Mam and Daddy were, naturally, concerned. They wanted to know about Robert, what our plans were. I told them Robert would be back in New York soon. I said we hadn’t quite worked out where we would live, that the baby had come as quite a surprise to both of us.
Take your time, Pamela. There’s a roof over your head as long as you need it.
I’m afraid I took that quite for granted.
Robert returned at the end of the year, in time for my twenty-fifth birthday. After an overnight visit, he took off for Harlem.
A few weeks later Daddy saw the notice in the Tribune. On Friday, January 8, 1932, the author Richard Hughes had married Frances Bazley at her family’s estate in Gloucestershire. I felt Mam watching me carefully. But she had no cause for concern, at least not in that direction. If my expression was grim it had nothing to do with Diccon. I had too much to worry me at home.
Robert was unreliable, to say the least, but now his absence— and his utter silence—stunned me. Surely we could talk a little, there was so much we had to talk about! I tried to think of the baby, but it was hard to concentrate. I couldn’t picture anything.
In June, Lorenzo—named after Lorenzo de Medici, the great patron of the arts—was born. A healthy, red-haired baby.
Robert came to the hospital, bearing flowers, on the day his son was born, and a few weeks later he came to see us at Grove Street. I can still see him standing there, his brown eyes all earnest and panicked at the same time. He kissed me and grinned. Mam and Daddy left the three of us in the living room and retreated to the kitchen, where they busied themselves making tea. They spent longer than necessary, thinking to give us privacy.
Robert and I didn’t say anything for a while. We both gazed at the baby sleeping on my lap.
“Would you like to hold him?” I asked. Robert seemed startled, but he nodded. I handed over the warm little bundle. Robert stared at Lorenzo. I thought he looked as though he might cry.
“I . . . I’m afraid I’m not too good at this, Pamela. I’m very sorry.” I could see that he wanted to say more. He looked at me in a pleading sort of way, as if I could help him along. I didn’t want to help him along. I was silent.
My parents needn’t have bothered to stay so long in the kitchen. By the time they emerged with the tea, Robert was gone.
I was quite calm.
“He just needs more time. He’s not used to all this,” I said, without looking up from the baby.
There was silence as Mam put the tray on the table.
“No one’s used to all this, I’m afraid,” Daddy muttered.
pamela
Robert never came back.
He sent me a letter. When I read that letter, I took to my bed. I couldn’t help it.
I was weighed down again. I knew the signs. I didn’t try to fight it.
I couldn’t care properly for Lorenzo. Mam cared for him.
I read Robert’s letter over and over and over. I should have just ripped it up, but I kept torturing myself. I imagined the scene in Harlem so many times, I saw it so clearly, that I believed it to be true. . . .
Roy stands behind Robert in their now-empty apartment, his arms crossed over a purple silk robe embroidered with dragonflies. In exasperation, he puts paper and pen in front of his friend, my husband.
“What you have to do, Robert, is tell her the truth. For God’s sake, you can’t just leave without a word. Now write. I’m not moving until you’ve finished.”
Robert fingers the paper.
“You’re right, of course. But what do I say? I can’t think.”
“Jesus, Robert . . . just say what’s true . . . it doesn’t have to be long. Say she’s beautiful, the baby’s beautiful, but you just cannot be a husband and father. You wish you could be. You’re sorry.”
When he finishes, Robert hands the letter over to Roy.
“Okay? D’you think it will do?”
Roy reads the letter quickly. He lets out a great sigh, rubs a long finger over his silken forehead, and hands the letter back to Robert.
“Oh, it will do all right.”
I worked unhurriedly. I was meticulous.
I pressed out the letter with the palms of my hands, then folded it in half. I ran my thumb along the seam twice, then opened up the rectangle again. I made neat triangles by bending the top corners of the paper toward the middle, again running over the seams with my fingers. Triangles, fold the flaps inward. Open with the thumbs. Fold flat. Another set of triangles, another square. Fold up the flaps. Just as Mam had taught me when I was a small girl. Then the final opening with thumbs. A boat appeared. A boat with a nice flat beam and angled bow and stern. It was perfect.
I picked up my umbrella.
“Mam, I’m going out for a little walk . . . not for long, I promise . . . could you just pick up Lorenzo if he wakes?”
I’d waited for a rainy day. I didn’t want it to float for long.
I headed west on Barrow Street and walked the few blocks to the Hudson River. At the end of the dock two beat-up skiffs rocked against each other in the current.
There was a breeze from the north. I was relieved: I didn’t want the tiny boat to drift back to shore. I turned my face into the wind; a fine pelting of rain made me blink. Squinting, I saw a large boat heading downriver. A ferry. As it got close I could see it was the deWitt Clinton.
I walked to the end of the dock and stood a while, listening to the pinging sound, the symphony of water drops on the stretched silk of the umbrella.
I took the paper boat from my raincoat pocket and pulled the little filigree ring off my finger. I wedged the ring into a fold. I held the boat parallel to the water before I dropped it, but still it fell over as it hit the waves.
The boat drifted southward on its side, toward the ocean, in a fast-moving tide.
Water soon weighed the vessel down, and the cargo—a few words in blue ink and a bit of gold—was lost forever.
My dearest Pamela,
You know that I have loved you very much. You have always been very beautiful to me. The baby is beautiful, too. But I have realized that I can never be a husband and father. I would be no good at all.
Roy and I are leaving tomorrow for Oregon. We can’t afford this apartment any longer.
I will think of you always—
Your Robert
margery
I do wish Francesco would get home. It could make all the difference in the world if he’s here when Pamela wakes. She tends to put on a brighter face if he’s around. With me, she feels she can fall apart.
Francesco can get quite lost in his work, though, forget all about the time. It’s been such blessing for him to have that little studio uptown, a quiet place to work in. A bit of space to himself, room to store all the old bookbinding tools from Italy. He’s been so excited about this book. A small volume, he said. Poems.