A thin bright line formed on the water’s horizon, a crack to something brilliant and lovely. It looked as though, if only she had a boat, she could sail right through it, arrive in that place of new light.
Part Three
Hanover, New Hampshire, 1961–66
July–September 1961
There were black crows everywhere, but not the dusty ones like back home. These were sleeker, glossier, fatter. Perhaps they had more to eat in this verdant landscape. They slitted their eyes at her wherever she went, as if to say, we know you. You can leave the farm, dabble in New York and Chicago, but we will always be watching you, claiming you.
Lucybelle tried to let the roar of quiet support rather than unhinge her. After all, Willa Cather had kept a writing haven in New Hampshire, an attic in a hotel to which she retreated whenever she needed to get work done, and this consonance inspired Lucybelle. Every day she came home from work and wrote. She wrote all weekend too. She wrote with an intense focus, zipping page after page out from the top of her typewriter. She’d had no idea it would feel like this, the profound relief in telling a true story. Each page felt like tossing a stone of ballast from her soul. She became lighter and lighter. It didn’t even matter what happened with the fat stack of paper or whether the sentences and paragraphs were any good. They weren’t, they most decidedly were not any good at all; they were clumsy, unwieldy, purple, and tepid, all at once. Yet this growing pile of paper illuminated everything.
Lucybelle had come to Hanover with the front guard, a handful of employees sent to be the liaison between the old lab and the new one, which was far from completed. There was a great deal of hostility toward the new residents in town, based on rumors that the new lab would be a military target, or that it would accidentally blow up, leveling everything in sight, or that they were making atomic bombs rather than studying ice. The displaced scientists and staff did their best to dispel the rumors, but everyone from the bagger at the grocery store to the clerk at the dry cleaners treated them with brisk animus. This friction was unpleasant, but she braced against it and used the products of loneliness—time and clarity—to write her novel.
In September, she and L’Forte drove back to Chicago to help Dorothy make the move. With Mrs. Shipwright in a makeshift bed in the backseat and L’Forte settled on his blanket on the floor beneath her, they drove the thousand miles straight through, taking turns at the wheel, stopping only to walk L’Forte and to change Mrs. Shipwright’s diaper and give her spoonfuls of the baby food Dorothy brought for easy nutrition. The two women in the front seat ate roast beef sandwiches and apples and drank thermoses of coffee. When they were both awake, Dorothy read pages from Lucybelle’s novel out loud. Lucybelle cringed and shouted, “No!” at all the bad sentences, but Dorothy insisted that it was a beautiful piece of writing and a gripping story.
Lucybelle knew it was neither beautiful nor gripping. She knew it would require many more drafts to make it a passable novel. But the experience of someone reading the story, coupled with Dorothy’s kind enthusiasm, was alarmingly gratifying. She could see perfectly well that her fondness for Dorothy increased in direct proportion to her friend’s compliments, and yet she couldn’t help letting herself bask in them. The pleasure in having her novel appreciated gave her a nearly erotic charge, and there they were, encased in the steel of her blue Bel Air, driving the highways of America, a demented woman in the backseat, and an aging dachshund on the floor. They laughed a lot and even sang songs Daddy used to have the family sing on road trips, like “Red River Valley” and “If You’re Happy and You Know It.”
“I’m very happy,” Dorothy said somewhere in upstate New York.
“I know you are,” Lucybelle said. “Geneviève is a treasure.”
Dorothy laughed and Lucybelle knew why: she never used words like “treasure” and using it only suggested a falseness to her statement. Lucybelle added, as if a patch were needed, “You love her.”
“I do,” Dorothy said carefully. “I actually do. She’s so . . . what’s the word? Concentrated. Intense. In good ways. It scares me a little. I wish she’d loosen up. But I do love her.”
“She might loosen up with time. And you’ll be so much closer now.”
“But that isn’t what I was talking about when I said I was very happy. Right now.”
Lucybelle knew it wasn’t what she’d been talking about. She too was very happy. Right now. She loved the smell and feel of the hot tarred pavement under the rubber of her spinning tires, the autumn air blowing in the car windows, her novel in the seat between them, helping her friend do something she thought impossible, move her mother, while her friend in turn helped her to do something she thought impossible, write a novel.
By the time they arrived in Hanover early in the morning, their eyeballs felt like sandpaper and their stomachs like cement mixers. Mrs. Shipwright was limp and breathing shallowly as they carried her into the furnished apartment Lucybelle had found for Dorothy. They laid her on the bed, stood and looked at her for a long moment, and then walked back out to the street.
Dorothy kissed her cheek. “What would I do without you?”
“We made it.”
Dorothy nodded and didn’t look away.
Lucybelle laughed, though no one had said anything funny. “Poor L’Forte. I’m getting him home to his proper bed.”
“Thank you,” Dorothy said, loading up the words too much.
“It was so much fun,” Lucybelle answered, trying to unpack the load.
At home Lucybelle put a fresh sheet of paper into her typewriter. Hearing parts of her novel out loud gave her ideas. She didn’t want to lose them. She wrote until suppertime, and then after a meal of canned mushroom soup, she allowed L’Forte under the covers with her. They both slept hard for nearly twelve hours.
The ringing telephone woke her at six o’clock the next morning. Mrs. Shipwright hadn’t lived through the night.
Friday, October 20, 1961
“It was not your fault.” Beverly nearly growled at Dorothy.
Lucybelle felt as if it was her own fault. She’d convinced Dorothy that Mrs. Shipwright could make the trip.
“Honey.” Ruthie spoke much more softly than Beverly had. “Listen to me. She was close to death. Did we hasten it by a day or two? Perhaps.”
“Or months,” Dorothy said, the tears rising yet again.
“Her life was hell,” Beverly said. “She didn’t know where she was or even who you were half the time. She lay in bed all day, with bed sores and who knows what other pains.”
“Honey,” Ruthie said again. “I know you’re grieving. Time will heal. But do please hear me out on this. You were a devoted daughter. You cared for your mother until the end. Also—” Ruthie held up a hand and put on her strict voice. “You have a simply wonderful companion. Moving here, so you can be closer to her, was absolutely the right thing to do. You have your entire life ahead of you. Now Geneviève is a mere 250 miles away. I couldn’t dream of a better situation for you.”
Dorothy blew her nose.
“Ruthie is right.”
“What I don’t understand is why I can’t just move to Poughkeepsie. I’m sure I could get a job in the college library.”
Beverly and Ruthie exchanged a look.
“What?” Dorothy asked. “We wouldn’t need to live together. I’m not suggesting we make an announcement. It just would be a heck of a lot easier than a four-hour drive. Why not?”
“Geneviève has a very good job. As do you.”
Lucybelle sighed and kept her mouth shut. She wondered when she could go home and get back to work on her novel. Beverly and Ruthie’s Hanover apartment was oddly similar to their Evanston one. Maybe it was just that they’d moved the tan-and-orange plaid couch, the golden-flecked brown rug, the copper-legged walnut coffee table, the leather armchair and ottoman, and of course the repaired breakfront. They’d somehow managed to arrange the furniture in the exact same configuration too. At least this apartment had nic
e, big windows. Lucybelle looked out at the brilliant yellow foliage, the tree trunks creamy white, the sky a hard blue. She stood and walked to the window, where she could feel the bracing cold seeping through the glass. Maybe she could claim a headache.
“Geneviève is quite late.” Beverly looked at her watch.
“She’s always late.”
“Like I said, it’s a four-hour drive.”
The telephone rang and Ruthie went to the kitchen to answer it. “Where are you? Are you all right? Yes, of course. Hold on. I’ll get her. See you soon.”
They all listened as Dorothy answered the telephone, her voice full of enthusiasm. They kept listening even though Dorothy, just out of sight around the corner of the kitchen, didn’t speak again. Beverly made a face at Ruthie and then at Lucybelle, meaning to ask, what in the world could Geneviève be saying? Dorothy hung up without saying good-bye.
She swayed back into the front room, putting a hand on the breakfront to steady herself. Her green eyes had gone murky.
“What’s happened?” Beverly barked.
“She’s not coming.”
“Is she okay? Did she take ill?” Ruthie asked.
“She’s fine. She thought this would be a good time to tell me, while I’m with friends.”
Lucybelle helped Dorothy to the couch.
“Tell you what?” Ruthie had to ask.
“Let me have the goddamn telephone.” It was the first time Lucybelle had ever heard Beverly use profanity.
“Don’t,” Dorothy said.
“I’ve known that bitch since she was a coed. How dare she.”
“Is there someone else?” Ruthie asked. “How could she—”
“No. There’s no one else. Unless you count the chorus of dead poets she lives with. And her esteemed Vassar colleagues who surely have worse secrets than a female lover.”
“Surely.” Ruthie’s voice brimmed with ire.
“What exactly did she say?” Beverly asked.
“You really want to know?”
“You don’t have to say,” Lucybelle said, dreading the answer.
“She quoted some poem about dark woods and promises she has to keep and all the miles she has to go before she sleeps.”
“She didn’t.”
“She did.”
“What miles does she have to go?” Ruthie asked. “What exactly does she have to do that’s so important?”
“Promises to whom?” Beverly asked. “Herself ? And is she calling a relationship, calling Dorothy, ‘sleep’?”
“If she is, it’s a compliment,” Lucybelle said. “The woman can’t allow herself even the pleasure of sleep. She’s plodding endlessly in pursuit of—”
“Of what?” Dorothy wailed.
“Oh, honey,” Ruthie said. “She doesn’t even know.”
“At least she didn’t toss out that ‘loved and lost’ one, about it being better,” Beverly said.
“I did everything she wanted,” Dorothy cried. “I tried to speak more quietly. I tried to chew with my mouth shut. I avoided eye contact with her in public places.”
“You’re much better off without her,” Beverly said. “Trust me. I’ve known her for years, and she’s only gotten worse.”
“She uses poetry as a fortress,” Lucybelle said.
“We’ll never speak to her again,” Ruthie said with a hard nod at Beverly.
“Mother is gone,” Dorothy whispered. “Geneviève is gone. I have nothing. Nothing.”
“Now you’re being a bit dramatic,” Beverly said.
“You have us,” Ruthie said, the words sounding too stringent.
Dorothy waved her hand through the air as if to say, spare me the platitudes. Then she straightened her back and looked up at the corner of the room. “I moved my mother for her. And it killed her.”
She spoke as if possessed, and it gave Lucybelle a shiver.
“You moved to be with us,” Beverly said. “None of us could bear this backwater without you.”
“The move did not kill your mother,” Ruthie said. “You know that.”
“It did. I moved for Geneviève and it killed Mother.” She looked furiously alone.
Lucybelle put her arms around Dorothy, who began to sob.
“This calls for strong drinks,” Ruthie said as she hustled to the kitchen.
Friday–Wednesday, December 22–27, 1961
They’d had enough driving for the year, but Lucybelle wanted to bring L’Forte, so she and Dorothy took the train. They didn’t bother with a sleeping car, agreeing that it would be fun to watch the views change. As they chugged south, the grazing cows and trim, white clapboard houses of New England were replaced by the bone-skinny dogs and plank-and-hammer dwellings of Appalachia. Crossing the Mississippi and rolling into the fertile farmland of her origins brought on both relief—home!—and apprehension, as if the dreaded hog farmer sat at his kitchen table, rifle across his knees, waiting for her.
Gus Fritchie, who’d taken over running the farm for Mother after Daddy died, picked them up at the train station in Memphis, drove them to Pocahontas, and gave Dorothy a tour before taking them home. They sat squeezed together in the front seat of his ancient pickup truck, bumping down the dirt roads that crisscrossed the rice and soybean fields. He reported on last year’s yield and next year’s expected one, assuring Lucybelle that he’d sent all the necessary information to John Perry in Portland, that she needn’t worry one whit about any of this. A bit of frost clung to the dirt clods and the sky was a dull blue. Black crows pecked at the winter ground, finding edible bits, scattering and taking flight as the truck barreled through their gatherings. In town Gus Fritchie stopped first at the cemetery so Lucybelle could pay her respects to Daddy’s grave, and then he circled the quiet town square, the courthouse at its center, talking nonstop about what a good man Judge Bledsoe had been. Lucybelle was emotionally exhausted by the time he finally dropped them off at the house.
A pile of washed greens filled the kitchen sink and a still steaming lemon chess pie sat on the sideboard. The chickens were squawking something fierce, and Lucybelle opened the door to the backyard to find Mother in their midst, feathers flying and wings flapping, all the birds shrieking, their beaks open and their little leathery tongues panting in and out. Mother pounced on one, caught its neck in her fist, and hefted the bird in the air above her head. Standing with her sturdy legs braced apart, she swung the chicken hard, once, twice, until she heard the sharp crack of its neck breaking. Lucybelle winced and Dorothy gasped. The other chickens huddled against the back fence, as far from Mother as they could get.
“Lucybelle,” Mother said, clopping back toward them in her chunky heeled shoes, thick support hose, and housedress covered by an apron, the dead chicken hanging from her hand. “And this must be Dorothy.”
Dorothy showed her mettle that afternoon by willingly taking on the task of plucking the chicken. The operation had always turned Lucybelle’s stomach and did so even more now that she hadn’t had to see it done in years. As a child, her presumed sickliness gave her an excuse, but now, according to her mother, “anyone who can make her own way in New York and Chicago can certainly prepare a chicken for the table.” She sat at Dorothy’s side and pretended to help while Dorothy did all the work.
Dorothy also knew how to mix and bake fluffy biscuits and even say grace at the table. During the meal she asked about Mother’s handiwork, and after the lemon chess pie, admired all the quilts, afghans, sweaters, hats, dolls, and doll clothes that Mother had made for the upcoming church bazaar, commenting in detail on the stitching and fabric choices, and admiring especially the economy in using rags and scraps to such “professional” effect. Mother mentioned that every year she made over half the merchandise for the church bazaar and that the proceeds went to local needy families. Dorothy said, “You’re doing God’s work, Mrs. Bledsoe.” Lucybelle rolled her eyes, but Mother was well pleased.
After church that Sunday, Dorothy complimented Mrs. Fritchie’s hat and
praised the minister’s sermon. At the bazaar, she spent over fifty dollars at Mother’s table, so much that Mother actually protested. “Surely you’ve already bought and sent your Christmas gifts.”
“This is for next year. Where could I ever find such perfect gifts, and so well-made, all the while contributing to charity?”
“Well, yes,” Mother agreed.
Lucybelle had never learned how to sew or knit or even cook, but her deficiencies didn’t feel like failures this Christmas. Dorothy took up the slack.
On the morning they were leaving, as Gus Fritchie loaded their suitcases into his truck and Dorothy stepped into the bathroom, Mother called Lucybelle into the kitchen. She shut the door. Her voice curdled with the effort, and yet she said, “I like Dorothy.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t know what your father would say.”
“Oh. It’s not—”
“It’s none of my business. You’re a grown woman. I’ve said what I have to say. Come home again soon.”
It was as if Dorothy had single-handedly delivered Mother to her. She’d always known Mother loved her. She’d also known she admired her good grades in school, the number of books she read as a child, but she had felt cared for at a distance, respected as a foreigner might be respected. Dorothy was like a translator, someone who could speak both languages. Lucybelle wanted to thank her friend, but it was difficult to even name that for which she was grateful. Anyway, Dorothy was so busy thanking Lucybelle for bringing her home for the holidays, for saving her from a lonely Christmas.
“The best part is still ahead,” Lucybelle told her on the train. They were on their way to New York for the second part of their holiday. The metal wheels screeched along the rails, the windows steamed up with their conversation, and it felt grand to have escaped Arkansas once again.
A Thin Bright Line Page 25
