Learning to See

by Elise Hooper

  “What the hell?” Maynard said, beginning to walk toward the threesome at the car, but John stopped him with a tug on the upper arm.

  “Don’t get involved,” John muttered.

  “Get involved with what? What’s happening?” I said.

  John looked away toward Beasley, who was hurrying back toward us, eyeing Maynard warily. Behind him, the other man dragged the young boy toward the doors of the school. Meanwhile, all of the other students lowered their eyes and stared at the ground in front of them. A hum seemed to fill the space around us, an angry buzz like a swarm of invisible bees. It made me breathless, dizzy. Beasley pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop at his brow when he reached us.

  “What’s with the kid?” Maynard asked, his eyes cold.

  “A new student. Arrivals can be”—he licked his lips and the smell of Juicy Fruit chewing gum reached me—“tricky.”

  “Where are his parents?” I asked.

  Beasley shrugged. “An official from the Bureau of Indian Affairs brought him. I think he was found somewhere on the reservation.”

  “He was found somewhere? But what about his parents?” I persisted, despite the tightening of Beasley’s jaw. “Where are the child’s parents?”

  “We give these boys a better shot at life. We clean them up, educate them, teach them to work. We’re taking care of these boys in ways that their families cannot. The government is doing these children an enormous favor. We’re breaking the cycle of neglect that’s endemic within this population.”

  “So, it’s a ‘kill the Indian, save the man’ type of thing?” Maynard said, his voice a low growl.

  Beasley nodded briskly, ignoring Maynard’s glare. He ran his fingers down the line of buttons on his military uniform, checking to be sure they were all fastened. “These boys are extremely fortunate. Who knows what would become of them if we didn’t help?” It wasn’t a question. We were meant to know exactly what would become of them. Alcohol addiction. Poverty. Tuberculosis. He droned on, describing the importance of rules and the daily routine for the students: no traditional Indian activities; no speaking Navajo; no tribal clothes. I stepped backward and drifted closer to the children, but they didn’t even look at me. The headmaster continued to prowl along the rows of boys, his expression stern. A limp rendition of “To God Be the Glory” rose from the pack without any inflection, any enthusiasm. Behind one boy, the headmaster stopped, his lip curled. He rapped the child across his calves with a short riding staff. I glanced back at Maynard. Two red circles glowed high on his cheekbones.

  “Let’s go,” said John, steering Maynard toward the car.

  I followed them with Beasley, who folded his handkerchief into a square and tucked it into his back pocket as he walked alongside Maynard and John. “Would you like a tour of the bakery? The laundry? Watch the boys at work? You’ll see how smoothly operations run here.”

  “We’ve seen enough,” Maynard said, reaching for my arm. While John cranked the engine, I turned, resting my foot on the running board, to scan the children, looking for sadness, curiosity, hope, or even anger, but there was nothing. Just dark, ancient, unblinking eyes. Three rows of them. Surrendered. The fight in them long extinguished.

  We drove off. Both men sat in front, looking straight ahead at the ribbon of road unspooling in front of us. How could we drive away from all of those children? I shifted my legs, peeling them, hot and damp under my linen trousers, off the black leather of the backseat. I felt sick and helpless. I’d always found school boring, but had never witnessed such systemic cruelty. And it was run by the government. Wasn’t this an institution to be trusted? The fact that those boys were at school under such dubious circumstances appalled me, but what could be done?

  Our drive back was quiet. I kept waiting for Maynard to say something, to question what we had seen, but he remained silent. When he opened the door for me back at our post, he kept his eyes to the dusty ground. Later that evening, his back slumped as he sat at the dinner table. The creases next to his eyes appeared deeper. He simply looked sad.

  In our rooms several hours later, I slipped off the Navajo bangle and put it in a velvet jewelry bag deep in my luggage, out of sight. If Maynard noticed, he said nothing.

  We spent the next few days visiting Monument Valley and the Mesa Verde cliff dwellings. I wanted to talk about Tuba City but didn’t know where to start. When I suggested we visit a nearby Indian village, Maynard shook off the request, his eyes never meeting mine. He stopped including Indians in his compositions. Those boys at Tuba City Indian School had flattened him. They ran contrary to everything he wanted to believe about the timelessness of the desert, his beloved Old West. The Indians in his paintings had always been noble and proud, steeped in mystique and beauty. At his core, Maynard was a romantic. Oppression and neglect were not themes he was equipped to depict. Their blight upon modern society was not something he could bring himself to explore. It all represented too much heartbreak for him to handle.

  We stayed in Arizona for another week. Maynard focused his energy on sketching the landscape, the sweeping acreage of dusty flatness, the mountains, and the sky wide open over it all. He retained his earlier sense of calm, but sorrow had crept in. I saw it in the darker colors that suffused his skies, the savage angularity of his compositions. I tried my hand at capturing the desert with my camera, but my heart wasn’t in it. At the same time, the idea of returning home left me conflicted. The thought of going back to those society portraits gave me a sense of unease. All of those wealthy families—many whom were now friends—documenting their success, it was all so predictable. But what was the alternative? Seeing the Tuba City Indian School troubled me, but what could I do about it? What power did I have?

  Chapter 12

  We arrived back in San Francisco eager to immerse ourselves in our usual routines, work, and social circles. While we had been gone, Ah-yee had booked appointments so my calendar was busier than ever. Wanting to push what we’d witnessed at Tuba City from my mind, I stashed the jewelry bag with my silver bangle into the deep recesses of my top dresser drawer. I wanted it out of sight.

  After a day at my studio, I’d arrive home to make a late dinner for Maynard and me. We’d dine with candles and a flowered cloth spread over our tiny kitchen table. If the evening was warm, we’d move the arrangement outside to eat, our laughter bouncing off the flagstone paver stones and walls of our cottage. Sometimes after we’d finish our dinner, I’d undo my blouse, lingering button by button, while Maynard watched from across the table. I’d tease my sleeves off my shoulders languorously. He’d pull me from my seat. Sometimes we would only make it a few steps from the table before collapsing to the floor, pulling off each other’s clothes. Sometimes we’d make it to our bedroom. Either way, I’d awaken in the morning and find our crusty dinner dishes still set on the table, but I didn’t mind. This was how I’d pictured married life. We were in love and nothing seemed to weigh upon us. We could go away for unexpected trips to Marin County to camp on the beach; we could eat dinner naked at midnight; we could stay in bed until two in the afternoon on a Sunday; we could arrive unexpectedly in each other’s studio, forgo work, and make love. We could do anything.

  Since I was in charge of my studio, I could set my own schedule and so, for several years, Maynard and I would escape the city together and explore his favorite parts of California and the Southwest. One evening, after we had returned from another trip to Arizona, Maynard arrived home to find me preparing dinner. I smiled and handed him a plate of chicken thighs, broiled potatoes, and a fruit salad. He practically jittered with energy as he tucked into the meal. “I’m almost done with the sketches from Arizona, but the series isn’t yet complete. I need more material to fill it out, so I want to go to New Mexico for a sketching trip,” he said, before forking a hunk of chicken into his mouth.

  “New Mexico? Did you sell those canvases you painted when we got home from Arizona?”

  He nodded while chewing. “Bender came by
to take them.” Albert Bender, a wealthy art collector, had been a patron of both of us and served sometimes as an agent to Maynard. “He suggested I’m getting close to being ready for some shows in the Midwest and the East, but I need some more paintings before I start trying to put anything together. The city’s grating on my nerves. The noise, the crowds. It will be good to return to some open country. I’m going to leave next week, and I need to go alone. I’ll get more done.”

  Alone? I sat back in surprise. Everything . . . his current work was indisputable. But still, it hurt me not to be included. I tried to remain objective. Perhaps he was more productive without me. And I couldn’t very well clear my schedule with such little notice. Maybe going by himself did make more sense. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Three weeks. Not a day longer.”

  At that point, I had no reason to doubt him.

  Alone, I found more hours to work each day. With no other responsibilities, I experimented with photographing clients outside of my studio, sometimes at their homes or landmarks throughout the city, such as the Palace of Fine Arts or Baker Beach. I wanted to capture people where they felt most comfortable, locations that represented something important about them as individuals. As a result, San Francisco began to feel like my own.

  But then three weeks passed. No Maynard.

  A month.

  Then two more weeks.

  No Maynard.

  I sat at our kitchen table inspecting the calendar, my dinner growing cold beside me. When was the last meal we had shared? He had now been gone for more than twice the amount of time he had promised. No word arrived in the form of a letter, postcard, or telegram. Where in God’s name was he? All of my familiar old panic returned. What had I done wrong? What if he didn’t want to return? What if he’d met someone else? He had such a way with women, such charm, such insouciance. I squeezed my eyes shut against unbidden images of him dancing with someone else, embracing her, running his fingers down her spine. My appetite vanished but I picked at the pink marbled slab of ham, lifted a piece to my mouth, and forced myself to chew, even as queasiness tightened my throat. Starving myself would not bring him home any sooner.

  And then one evening, as I returned from my studio and walked up the brick pathway, past the red geraniums, nasturtiums, and marigolds, a familiar smell of burning bark floated toward me. I rounded the corner. There sat Maynard, examining me through the smoke of his cigarette, his familiar grin as lopsided as ever.

  “Evenin’, ma’am, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” He rose, slapping dust off his dungaree-clad legs. “Did you miss me?” he asked, having crossed the empty space between us to pull me into him.

  “Where have you been?” I pushed him away.

  He raised his arms in surrender and said, “Time got away from me, but it was a great trip. You should see all of my sketches.”

  “You said you’d be gone for three weeks, but it’s been two months!”

  “Were you worried about me?” His voice was low as he reached out to knit his fingers through mine with one hand while snaking the other around my waist and trying to lift my shirt.

  “You can’t just march in here and expect me to . . . to . . .” I said, trying to wrench away as he leaned into my neck and started kissing my earlobe.

  “Relax, I’m back.” His breath in my ear was hot and gave me shivers. My resolve wavered. “Don’t give me such a hard time. I thought you’d be happy to hear I have so much new material. This new collection is going to knock everyone sideways. I need this, baby. I need a successful show.”

  His wheedling left me confused. Didn’t I want him to be successful? For a moment, I hung limp in his arms, but then I stiffened and pulled out of reach, placing my shaking hands on my hips. “Just don’t feed me a bunch of lines. If you’re going to be gone for longer, tell me. I pictured you lying broken at the bottom of an abandoned mine shaft somewhere.” I kept the visions of him dancing with another woman to myself.

  Sheepish, he hung his head. “Sorry. I just lost track of time.”

  Lost track of time, my foot. I remembered Imogen’s warning. Balling my fists into my pockets, I was irritated by both his glib attitude and at that part of myself that was relieved he was back and pleased to see me.

  WITH MAYNARD HOME, his stories and jokes filled the cottage, but by fall, I could sense he was restless again. No matter how much I humored him by cooking his favorite meals and spending evenings down in North Beach listening to music and visiting with friends, Maynard acted itchy. He complained about all of the streetcars and automobiles. He bemoaned all of the new buildings crowding out the natural light. I could tell it was just a matter of time before he announced a new trip. But in October, I had my own announcement to make.

  Chapter 13

  I gave birth to Daniel Rhodes Dixon in the cottage on May 15, 1925. He emerged into this world as a squalling, ornery little scrap. With his tiny, flailing limbs so fragile, I held him with caution. Maynard, on the other hand, scooped him right up and folded him into the crook of his elbow. “A son,” he crowed. “Now don’t be intimidated. Treat him just like a puppy and he’ll be fine. Look at how strong those paws are already.” He marveled as Dan’s tiny fingers grasped onto Maynard’s hands and didn’t let go.

  I wanted to point out that puppies were fuzzy, acted silly, and then slept all of the time, whereas the creature in Maynard’s arm was slippery, mottled in color, restless, and angry, judging by his constant wailing. At my breast, the baby refused to nurse easily. It was as if he could sniff out the fact that I’d been worried about his arrival from the outset. All this time with Maynard, I’d tracked my monthly cycles, holding him off during the times I considered unsafe. It frightened me to realize I’d miscalculated at some point. The betrayal of my own body shocked me. Everything had changed.

  About a week after Dan was born, Imogen visited. She took one look at me and plucked the baby from my arms, announcing she was taking him for a walk. I collapsed into bed and fell into a deep sleep, only to dream about running. I dreamed I was running across a beach. The slapping sound of my soles hitting the hard, damp sand became faster and faster. I flew across the beach before awakening with a gasp. Why did I have to torture myself by dreaming about running? The front of my shirt was soaked with milk dripping from my breasts.

  Imogen appeared, Dan in her arms. “Hush now, everything’s all right,” she said gently, handing the baby to me. I ripped my shirt open and placed him to my breast, wincing as I did so, but then relief swept over me as he began to nurse. The burning pressure in my body abated, my heart slowed. I leaned back onto the pillows and closed my eyes.

  After a few deep inhalations, the smell of roasting meat reached my nose. “Imogen?” I whispered, not wanting to disturb the baby. “What are you up to?”

  She reappeared in my bedroom doorway holding a bowl with steam rising from it. “Meat loaf’s in the oven. I took the baby to the store to get some groceries. Your cupboards were bare. What in the world have you been living on?”

  I shrugged, unable to remember the last thing I’d eaten.

  She came closer, sat on the edge of the bed, and reached forward to push some hair out of my face. “You must take better care of yourself. The baby and I stopped by Maynard’s studio. He said this little fellow isn’t nursing well. You need to remain strong. Now open up,” she said, lifting a spoon toward me. Confused, I stared at her. “I’ve made a split-pea soup and am determined to get some of it in you, so open up.”

  Without protest, I let her spoon some of the soup into my mouth. Bits of carrot, onion, peas, and the smell of ham. My friend’s kindness made tears course down my face.

  “I know you’re in bad shape if you’re actually letting me help you,” she said.

  At some point, I closed my eyes and fell back asleep, sated.

  When I awoke again, the bedroom was bathed in deep shadows, but I could see light peeking around the cracks of the closed door. My head felt as if it was filled wit
h sand, but I lurched out of bed and crossed the room. The brightness of the kitchen left me shading my eyes. Imogen guided me to a chair and placed a plate of meat loaf in front of me. Without standing on ceremony, I pulled it toward me and dug into the mashed potatoes on the side. So great was my hunger, I barely stopped to breathe.

  “Has Fronsie come by to see you?”

  “She just had another baby. A girl. Two weeks ago,” I managed to say in between bites.

  Imogen held on to the back of the chair, a hand resting on my shoulder, and watched me devour the food on my plate. “I’m going to leave when Maynard returns, but I’ve filled up your cupboards and icebox with food. I’ll return in three days to check on you.”

  The idea of being left home alone with Dan made me light-headed. The food in my mouth turned to leather. I swallowed a lump of it. “Please, please don’t leave.”

  “Now, now,” Imogen said, sliding into a chair beside me. “You’ll be fine. Make sure you continue to get some rest. Sleep when the baby is sleeping and you must keep eating to keep up your strength.”

  “But what am I going to do? He cries all the time.” By now, I was blubbering in a way that frightened me.

  “Take it one day at a time. Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she said, her hand on my shoulder. She took a look at my plate. “You did a good job on supper. Let’s get you back to bed for some sleep. I’ll bring in the baby to feed when he’s ready.”

  I pulled myself up and leaned on Imogen. Though she was small and slight, she bolstered me with surprising strength. “I just feel so heavy—”

  “Shhhh, you will figure this out,” she said, leading me back to my bed, but I kept crying, tripping over my right foot awkwardly until she laid me down and arranged the blankets around my shoulders. Concern wrinkled her eyes and mouth. At that moment, I would have given anything for her to have climbed into bed beside me and held me. Instead she sat next to me and took my hand in hers. With her by my side, I drifted off to sleep.