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

at the bottom of the stairs, clutching a basket of line-dried laundry against her hip. Upstairs, in Sabra’s bedroom, the girls chattered away. “Barbara,” she called, “bring Sabra down here where it’s not so hot.”

Late July and early August had been scorching, with record-breaking temperatures spanning the Northeast. Each day she tracked the sun’s progress from their home’s east-facing kitchen to the westside living room, closing the curtains against its fierce rays, but never staying entirely ahead of its steamy torment.

The heat had probably contributed to the raging row she and Wilson had before he’d left town for his job interview. Yes, she’d let the argument get out of control. But he’d set the whole thing off with his out-of-the-blue announcement. Honestly, after they built a charming and comfortable home and furnished it from top to bottom, he had the gall to propose taking a post in New York City.

All they did lately was bicker. She’d had such hopes for them in the beginning, once he’d put his first marriage behind him. They were so happy on their Maine honeymoon, quizzing each other about their secrets and dreams. And she loved their first home, a small cottage in Hanover with a river-stone fireplace and bay windows she decorated with pots of African violets. He was content there with his position at Dartmouth College, and she liked teaching high school English. Then he clashed with the English department chair and uprooted the family—leaving Dartmouth for a professorship at Brown and, shortly afterward, accepting his post at Yale University Press. With each move, she’d swallowed her displeasure, rededicated herself to home educating Barbara, and tried to please Wilson and help with his writing.

She’d hoped planning and building this new house would offer a fresh start. But before long, they’d settled back into the same tired grievances: arguing whether a new car would be a splurge or investment; squabbling over who had time for this chore or that and blaming and defending—about how she should stretch the household budget and he should curb his expenses.

Barbara, holding three-year-old Sabra by the hand, walked her down the stairs one step at a time, clutching four of Sabra’s stuffed animals. “We’re playing jungle.”

“Please don’t haul all the animals down here.” Helen sat down on the sofa and plunked the laundry basket on the occasional table. “Why don’t you read to Sabra?”

Barbara walked Sabra to her father’s leather chair and lifted her onto it. “You wait here.” She trotted upstairs with the stuffed animals and returned with her manuscript.

“Those pages are curling from being hauled around so much,” Helen said, reaching into the basket and pulling out a pair of Sabra’s pajamas. Yes, she was impressed at how Barbara had rewritten her Eepersip story from memory after the house fire, but it seemed that was all Barbara cared about these days.

“I’m going to tell Sabra a secret,” said Barbara.

“What secret is that?” Helen asked, though overheated as she was, she hardly cared.

Sabra clapped her hands together. “Tell me, Barba.”

Barbara shifted Sabra to the corner of the chair and nuzzled in beside her. “I’m dedicating my Eepersip book to two people—my secret pirate friend and you.”

Sabra bounced her arms in the air. “Book? Read me a book.”

“You’re going to have your initials in my book. For everyone to see forever and ever.”

“Read me a forever story, Barba.”

“You silly girl. When you’re older, you’ll appreciate having a book dedicated to you.”

Sabra leaned over the chair arm toward her stack of books. “Read, Barba.”

“All right, I’ll read from the last chapter of Eepersip.”

Sabra tried to crawl over the edge of the chair arm to get at her stack of books.

Barbara tugged her back. “Listen now.”

“If Sabra can’t sit still,” Helen said, flapping the front of her dress to air herself, “maybe you two should put your swimsuits on and go play with the hose.”

Barbara ignored her. Ah, Helen thought, it’s just as well they’re in their own world. She had quite enough to manage, with Wilson gone until Thursday and her mother visiting friends in Hanover. She’d begged Wilson to decline the interview. No sooner had they paid off the furniture than he surprised her with “the most extraordinary news”: Alfred Knopf had invited him to New York for an interview. Why, she demanded, hadn’t he told her about applying for a position there? How was he to know, he replied, that Knopf would follow up on what seemed an off-hand request for his résumé?

Barbara flipped to the last page of her manuscript and read. “When the sun again tinged the sky with color, a flock of butterflies—of purple and gold and green—came swooping and alighted on her head in a circle, the largest in front. Others came in myriads and covered her dress with delicate wing touches. Eepersip held out her arms a moment. A gold-and-black one alighted on each wrist. And then she rose into the air, and, hovering an instant over a great laurel bush, vanished.”

Barbara slid the sheet back under the stack.

Sabra grabbed the pages. “Where are pictures? I want pictures.”

Barbara tugged the manuscript out of her hand. “Long stories don’t need pictures, silly. They paint them with words.”

Since Helen and Wilson had fought, she’d done little but fret about it. She tried to tell him it wasn’t fair—not consulting her before entertaining a new position. Instead of apologizing, he’d mounted all manner of justifications: The new house had completely drained the family savings; he couldn’t expect to earn much more at Yale University Press; and, my God, was she oblivious to the honor done him? “For Christ’s sake,” he said, “it’s Alfred A. Knopf.” But she persisted with her complaint, and he finally agreed he’d discuss any offer with her before accepting it.

Sabra squirmed, trying to escape the chair. “I want my Dream Coach book.”

Barbara restrained her little sister. “First, I’ll tell you another secret. After Daddy starts his new job, he’s going to see if Mr. Knopf will publish my novel.”

Helen froze in the