CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
BARBARA AT EIGHTEEN
New York City, March 1932
“Dinner is ready,” her mother called.
Barbara joined her mother at the kitchen table in their new apartment. She inhaled the sharp scent of Castile soap and, with a smile, regarded the gleaming clean walls. Recent developments pleased her. Helen had signed the papers on the sale of the New Haven house, proclaiming, “God, I’m glad to be done with that place and its oppressive memories.” Macmillan had agreed to publish Magic Portholes, so they’d decided they could afford roomier quarters. Best of all, Barbara turned eighteen on March 4—that oh-so-welcome age of emancipation.
Their new apartment wasn’t far from the old one, just around the corner on Claremont Avenue, not that that made it easy to move. In the snowy slush of March, Barbara and her mother had packed up eleven boxes of belongings, hauled them down three sets of stairs, across the street, and up two flights. Her mother arranged to have the contents she’d distilled from the New Haven house shipped to the new apartment. Then she coaxed the delivery men into hauling their furniture over from the old place.
Her mother plopped down across the table, shaking her head. “Must you keep those ragged old dungarees?”
Barbara wore a pair of faded pants that came halfway up her calves. “They’re loaded with memories. See these oil stains? They’re from the Vigilant’s binnacle housing. And the whitewash reminds me of when Ethan and I scrubbed down the rails.”
“One of these days, they’re going to rot off you.”
Barbara lifted her sandwich off the plate and scrunched her nose. “What’s this?”
“Tuna, with odds and ends from the refrigerator. Just eat it.”
“Can we unpack the books next?” Barbara asked. She’d not seen their books since they’d stowed them away in the attic of the New Haven house, and Barbara could hardly wait to dig into the long packed-away treasures.
“Let’s leave the books for last.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t even finished the kitchen or touched the boxes in my bedroom.”
“Do we have to?”
“We won’t be able to enjoy them amid all this clutter.”
Well, Barbara thought, maybe you can’t enjoy them. She chomped into her sandwich and looked around. “Are the Magic Portholes illustrations handy?”
“I think they’re in that box over there.” Her mother pointed to a stack of boxes in the corner of the living area. “What do you want with them?”
“I think we should frame them for the walls.” The illustrations Macmillan had commissioned for Magic Portholes were quite lovely—woodcut-style drawings by an old gentleman who’d visited the West Indies.
“Well, first things first.”
“How long will it take us to unpack?”
Her mother surveyed the scene. “Once I set up the kitchen, I’d like to scrub down the bedrooms.”
“I can do that while you finish the kitchen.” Barbara brushed her bangs away with the back of her hand. “Do you think we’ll finish by Saturday?”
“If we keep at it. I can’t stand living in such disarray.”
“I’d like to meet up with my hiking friends Saturday.” A friend of Barbara’s from her old job at Fox, Denise, had introduced her to two young men, friends of her family. The four of them got on quite well, and when the topic of camping came up, Barbara suggested they plan a serious hike together—the Appalachian Trail.
“Bar, must you persist in this? The timing is terrible.”
“I’m going, and that’s that. I’m eighteen now.”
“That doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want. You have a job.”
“The work’s as dull as doorknobs.”
“If you go, you can consider yourself moved out.”
“Fine, I’ll go live with a friend.”
“God, you’re exasperating.” Her mother gulped some water. “I refuse to pay for you to hike all summer.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Just how do you intend to pay for it? And for your room and board when you come home? Because you won’t get your old job back, not with dozens waiting in line for it.”
“From my savings. And once I finish Lost Island, I’m going to show it to Mr. Ashworth.”
“It’s not what Harper had in mind when they signed you on. And that was four years ago.”
“If Harper doesn’t want it, I’ll submit it elsewhere.”
“You’re being unrealistic, Bar. Look how long it took me to find a publisher for Magic Portholes.”
“I’ll sell some articles meantime. Like about hiking the Appalachian Trail.”
“You shouldn’t spend your savings on a trip. What about college?”
“I can’t think about college right now. My spirit wants revitalizing.”
Shaking her head, her mother said, “You’re in for some hard lessons, girl.”
Barbara saw no reason to reply. Her mother didn’t understand how much she hated this concrete city and her soul-crushing job.
Her mother whisked her napkin off her lap and tossed it on the table. “And I don’t like the idea of you and this Denise going off with two boys. It’s reckless.”
“We’re all friends, comrades of the woods. It’s not what you think.”
“It could be dangerous, going off into that rugged country.”
Barbara smirked. “You think Lindbergh’s kidnappers are lying in wait up there?”
“You know what I mean. Out there in the wilderness. With grown boys.”
“You’re so old-fashioned.”
“Have you told Ethan about this?”
Barbara brushed the crumbs off her fingertips and pushed her plate away. “I certainly have. At least he trusts me.”
“And where does he plan on staying when he visits?”
“I was hoping with us.” Barbara swung her head around, taking in the kitchen wedged into the apartment’s corner and the living area crammed with one sofa, an armchair, occasional table, and two bookcases. Yes, they’d be cramped, but they could manage.
“It’s out of the question. This place isn’t big enough for three.”
“You invited Grandma Ding to visit.”
“That’s different. She’s family.”
“I could give him my room. And scare up a cot for me.”
“Absolutely not. You haven’t seen him in nearly three years. What if things go sour between you?”
Ethan was already paying plenty to travel across the country. She’d keep trying to convince her mother to let him stay. “We have so much to talk about—because it’s been three years. Letters only go so far.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Worry, worry, worry. That’s all you ever do.”
Her mother clucked. “One of us has to.”
Just because her mother’s marriage had failed, she needn’t undermine her and Ethan’s romance. After all, they’d spent a whole month together on the Vigilant and corresponded faithfully since then. And she suspected he’d spring the marriage question during their reunion. In fact, given all the hints he’d dropped, she was quite sure of it.
CHAPTER FORTY
BARBARA AT EIGHTEEN
New York City, June 1932
What did it mean, Mr. Ashworth inviting her to meet over lunch, at the Waldorf-Astoria no less, and not at his office? Just as it had occurred to her that this might portend celebration, she blotted out the hope. Her mother had warned her off optimism. But then, her mother almost always landed on the gloomy side of the fence. So, perhaps, after all . . . She jerked her head from side to side, thinking, “Don’t torment yourself like this. Keep your head.”
She donned the most cosmopolitan outfit she could scrounge up: a straight ink-blue skirt and an ivory blouse with a tie-knot collar. She examined herself in the mirror: her wavy hair tamed as best she could, parted off-center and tucked behind an ear; her brown-and-beige oxfords at odds with the s
leek lines and classic color of her skirt; and her arms covered with long sleeves instead of the short or rolled sleeves she favored. Ugh, she thought, I look like I’ve squeezed into a stranger’s skin.
She’d first met Mr. Ashworth at his Harper office four years ago, just before she and her mother sailed for the West Indies. He’d expressed enthusiasm for the project she and her mother proposed then, a report on her island adventures, but then she’d failed to produce the manuscript, and he’d rejected Helen’s rendering of the trip. Still, he was an established editor at a major publishing house, and he was familiar with her reputation.
Six months earlier, she’d telephoned him and reported she was revising a new novel, a tale of adventure. Would it be of any interest? Yes, he’d love to consider it, so she’d worked feverishly on the revision. As arranged, just last month, her knees nearly clacking with trepidation, she’d handed Lost Island over to him.
Imagining him reading her novel left her jittery as jello. She’d only shared a few chapters with Ethan and Alice. They liked it, but then they grasped the spirit behind it. Mr. Ashworth only knew her through her previous work, and he might expect something similar—whimsical and airy. But he must understand she’d surpassed the age of mere child’s fancy. And Lost Island pleased in a different way—with its playful, frank romance and sobering commentary on greed and the emptiness of pointless work.
Nevertheless, turning it over to him left her feeling as vulnerable as a cast-off kitten. She’d considered showing it to her father first—to get his advice on whether it was ready for submission—but quickly rejected that strategy. How could she trust him after he’d steered her wrong on “Poppy Island”? And succumbed to an utterly fool-headed romance?
She arrived at the Waldorf-Astoria ten minutes before one. Certainly, the hostess told her, Herbert Ashworth had made a reservation. Would she like to be seated? Yes. She selected the seat facing the entrance, arranged her skirt over her knees, and crossed her ankles. The menu spread open before her, but she couldn’t absorb the words. She glanced at the entrance and, self-conscious of showing her anxiety, looked away. She forced herself to study the menu. No, not a sandwich. She’d have to eat with her hands, and she didn’t want to be so informal. Lasagna might do. Or would it be too heavy on her gurgling stomach? She really should choose something lighter. She didn’t want to look at the door again, but she couldn’t stop herself. And there he was, striding toward her, with that charming cockeyed smile of his.
“Ah, Barbara, I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“Oh, no,” Barbara said, offering her hand. “I only just arrived.”
Mr. Ashworth, a hefty man with a top-heavy build, shook her hand and levered himself into the chair opposite her. “How’s that lovely mother of yours?”
“She’s fine. Busy arranging radio interviews now that the book’s out.” Barbara had at first hesitated to mention Magic Portholes, knowing he’d rejected it, but then he had inquired about Helen. And it certainly couldn’t hurt to allude to the accomplishment of another Follett.
“Well, good for her. I hope it’ll be a shining success.” He planted a finger on the menu. “Let’s see what today’s fare is. Anything in particular appeal to you?”
“I believe I’ll have today’s special, the filet of sole.”
He glanced up and down the columns as if he were relaxing over the Sunday supplement. How could he be so nonchalant? She wanted to blurt out: Just tell me, are you going to publish Lost Island?
He closed the menu. “Good choice. I think I’ll have the same.”
Barbara cupped her hands together on her lap and smiled at him. Soft murmuring conversation surrounded them, muffled by the thick carpet and scattered palm plants. Keep quiet, she commanded herself, let him bring up the manuscript. He’s the one who called the meeting.
“I didn’t have time for the morning newspaper.” He braced an elbow on the chair arm, assuming a jaunty posture. “Anything new on the Lindbergh case?”
“No.” Barbara had only glanced at the front page, but since everyone was talking about nothing else, she feared revealing her ignorance of the details. “I can hardly believe the kidnappers killed Little Lindy. How despicable.”
“With any luck, the police will track down the savages and wring the truth out of them.”
The waiter took their orders and breezed off. They chatted: He asked if she’d noticed all the ladies in the news lately and if she’d read The Good Earth. Yes, she said, Pearl Buck certainly deserved the Pulitzer. And what an amazing woman that Amelia Earhart was, he intoned, flying across the Atlantic entirely on her own.
Barbara’s heart wasn’t in this small talk. She shifted in her chair.
Perhaps he took her cue. Leaning in, he folded his hands on the table, revealing clean, squared-off nails. “Shall we attend to our business?”
“Yes, let’s.” Her stomach clenched. “I suppose every author is nervous to hear an editor’s opinion.”
He had a narrow, stern nose and brown eyes that sat at an angle below his ridged brow as if he were perpetually skeptical. “Yes, it’s terrible—the power we editors have.”
“Well, I’m ready to hear the verdict.” She gripped the chair arms.
“This work’s quite different from Magic Portholes. Not that I expected it to bear any resemblance.”
“No, it wasn’t intended to be a travel chronicle.”
“You obviously meant it as a novel in its own right.”
“Yes, I used much of what I learned on the voyage, but that’s the extent of any connection.”
He smoothed a finger over his chin. “Tell me, who did you target as readers when you were writing?”
Barbara’s heart galumphed against her ribs. “I don’t think about that when I write. I just write the story I want to tell.”
“Yes, that’s what you writers do, isn’t it?”
Barbara nodded. Her arms and legs felt twitchy. She wriggled and released her toes, trying to work out the jitters. Couldn’t he just tell her if he liked it, if he’d publish it? While she tried to think of how to respond, their meals arrived. She picked up her fork and knife, poised them over the plate, and asked, “Who do you think it might appeal to?”
He scooped a forkful of mashed potatoes and, before delivering it to his mouth, said, “That’s the problem, Barbara. I’m not sure. It’s full of adventure, which might excite the young reader, but then it ends tragically. Such darkness can work only with adults.”
Barbara sliced off a flake of filet. She chewed without tasting and swallowed. “Are you saying you won’t publish it?”
“You know,” he said, bouncing a finger in the air, “your earlier works greatly excited reviewers—and readers as well. In a way, that throws an obstacle in your path. And mine. I can’t put something out that won’t compare well.”
“You think it’s not good enough? That it won’t land neatly with a particular type of reader?”
“It’s complicated. It’s technically well written.” He reached inside his suit jacket, extracted a pocket-sized notebook, and flicked it open. “There are some lovely passages. Like your description of a subway ride as ‘yellow meteors jumping up and arranging themselves in a row, one end growing, the other fading in the tunnel.’ And of the storm at sea as ‘black chaos gleaming with fangs of white foam.’ But it doesn’t all hold together.”
“You mean the story or the way of telling it?”
“Both, I’d say. There’s an idealistic, even unrealistic sentiment at the bottom of it. The adult reader won’t find it believable.”
“I wanted to tell a story about whether one can live one’s dream in today’s world. I can’t be the only person who wonders that.”
“I suppose not. But there’s something unyieldingly black and white about it.” One-handed, he swiped his napkin over his mouth and dropped it back on his lap. “The way you pit civilization against nature fails to explore the complexity of the relationship between them or the realities o
f modern life.”
Barbara nodded slowly, buying herself time as she mulled this assessment. She chewed her green beans to a lumpy mush and swallowed. “Perhaps it is broad in how it paints New York life. But that’s supposed to show the sharp contrast, for they’re terribly different.”
“It doesn’t seem likely there are any undiscovered islands out there. That demands more than a reasonable dose of suspended belief.”
“But there may be. Who can one say what islands await discovery?”
Mr. Ashworth paused to pick up his knife. “I must think first about the probability of success for any manuscript, Barbara. I’m sorry to say I don’t believe this one has promise. But you’re young, and you have a solid reputation. I advise you to take up a new project.”
Barbara’s heart pitched. Two years she’d spent on this novel. It had all seemed so right, so tantalizing, once she finished: the city’s plodding work-a-day world; the square-rigger and its old sea captain; the storm and shipwreck; the blossoming of love on the bountiful island; and the desecration of the island and the lovers’ dream. She’d been able to completely immerse herself in the world she’d created. Why couldn’t others? She put down her fork and looked into his eyes. “Could I revise it to attract the young reader? The most enthusiastic fans for my earlier books were those of my age.”
“It has glimmers of the qualities found in your other works—the desire to escape the world of the mundane, the yearning for adventure, the almost magical turns of events. But it’s on the long side for the young audience. More importantly, you’ve got adult ideas woven tightly into the fabric, with the captain’s shamed daughter, the young lovers marrying under the stars, and the degradation of their paradise. If you wish to revise, you’ve got some big decisions to make. As it stands now, the story is neither fish nor fowl, adult nor child.”
The Point of Vanishing Page 20
