The Point of Vanishing - Maryka Biaggio (large ebook reader TXT) 📗

passed small steamers and barges, and I had never thought they were beautiful. I was too devoted to my original idea of vessels with sails to pay much attention to these little chuggers. But at night, they suddenly became fairy-like. A small steamer would click slowly across our bow, with a swash of foam, and she looked like an enchanted ship from some mysterious land. Then a long string of barges passed us far ahead, all towed by a small powerboat, each one gleaming with red and green and yellow lights. One after another, they passed, at even intervals, until we began to think they would never end. And when they had gone, we were again alone in the darkness, except for the faraway lights onshore.

“And then I saw a strange, soft light in the east. I watched and watched, and I saw the top of the moon’s circle. Up she came, huge in the darkness and shining like sunlight on snow. I had often dreamed of sailing by moonlight. And now, my dreams were realized. The breeze held everything quiet, and, except for the swing and roll of the ship and the rushing of the foam divided by her cutwater, everything was silent—oh, so silent and beautiful!”

Barbara dropped the manuscript to her lap. Stark and the other men clapped.

“That was lovely, Miss Follett. I felt I was there with you.” Stark reached for his writing pad and looked to her. “Now, just one more question. Are you at work on another book?”

Barbara glanced aside. Her stomach tightened and twitched as if a fist were punching it from inside. She looked back at Stark. “No, sir, I’m only considering what I might write next.”

When they pushed out of the building doors, Barbara trotted ahead of her mother.

“Wait,” her mother called. “I swear you’ve grown new legs since your sea voyage.”

Barbara slowed and let her mother catch up.

“You were marvelous, dear. The way you answered the questions. The lilting delivery of the reading.”

“Please, Mother, can’t it wait until we get home?” Barbara headed for their trolley.

“What’s wrong, Bar?”

She didn’t answer. She felt all tangled up inside.

“I mean it. You were completely in control of that interview. None of those reporters could resist listening. You charmed the lot of them.”

Barbara turned away and boarded the trolley. She took a seat next to a stranger, forcing her mother to pass by and sit behind her. She let the trolley’s sweeping turns sway her this way and that.

Her father hadn’t responded to her letter. Even worse, he’d broken his promise to attend the interview with her. And she had no idea what to write about next. Or how she’d manage another book without her father’s guiding hand.

When they reached their stop, Barbara bounded off and dashed ahead. She didn’t want to talk to her mother, not even to hear her praise. What did it matter?

When she reached the house, she tossed her poncho over the stair post and bounded up to her bedroom. She threw down her manuscript. It broke out of its wrapper and spilled onto the floor. She collapsed face down on her bed. Tears stung her eyes.

A knock sounded on her door. Her mother said, “Bar, may I come in?”

She said nothing, but her mother pushed the door open anyway. The bed pressed down with her weight. Her mother stroked her back. “Bar, what’s wrong?”

She burrowed her face deeper into the pillow.

“Please tell me what’s bothering you.”

Barbara spoke into her pillow. “I hate him.”

“I know how much you wanted him there.”

“I want him here.”

Her mother lifted her wavy tresses off her shoulders and brushed them back.

Barbara reached an arm around and shoved her mother’s hand away. “Don’t give him a divorce.”

“Bar, please don’t be like this. I wish I could make him come home.”

Barbara turned her back on her mother and curled into a ball. “I hate you, too. Leave me alone.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

BARBARA AT FOURTEEN

New Haven, May–June 1928

Queasiness descended on Barbara as she dressed. She traipsed down to the kitchen, drawn by a repugnant ache for the company of another.

Her mother turned from gazing out the kitchen window. “Good morning, dear.”

Barbara mumbled, “Morning.”

“Bar, I need to talk to you.” Her mother motioned to Barbara’s seat at the table. “Before Sabra wakes up.”

“By gosh, Mother wants a talk.” Barbara crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. Mornings were the worst. She hated facing the awful void her life had become: none of her father’s footsteps clomping around the house; no smell of coffee brewing for his thermos; none of her parents’ muted breakfast conversation.

“Don’t be that way,” said her mother. “I’m serious.”

All her mother did lately was sulk or fuss over her and Sabra; it aggravated her beyond words. And as for her father, why bother hoping for a letter from the reprobate?

She looked past her mother, through the kitchen’s gauzy window curtains, at May’s brooding overcast sky. “You? Serious? Why not try funny for a change?”

“I won’t allow you to speak to me like that.” Her mother braced a hand on her hip. “I know you’re upset. We’re all upset, but you mustn’t take it out on me.”

“You’re the only one who can do anything about it.”

“I’m trying, but I can only do so much.” Her mother tugged Barbara’s chair out. “Now sit.”

Barbara shuffled to the chair and plopped down. Even the house seemed different lately—as if its foundation had come unmoored. In the middle of the night, when spring’s strong winds blasted the walls and windows, she often woke in a panic, alone and adrift. And the early-morning groans of the furnace sounded like a brutish bear growling in its den.

Her mother opened a cupboard. “How about some cereal?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat something.”

Her stomach clenched at the thought of food. “I will. When Sabra’s up.”

Her mother sat down across from her and poured their tea. “I had a letter from Gordon yesterday.”

“I saw it. Addressed only to you.”

“Yes, and for good reason. He’s concerned