Your wife for the present,
Helen
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BARBARA AT FOURTEEN
Santa Lucia, December 1928
Barbara and her mother found a room to rent from an elderly woman in Castries for two dollars a day. On their third morning there, Barbara woke to the peal of church bells clanging over the town’s motley rooftops.
She rose from her netted bed and stood at the window. Thirty steps downhill from their room stood the neighborhood church, an austere brick building with a shallow arched roof. She watched the congregants streaming toward the door: young women in colorful cotton dresses, many with babes in arms or tots teetering at their sides; men in crinkled, light-colored pants and white shirts; and older women in long, flowing purple or blue garb. All carried themselves with dignity—as if merely attending the ceremony was an honor.
How curious they looked, slowing their pace as they converged on the church steps, greeting each other in their sing-song French, funneling in, dipping their fingers in holy water, and crossing themselves.
Barbara heard her mother rousing. She turned from the window and said, “Let’s have breakfast outside.”
They gathered the biscuits, nuts, and alligator pears they’d purchased at market and ventured out to the square opposite the church. The branches of an old banyan tree draped over the sandy ground, and they settled against its tangled trunk, quietly munching their breakfast.
They’d argued the previous day about extending their travels.
“If we go back now,” Barbara had told her mother, “the same miseries we left behind will torment us. Nothing’s changed. Here we can live on our terms.”
“We can’t leave Sabra forever. And I need to call your father to account for not even trying to find work.”
“But you said we should let him stew in his own problems.”
“He’s squandering his chances, chances I as a woman simply don’t have. He could find a job in New York if he tried. I have to insist on it.”
Barbara had pleaded, “Look how well we’ve managed already. We’re meant to journey on. I feel it in my bones.”
Her mother only shook her head. “Oh, Barbara. What am I going to do with you?”
Barbara decided not to broach the topic. She’d only be disappointed all over again. Instead, she gave herself over to the sounds of back-and-forth chants drifting through the wide-open church windows. The square was otherwise quiet, save for the occasional caw of far-off birds. Scents—strangely, both sweet and squalid—of overripe fruit and manure hung in the sultry air. It all felt so alien. As if she’d stumbled on an other-worldly kingdom where time had stalled.
As Barbara watched the worshippers through the church’s gaping door, an odd mix of respect and skepticism washed over her. How peaceful they seemed, how harmoniously they acted—kneeling in unison, crossing themselves on cue, responding to the priest’s chants in one melodic voice. Why such faithfulness? Did they suppose their prayers put them on the path to eternal life? Or perhaps they were entranced by the very act of devotion.
Barbara and her mother finished their breakfast, and her mother asked, “Shall we go back to the room?”
“You can go. I’d like to sit here awhile.”
Barbara stayed until the end of Mass and watched the congregants exit. They lingered on the steps and chatted, glowing with sweat from the day’s building heat, greeting each other like brothers and sisters. This contentedness, this seeming absence of worry, puzzled her. Didn’t these people, like her, squabble with their kin? Hadn’t they lost loved ones? Maybe worshipping this god of theirs supplied them with some fount of charity and patience. Might she discover serenity, even happiness, if she believed as they did?
After the crowd dispersed, she wandered into the empty church, tempted by its shadows and slices of light, and slid into the back pew. A willowy old woman entered, regal in her flowing purple gown. She knelt on the red carpet before the altar, took out her rosary, and prayed, budging not one bit as she mumbled her prayers and rattled the beads through her fingers. Perhaps she prayed for the recovery of a sick husband—or the redemption of her soul. What did she expect from her solemn devotion? How would she know if her prayers were answered?
✭
Barbara and her mother spent that day wandering the Castries harbor and hiking the verdant hills of Santa Lucia. When she crawled into bed that night, church scenes ran through her mind—the worshippers dropping their hard-earned coins into the offering basket and dipping their fingers in water made gray by many hands. If only she could find the peaceful resignation and acceptance of suffering that must come with such faith. Could she uncover an explanation for the capricious ways of the world? Could all of life’s vagaries—including her father’s recklessness—be explained as the righteous will of an almighty being?
She shook her head at the thought, wanting only to push him out of her mind. No, there was nothing sensible about her father’s reprehensible conduct. Here she was, cast out into a world of uncertainty, all because that vile Miss Whipple had lured her father away. And because he’d chosen that shameful person over his own family. Over her.
How foolish to think life was righteous. A scolding shame overcame her. She could never embrace this notion of a loving and just god. It was a mere myth—and cruel myth at that, for the world was harsh and senseless. Didn’t these people see that the most delicate and sturdy creatures were subject to the same brutal whims of fate?
No, she’d have none of this blind faith in a fabricated god. The only thing that made sense was to worship beauty, for that was the one certain and lovely thing in this world—raw nature and all its flora and fauna.
But this beauty obviously held no sway over the morals of men. She would pray to no god, nor would she delude herself that meaning could be imposed on the deeds of foolhardy humans, brutes who had the gall to declare all the world their dominion.
Yet these natives, with their earnest faith, seemed closer to the peaceful ways of nature than so-called civilized peoples who’d committed such barbarisms as enslaving Africans and slaughtering all the passenger pigeons. She felt some affinity with this more primitive world, even as she doubted she could give herself over to it or the scraping existence of these people, who seemed so supplicant, not only to their god but to the owners of the land on which they labored. But neither did she wish to align herself with the landowners or their ilk. In truth, she belonged to neither world.
All she knew for sure was that the easy drift of life on these islands soothed her. And that she dreaded returning to the miseries of her old life. Yes, she thought, from this moment on, I renounce the viciousness of the modern world.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HELEN
Santa Lucia, December 1928
December 18, 1928
Dear Anne,
First, my report from Santa Lucia, the last of our West Indies sojourns. French is all that’s spoken here, and we’ve managed surprisingly well with our middling grasp of it—finding housing, buying food at the market, and having a new dress sewn for each of us.
We’ve been living as cheaply as possible, like tropical vagabonds, managing with one small room and eating most meals on benches in the park—fruit for breakfast and, for lunch and dinner, cheese, biscuits, chocolate, and sometimes a stick of nougat. But I insist we not go without meat, so we splurge on a fish dinner every few days.
Now, for the news: Barbara and I are going to Tahiti. At first, I was reluctant to journey even farther from New Haven, but now that I’ve made the decision, I find the prospect quite relieving. I’m honestly not ready to come home, perhaps because home is such a precarious thing just now.
Barbara, with her winning ways, made it possible. She befriended the captain of a cargo ship bound for Tahiti and asked if he’d like someone to compose advertisements to attract English-speaking passengers for the line. The idea intrigued him, and he wired his home office in Marseilles. They accepted our proposal, an
d we’ve elected payment in the form of second-class passage to Tahiti.
Barbara has given me the excuse I needed to continue this journey. I hated to think of stealing her away from that which gives her some small joy. Travel has become a salve to her, and I confess she awakens in me a yearning to abandon myself, as she has done, to lax insensibility. But one of us must navigate the real world. We’ve had no money from Wilson since his last Knopf cheque last summer. I’m told Tahiti is likely to offer better prospects for work, so that’s another reason to continue journeying. And perhaps it will give Wilson more time to contemplate his foolishness.
He had the effrontery to write my mother, whom he “still considers family,” and apologize for MY conduct. The shameful irony of this escapes him. Of course, it upset her terribly when she was already overwrought by Wilson’s recklessness. The man has no moral compass.
I recently had a letter from Gordon, who tells me Wilson and Margaret have started novels. He was supposed to be looking for work. Instead, he’s devoting his time to an exercise that may not pay, or, if it does, not for a good long time. The most unsettling part of it is the reach of his betrayal. I was supposed to be his writing companion. We’d planned a book on home education, as well as more books in our Modern Novelists series. And now he’s living our dream with somebody else. It cuts me as deeply as any of the cruelties he’s heaped on us.
As if this and his neglect of our finances weren’t enough, he hasn’t written to Barbara, though he promised he would. She clings to the hope that he’ll return to our family, and I can’t bear to discourage her. He’s everything to her.
I’m truly at my wit’s end. Something in my universe has cracked. In a stroke, Wilson has thrown our lives into complete disarray. I have no choice but to trudge on and hope for better days, though I confess it’s difficult at times to summon the fortitude.
I’ve sent my first article on Barbara’s education—typed and scribbled over three times before being set to final draft—to Pictorial Review. Now I wait and sweat blood, hoping they’ll find it satisfactory and pay me promptly.
I can’t say that I’ll be sorry to leave these islands. They’re so low educationally as to offer no opportunities. The French islands are filthy, much worse than the British ones, with sewage running openly in the streets and a horrible stench in the air. And the mosquitos are oppressive. Barbara takes all this in stride, impossible romantic that she is. But I long for the bracing air of the open seas. I pray Tahiti will bring a break in our luck.
Although I’ve decided to journey on, one great sorrow burdens me—Sabra. I miss her terribly, and I’ve come up with a proposal for you to consider. Would you bring Sabra to Tahiti and stay on with us? It’d be lovely having a dear friend with me, and I’d so enjoy sharing the adventure with you. Barbara needs another adult around, and you’d be a steadying influence. Of course, it’s a long journey, but I’ve discovered ways of living quite economically, and perhaps Oxford and the boys can spare you for a season. Please don’t dismiss the idea without deliberation. It’d be a great comfort to have you with me.
Once we leave here, we’ll be at sea for four weeks, outside of a stop in Panama City. I understand the mail moves slowly between the States and Tahiti. So please write soon and send off to general delivery in Papeete so that I’ll find one of your bolstering letters waiting for me.
With much love,
Helen
CHAPTER TWENTY
BARBARA TURNING FIFTEEN
Tahiti, January–March 1929
As their ship approached Papeete, Barbara stood wide-eyed on deck, painting the scene in words. She’d write her father about how, from first glimpse to landing, Tahiti enchanted: its jagged emerald peaks reaching for the clouds; the town’s modest buildings nestling into pillowy hills; and flowers of yellow, red, and purple dotting the rolling landscape.
Barbara and her mother rented a bamboo cottage on concrete blocks, with a rusty iron bed, rickety table, and honest-to-goodness screened-off shower. Rustling palms surrounded their one-room home, and they were so close to the ocean’s edge she could hear the lapping of its waves. How could she resist, before she’d even finished unpacking, plunging into the sea?
Five days after arriving, her mother landed a job transcribing the legends and vocabulary of an etymologist researcher. The next morning Barbara woke to her mother clattering at the typewriter, bent over stacks of papers and index cards.
“You must help, Bar. It’ll take months to get this done, and we need to get paid.”
“Can’t we get paid as we go along?” Barbara asked. “There’s so much to explore here.”
For it was not words that beckoned Barbara. It was the aqua-blue sea, the thatched-roof huts, and the lush vegetation blanketing the island’s canyon folds. She marveled at the sundry peoples: nut-brown boys spearing fish from canoes and girls with flowing black hair romping on the beach. On Papeete’s streets, Chinese in pantaloons padded along, rambunctious French sailors sought diversion, and grinning shopkeepers tempted passersby to sample their wares. Even the brief hammering rains of the season beguiled, with sheets of water filling the sky and streaming, like a million miniature waterfalls, off glossy leaves.
One morning a family of islanders showed up on their doorstep, welcoming them with a basket of fruit, and Barbara asked the daughter, Corie, to show her the island. So Corie took her on a hike into the jungle, where they whiled away the afternoon, wading in an inland pool and learning about each other’s families and schooling.
Soon enough, Corie, who was a year younger than Barbara, was visiting nearly every day. When Barbara decided to dress in native garb, Corie took her to a Chinese shop in Papeete to purchase a red pareu with showy white flowers. Barbara started tying her hair back and tucking a tiare or plumeria flower behind an ear. And Corie taught her the island ways, like how to use coconut oil to protect her hair from the seawater.
On March 4, Barbara turned fifteen. Her mother treated her to chicken and vegetables smothered in the famous sauce served at Moo Fat’s Kitchen. Earlier that day, her mother had harangued about her not holding up her end of the transcription work. It seemed all her mother wanted to do was work. So Barbara had slipped away for a visit with Corie’s family—it was her birthday, after all. But over dinner, her mother chatted pleasantly, and Barbara set aside her vexation and thanked her mother for the gift of a coconut braid hat.
Perhaps, Barbara thought, this was a good time to ask permission again to do the one thing she wanted more than anything in the world. On their walk home, she told her mother, “It’s grand, turning fifteen in Tahiti and living like a native.”
Her mother eyed her sideways. “Don’t go thinking you’re a native now. You’re from a different world.”
The way Barbara saw it, they could stay in Tahiti forever. Since she’d first sighted its silky sands, mossy green countryside, and turquoise-blue shallows, she understood altogether why Fletcher Christian had mutinied: How could anyone who’d partaken of this island’s delights resist it? Soon she’d send the letter she’d been composing for her father. How could he be anything but charmed—and jealous—of her South Pacific adventure?
“This place is a paradise, Mother. All I need to complete my life is an outrigger voyage.” Barbara had spoken with Corie’s uncle about sailing Tahiti’s atolls in his splendid proa, and he’d promised to take her, Corie, and Corie’s brother Tane journeying. How glorious it would be to hop from atoll to atoll. To sail with only the wind’s power, free from the churn of engines. To thrust her face into the sea breeze. To make the South Seas her whole world.
Her mother huffed. “You can’t go off sailing on your own.”
“I won’t be on my own. Corie’s family knows these waters.”
“How many times do I have to say no?”
Barbara kicked at the sand. “I’m old enough to be on my own.”
“You’ll do no such thing. It’s not proper—going off with two men.”
“But the
y’re Corie’s family.”
“I don’t care. And please quit wrangling about it.”
Barbara bit her lip. She’d suffocate if she didn’t escape her mother’s stifling watch. If her father could do whatever he pleased, why shouldn’t she?
Two days later, Barbara’s mother asked her to fetch the mail in town.
“It’s hardly worth the effort,” Barbara said.
“I’d like to check anyway. Now go.”
Barbara trudged to the post office. And there was a letter. For her. From her father. After a full year with no word from him. Her hands trembled as she held the envelope in her father’s unmistakable scrawl, with the return address Boothbay, Maine. It was bulky as if it contained more than a typewritten sheet or two. She’d not open it until she found a private place.
She hiked to Papeete’s outskirts and sat down in a shaded frangipani grove. Her father had fashioned a birthday card for her. Glued to the front was a photo of the two of them outfitted for their Franconia hiking trip. The card contained a handwritten greeting: “Birthday wishes to my darling daughter on her 15th. Love always, Daddy.” Tucked inside was a typed letter. She unfolded the pages and read.
✭
It was late afternoon before she returned. She found her mother hard at work, bent over the table.
“I expected you sooner, dear.” Her mother looked up from a stack of typed note cards. “Any mail?”
Barbara sloughed off her shoulder sack. “Just a birthday card from Daddy.”
Her mother bolted upright. “What does he say?”
“Happy birthday.”
“Can I see it?”
“No.” Barbara walked to her side of the bed. There was hardly any privacy in this hut. She sat down on the bed and, keeping her back to her mother, pulled the letter out of her sack and stuffed it in the pages of her English-French Dictionary.
The Point of Vanishing Page 10
