“She’s being modest, Dr. Brown,” Val said.
“Our facility is founded on the philosophy of the Arts and Craft movement. We believe contact with beauty is healing, good for the body and the soul. We strive to make the surroundings beautiful—” the doctor motioned to the tree-covered hills—“and provide women with the opportunity to create something lovely with their hands. They will leave Arequipa with good health and with a skill enabling them to get decent jobs.”
Val nodded. “It’s a fine plan. Lying in bed for months on end is debilitating, not only to the body, but to the spirit.”
“Exactly,” Dr. Brown said. “The experience at other institutions has been that patients recover more quickly if they have something useful to do. Make baskets. Carve wood. Weave cloth. Different hospitals are trying different approaches, but the result seems to be the same. Improved health.”
I remembered my own months in bed after Ben’s death. The doctor’s words rang true.
Val left off his fiddling with the mechanisms of the wheel and lathe. “When I heard about the artistic elements of Dr. Brown’s treatment, I immediately thought of you, Ro.”
Dr. Brown inclined his white head toward me. “Your husband showed me some of your sketches, Mrs. Martin, the sunflowers and hydrangeas and the hen. I think you can work these designs into a different medium. Pottery. In time, you could assist with the design of our first molds. I’ve hired the renowned art director Frederick Rhead to oversee that aspect of the work. He was educated at the Wedgwood Institute and Stoke-on-Trent in England.”
What an opportunity to learn from a trained artist! If I had to leave my family behind for a few weeks, there could be no better place than Arequipa to rest and recover.
“But Solina—”
Val hushed me. “Nellie and I will see to it that she is cared for in every way.”
I knew it was true, but my heart was sore at the thought of separation.
The doctor herded us outside along a narrow path to view the benches backed against Satsuki azaleas where patients could sit and paint pottery under the shade of various hardwoods. “Many women would jump at the chance to be tutored by Mr. Rhead,” the doctor said. “I’ve turned several of the finest ladies of San Francisco down when they asked if they could visit Arequipa to study with him. I think perhaps you know one of the families. Alexandra and Lydia Underwood.”
I was hooked.
~~~
Little Cuss ran ahead of Val and Solina, gobbling like a piglet. Laughing, I stood and picked him up and let him lick and sniff at my cheeks and neck. I nuzzled my nose into his black and white fur and laughed. “I missed you, too, Sweetheart.”
“What about me?” Solina demanded as she caught up to us.
I scooped her up into a bear hug and kissed both her cheeks. “You most of all, my darling girl.”
I was grateful for a morning when it wasn’t raining so we could sit outside on a stone bench, my heart aching as I watched Solina’s little legs swinging in the air beneath the seat. She was still so small. Val settled on the other side of her, holding Little Cuss. My husband was hatless today, perhaps a nod to the spring afternoon, though he wore the usual dark suit.
My colleagues or sisters-in-illness—whatever you wanted to call them—scurried toward us to make over Solina and pet the dog. Pamela offered my daughter a cookie and Little Cuss a bread scrap she’d wrapped in a clean cloth at lunch time expressly for this purpose. Not to be outdone, Jane gave Solina a bouquet of wildflowers and let the dog lick a bacon morsel from her hand.
“Enough,” I protested in a sunny voice. “You’re spoiling both of them. Besides, Little Cuss is much too chubby as it is. Dr. Brown says if we aren’t careful we’ll kill the poor little creature with kindness.” I had saved a few bits of cheese for him myself. For Solina, I had sculpted a teensy dog from clay. It wasn’t a very good effort, but Solina seemed to like it. It was hard not to overdo the treats when I only saw my babies once a week. I struggled against the instinct to make up for all the days we were apart.
We all walked over to the pottery. The art director, Frederick Rhead, held one of my vases in his hands, running his fingers over the daffodil blossoms and spiky leaves I’d carved into the clay. Rhead was a wild-haired fellow with curls that sprang out in all directions from his scalp.
Rhead set the bowl down and teased me. “You’re sure you just learned to do this? You didn’t sneak into the Weller pottery factory over in Ohio when you were little?”
I laughed. “Never did.” I introduced Val.
“Mrs. Martin tells me you’re a doctor.”
The men exchanged pleasantries before Rhead turned the talk back to his passion: pottery.
“Your wife has a gift, Mr. Martin. She is the best student by far at Arequipa. I shall be loath to lose her in another month.” Th e art director nodded once, setting his tight curls in motion. He turned on his heel and left .
Embarrassed yet pleased by Rhead’s flattery, I led Val to another shelf of pottery. “This week Mr. Rhead is going to let me apply all the slip trail decoration for the other ladies’ vases.” I held up a bowl Rhead had designed himself as an example. “See the raised lines? They are applied with a squeeze bag—like cake decorating! Oh, he’s a master, Val. I’m so lucky to have this opportunity to learn from him.”
Other patients restricted themselves to painting designs Rhead created because they didn’t like the mucky feel of wet clay on their hands, but I reveled in it. I liked to see a piece through from beginning to end. Shaping the damp clay on the potter’s wheel which I spun by means of a foot treadle. Shaving the base and sides of the piece to define the curves. Decorating with carving or slip trail. Spraying on glaze. Only men fired the pieces, but Mr. Rhead had invited me into the kiln room to view the process. Soon, he said, he would teach me to do sgraffito, which involved scratching through one contrasting layer of slip with a darning needle to reveal the layer beneath. So much to learn—and so little time remaining in my stay! I couldn’t believe I’d been at Arequipa for nearly six months. My health had improved immeasurably during the past five months, and though I relished learning everything Mr. Rhead had to teach me, I couldn’t wait to return home to my little family.
We walked the dog along the narrow path that ran between the rhododendrons, Solina skipping ahead. We returned to the same stone bench we’d occupied before. I knelt to inspect two bright yellow slugs among the damp, decaying leaves. Their bodies curled near each other without touching, one a c-shape, the other a backwards c inserted into the curve of the other. “Look, Solina, aren’t they pretty?”
“Banana slugs,” Val said. “They’re courting.”
He could still surprise me with the odd things he knew—the courtship habits of slugs, indeed! How long would the slugs remain like that, their lives linked to each other, encircling each other without touching? Not nearly as long as Val and I had.
After Val and Solina left, Pamela clucked her tongue. “Honey, that man looks at you as if you were the sun that gives rise to his days. And your daughter is adorable with all that beautiful dark hair and sweet smile. No wonder you have worked so hard at getting well.”
Hmmm. What they didn’t know is that Val looked at everything in the world with effervescent enthusiasm. Even banana slugs. I was happy to be included as one of his many interests. I believe we were both content with the family life we had forged together.
~~~
When certain no one was present, I pulled off a chunk of the Tootsie Roll Val smuggled in for me. I savored the sweet chewy chocolate, slowly rolling it around my mouth with my tongue. The remaining candy I slipped into my locker and tucked it between my unmentionables. It was against the rules to bring food to patients from the outside. Arequipa had many rules. Patients must be prompt to meals. No food could be in the wards. Shoes must have rubber heels. Only eight items of clothing per patient could be laundered by the staff a week. Fancy articles like dresses or shirts had to be fumigated and sent
to town for laundering. If your temperature rose to 99.5 or above, you were confined to bed. (Fortunately, mine had remained normal after the first month.) And the rule I hated most: standing by with my chart at 10 a.m. for the doctor’s visit. I would rather be in the pottery at work long before that. But rules were rules, and you kept them or hid your violations well. I was now allowed to work five hours a day, a great improvement over the solitary hour I’d been allowed in the beginning. I dawdled on the way to brush my teeth this morning, so I could finish the candy, rationalizing that is was such a small pleasure. It was a shame to have to wash the luscious taste away with the nasty flavor of salt and baking soda.
After I’d readied myself for the day and seen the doctor, I headed for the pottery with Pamela and Jane. I greeted Agnes, Frederick Rhead’s wife, and slipped a smock over my white lingerie dress.
Agnes handed Pamela a container of glaze and turned her attention to me. “Are you painting the fruited vase today, then?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The vase would have been quite pretty with a simple glaze, you know.”
“Yes, ma’am, but the oranges and greens will pop against that deep blue background. They will draw the eye and give the piece a beautiful balance, don’t you think?” Besides, I’d already added the slip trail. It would be a shame not to use the contrasting colors.
“My husband has taught you well.” Agnes turned her attention toward Jane’s bowl, much to my relief. I got along much better with Mr. Rhead than his wife, though I couldn’t have said why. When Agnes spoke to me there always seemed to be an undercurrent of disapproval.
Carefully, I painted the oranges. The raised brown lines of slip trail formed a boundary that confined the paint so it didn’t bleed into the background—much the way the walls of a well held water in place. Or the way a trench filled with water. I painted until lunchtime, chatting amiably with the other women. Then there was the required hour-long nap at 1:30. Wasted time. No, I reminded myself. This was nothing like the months I’d taken to bed after Ben’s death. Getting well wasn’t wasting my life. This place of peace and rest was saving it.
I loved Arequipa.
I couldn’t wait to leave.
~~~
Val’s lips curled with amusement as he stole glances at my filling page after page of my sketchbook. I’d get a few curves of a landscape drawn, perhaps the horizon and a few hills, maybe the angles of a few trees and something new would catch my eye. I’d flip the page and start again. I felt as if I were seeing the world again after being shut away for years rather than six months. The windshield of his Ford did little to prevent my hat or my paper from flapping about. These automobiles were drafty affairs.
He grimaced as we hit yet another rut. “I hope all this air doesn’t cause you to relapse.”
“Don’t be such a worrywart. I’m never going to be sick again. I’ve made up my mind—pull over! Right now, Val. Would you look at those Shooting Stars?”
Practically before he could stop the car, I opened the door and was tripping through a field of lavender and gentian blue flowers with strongly recurved petals, gold eyes with a thin wavy red edge, and a dark, exposed base that held short stamens. For half an hour while Solina happily picked posies, I sketched. Single blooms. Small groupings. Whole fields.
I closed my sketchbook and Solina presented me with the bouquet she’d gathered. “Oh, sweetie, aren’t they the most beautiful things you ever saw?”
Joy lit up my daughter’s face and I pulled her down into my lap and nuzzled my cheek against her curls. I held her at arm’s length. “I take that back—your smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Solina giggled and then wiggled free to chase after a tiger swallowtail butterfly that flitted by.
When we arrived home, I found Nellie in the kitchen, a full meal prepared for us. “Your favorites,” she said. “Chicken pot pie with peas and carrots and my best gravy, along with baked apples and ice cream for dessert. “I’ll be over every day to help with chores and cooking until you are settled back in and feeling stronger.”
“It smells heavenly—you’ll spoil me.” I already felt stronger, perfectly capable of fixing our meals, but I had no intention of shooing her away. No one was a better cook than Nellie.
Soon we settled back into our routines, the only difference being Nellie insisted on coming to our house to share tea and gossip in the afternoons. When the letter arrived, she was there ensconced in a well-cushioned Queen Anne chair across from the sofa where I sat. Nellie preferred sitting in the Queen Anne because the arms supported her when it was time to stand again. She blamed her difficulty in rising on her age, but it was every bit as much the fault of the weight she had put on in the years since the earthquake. I feared for her health.
“This is a surprise,” I said, opening the envelope that arrived in the post. I extracted a thick bundle—five handwritten pages. “I haven’t heard from Jack’s aunt for years, and now it appears she’s practically written a book to me.” I scanned the first paragraph and was ready to lay it aside. It didn’t seem to hold important news, and I feared reading the whole thing and leaving Nellie sitting there twiddling her thumbs would be inexcusably rude.
“Read it aloud,” Nellie suggested. “I do enjoy a good letter. Always full of news to share.”
Nellie collected gossipy tidbits the way young girls collected hair ribbons or Val collected new ideas for good health. Well, I wasn’t going to deny her the opportunity to hear the latest from back East. So sitting in my parlor, while Solina napped and Nellie drank tea, I began:
April 10, 1912
My dear Rosella,
I am sure you are wondering why I have written to you after such a long time. I will soon make the circumstances clear, but first let me say it was such a pleasure meeting your new husband and baby. Though it seems like just yesterday you returned home to bury your father, your little girl must be nearly five already. Time surely flies as you get older. Please know that I wish the three of you nothing but happiness.
I have kept abreast of your life through your brother Tim-my. Naturally, I have an interest in your well being. Since you were a tiny girl yourself, I have known you through the church where your father preached, and moreover, I have thought of you as a daughter ever since you married my nephew Jack. After your brother informed our congregation of your illness, we all prayed for you each Sunday. Your brother assures me that God has answered our prayers and you are feeling stronger now.
My health, alas, has lapsed even as yours has rebounded, but this is as it should be. You are young, and I am a silly old lady and have nothing to look forward to now except arranging for proper disposal of my worldly goods. No pity, please! I have not known the happiness of having children of my own, but I have experienced good fortune and known the love of a good man. Yet these blessings came at a cost. I will lay open my great sin to you, Rosella, because you deserve to understand my family history. After all, you have been a part of it. You will remember my husband Israel. My sister Joy was in love with Israel from the time she was a young girl, and even though I knew how deeply she cared for him, I contrived to turn him away from her. If ever a person was misnamed, it was Joy, for never was there a more joyless person. Even as a child, she was a complainer, but I have never shaken the guilt for the exaggerations—no, I shall be honest and admit the tales I told Israel about my sister bordered on lies. In any case, he turned from her to me. After I married him, Joy ran off with a coal miner. I don’t know if she ever loved him but she couldn’t tolerate seeing me and Israel together, so she took the first opportunity to elope. One day her miner up and deserted her, leaving Joy to raise four sons and two daughters alone. Israel and I offered assistance, but she refused and held a grudge against me until her death. I cannot blame her.
Neither can I blame Jack for abandoning Joy and his younger siblings. Like many a young man, Jack yearned for a better life than that of a coal miner, and Israel and I were somewhat to bla
me for those notions. Joy allowed him to stay with us in summers to help with our garden and one of his younger brothers took over his job in the mines for those months. It took the feeding and clothing of one child off my sister’s hands, and I always sent him home with extras for his brothers. But living with us showed Jack a different sort of life than the one my poor sister could offer her brood. She blamed me for Jack’s running off and refused to let any of the other boys visit us. I wouldn’t know Jack’s brothers if they knocked on my door. In truth, she was to blame for Jack’s leaving, too. He had confided in me concerning her nagging and meanness to the boys.
I hoped my small role as a matchmaker between you and Jack in some measure atoned for the hardships of his early years. I know your father frowned on the match, and perhaps he had good reasons, but I hoped the love of a fine girl raised in my own church would stand my nephew in good stead. As I face the end of my days, one of my deepest regrets has been that my nephew preceded me in death, a horrible death at that, and he passed on without my revealing my role in his family’s poor circumstances.
Now, to the point of this letter. You can imagine my surprise—a complete shock, really—when Alistair Partnow— you will remember him, he owned the feed and grain store— returned two months ago from a trip to Seattle, swearing as God was his witness, that he had seen my nephew Jack Joyner—
My voice failed me for a moment, but then I managed to gasp out the end of Elizabeth’s sentence.
and he was very much . . . alive.
The pages slipped from my hands. I fell back against the sofa, the blood draining from my head.
Nellie hoisted her bulk from her seat with far greater speed than typical and was at my side, thrusting decorative pillows beside me and arranging my head against them.
“You just lie down here, Ro. This is bizarre, quite bizarre indeed. Shall I fetch water? Smelling salts?” When I shook my head weakly against the pillows and managed to breathe in again, she suggested sending for Val. “For heaven’s sake, no.” I started to sit up, but with a gentle hand on my chest, she encouraged me to remain supine. “I won’t send for him. I only thought—well, I don’t know what I was thinking. What shall we do?”
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