They threaded their way along the dusty path, tipping their coconuts and gulping down the milk.
“At least,” said Barbara, “this qualifies as both drink and food.”
“I’d have drunk just about anything. Thirsty as a dried-up sponge,” said her mother.
“That story Mrs. Baker told about her smelling salts was entertaining, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” her mother said, “you’ll have to write about how she kept saying ‘Goodness, I’m not well today.’”
“And how she dug around in her big pockets for the smelling salts. When the light hit the bottle, you could see there wasn’t a drop left.”
“My Lord, all this time, that dried-up bottle’s been reviving her.”
“Here’s how I’ll tell it, Mother. I’ll lead up to that part, saving it for the end. First, say she smelled the salts and declared herself like new again.” Her father had taught her that—to save the best part for last.
Her mother swung her head to the side and caught her eye. “So, you’ll include that in the book?”
“I’m only thinking of writing about it in a letter.”
“Then, we can use your letters to put together the chapters.”
Barbara didn’t answer. She preferred not to discuss the matter.
Her mother apparently got the message. She adjusted her hat and said, “Lord, it’s hot.”
They continued in a northerly direction, passing rows of taro and yam plants, fields of cotton and sugar cane, spread-out cabins with pigpens, and the occasional goat scrounging for grass on a craggy slope. As they continued their journey, the terrain turned rocky, the trees disappeared, and cactus cropped up. No goats grazed this land; no cabins populated the roadsides. For roughly two miles, they hiked and saw not a soul.
“I can’t go much further,” said her mother. “This heat’s killing me.”
“We’re close now. I can smell the ocean.”
Onward they trudged. Another quarter mile, around a bend, and they stood on a sandy expanse before the glistening sea.
“Our geographic goal,” said Barbara. “The very point where the Caribbean and Atlantic meet.”
Barbara trotted toward the sea’s edge, enticed by its curling waves and misty scent, while her mother trudged along behind. Barbara removed her shoes, dropped her knapsack, and splashed into the frothy waters, turning around to cast her hat onto the beach.
Shucking off her shoes and hat, her mother waded in. A wave smashed down on them, swept them back, then gathered them up and pulled them seaward.
Barbara plunged through a crashing wave and hollered, “Careful, the waves are strong.”
Her mother bobbed with the sea’s rolling surges. “God, I needed to cool off.”
“Doesn’t it feel glorious?”
Only once they slipped back onto land and started their trek back, their cotton dresses quickly dried, and the sun recommenced its torturing ways. Their hair, even done up as it was under their sun hats, dried, too.
“Oh, for a coconut,” said her mother, trudging by her side.
“I keep seeing that stack of them at Mrs. Baker’s store.”
“Barbara, I’m feeling faint.” Her mother stopped and dropped to her knees.
Barbara looked down on her. “What’s wrong?”
“Must be the heat,” she said, crumpling over.
“You have to get up.”
“I can’t. I’ll faint.”
“Come on. I’ll help you.” Barbara took her mother’s arm and tugged.
Her mother struggled to her feet, only to falter and drop down flat on her back.
Barbara stood over her mother, who looked up at her with helpless, blinking eyes. Adrenalin pulsed in Barbara’s veins. Her head throbbed from thirst. What should she do? She took off her hat and knelt beside her mother. Resting her hat over her mother’s face, she said, “Cover up with this.”
Panic seized Barbara. They were at least two miles from any help. She must get her mother cooled. But how?
She retrieved her pocketknife from the rucksack and scraped at the earth. She stood and gouged her heel into the ground. Between her knife and heel, she managed to dig a pit a few inches deep. Kneeling, she scooped out a patch large enough to accommodate her mother’s torso.
“Move over here, where it’s cooler.” She helped her mother into the hollow groove.
She stood and looked around—such barren terrain. Robinson Crusoe had found a brook and spring on his island, but she doubted they’d be so fortunate. She eyed the landscape, rocky and brown, except for a few stands of prickly pear. That’s it, she thought. Cactus.
She foraged a pile of the plumpest ears she could find. She sat down with the sun at her back, shadowing her mother from it, a
nd took up a cactus ear. She carved out the prickles, so sharp and thick they stabbed her as she worked and sliced off a bite-sized chunk. Beads of moisture showed on its flesh. “Here, Mother, suck on this.”
For an hour, Barbara sat beside her mother, patiently feeding her cactus juice. “Can you get up now?”
“Not yet. Let me rest a little longer.”
Slowly her mother revived, though she insisted she couldn’t walk in the heat. Finally, when the sun dropped toward the horizon, and its scorching heat abated, they tramped back to the clapboard shop.
They told Mrs. Baker about their misadventure. She let her mother sniff her smelling salts and opened coconuts for them.
On the return train to Bridgetown, Barbara composed an account of the events in her mind, figuring out just how she’d order the story. Quite possibly, she’d saved her mother’s life. Wouldn’t this be a tale to make her father proud?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HELEN
Barbados, November 1928
Helen had consigned them to this undertaking out of desperation. And in theory, it made sense—to live cheaply while collecting rent on the New Haven house. Now that plan bumped up against reality: They needed to pay for food and accommodations, as well as inter-island travel and the return trip. What if she ran out of money or succumbed to disease or hopelessness? She must explain the circumstances to the Meserveys—without alarming them.
November 2, 1928
Dear Anne and Oxford,
Barbados is a broken-down place, populated by poor black people who work sugar cane fields and live in lowly shacks. I didn’t have time to research the island before we left New Haven. So, I quizzed the ship’s captain, who told me to avoid talk of absent landowners or working conditions in their fields. The young men here do have a restless look about them, which I can certainly understand. They have no choice but to toil in the blazing heat, knowing full well they’re fattening the purses of wealthy colonists.
Barbara and I are lodged in a small inn in Bridgetown for $2.50 a day each, which includes meals. We have a few hundred dollars in savings and Barbara’s Harper advance at our disposal. I have a little of that in traveler’s cheques, and the rest stowed at Connecticut Savings. I want to avoid dipping any further into our reserves so we can afford an apartment upon our return in January, what with the house rented for the year. That means I must sell some articles to keep us afloat. Pictorial Review has promised $50 for a story about Barbara’s early education, so I need to get on with that. A hurricane struck and wreaked damage on some islands to the north, and I’m inquiring about selling a report on the vagaries of life on hurricane-threatened isles.
I’ve learned we can find less expensive accommodations on other islands for $1 to $1.50 a day, so we’ll soon leave Barbados. I couldn’t live in New Haven on what little we’re spending here, and that reassures me this journey wasn’t altogether impractical.
But roaming about as itinerant writers is a dubious subsistence. Will you, Oxford, write to Wilson and see if he won’t make regular contributions to the account? We must have something to fall back on, so we don’t end up stranded on these islands.
The very thought of Sabra reduces me to tears. I miss her terribly. I hope with all my heart that she’s happy with Adele Tyler. Before departing, I asked Wilson if he would return to New Haven to care for Sabra, but he refuses to leave New York. I told him he may visit Sabra if he wishes, but he’s not permitted to bring Miss Whipple along. I’ve asked Adele to contact the two of you should he not respect this wish. Of course, if he sees fit to return to New Haven alone, he’s more than welcome to take over Sabra’s care.
Now and then, Barbara shows signs of her old carefree spirit, and I’m grateful for that. But one of our adventures nearly went awry. A few weeks ago, we hiked across a desert area on the northernmost tip of the island, and I collapsed from the heat. Thank God Barbara thought to revive me with cactus juice. Still, it was frightening and left me feeling sapped and vulnerable.
I’m all malaise of late, and I don’t know if I’ll ever regain the energy of my youth. The malaria is here, so we sleep under netting. If by some chance, I should die on this journey, I wish for you to undertake Barbara’s care. She needs a man in her world, and you, Oxford, are the best kind of man a girl could have for a guardian. I leave it to the two of you and Adele to decide on the optimal situation for Sabra. Of course, if Wilson is willing to take up his moral responsibility to his daughters, that would be best.
Leaving home behind was wrenching. I can’t say where it’ll lead, for I’m finding my way by blind intuition. Knowing that I have such dear friends as you for comfort and advice sees me through. I bless you every day for all the kindnesses you do my daughters and me.
With love,
Helen
After she’d informed Wilson of their whereabouts and plans, it wasn’t long before his first letter found her.
November 14, 1928
Dear Helen,
I have no idea when this letter will reach you or what condition it’ll find you in. Perhaps you don’t even receive news of the States down there, so I’ll tell you that Herbert Hoover won the presidency in a landslide. It seems not even Democrats wanted a Catholic in the White House.
At the risk of subjecting myself to further complaints—for you seem bent on misapprehending everything I say and rattling off claims to our friends about my “improvident ways” —I must question your decision to embark on this journey. It forces us to communicate at long and uncertain distances and intervals. You are wasting funds needed for essential exigencies, such as the maintenance of the house and the girls’ general comfort. I ask that you make this a short and hopefully rejuvenating vacation rather than the crack-brained expedition you seem set on. We have important matters to settle.
And I do worry about Sabra. I wish I could take her but seeking employment must be my highest priority. Surely you miss her and yearn to tuck her in at night and watch Barbara read to her. I have no doubt Adele Tyler is taking excellent care of her. But, frankly, I’m appalled that you abandoned her.
It also surprised me to hear you required the new tenant to sign a full year’s lease. What were you thinking? I understand it helps with the house payments. But if you expect me to pay the taxes, you must give me some idea of when you’ll return and how we’re to settle the financial side of things. In fact, if you have a proposal regarding the finances, I’ll gladly take it under consideration and draw up divorce papers for you to sign on your return. You know I’m prepared to hand the house over to you. It’s only right that you and the girls have a secure haven for your future.
I’ve received Barbara’s delightful letters about Barbados, and I’ll write to her as soon as I can break away from my attempts to secure an income for all of us. I refuse, however, to defend myself against the onslaught of character defilement you’ve likely subjected her to, though I won’t hesitate to explain she should not accept your claims of our supposed happy marriage as granite gospel.
I trust you and Barbara are finding ample adventure and distraction to fill your days. As much as I oppose this journey on the grounds of practicality, I find myself hoping you’ve hit on some formula for bridging your passage to a new beginning. Enough months have passed for wounds to begin to heal. Let us contemplate new futures and make peace so that we can abate the complications our sundered marriage has visited on our children.
I’ve told you that the bank will wire you when I’m able to deposit funds. You needn’t ask Oxford to intercede, which I suspect you do for motives that are not monetary, since I’ve made this arrangement with the bank bull’s-eye clear to you. And you fail to understand the cold reality of my circumstances if you count on me to finance this scheme of yours. I simply can’t and won’t. Under the circumstances, you really ought to preserve rather than spend what little money we have between us. I close with this one last appeal to reason.
Respectfully,
Wilson
Helen took some comfort in the knowledge that her absence staved off the divorce. Perhaps time apart from her and their girls would force Wilson to contemplate the prudence of his actions. Still, she thought it only right to keep him apprised of their travels.
November 29, 1928
Dear Wilson,
I surmise from your letter that you fail to grasp the gravity of your actions. I certainly encourage you to write to Barbara. But to restrict yourself to mundane patter and to criticize the one parent who is caring for her will do her no good. Your abandonment still weighs heavily on her. She refuses to discuss you or the terrible pain you’ve heaped on her. Don’t you have any room in that cold heart of yours to understand that? You meant everything to her, and now you’ve completely turned your back on her. Not to answer her pleas about your obligation to our family was and continues to be cruel beyond words. And I find your chiding of me about Sabra’s care altogether ludicrous. I’ll refrain from saying anything more on that subject since my words will no doubt be lost on you.
As for the house, I had little choice but to find a stable family to rent it. How could I possibly expect them to take care of it if they feared I’d roost them out at any moment? Surely you see the prudence of finding renters who will value and maintain what is still, by law, yours.
Apparently, you’re dead set on divorce. Am I to conclude that you and Miss Whipple remain intent on marrying? Can it be that a twenty-year-old (or perhaps she has reached the mature age of twenty-one by now) is truly content to contemplate life with a man twice her age? Furthermore, a man so callous and uncaring as to have left not just one, but two, broken families in his wake? Have you even told her about your past? Sooner or later, you know, these things come out.
Barbara and I will continue on this, as you call it, crack-brained expedition. My whole life has been cast onto uncertain seas, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t seek peace for myself and Barbara someplace far from the person that caused our misery.
We will soon leave Barbados. Once we’ve settled in Santa Lucia, I’ll let you know how you can reach us there. And I do count on you to support your family, regardless of whether you—who have little right to judge—approve of our living circumstances.
The Point of Vanishing Page 9
