The Darling

by Russell Banks

  And now that we are at least in touch by mail, if there is any way we can be of help to you, anything we can send to you, medical supplies, clothing, books, or money, whatever, just tell me and I’ll have it sent at once. Do you, by the way, have access to a telephone? You could call us collect anytime, you know. Of course, that may still be a little too much exposure. In which case, your mother and I will happily rely on your letters.

  With love,

  Dad

  BM/ia

  Another two weeks went by, and then came my mother’s letter, handwritten on her embossed, peach-colored, personalized stationery. Still, such a lady. I hadn’t answered Daddy’s letter and didn’t for many months, and when I did, kept it short and impersonal, for reasons suggested, I assume, by his letter to me and for reasons I’ll likely explain later. Mother’s, however, I answered at once. Hers to me first. Then mine to her.

  Dear Hannah,

  I was so happy and relieved to hear from you again and to know that you’re safe and sound, even if you are in far-off darkest Africa. I can well imagine you out there, believe it or not, as it somehow seems almost like an extension of your unselfish and adventurous nature. I am sure that your generosity of spirit and lifelong compassion for the poor are contributing mightily to the welfare of the people there. In fact, I wonder if it’s possible that your social commitment can be put to even better use among the Africans than it could here at home, where there is little but opposition to change.

  Mother always viewed my political commitment the same as she viewed her own, as noblesse oblige, as a modest way of acknowledging that one had only by accident acquired social and financial privilege. It wasn’t that the poor and downtrodden were exploited; they were merely less fortunate. In that way, one avoided contending with any self-incriminating guilt and felt free not to surrender one’s privilege.

  I’ve been remembering so much lately, ever since your letter arrived, remembering you as a child, my blond, blue-eyed baby girl with the heart of gold who used to bring home all the lost and abandoned animals in the neighborhood, and even some that hadn’t been lost or abandoned and had to be returned to their owners, and a few years later bringing home all those bedraggled, sad-faced children, your schoolmates from Huntington Chase, “the losers,” as you once explained to me when I asked who were these children, and when you went off to Rosemary Hall how every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter break you would come home with the students who for whatever reason couldn’t be with their families for the holidays. Do you remember the girl named Anna from Jordan, or was it Turkey? I remember sitting up late one Christmas Eve with her, decorating the tree and telling her the story of each of the tree ornaments, how they were passed down from your father’s family and how every Christmas we added three new ornaments to the collection, one for each of us. I told Anna how every ornament had a special emblematic meaning in our family. You were out on a date, as I recall, and your father couldn’t get home until halfway through Christmas dinner the next day, but your friend Anna loved the stories, all those Musgrave associations going back to the early 1800’s, when the tree ornament collection first began, and she and I were able to get very close that night. And of course I’ve been remembering your college years, when political activism became so central to your life, the summers in the South working with SCLC registering black voters, when we were so worried about you that your father went South, too, and joined the marches himself, although of course he was there mainly because of his own passionate commitment to civil rights. That was the period when your principles and character had begun to change and shape ours, which leads me to say what I wanted to say at the start of this letter: that your principles and character have probably had a greater impact on my life, and I dare say on your father’s, too, than ours have had on yours. And I want you to know, Hannah, that despite the difficulties and anxieties we’ve experienced as parents in the last twelve or fifteen years, we are grateful to you for that. Many is the time when late at night, taking the measure of our lives (as we long-married couples sometimes do, my dear), your father and I have said to each other, “If it weren’t for Hannah, we’d have probably ended up a couple of country-club Republican fuddy-duddies.” That possibly sounds funny coming from me, but it’s true, and I want you to know it. We are thankful to you, Hannah, and thankful for you.

  My mother’s letter, more than my father’s, brought with it a flood of memories. As she had intended, no doubt. They were not, however, the memories she had hoped to evoke. Within the structure of our family, we each from the beginning performed different, supportive functions, and our memories of the early years more clearly reflected those differences than the overall structure of the family itself. Over the years, on my farm here in Keene Valley, I’ve seen that a river or a stream running through a valley or plain or tumbling over rocks across and down the side of a mountain, like an artery or vein, brings that otherwise immobilized land to life and implies the existence, embedded like a heart, of a separate source of life. Without the Ausable River running through it, my farm would be inert, stilled, and were it not for the wind in the trees—a noise from the sky, not the earth—the land would be utterly silent. It may seem arrogant, but in my youth I sometimes felt that I was the river running through the lifeless, soundless landscape of my dry little family. Yes, I abandoned them and ran off to sea, as it were, and disappeared there for years. But I never forgot the pleasure and meaning that I took from my perceived role in the family as life-giver, as the creator of movement and change. It gave me a sense of power that I got from no other source. My mother’s letter brought all that back to me. Living up to that role had seemed my life’s destiny. An only child, I had, practically from birth, felt best defined in terms of my relation to my parents. Our family was a trihedron, a closed, three-sided, geometric form. In deserting my mother and father, running off as I did to change the world by any means necessary, I broke the thing apart, depriving all three of us of an essential aspect of our shared and individual identities. I knew at the time what my desertion would do to them, but I didn’t care then. I knew that, without my ongoing, supportive presence as one side of our three-sided family, they would break off into a pair of monads, and each of them would end up with a solitary life for which neither had the slightest preparation. Or else they would pretend that I had not left at all, that the river still ran through their pastoral valley, somewhat dwindled, perhaps, reduced to a trickle, but still there, still flowing, greening their grasses and causing their flowers to bloom and the leaves on their trees to bud and open in the sun.

  Well, I almost started to cry, writing that. I may have to re-write this letter entirely if I can’t stop being so maudlin. I do want to assure you that both your father and I continue to enjoy good health—although I had my gall bladder removed last summer, which was no big deal, really, and actually helped me shed a few excess pounds, thanks to the two-month-long nonfat diet that preceded the surgery. We’re as physically active as ever, especially your father, who has taken up bicycling lately with the same discipline and energy that he devotes to everything in his life. I’m content with tennis (mostly doubles nowadays) and golf in the summer months and swimming at the club pool in the winter. We’ve kept up with most of our old friends, all of whom constantly ask after you, of course, and we even took a white-water rafting trip down the Grand Canyon this spring with Bibby and Marsh Mansfield and John Kerry and his lovely wife (he’s a young Kennedy-type liberal Democrat running for Congress in the 5th district, a man who many of us think has presidential potential, certainly more than Teddy, but don’t get me started there). We don’t travel quite as much as we used to, although your father still does a fair amount of lecturing and book promotion for his publishers around the country and abroad. The Carter administration has asked him to join several federal commissions on health and childcare and so on, but he has steadfastly refused. He does serve on a number of corporate boards now, however, which take up a lot of the time that he once de
voted to political activism. But with the war in Vietnam over and the struggle for civil rights behind us, he is much less active in politics, as am I, of course. Mostly, we’re engaged now by local and environmental issues, where we inevitably end up siding with the young idealists against the greedy capitalists. So, not too much has changed, I guess!

  When I was a little girl, from as early as I can remember, we had a dog who loved me the same way I loved her, a white female Samoyed named Maya. Her name suggested Daddy’s taste, surely, not Mother’s, but I didn’t think of it that way then: Maya’s name came with her, and she embodied it, just as I did mine. I had no invisible friend to keep me company, and never wished for a brother or sister. I had Maya. Before all others, I loved Maya, and knew her, and she loved and knew me. We were authentically whole individuals to each other, unique and irreplaceable. Not that I thought she was human or that I was a dog—our species difference mattered less than if we’d had different genders. We played and studied together, slept together, even talked to one another in a language that only we two understood. But Maya grew old faster than I did, and when I was eleven and she was eleven, she developed arthritis and took to snoozing in the shade under Daddy’s car. Her habit was to lie under the rear bumper after she’d gone outside in the morning and had finished her business, as if the effort of peeing in the side yard necessitated a short period of private rest and reflection afterwards. This was before I went away to Rosemary Hall, and every morning, when he was not traveling, Daddy drove me to school at Huntington Chase. His habit was to start the car and run the engine for a minute before backing it out of the driveway, to give Maya time to crawl from beneath the car. But then, inevitably, there came the day, a blustery, unseasonably warm, spring-like February morning, when Daddy turned on the ignition, waited the usual ninety seconds before putting the car into reverse, and as soon as the car began to move, we heard and felt a bump underneath, and he and I knew instantly that he had run over Maya and killed her. I had just begun to insist on being called Scout then, and Scout didn’t cry when her dog was killed by her father. Without looking up from the open schoolbook in her lap, Scout said simply, “You ran over Maya.” I remember Daddy practically leaping from the car and lifting Maya in his arms. He held her as if she were a full-length fur coat and stood by the open car door, looking back at me with a strangely puzzled expression on his face, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had done. “I’m so sorry, dear,” he said. I didn’t respond. In my rapidly hardening heart I knew that he’d grown weary of her inconvenience and the demands that her old age put on us and for an instant had willfully blocked out the fact of her existence. I had no word for it yet, but I believed in the unconscious and knew that it was very powerful, especially when it came to adult behavior. He said, “I think she was already dead, though. She was very old. Old and weak. I think she must have died before we came out. Or she’d have moved from under the car the way she always does. We’ll bury her in the backyard, okay? We’ll stay home this morning, you from school and me from the office, and we’ll bury her by the pear tree. How does that sound, Hannah?” “Scout,” I said and went back to my book. “Scout,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a whisper. Mother suddenly appeared at the door behind him. “What happened to Maya?” she asked. Daddy turned and showed her, and she said, “Oh, my! Are you all right, Hannah dear?” “Scout,” I corrected. “I’m fine,” I said and looked up at her. “It’s Maya who’s dead.” “Yes, of course. Yes. Poor Maya,” she said. I turned back to my book and pretended to read, while my parents stood there by the car, my father with the dog in his arms, my mother wringing her hands uselessly, the two of them staring in hurt confusion at their cold child. Without looking at them, I said, “It’s not like Maya’s a person, you know. A human being. And we don’t have to bury her by the pear tree. We can take her to the vet’s, and they can do whatever people do with dogs that die of old age.” And then I told my father to hurry up and drive me to school or I’d be late.

  Dear Hannah, how I would love to be able to hug you and sit face to face with you and talk the night through. I wonder if it’s possible for us to visit you there. I understand, of course, that you can’t visit us here, but maybe we could fly over to Africa and be with you for a few days. It would mean so much to us if we could all be together again, however briefly. I would love to see where you work, meet your friends (especially this mysterious new man-friend you mentioned), and travel about the countryside some and “see the sights.” Neither your father nor I have been to Africa before, you know, although your father keeps saying he wants to go to South Africa and support the anti-apartheid movement in some fashion that’s appropriate to his profession and his public standing here in the U.S., probably by forming an international organization of physicians opposed to apartheid. It’s possible that we could come first to Liberia for a few days or a week and then fly on to South Africa. What would you think of that? Naturally, we wouldn’t want to inconvenience you in any way and would stay in a nearby hotel, rent a car, and so on, and would amuse ourselves quite capably while you were at work. We could hire a local guide and go sightseeing, then meet up with you afterwards. The very idea of it is exciting to me, and when I suggested it to your father, he was thrilled.

  It amazed and disappointed me to see the ease with which my parents, simply by presenting themselves to me, could turn me into that cold child again. I read their letters and was transformed into Scout. Here I was, a woman in her middle-thirties who had accumulated a lifetime’s experiences that her parents would never even know about, let alone experience for themselves; yet, in their presence, even in as disembodied a form as an exchange of letters, my world shrank to the size and shape of theirs, as if I’d never left it.

  I’ve gone on and on, especially for a letter that I’m not one hundred percent sure will even get to you, and so I really should close now. I love you, darling, and miss you terribly. Please write back soon.

  All my love,

  Mother

  I didn’t take the time to refold her letter and put it back into the envelope, before I was writing my answer. My hand trembled as the words scrawled across the page, and when I had finished, I did not bother to reread what I had written. I immediately sealed it, slapped on an airmail stamp—one of those famous Liberian chimpanzee stamps printed in small editions for foreign collectors—and headed straight for the little neighborhood post office, where, after a ten-minute wait for the postmistress to return from lunch, I handed it to her.

  Dear Mother,

  The last thing I need is for you and Daddy to show up at my door! How can you even think of doing such a thing! I’m not a post-deb taking her Grand Tour in Africa and I’m not in the Peace Corps, thank you very much, Daddy. Please understand that my situation vis-à-vis the government of Liberia and the U.S. State Department is extremely delicate, and I’m more or less free to stay here solely by their leave. And I mean that, more or less free. And by their leave. The American authorities pretty much run the show in Liberia and they know who I am. I’m no longer underground, but as you surely must remember, Mother, there is still a federal warrant for my arrest that could be acted on any time they wish, for any reason they wish. Relations between the two countries are conducted not as between equals but rather on the basis of what’s in the best interests of the U.S. At the moment, because of an acute shortage here of medically trained personnel, it’s in the interests of the U.S. State Department and probably a few congressmen from New York and New Jersey to allow me, even with my low-level skills, to be employed basically as a lab assistant for an academic front financed by some huge, politically connected pharmaceutical company. The university is doing research that requires blood from chimpanzees, an animal that happens to be abundant in this region, research that, if successful, will some day produce the patent for an anti-hepatitis drug that will generate enormous profits for the pharmaceutical company sponsoring the research and in the end will make the shareholders of the company obscenely ri
ch. Thus the complicity of the U.S. government and thus their interest in having me employed here. (I can’t believe I have to explain this to you!)

  Mother viewed people as either lucky or unlucky, Daddy saw them as overprivileged and underprivileged. He failed to note, however, that the underprivileged among us could not be eliminated without first doing away with the overprivileged. Nonetheless, in my parents’ dreamy, meandering, hand-holding march towards universal justice—where the downtrodden would be uplifted and the sick and the starving healed and fed—Daddy was a step ahead of Mother. He was a logical man, a decent and kind man, but a liberal. He believed that no one’s property need be confiscated and redistributed on the long march towards universal justice and that none of the overprivileged would have to be lined up against a wall and shot and none of the underprivileged would have to be deliberately sacrificed along the way. Thus he saw no reason why, for the duration of the Revolution and for as long as desired thereafter by him and his descendants, his own pocket could not stay filled.

  Besides, I know that the American embassy has someone watching me just to be sure that I’m not engaged in any anti-American political activity. The Liberians probably watch me, too. In spite of Liberia’s willingness to do the U.S.’s bidding in Africa by turning itself into a CIA listening post and its one airport into a B-52 base, this is not an especially stable country. There are many groups and individuals who would love to see the present pro-American government overthrown and replaced by one allied with the Soviet Union or China or God forbid with the non-aligned nations of the Third World. As a result people like me (who are not tourists or Peace Corps volunteers) are viewed with suspicion by all sides. It’s as if I’m under house arrest, Mother, and if you and Daddy or anyone else from my past suddenly shows up here calling attention to yourselves by hiring guides and poking around the country “sightseeing” (and you know what Daddy’s like when he travels), I’ll very likely be extradited to the U.S. and sent to prison for a long, long time.