Last week, on a lark, I started an interpretive dance class, the kind of dance that’s done barefoot. Two nights a week, I strain limb and brain with the most tantalizing body expression. The instructor has studied in Europe and rather calls out one’s notion of what dance is all about. I’m only just beginning to understand the seam between idea and movement, but the magic and allure of it satisfy me in a most profound way.
So, you see, I’m not completely given over to the banal, at least not yet. Here’s to life’s wonders and unpredictability!
As ever,
Barbara
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
BARBARA AT TWENTY-THREE
Bradford, VT, July 1937
Barbara stood beside her father, looking down on the tree-lined Connecticut River. From the bluff, she could see, but not hear, the ripple of its shallows. “Transfixing, isn’t it?”
Her father, too, gazed on the sunlit river. “And calming.”
After a recent exchange of letters, the most congenial between them in years, he’d invited her to visit. And it was quite pleasant getting reacquainted. He seemed to have mellowed as if time and trials had ground down his brusqueness. But between his pasty complexion, sagging jowls, and veiny hands, he looked all of his fifty years. No, she promised herself, I’ll not let myself turn so shabby with age.
She found his household teeming with cheerfulness. He’d recently published a string of articles, which enabled them to afford this new house. Of course, under the circumstances, an apartment wouldn’t do, for he and Margaret had turned into an honest-to-goodness family, with a lively two-year-old girl and darling baby boy.
Their new residence was quite charming—a two-story farmhouse with a view of the rolling hills of Vermont and New Hampshire. True, the house and property had been neglected for years, but with a good scrubbing, yard raking, and fence-mending, it’d show its country quaintness again. And once she and her father wrestled this snarl of a garden under control, she imagined it, too, would yield treasures.
Her father dragged on his Lucky Strike and shifted his rake closer to his side. “Should we attack those morning glory vines? They’re choking the climbing rose.”
He retrieved a step ladder from the garden shed and positioned it beside the pergola. Barbara scurried up and, leaning over the pergola’s arch, grabbed handfuls of vines and cut through them.
Her father traced and extricated the segments. “Do you understand what Nick does at Polaroid? I mean the science of it?”
“In a general way,” Barbara said.
“Well, you’d better explain it. So I can have an intelligent conversation with him. He seems to hold back with me.”
As Barbara reached into the maze of vines, the rose thorns pricked her skin. “He experiments with plastics and how they make light behave.”
“And how’s that?”
“Plastic can be used to filter light, so you can do things like reduce glare on automobile headlights or see objects more clearly underwater.”
“Strange, isn’t it—you, ending up with a science man?”
“No stranger than a lot of other things.” Barbara caught his eye and grinned. “You, having three wives. Me having half-siblings. Helen publishing one book after another.”
“I suppose so,” he said, turning his back on her.
Well, Barbara thought, I guess he doesn’t want to talk about any of that. She tugged at the tangled vines. “What are you writing these days?”
“I’ve got a few reviews in the works for The Saturday Review. And a semi-regular column with The Atlantic Monthly, mostly about language usage.” He swiped his forearm over his brow. “And your job? Do you enjoy it?”
“It’s more necessity than pleasure.”
“Are you writing? Does Nick encourage you?”
“I simply don’t have time to write these days.”
Her father raised his thick eyebrows. They were surprisingly dark, especially compared to his head of spare gray hair. “Have you given up on yourself?”
“What a terrible way to put it.” Barbara tucked a corner of her mouth into a scowl. “There’s more to life than writing, you know.”
“Such as?”
“Such as my husband. And dancing and exploring.”
“Margaret managed to publish a novel. I made sure to help her with it.”
“Well, that’s jolly for the two of you.”
Her father said nothing to that, and they worked silently, clipping and tugging until they’d freed the rose vines and dug out the morning glory roots.
They dragged the heap of vines away, and Barbara asked, “What about that raspberry patch?”
They worked side by side on the weedy strip of raspberry canes. Barbara yanked out stalks of ragweed and dug up gnarly burdock roots. Her father raked the weeds into a pile and scooped them up.
As he walked off with his load of weeds, Barbara glared at his back. His comments about her writing rankled. He oughtn’t criticize Nick for not encouraging her, especially since he’d not been there to inspire her when she most needed him. How could she ever forget that terrible desertion? It was as if he’d raised her to believe she could own the sky—and then threw a pall over her whole world. Not that she wished to bring up old wrongs. She’d built a new life with Nick. That was what mattered now.
Her father, too, apparently thought better of dwelling on the matter. He righted himself, kneaded the small of his back, and asked, “Where do you think Amelia Earhart is?”
“Most likely on some South Pacific island. There are thousands of them. I just hope it’s one with plenty of vegetation.”
“I hear they might call off the search.”
“Nick says even if they survived, their radio’s likely dead, but I tell him it doesn’t matter as long as they’ve got some basic supplies.”
“So, you believe she’s alive?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Look at what she’s accomplished. She and that navigator know how to fly. Doesn’t seem likely they’d crash.”
“I hope someone discovers them soon.”
“I hope not. Let them enjoy their paradise in peace.”
Her father chuckled. “You still have your starry-eyed imagination.”
Barbara peered into the raspberry stalks, spying plump berries glistening between the leaves. The memory of one of her childhood stories burst upon her, fresh as today, about a ceiling of vines plated with shimmering colors. “Remember my Verbiny story? The one about the jewels that Verbiny mistakes for fruit?”
He nodded, recognition lighting his eyes. “And,” he winked, “that stern mother and grumpy father.”
“Verbiny didn’t care. She had a fairy friend and slept soundly on her mossy bed in the forest.” Barbara stripped a few raspberries off the prickly stems and popped them in her mouth. She smacked her lips, savoring their sweet juiciness. “Nick would say I’m like Verbiny. He’s always accusing me of indulging in flights of fancy.”
Her father plucked some berries. “I hope you never lose that.”
✭
“You can’t have any idea how wonderful it felt,” Barbara told Nick as she toweled her hair dry. “Spending the whole afternoon weeding and digging and clearing.”
Nick sat in the easy chair in the corner of their second-floor bedroom at the Folletts’ home, an ankle planted on his knee top and a Life magazine open on his lap. “So, you’re enjoying yourself?”
“Oh, tremendously.”
“We couldn’t have visited if we’d gone to South America.”
“I don’t see why not,” she said.
“If I’d taken weeks off for that, I wouldn’t have any time left for this trip.”
Barbara sighed. “I suppose.”
She was still disappointed about giving up the Machu Picchu expedition. She’d argued it would restore his sense of discovery and wonder, but he insisted they couldn’t afford the trip. She could hardly argue with him—not after he made it clear he contributed more to their savings than
she did. So she decided not to tell him about the raise she expected in September. Knowing she’d be tucking extra money aside for adventures made her feel less trapped, less of a prisoner to the mundane.
Nick closed the magazine and put it on the floor. “How are you getting on with your father?”
Barbara draped the towel over the bedpost and shook out her hair. “Smashingly. I can tell him just what I think. Even when he annoys me.”
“That’s grand. But I don’t understand your father. Or Margaret.”
“You just have to be friendly,” she said. “My father even asked me about your work.”
“I can’t see how it matters whether Gone With the Wind deserves the Pulitzer. Or why misuse of a comma is an abomination. Or how he can tolerate not knowing when the next paycheck will show up.”
“Well, literature and writing are his whole world.”
Nick let out a humph. “Don’t blame me if I keep quiet at the dinner table.”
“Don’t be silly. I love you just the way you are. You’re so levelheaded and . . . sane.” Barbara fingered the coils of her hair, arranging them into her usual tousled bob. “I don’t believe I could’ve come without you. This visit couldn’t have happened if I didn’t have you.”
Nick uncrossed his leg and looked up at Barbara, his head cocked. “Why’s that?”
Barbara leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Because you’re my harbor and cove.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You literary people never just come right out with it, do you?”
“Don’t be cross,” Barbara said, gazing down on him. “It only means I feel safe with you. You see, my father thoroughly wrecked our family. But now I have my own family, and I don’t need him anymore.”
“That makes sense.” He pulled her to his lap. “Ting sure is a jolly baby, isn’t he?”
Barbara draped her arm around his shoulder. “I suppose every man wants a son.”
“It’s only natural. Doesn’t every girl want a daughter?”
“I have three sisters. That’s enough for me.”
Nick reached his hand into the opening of her robe and spread it over her stomach.
He had such strong hands; she relished his fingers circling her belly, inching up to the cove between her breasts. She smoothed her hand through his hair.
Snuggling his face into her neck, he said, “You don’t need your diaphragm this time.”
“I know you too well.” She stood and pulled him toward the bed. “I already slipped it in.”
He planted the heel of his palm on her breastbone and pushed her back until her knees buckled against the bed, and she fell backward onto it. He said, “Next time, I’ll just have to surprise you.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
BARBARA AT TWENTY-FOUR
Boston, May 1938
I can’t believe you burned the meat again.” Nick poked at the shiny-brown crust of his roasted beef. “You know I hate it like this.”
Barbara plopped her plate down on the kitchen table. “Just eat the middle.”
“Is it that hard to make a decent dinner?”
“I got distracted.” She grabbed the bottle of milk on the table and filled Nick’s glass. Some of it sloshed over and puddled on the enamel tabletop. “It’s not as if that never happens to you.”
He jerked his head up and glared at her. “Such as when?”
She mopped up the spill with her napkin and slipped it on her lap. Its moistness chilled her hands; she rubbed them dry, ignoring the lingering stickiness. “Such as when you forget to quit work on time.”
“That’s different. I’m not ruining anything in the process.”
That, she thought, was debatable. But as much as she hated planning every single meal and cooking in this cramped kitchen, she knew the spat would only heat up if she didn’t back down. “I’m sorry, Nick. I’ll be more careful next time.”
He shook his head as if trying to dispel the haze of disgust.
Spring rain poured down outside, and chilly winds rattled the apartment’s windows. Barbara had left the oven door open to warm the kitchen, but its heat had quickly dissipated. She grabbed the flimsy cardigan she’d draped over her chair and slipped it on.
Nick swallowed a mouthful of peas. “I thought I’d get tickets for William Dodd’s talk at the Harvard Club next month.”
“Who’s William Dodd?”
“Don’t you remember? He was the ambassador to Germany while we were there. The one who’s been saying Hitler is a warmonger looking to build an empire.”
“I don’t believe it. It makes no sense.”
“Then how do you explain reports he’s building up armaments?”
Barbara hated how Nick picked fights whenever the most trivial matter annoyed him. This time it was, of all things, overdone meat. “They’re likely exaggerated.”
Nick grabbed the Heinz 57, upended it, and thumped out a splat. “You can’t know that. There’s probably some truth to them.”
“Well, I don’t want to go anyway.” Barbara shuffled her feet under the table, crossing her legs mid-calf. She hated politics: What good did it do to endlessly debate what Hitler was up to?
Nick asked, “Why do we only do what you want to do?”
“That’s not true.”
“For instance?”
Barbara cut into the baked potato. Its skin broke easily, and a burst of steam gushed out. At least she’d gotten that right. “I went to your boss’s home for dinner last month.”
“That’s the least you could do. It would’ve been impertinent of you not to.”
“Well, I did it for you, which is more than I can say for you. What do you do for me?”
“I gave up the church.”
Barbara snapped her head up. “I never asked you to do that. You decided that all on your own, just like you decide most things.”
Nick gripped his fork and knife upright in his fists and plastered his forearms on the table. “I suppose you mean the canoe trip to Canada.”
“Not just that. Even finding a few days to go skiing. Or just plain taking a vacation together.”
“They need me at work. I can’t take off weeks at a time. Your job’s not serious like mine.”
“I’ll say it’s not. I don’t even want to be doing it.”
“I’m surprised they put up with you and your gallivanting.”
Barbara’s stomach knotted up. She studied her plate; the food looked as shiny and unappetizing as plastic. She slapped her fork down. “I begged you to go on that canoe trip with me. You’re the one being unreasonable.”
“How can you say that? When you won’t even discuss having children.”
“I’m not ready.” She pushed her back against the cold vinyl chair. “You can’t force things like that.”
“Will you ever be ready?”
“Being a mother’s not easy. You wouldn’t have to change a thing about your life. But I would.” As Nick glared at her, she noticed his neck reddening; his blue shirt collar seemed pale and icy by comparison.
“Don’t you think it’s time we started a family? I don’t want to wait until I’m as old as your father.”
“My father has nothing to do with this,” she said.
“Oh? Just look at him: having children by three wives; spending money as soon as he gets it. You’re just like him—flighty and irresponsible.”
Barbara plumbed up her spine. “I’m going to Canada, and that’s that. It’s all planned.”
He thumped his forearms on the table. “God damn it, Barbara, I can’t live like this. You gone for weeks on end. Me making excuses about why my wife’s away half the summer.”
“You knew when you married me; I wasn’t like other girls. I thought you liked that about me.”
“If I’d known you were going to keep being a nomad, I might’ve thought twice about marrying you.”
“Well, you’re going to have to take me for who I am. Just like I do with you. I don’t begrudge you your work or th
e things you enjoy.”
“That’s precisely what we’re talking about. How long do you expect me to wait until you’re ready to start a family?”
Her head throbbed. She hated these arguments. “Nick, we shouldn’t treat each other like this. I had enough of that with my parents. Please, can we not fight?”
“We can stop when you tell me you’re going to settle down and start being a wife and mother.”
“All right, I’ll think seriously about it this summer. Just let me have my month in Canada first.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
BARBARA AT TWENTY-FIVE
Boston, June 1939
June 16, 1939
Dear Alice,
Such news I have! You know how enthralled I am with interpretive dance. Well, my instructor invited me to join her troupe, and I couldn’t say no. That’s how I met Renée, who plays the piano for us. She and I just signed up for a dance workshop at Mills College. We’ll be leaving on June 25 and driving straight across the old U.S. of A. The workshop runs from July 1 to August 11. And then we’ll ramble on down to Los Angeles, where Renée has a friend she’d like to visit.
Can I descend on your lovely family? It’d be smashing to knock around with the Russells again, just like old times. We can bask in your garden or sit on the porch and confer and commune about books and dancing and, well, anything and everything that matters in this whacky world.
Of course, Nick isn’t thrilled about me taking this trip. We just moved to a new apartment (note the new address), which is a bit roomier than our old place, and he wants us to scrub it down over the summer. But I do love dancing. It unites me, body and soul, and renders me utterly free and soaring. The workshop is led by Martha Hill, who’s moving her dance school from Bennington to Mills for the summer. She’s quite well known in dance circles, so I couldn’t resist following her to Oakland. And the prospect of visiting you sealed it for me.
The Point of Vanishing Page 26
