The Point of Vanishing

by Maryka Biaggio

  “I won’t mind spending a season or two here,” her father said. “But I’m a Northeasterner to the core. Can’t imagine making more of this place than a temporary retreat.”

  “I’m surprised you’re staying at all.”

  He crinkled a side of his face and paused before speaking. “It’ll give me a break from the cold and snow. And the weight of other people’s judgments.”

  She kicked a stone on the sidewalk. “It’s you who brought on those judgments.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand, Barbara. I only hope my happiness will make the rightness of my actions evident.”

  “Your actions ravaged the family.”

  “I’m sorry, but there’s no going back. Let’s just look ahead, shall we?”

  Humph, she thought, what was the use of belaboring the subject? He’d never admit he’d been selfish and cruel.

  The hilly part of Lake Street stretched before them. It was a rough, gravelly area, with low-growing brush and a meandering path. They hiked up to a spot strewn with rocks and sat down on knee-high boulders. The sun’s rays and cumulous clouds vied in the sky, turning the landscape into shifting patches of luminosity and shade.

  “Well, Barbara,” her father began, angling his head in that declaiming way of his, “I suppose it’s time for you to think about your future.”

  “I don’t have any grand plans right now.”

  He shook a Lucky Strike out of its pack and lit it. “I know everything’s up in the air, at least as far as who you’ll live with. Still, you’re past the time when your mother can or should be your sole teacher.”

  “I don’t even know where I’ll be living next year.”

  “Margaret and I are staying. For at least a year. There’s some certainty in that.”

  Barbara studied the orange and brown rooftops spilling at odd angles down the hillside. This neighborhood conformed to no neat grid, and something about its disarray pleased her. As she gazed at the landscape, she said, “I’m not ready to decide anything.”

  He nodded, like he was trying to seem agreeable, and sat silent for a moment. “Terrible thing, Bert losing his job like that. How’s Alice taking it?”

  “Philosophically, I’d say.” But that was putting it lightly. Barbara, too, worried about the hardship hanging over the Russell family. Bert was desperate to find a new job, and his agonizing had upset the whole household, including Alice, their girls Phoebe and Elisabeth, and herself. What if the Russells moved or couldn’t keep her anymore?

  “It’s a lousy time to be a patent lawyer,” her father said. “Rotten luck for all of them.”

  “Alice is trying to sell a few stories to tide them over.” Barbara breathed in the sagebrush and dusty-earth smells around her. She didn’t mind this climate at all, especially knowing Connecticut was buried in snow. She hoped to stay with the Russells a good many more months, at least until spring. Except her mother wanted them to move back East as soon as possible—to get the renters to sign a long-term lease and keep the rent income rolling in. Barbara fended her off by claiming she was still deciding whether or not to live with her father, which made her mother curse “that good-for-nothing father of yours who’d just as soon see us destitute.”

  “If you need another place to live, you know the offer stands.” He flicked the ash off his cigarette, dragged on it, and exhaled. “But I mean more than who you want to live with. It’s time for you to think about your education.”

  “If I go to college, I want a place where I can study just what I please.”

  “You’ll have to knuckle under and take the required classes, too. But I see you thriving at whatever you set your mind to. You could be a professor. Or a great writer.”

  “I can’t start now, so it doesn’t matter.” Of course, he hadn’t said a word about tuition money, nor did her mother have the means. And she didn’t intend to fritter her savings away on college. She wasn’t sure she ever again wanted to set foot on a college campus.

  He asked, “Do you still want to write?”

  “Of course, I do.”

  He dropped his cigarette and toed it out. “Are you working on anything at present?”

  “No.” Now he was prodding her to write? When he’d failed her after the publication of The Voyage of the Norman D—when she most needed his guidance? She stood and shuffled her feet around the gravelly ground. “Let’s start back.”

  Barbara had taken this walk with Alice and the girls before; the path circled the knoll and reconnected with Lake Street. She headed for the south side of the slope. Then she saw it—lying in coiled stillness on the path, barely seven feet ahead. She froze and pointed. “Look. A rattler.”

  “Oh, God,” her father said, reaching out and gripping her forearm.

  Barbara tugged her arm free, motioned him back with her hand, and reversed her step. “We’ll go back the way we came.”

  Her father turned around and backtracked. She followed, looking over her shoulder at the snake, assuring herself it stayed put.

  “I’m sure glad you spotted it,” said her father. “We could’ve walked right up on the thing.”

  “It was beautiful, wasn’t it? Beautiful and dangerous.” She relished the pounding of her heart, the satisfaction of danger evaded. She’d managed it just as she should have—and without harming the creature. It reminded her of the time during her childhood when she and her father encountered a snake—and how differently that’d turned out.

  Now pride and certainty in her judgment mingled with a gloomy undercurrent: A vague dread had settled over her lately. Everyone kept talking about how uncertain times were, with so many people losing jobs and banks closing willy-nilly. The money from Millicent Brown had nearly dried up, and they’d not see another cent from her because she’d lost so much in the stock market crash. Her mother, too, went on about this new hardship and the dim prospects for employment on the East Coast. And she couldn’t escape the nagging misgivings about her own stalled writing career. Then there was the ugly battle playing out between her parents. It made her ache with loneliness and yearn for Ethan’s steadiness.

  They reached the bottom of the hill, picked up the street, and fell into a matched step.

  Her father broke the silence. “I know your mother wants you to help with the book about your journey. But that’s to be her book, isn’t it?”

  Barbara nodded. She’d failed miserably on the Harper contract, and she feared she’d ruined her reputation with Harper for good. That’s why she’d finally consented to help her mother with her book about their West Indies journey.

  Her father asked, “What about something from you and you only?”

  She refused to tell him about Lost Island. He’d probably belittle the subject. Besides, she hadn’t written a word of it and couldn’t imagine how it should end. “I’m not ready to start anything new.”

  “Well, if it’s writing you want, then you must get on with it. There’s material everywhere. My novel’s about a family of rugged seafarers in Maine. Got inspired by the jagged coast up there.”

  One part of her wanted to ward off his questions, but the other wanted to tell him of her fears and struggles—how she wanted more than anything to be a writer of repute, not just a child writer, but that doubt dragged her down. “Yes,” she said, “I like the idea of writing about the sea.”

  “Then write a fresh novel of the sea. Don’t let some Porlock stop you.”

  Barbara shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. “I still review Alice’s stories. And I write letters. That’s mostly what I do now.”

  “You mean letters to Ethan? You know there’s no future with that boy.”

  “That’s not your business.”

  “Does he intend to go to college? Or is he going to sail forever?”

  “He doesn’t need to go to college. I got an education by reading and studying, and that’s exactly what he’s doing.”

  “It’s foolish to take up your time with him. You’ve got promise. I knew fr
om the time you were in the cradle. Don’t throw yourself away on someone like him.”

  “I’m not throwing myself away. I can write to him about books and the sea and anything else that interests me. He understands me.”

  Her father swiveled around and concentrated his gaze on her. “What do you imagine will come of this? Are you going to sail the seven seas with him? Turn into a sailor yourself?”

  “You don’t need to be sarcastic. We care about each other. And he’s honest and forthright, and I can trust him.”

  “Trust him for what? To send you a letter every now and then? What good is that?”

  “It’s more than I could expect from you.”

  “I’m no damn good as a model. My life went off the tracks, but I’ve found my footing again. And I’ve more experience than you with these things.”

  “I don’t care what you want me to be. And I don’t like you insulting Ethan.”

  “I hate to think of you running off and ruining your future.”

  “I shouldn’t run off? Isn’t that what you did?”

  “You are thinking of running away?”

  Barbara stared straight ahead. Who was he to challenge her? “When I went to San Francisco, it was to find work.”

  “I don’t want to rehash all that. It’s your future I’m concerned about.”

  “I’m nearly the age of independence.” Barbara quickened her pace. How dare he criticize Ethan. He was her mainstay, the one person she could truly rely on. Her father wasn’t half the man Ethan was.

  Her father caught up to her and draped his hand over her shoulder. “Barbara, I know you—better than you know yourself. You’re too damn romantic for this capricious world. Discipline is what you need to keep learning. And writing.”

  His hand felt hot and leaden. “I said I want to write. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  They were near the Russells’ house now. Her father tightened his grip on her shoulder. “I don’t want to upset you. You can be a great writer. The fact is Ethan doesn’t deserve you.”

  She stiffened under his hold. “You don’t understand one bit what Ethan means to me.”

  “I can see you’re having an affair of the heart. I’m not ignorant, you know. I’d hate to see you sidetracked by this sailor.”

  “Sidetracked? I’ve finally found someone who loves me.” Barbara stopped at the top of the walk to the house, pulled out of his clasp, and faced him. They usually spent the whole afternoon together. But this tirade of his turned her livid. “I’ve decided I don’t want to live with you and Margaret. And I don’t want to see you anymore either.”

  Her father pleated his brow and released a gasp of resignation. “Barbara, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for all the difficulties I’ve caused us.”

  “At least you admit that much.”

  “I don’t think I can ever make you understand my agonies over it.”

  “I don’t care about your agonies. You brought them on yourself.”

  “I’ll respect your decision, but I want you to know: You’re my darling daughter, and I’ll never again turn away from you.”

  “But you did. When I most needed you.” She studied him—his lined brow, sallow complexion, and the downward tug of his mouth. He was no longer her darling daddy. She didn’t adore him anymore. Nor could she count on his advice.

  “I’m so sorry, Barbara. I deeply regret that.”

  “I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever get over the hurt of it.” She’d cry if she didn’t get away from him. She turned and strode away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  TEN YEARS EARLIER—BARBARA AT FIVE

  Cheshire, July 1919

  It was the first summer in their Cheshire country home. The flowers burst with blossom, and the plants leafed sundry greens. Two elm trees shaped like giant mushrooms towered over the front yard. There was a tangled-up flower garden and wild vegetable patch in the back and beyond that, a wilder wood. Her mother and Grandma Ding had set upon a weedy section of the garden, pulling out burdock and ground ivy, but Barbara fancied the jungle-like parts.

  Barbara loved Daddy better than anybody else in the world, and Saturday afternoon was their special time together. Today they decided to explore the garden.

  Her father glanced up at the house. “Damn place needs a coat of paint.”

  “Daddy, don’t swear,” said Barbara.

  “All right. Decrepit old weather-beaten house desperately requires gilding.”

  Purple martins darted overhead, and the sweet and sour of rose and yarrow and evergreens and herbs mingled all around. As Barbara walked along, she batted a stand of goatsbeard, and its seeds erupted and floated away like fairy parachutes.

  She took her father’s hand. “Let’s pick some flowers for Mommy.”

  They meandered along the winding path. The round rocks lining its edges barely held back the creeping vines and crawling vegetation—the squash plants on one side and, on the other, black-eyed Susans, purple thistle, and milkweed.

  “First, we must tramp through a dark forest,” she said. “It’s full of brambles, and we have to be careful they don’t grab us.”

  “I’ll forge ahead and scout,” her father said, crouching and sneaking up on the climbing rose at the bend. He peeked around the corner. “Not a dragon in sight.”

  Barbara rushed up and grabbed his arm. “You scared them off, Daddy.”

  “Watch out now. The vines are trying to trap us.” He stepped around the bend by the rose bush and reached out, pushing back a stand of red hollyhocks and shuffling a foot against an eddy of leaves. He motioned Barbara ahead. “All safe.”

  From the undercover he riled, out darted a snake.

  “Look,” Barbara said.

  “Stand back.” Her father lunged forward, flung out his arm to hold her back, and smashed down his heel.

  The snake’s head snapped up like a jack-in-the-box. Its tail writhed.

  “Daddy, don’t. You’re hurting him.”

  He ground his heel harder. “Keep away.”

  The snake’s tongue flicked in and out, as fast as a hummingbird’s, and his eyes bulged. He opened his jaws wide and screamed, but no sound came out.

  Barbara grabbed her father’s leg and yanked with all her might. “Let him go, Daddy.”

  But he kept grinding his foot, and, as suddenly as the snake had sprung to twitching, its writhing ceased. Her father lifted his foot off the snake. The snake lay in crumpled curves, with beads of blood glistening around its flattened skin. A whir of dragonfly wings filled the air.

  “Damnable creatures,” said her father. “Never can tell what kind they are.”

  The snake’s amber-and-grey-circled body flopped in aimless coils. Barbara couldn’t take her eyes off it.

  Her father leaned over. “I thought it might be a copperhead, but I see it’s just a milk snake.”

  Barbara crouched to get a closer look. It didn’t move at all. “You killed it.”

  “It’s not the kind of snake we want in the garden. Scaring you or your mother. Or Grandma Ding.”

  Barbara craned her head around and looked up at him. “It wouldn’t hurt us.”

  “I thought it might be poisonous.”

  “It was just trying to get away.”

  “Some snakes bite when threatened. Like rattlesnakes and copperheads.”

  “But I’d never threaten a poor little snake, so it wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “Don’t be silly. Some snakes are poisonous.”

  “You shouldn’t have killed it, Daddy.” Barbara straightened up. “That was a mean thing to do.”

  “I didn’t want to take any chances. You go ahead and pick some flowers for your mother. I’ll get rid of it.”

  “But I want to bury it.”

  “No, I’ll take care of it.”

  Barbara’s tummy felt wobbly. She wanted to do something nice for the poor snake.

  Her father nudged her shoulder. “Go on now.”

  She ran into the house,
up the stairs, and into her parents’ bedroom. From the window, she looked down on the path where the snake lay. She could see the snake but not her father. She scanned the garden. There he was, marching down the path, a big stick in his hand. He wriggled the stick under the snake’s floppy body. Balancing the creature on the stick, he carried it to the beginning of the path and flung it over the bushes toward the roadside culvert. The snake whirled through the air, its colored circles flashing in the sun.

  Later that afternoon, while her parents and Grandma Ding read in the sitting room, Barbara snuck down the back stairs, hugging the wall to keep the steps’ springy middles from creaking. She found the trowel on the back porch counter, slipped it in her dress pocket, and carried her two stuffed-animal friends to the woods beyond their yard. She sat them down on some ivy, cleared a circle of the vines, and dug a foot-round hole.

  “You stay here,” she told Mr. Rabbit and Mrs. Squirrel. “I’ll go find Mr. Snake.”

  To keep out of view of the sitting-room window, she hunched over and wove through the woods. She lifted the snake, one hand close to its head and the other behind its squashed part and carried it to her cemetery site. Kneeling, she coiled it into a neat circle, just as she imagined it might like to rest.

  She sat before the grave and bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Snake. I know you wouldn’t have harmed me or Mommy or Grandma Ding. Daddy was mean to hurt you. You’re very beautiful, and now you can live with all the other innocent creatures that people killed and not ever get hurt again.”

  With her trowel, she scraped earth atop the snake. She rearranged the vines over the grave and sat down facing Mr. Rabbit and Mrs. Squirrel. “I know you’re sad about Mr. Snake, so I’m going to tell you about a wonderful place where all nature’s creatures are happy and safe. Children play there all day, and there are no grown-ups to argue about silly things. Don’t worry. When I go to Farksolia, I’ll take you with me.”