The Point of Vanishing

by Maryka Biaggio

  “Don’t you miss her, Bar? She’d love to see you.”

  The two boarders got up and walked toward the stairs, passing her on the way. Their syrupy perfume mingled with the house’s dusty atmosphere. Barbara wrinkled her nose. She hated to think of her private affairs spreading around the boarding house. Cupping her hand over the mouthpiece, she lowered her voice. “Of course, I do. But this is where I live now.”

  “I’m just going to ask since you’ve not been forthcoming. What exactly is the understanding between you and Nick?”

  Barbara hesitated, waiting for the girls to reach the top of the stairs. Finally, she was alone. “Just what it’s been all along. We see each other as often as we can.”

  “And that’s all? Is he seeing anybody else?”

  “He has friends if that’s what you mean.”

  “Is there some other girl that keeps him from doing right by you?”

  “I know you mean marriage, Mother, but I’m not old-fashioned like you.”

  “It’s not a matter of what’s in fashion. I hate to see you relegated to a boarding house while Nick has a perfectly good job.”

  “But that’s the point. He should be establishing his career.”

  “It’s getting more and more difficult for me to respect that boy—first, he represents you as his wife all across Europe, and now he treats you like a sometimes sweetheart.”

  “You’re so passé. It’s the 1930s, you know. And you didn’t complain in Germany.”

  “You left me no choice. And you still haven’t told me if he’s seeing somebody else.”

  Barbara refused to mention Cynthia by name. “His mother occasionally invites family friends over. But he’s not the one doing the inviting.”

  “Barbara, don’t you see what’s going on here? If he truly cared about you, he’d ask you to marry him. Frankly, it’s dishonorable—him taking advantage of your favors while he entertains other girls. Where is your self-respect?”

  “I’m going to do things my way, and that’s the end of it. I’m not a child, and I hate you treating me like one.”

  “Fine, then you can just act like an adult. I can’t afford to send you money every month.”

  Barbara asked, “Not even a few more weeks of room and board?”

  “No, it’s time you fended for yourself.”

  That evening and all the next day, Barbara fretted over her plight, trying to conjure some plan. She could pay for two more weeks of room and board, but that’d leave little for lunches, paper, and typewriter ribbons. The thought of going on relief repelled her: She refused to give Nick’s snobbish mother any reason to deride her. She could hunt down a job. But if she didn’t secure a paycheck in the next few weeks, she’d be forced to retreat to Manhattan and stay with her mother, at least until she sold Lost Island or one of her short stories.

  Only she couldn’t conceive of leaving Nick, not even for a few weeks. She lived for their dates, sustained herself on his encouragement: “Yes,” he’d told her, “if you want to be a writer, you shouldn’t give up. You can always take a good-paying job and write on the side.” And she delighted in his firm grip on the dance floor. When she was with him, in the fever of dance, her worries vanished.

  But since her mother’s prying about Cynthia, her vexation had boiled up. She couldn’t get Cynthia out of her mind. The thought of Nick sitting around the dinner table with his mother, brother, sister, and Cynthia—as if they were one happy family—galled her to no end.

  It was so confusing. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing Nick. In her heart, she knew they were perfect for each other. She’d never encountered a man of such constancy and practicality. She felt utterly serene in his company. True, they no longer shared the light-hearted pleasures of their traveling times, but that was because he had a demanding job. And because his mother kept telling him that he was the man of the family and needed to take his responsibilities seriously.

  Except having Cynthia in the picture unnerved her. Nick’s reassurances simply didn’t satisfy anymore. Was he really, as her mother implied, taking advantage of her? Why did he allow his mother to push Cynthia on him? Surely, Cynthia couldn’t make him happy. She was a frilly thing from a well-to-do family (which, no doubt, pleased his mother) who’d never climbed a mountain or canoed down rapids. Why did Nick even keep company with Cynthia? And only lunch with her a few times a week and take her dancing the occasional Saturday?

  Dash it; if only her mother hadn’t made such a fuss, she might’ve gone on without brooding so. After all, the last time they’d parted, Nick had told her he loved her to distraction and, whenever they were alone, stole kisses as if he could never get enough. As for the favors her mother alluded to, men weren’t allowed upstairs in the boarding house, and they couldn’t very well use the bedroom at his family’s home. At least Nick had told her he was nearly dying from want of their love-making.

  It was her mother who was making life more complicated. It was her mother’s admonitions that nagged at her when Nick came calling that Friday evening.

  “I feel like cutting loose,” he said, grasping her hands. “How about Charlie’s Place?”

  “Sounds wonderful,” said Barbara, relishing the clutch of his strong hands. Yes, he was glad to see her. “We can tear into some lobster.”

  They walked seven blocks to the little brown shack of a restaurant and found it humming with conversation. Nick steered them to an empty table set with butcher paper. They ordered their food, and Nick decided to splurge on some wine, too.

  Barbara lifted her glass toward Nick’s. “What are we cutting loose from?”

  “Oh, nothing in particular. Just another week of toil.”

  “Well, then,” she said, clinking his glass. “To the end of toil. And beginning of leisure.”

  Nick took a sip of his wine. “You going to spend Saturday and Sunday writing?”

  “I can’t write all the time. How’d you like to go to the harbor tomorrow and see what ships are in?”

  His brow lifted sharply. “Tomorrow?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I can’t.” He scrunched up a side of his face. “My cousin is getting married.”

  Surely, Barbara thought, he’s known this for some time. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “I guess I was embarrassed. About having to go and not wanting to.”

  “Who are you going with?”

  Nick shifted on his haunches. “My family.”

  “And nobody else? Not Cynthia?”

  “Well, she’s coming along, too.”

  A burning lump lodged in her gullet. “My God, I treasure my every minute with you, and you let your mother dictate who you take to a wedding. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. You know that. You’re the one I love.”

  Barbara glared at him. “You don’t act like it. You act like you’re ashamed to be seen with me. You hardly ever take me to your home.”

  During her eleven months in Boston, Barbara had only been invited for dinner on a handful of Sundays. Did his family exclude her because she’d declined to join them for Sunday church services? She hadn’t asked Nick if this was the reason—nor complained about his mother’s snubs. Why humiliate herself by pawing after his family’s approval?

  “It’s complicated,” Nick said. “You know that.”

  “I wasn’t even beside you at your father’s funeral. And now you’re taking Cynthia to a wedding.” She slammed her glass down; wine sloshed over the rim. “You know how that looks?”

  “Don’t, Bar. Don’t make a scene.”

  “A scene? You’re worried about a scene?”

  Nick reached across the table and took hold of her hand. “Just believe me. You’re the one for me.”

  Barbara pulled away. “Words, words, words. That’s all I ever get from you.”

  Nick softened his voice. “Please don’t say that.”

  Damn you, Barbara thought. She grabb
ed her wine, guzzled it down, and stood. “Don’t worry about what I’m doing tomorrow. I’ll be packing. Goodbye, Nick.”

  She felt heady as she stormed out of the restaurant and strode to her boarding house, not once looking back to see if Nick was following. Last week, or even days or hours ago, walking out on him would’ve never crossed her mind. Now she felt free and unafraid, like that little girl scaling ratlines and swaying in the crow’s nest. To hell with Nick. Let him be the one to worry for once. Let him come knocking.

  She marched into the front parlor and pulled Pride and Prejudice off the bookshelf—it’d be easy to thumb through for distraction—and perched on the couch, hoping Nick would show up. Only he didn’t.

  ✭

  The next morning Barbara retrieved her suitcase and knapsack from her closet shelf, plopped down on the bed, and looked around. One room, one lousy room with a crusted-up hotplate and mismatched bed, table, and chair. A musty, depressing room with faded rose wallpaper. No, she wouldn’t miss this place. Or the girls’ annoying chatter about families in faraway towns, humdrum jobs, and prospects for landing a husband. All of it—the creaking hallway and stairs, dingy doilies, and scent of putrid brown vase water—reeked of desperation.

  She’d pack some of her things and go out and check the travel schedules. She wouldn’t leave today; she’d wait until tomorrow. She’d paid for her room through Sunday night. If she couldn’t get a bus or train on Sunday, she’d leave on Monday. Yes, that’s what she’d do. If Nick didn’t come to his senses by the end of Sunday, he’d see how miserable life would be without her.

  Only he would come; she just knew it. And when he did, she’d tell him she was packed and ready to leave. Let him feel the sting of rejection. Let him do the begging for a change.

  She took breakfast as usual in the dining room and chatted with the other girls about their Saturday plans, not letting on that she might be leaving. Surely it wouldn’t come to that. Back in her room, she bundled up her manuscripts and nestled them into her suitcase. She leafed through Lord Jim, which always reminded her of Ethan. Trusty Ethan: If only he’d offered more than letters across thousands of miles. She still thought about him from time to time. If she did move back to Manhattan, she’d write and tell him she’d be dedicating Lost Island to him. After all, he was the inspiration for it.

  She had no idea what time the wedding started. If Nick didn’t show up soon, chances were, he wouldn’t come by until after the wedding. She’d walk around the city, go to the bus and train stations, and check prices and schedules. At the very least, she’d not have to stare at the walls of this dreary room.

  She meandered the streets under misty, clotted skies, gazed out on the blustery bay waters, and stopped to copy down bus and train schedules. When she got hungry, she plucked two apples from a tree at a boarded-up house. After three hours of wandering, she headed back to her room, chilled from the dampness penetrating her shoes and clothes.

  She rounded the corner of Cumberland Street. There was Nick, sitting on the front steps of her boarding house, dressed in a blue suit and clutching a colorful bouquet. When he spotted her, he stood and bounded toward her.

  Her heart leaped, but she steadied her step and summoned an expression of stern calm.

  “My darling Barbara.” He stopped before her on the sidewalk and held out the cluster of bright-faced zinnias. “Can we talk?”

  She took the flowers, nonchalantly, as if accepting change from a grocer, and held herself still. “About what?”

  “I want to talk privately.”

  Barbara gazed across the street at a couple wholly absorbed in each other. She’d settle for nothing less than a promise from Nick to never again see Cynthia. “I can see if the parlor’s free.”

  They walked up the front steps and into the boarding house. She checked the parlor and, finding it vacant, invited him in. She sat on the sofa, placed the bouquet on the side table, and looked up at Nick.

  He knelt in front of her. “My fearless explorer, my beautiful Barbara, you have more courage and spirit than all the people I know rolled together. I can’t imagine life without you.”

  Barbara’s stomach fluttered. It was true: He couldn’t live without her, either. But such torment he’d put her through. “Why tell me this now?”

  “All during the wedding, I kept looking around at the church full of stuffy people, including Cynthia, and I could think only of you.” He held out his hand. “Marry me, Barbara. Please.”

  The knot of torment inside her broke loose. “You do love me, then?”

  “With all my heart.”

  He sprang to his feet, sat down beside her, and kissed her cheek. “I’m so sorry. So sorry I hurt you. I’ve been unfair, and you’ve been nothing but patient.”

  Her cheeks tingled and flushed. “Because I love you.”

  “Then, you’ll marry me?”

  Marriage. They’d spoken of it with disdain for so long. Did she want to be married? She did want him—all to herself. She placed her hand in his. “Yes.”

  “Let’s not wait. Let’s get the certificate on Monday. Get married right away.”

  “So soon?”

  He caressed her hand. “Unless you’d like a big wedding. Or want to go to New York and invite your mother. It’s all up to you.”

  Married. She’d not have to justify herself to her mother anymore. “No, let’s not wait. I don’t want a church wedding. It’s all pomp and pretend.”

  “I don’t either. I can live without the church. Just like you.”

  “A justice of the peace will do.”

  “We can take an apartment. Someplace near my work.”

  “A place all our own.” She could almost picture it. “With a writing desk and a big bookcase. And a proper kitchen.”

  “And you can find a job,” he said. “We can save for our future.”

  She understood she’d need to work. But he must accept some of her terms, too. “And take vacations to the country as often as we can.”

  “Yes, my darling. Whatever you want.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, and she surrendered to his sure grip. She buzzed with buoyancy as if lifted on the wings of a thousand butterflies.

  “I can’t sit still,” she said, pulling out of his embrace and taking his hand. She tugged him across the room, out the front door, and down the steps. Releasing his hand, she dashed into the empty street, spread her arms, and ran, paying no mind to August’s thick humidity.

  His footsteps beat on the bricks behind her. He laughed and cried out, “Wait.”

  “Catch me if you can,” she called, darting down the street.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  BARBARA AT TWENTY-ONE

  Boston, January 1936

  January 21, 1936

  Dear Alice,

  It’s simply marvelous that your book will be published, and by Harper no less. I knew it would be. It’s the best thing you’ve written, and I’m terribly happy for you. Helen has started sending out Third-Class Ticket to Heaven. One editor told her he preferred not to consider a book set in Germany, which is quite ridiculous since it’s only about the simple villagers and farmers of the Black Forest. Determined as she is, I’m confident she’ll eventually land a publisher. And sales of Stars to Steer By are bumping along nicely. I like to think that her and your successes make up for my failures. I can’t get my novel or any of my stories published. Worse still, I’ve not written a lick in ages. Mother says I oughtn’t let work and marriage get in the way, but then she’s not married, so it’s easy for her to lecture.

  Nick is dreadfully busy these days. Between his job and mine, we’ve had a hard time getting away, which is what I live for. You know how the drudgery of city life saps my spirit. Lately, we’ve both had to work on Saturday mornings, and that has rendered even short holidays impossible. I’ve begged Nick to quit this beastly nonstop work so we can get in a few ski trips this winter, and he promises he’ll try. At least we still get out some weekends. Last Saturday
, a couple of friends drove us up to the dance hall at Revere Beach. Between the Lindy and Jitterbug, Nick and I really got some steam going on the dance floor.

  I shouldn’t grumble about the lack of holidays since married life is not all that bad. I’m so accustomed to financial failure and money-fussing from my parents that Nick’s wage-earning rather amazes me. Imagine him turning into a real money maker. Wouldn’t it be a grand joke? Not on me, but on my parents, my whole bringing up, and my gypsy-like ways.

  I sometimes long for the fleet-footed Nick I walked beside when we trekked the Appalachian Trail and wandered from Spain to Germany. That was more or less his Wanderjahr, and I guess I should be grateful I met him when I did. I enjoyed a side of him that most people don’t know, at least not the people he works with. They only see this dedicated fellow who loves his work. But I know deep inside he’s a bold and daring man.

  Anyway, that’s not what I intended to write about. I meant to say he’s managed a raise recently. And if he can climb his way up at Polaroid, I may be able to work a little less. For now, however, we’re resigned to me keeping my stenographer’s job since Nick insists we save a few dollars along the way.

  The Congregational Society has gotten a bit less tedious of late. Just as I was about to tear my hair out over the string of mundane memos and dull documents, I was asked to help an amazing woman write about her India sojourn. So, I happily take dictation from her and edit her material. It’s like having a private adventure on the steamy streets of Bombay and around the dusty countryside. I’m afraid that’s as close as I’ll get to anything exotic for the foreseeable future. Unless . . .

  I haven’t told Nick yet, but my friend Gloria and I want to put together a troupe to sail to South America the summer after this coming. Ever since I read Inca Land, I’ve dreamed of hiking to Machu Picchu. Wouldn’t it be grand to rediscover the land of the mysterious Incas? And I simply can’t go on without the prospect of some escapade to look forward to. It’s far enough off that I can bide my time, for now, research the logistics of the expedition, and figure out how to seduce Nick away from work. And, I suppose, there’s the matter of finding the money. It’d be swell if it came off. After all, the sweat and saving that are required to pull off high adventure are always worth the effort. In fact, it’s the only thing worth that sort of effort.