Somewhere along the way we heard the mail drop through the door slot with a thud, but no one made a move to get it, not with Agnes entertaining us.
It was dark by the time she stood up to leave. She pulled a silk magenta cloche with a pleated band over her sleek dark hair, threw a wrap of rose-colored velvet rose round her shoulders, and kissed us good-bye.
We heard her voice from the hallway.
“A package for you, Margery. . . .” Agnes returned to bring it to my mother.
Mam looked at the return address. “Oh! Heinemann’s. . . .”
She tore off the brown paper.
The Velveteen Rabbit.
There it was, at last.
Agnes stayed while we all admired the beautiful little book, all bound up and shiny and filled with William Nicholson’s delightful pictures. Mam kept saying that she just couldn’t quite believe it. There was much hugging and kissing and congratulating, and finally Agnes flew off, sparkling, into the night.
Sad, to think of her now, off to meet her nemesis, blissfully ignorant. I don’t know if Agnes had a good time out on the town that night, but I do know that the memory of her first meeting with Carlotta Monterey must be seared into her heart forever.
When Agnes left, Mam and I retreated to the kitchen to admire The Velveteen Rabbit over and over, to exclaim over every drawing. We were anxious for Daddy to come home and share the excitement.
“Margery . . . Margery,” Daddy murmured, as he turned the pages of the book with care. He had such a graceful way with books, such a reverence for them.
“Straordinario . . . splendido—come sei, Margery.” He meant it. He looked at my mother with love born anew, as if she were a jeweled medieval book he’d just discovered buried in his store room.
Daddy put The Velveteen Rabbit down on the table ever so gently. He drew Mam to him. They swayed just a bit, drawing closer to each other, and it did not seem they would let each other go very soon.
I went to my studio.
I began to work on a lithograph of Washington Square. Tried not to think about what I felt.
Extraordinary, like you, Margery.
Agnes flying out into the night to meet her terrible beloved, Gene. Mam and Daddy, forgetting the world sometimes as long as they could touch each other.
I had no one. Whenever would I be really grown and find love and be truly Real? I was stuck fast. I had no hind legs, no way of moving at all. I couldn’t run in the meadow with all the other rabbits.
I was jealous.
What was bright and real passed by outside my studio door, and I could not be part of it. I studied with envious eyes all the couples in the Village who walked together entwined and nonchalant and murmuring private things. I wondered what they did when they were alone.
But . . . how could I be jealous of my own parents? It didn’t seem natural, it was a terrible thing.
margery
All this dissecting the past—what difference can it make? Pamela can do all the wondering she wants, she can think “if only” a thousand times, but we can’t change a thing.
Still, I’m beginning to feel I was wrong this morning to push the whole thing aside. It might help Pamela get through this if she’d say whatever’s on her mind. I’d do anything if I thought it could prevent another of her breakdowns. When she wakes, I’ll ask her just what she meant, I’ll let her talk all she likes.
For Pamela, it could be cathartic. But for me . . . well, it’s the future I think about, that’s what really troubles me. Pamela often says I never do anything right. It’s not at all true, of course. When she’s herself, she’s quite wonderful. A good mother, a brilliant artist, an affectionate daughter. It’s just that she loses her way. Her mind betrays her. She goes off, simply breaks apart. . . . Sometimes I get quite desperate, imagining what’s in store. I can’t help wondering, what if Francesco and I weren’t around to pick up the pieces? What would become of Pamela then?
I’ve got to go check on her.
I’ll just push the door open, make sure.
Strange, how she sleeps, her hands crossed over her chest. Her braids, uncoiled, spill down her sides. Watching her makes me feel uneasy. I can’t put my finger on it, exactly. She seems locked inside herself.
A wax doll. As if she is . . . not alive.
Well, perhaps just one step in.
I know how absurd it is, behaving as one does with tiny children. You have to be certain they are breathing. You know of course that they are, but . . . well, you just can’t walk away until you are sure.
There it is, the slight heave of her chest.
Is she dreaming? Beautiful dreams? Well, it’s nice to think so.
How silly to stand here, watching Pamela sleep. A grown woman.
pamela
I heard Mam coming down the hall. I heard her opening the door ever so gently. She thought I was asleep, I’m sure of it. I’m good at that trick. Cecco and I used to have contests when we were little, to see whose eyelids fluttered quickest, giving them away. I always won. I have a knack for it, a secret method. I paint a picture inside my lids, an apple or a Madonna—anything at all. I think of nothing else, and the outside world simply does not exist.
I wish I could hold on to that, make everything disappear. But now that Diccon’s returned, the toy train just goes round and round. Well, it won’t stop now, I know it.
I wrote many letters to Diccon, I hate to think how many. I was so determined. Sometimes I would get a letter in return; more often he wrote to the whole family. He’d always say he would come to visit us just as soon as he could. He was terribly busy, though, writing stories and plays and poems. And he was strapped for money, just scraping by, running articles in the Weekly Westminster Gazette and writing book reviews. He couldn’t be sure when he’d have a break.
What could I do? Nothing. I would just have to be patient. Diccon would come to New York just as soon as he could.
If ever I had known that almost four years would pass, that I’d be eighteen before I saw Diccon again . . . well, how could I have believed it? How could I have borne it?
Eighteen! A lifetime.
And when I think now . . . if I had known about Nancy. . . .
Well, I would not have been rational at all.
part four
???
The Letter: January 11, 1977
428 Lafayette Street
New York City
......................................
Oh, Lord . . . how long have I been pacing?
All this pacing, I know what it means.
I need a cigarette.
There. That’s better.
I ought to clean this place up, air it out. It smells of cat and stale smoke, I’m sure, not that I would notice.