Henry asked me about my family.
I talked easily about Cecco and how close we had always been and how I missed him beyond bearing when he went away to boarding school, and how now, in America, I felt I was losing him a little. He was so busy with his friends at Columbia. How when he came to the Village he’d go off fencing with Daddy or just help him out at the bookshop, and how I wished I could be with them, then. I talked easily about Mam and how she loved Cecco and me and always managed to make things so cheery, how she helped us collect silver paper from chocolates to wallpaper the dollhouse, how she forgave me when I ruined my Easter hat, how she taught us to make boats and swans and tea kettles out of paper.
I began to tell Henry most anything I felt like.
I talked about Diccon and Wales and that I’d planned to marry him since I was thirteen, how he seemed to belong to me. How I never knew how to behave around him, how his behavior mystified me. How he got engaged to Nancy and went back to England.
I didn’t talk much about Daddy, but one day I showed Henry the letter I’d stuck in the drawer.
How did I feel about that, Henry wanted to know. Did I feel my father was pressuring me? I avoided his eyes. I felt stupid. I wanted Henry to know, but I knew I would never talk about it. Oh, no, I said. That’s just the way he is. I didn’t want to discuss Daddy, though Henry always told me that everything was completely confidential, no one but the two of us would know about our conversations; he only asked me questions to try to help me. I couldn’t have answered Henry truthfully anyway, because I never formed the words even to myself.
Henry tried mightily, in his gentle way, to get me to talk about Daddy. Eventually, though, he had to change the subject. Or he seemed to. He asked if I thought I was ready to paint, if I wanted to.
Yes, I thought. Yes, I wanted to. A painting of a dancer. She invaded my thoughts during the day and my dreams at night. A dancer who feels lost, stuck, as if in a maze. Who, every time she thinks she’s discovered an exit, collapses at the brink. The exit is a bottomless abyss. She moves woodenly. The colors are as dark and layered as nature at night.
Do you think you’d like to paint, Pamela? Do you feel ready? Henry’s questions hung in the air.
“I want to.” I looked past him to the window. “I can’t, though. I don’t know why . . . I just can’t.”
Henry nodded. He was quiet for a while. Then he leaned towards me and spoke with a quiet urgency. He talked about how there were many different ways to be strong, how there were times to do things and times not to do things, how I could say no if I wished to. It would help, not hurt, he assured me. I promise you, Pamela, the world will not end.
It was such a short letter, but it cost me dearly. I reworked each sentence over and over.
Dear Daddy,
I can’t draw very well at present. I have made an attempt once or twice but without success. I’ll try and do my best under the circumstances. You may send me pen and inks, but I really cannot work well here, and it will be quite a while before I am home again.
I sent him much love. Even so, I almost didn’t post the letter for fear it would upset my father, for fear I would disappoint him.
pamela
Henry seemed quite interested to know about the different sorts of men I’d known, what I thought of them. I really didn’t have too much to say, beyond Diccon. I mentioned Gene in passing, didn’t say much. Of course the more I clammed up on a subject, the more Henry would return to it, ever so patiently. I noticed you went quiet the other day when Gene’s name was mentioned. . . . Is there something you’d like to tell me about him? I’d shake my head or say, Oh, no, nothing in particular. But eventually we’d get round to it.
And so, in the end, I told Henry about what happened that night in Truro.
Peaked Hill Bars, Agnes and Gene’s beach home in Truro, was a former Coast Guard barracks. A surprise gift from Gene’s father. It was charming in its rickety way, but it felt terribly precarious. The beach had eroded perilously close, and the ocean lapped at the deck even on calm days. Agnes said Gene dearly loved the old, amphibious beach house. He found it a haven for his writing. The roar of the sea, waves knocking against the underside of the house—these cut him off from domestic sounds and gave him peace.
I didn’t work well in Truro. I wasn’t comfortable there, and drew more out of habit than inspiration. I did some angry-looking charcoals of dunes with sea oats bending in the wind, and a few line drawings of Shane. One sketch I liked: Agnes on the beach in her bathing suit, arms wrapped around long legs tucked up to her chin.
My feelings about Peaked Hill Bars were quite mixed. In some ways it felt more alive than Old House in Point Pleasant—the wind blew all wild, the beach was just out the front door, sea grass and cattails danced on the high dunes, and doors were always slamming shut as Shane ran in and out. But the very closeness of the ocean was disturbing. On fine days it was all right. But at night, or on stormy days when great waves battered the fragile structure, I was fearful. I couldn’t help feeling that Peaked Hill Bars would simply be washed out to sea, carrying me helpless aboard.
I asked to sleep in the smallest room in the back. It was similar to my room under the eaves at Old House, with a reassuring land-locked view of sandy road, shrubs, tall grasses, and beach plums. There I felt protected from the dark rages of the sea. But I was not protected, it turned out, from the dark rages of Agnes’s marriage.
One night Agnes and Gene walked into town. There was a party.
I was awakened by the sound of voices.
I knelt by the low window under the eaves. At first I saw only the high moon and the silvery light polishing the grasses in the stillness. Then two people appeared on the sandy path: Gene was walking unsteadily ahead of Agnes and occasionally turned back to yell something at her. Agnes appeared to be sobbing. I saw Gene gesturing. I could only catch a few of his words, “. . . here now. Are you happy? . . . that stupid ass of yours inside.”
Agnes stood still. I flinched, feeling Gene’s violence as he suddenly lunged at Agnes and yanked her by the arm. Agnes staggered forward as he pulled at her.
“Fucking bitch!”
Gene slapped Agnes hard across the face. Horrified, I watched as Agnes slowly slumped to the ground and sat silently. The sobbing had stopped. Gene stood over her.
“Jesus Christ, Agnes. You fucking drive me fucking crazy.”
? ? ?
The next day Gene and Agnes came downstairs as Mrs. Clark, Shane’s nurse, was putting out the afternoon tea. I’d just come in from a swim; Shane sat at the kitchen table eating gingersnaps. Gene ruffled his son’s dark-gold hair.
“Good?”
Shane looked up at his father shyly and nodded. Gene and Agnes exchanged a smile.
Gene turned to me.
“A swim – excellent idea! How is it today?”