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

had turned into such a struggle. She was simply running out of the patience—and energy—for it. What if she and Barbara had some time apart? It might be good for both of them. For one thing, she needed solitude to write this book. If she could deliver on it, it’d give them some respite from their dire financial circumstances. And she’d like nothing more than to get her book out before Wilson published his novel. Perhaps she should try to find a temporary guardian for Barbara, someone with a firm enough hand to manage her and her rebellious ways.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

BARBARA AT FIFTEEN

Pasadena, June–August 1929

In late June, a bus deposited Barbara and her mother in Pasadena, where the Russell family lived. Her mother introduced the Russells as old family friends, but Barbara didn’t remember meeting them. They were a congenial foursome—Alice, Bert, and their daughters Phoebe and Elisabeth—and she did enjoy their company.

But it was Ethan who occupied her thoughts. They’d exchanged a volley of letters, though her last three had gone unanswered while the Vigilant sailed from Seattle to Anchorage. Then, in early August, one of his neatly addressed envelopes showed up, and before she’d stepped back onto the front porch, she’d ripped it open.

July 23, 1929

Dear Barbara,

We arrived late morning on a fine sunny day in Anchorage. The flowers are abundant and in full bloom under Alaska’s long stretches of daylight.

Once the stevedores began unloading our shipment of dry goods, I took myself off to scout city streets and hear local tidings. The people here rail at the requirement that the territory buy and sell its wares through Washington state. They consider it extortion. I can see their point, but this is a land of plenty, and I suppose the U.S. government can’t resist its bounty. And the people themselves voted against statehood, so they oughtn’t complain too loudly.

I’ve collected your last three letters, and since we’ll stop here a few days, I can answer each of them. But I’ll take my time, and read them one by one, for I love to savor your words and mull over your questions.

As for your first letter . . .

Yes, I finished my third reading of Lord Jim, and I’ve marked even more passages in my battered copy. But knowing Jim’s fate all along made for sad reading. He tries so hard to bring honor on himself. I believe he’s a sincere and compassionate man, undone by one unthinking and impulsive act. But is Conrad fair to Jim? Such a terrible test he puts him to, a crisis that forces a life and death decision on him. Or is Conrad using Jim to show how darkness can undo the most honorable of men? Then Jim is a victim, and I can’t blame him for his fate. I’m left questioning my sense of honor and duty. What if I’d been in Jim’s position? I can only hope that integrity would guide me, for it is a virtue I hold high. Do you agree? I’d love to hear your thoughts on honor and fate.

I’m glad the Russell family is good company and that you’ve found a friend in Alice. I don’t know why you’re surprised at being more drawn to the mother than the daughters. You’re not of your age. I saw that from the beginning. Your questioning mind and broad knowledge are not the ways of a youngster but of an older person who has read and experienced much. You can’t compare your years to those of anybody else, for you’ve lived more deeply than anyone I’ve ever known. It is one of the many things I cherish about you.

I’ll close for now and take a walk along the docks and admire the profusion of blooms while thinking of you. I sorely need teaching in the names of flowers and plants, and you’re just the one for that.

I’ve read your second letter . . .

Captain says we’ll sail earlier than expected, for the stevedores are making good progress loading our cargo of canned salmon. These Alaska settlers are hearty stock. Complain though they do, they know how to put their shoulders into their work.

I’m sorry the news from your father is not good. Though it was as you feared, remember that Joseph Conrad himself said: “No man ever understands quite his own artful dodges to escape from the grim shadow of self-knowledge.” These words can’t be much consolation, but perhaps they can explain something of your father’s blundering ways.

I wonder, can you find any comfort in this quote from Lord Jim? “Our common fate . . . for where is the man—I mean a real sentient man—who does not remember vaguely having been deserted in the fullness of possession by someone or something more precious than life?” Don’t let the pain and desertion he has visited on you weigh you down. Yes, you’ve suffered from it, but perhaps you will soon find and keep the precious friend you deserve. Dare I hope to prove myself such a one?

It must be heartbreaking for your mother. Please give her my sympathy. She’s a good mother to you. You mustn’t speak ill of her. How many mothers would have undertaken the journey you and she had? And we wouldn’t have met otherwise.

Though I’m sorry for the pain caused by your father’s abandonment, I admit I’m glad you won’t rush back to the East Coast, for you’ll remain a mere sea voyage away. Much as I’d like to throw over my responsibilities so that I can be with you, I’m forcing patience on myself, knowing that we must wait for the right time to be together again.

You’re planning a new book, a book that I’m the inspiration for? Already I’m anxious to read the chapters.

And last, your third letter . . .

I write in haste now for Captain tells us we’ll shove off this afternoon, and I must hurry to post this letter. Perhaps some brute of a steamer will carry it