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

was what counted for civilization—having one’s hard work dashed because it wouldn’t sell like penny candy—she wanted none of it.

“And nature’s not all marvel and beauty. Could your young lovers land in some known but uninhabited area and have to fight off wild elements and struggle to carve out a life there? You portray the island as an idyllic place. I can’t imagine that squares with the reality of life in the wilds.”

“I see what you’re saying,” Barbara said. But he’d obviously never seen Tahiti or it’s like, where the land and sea nourished with their bounty of fruit and fish.

“And bring more complexity to the whole conflict. Have you read Nostromo?”

Barbara pitched her head back and held his gaze. “I’ve read all of Conrad.”

“Then study how he portrays the clashes between the locals and foreigners over mining prospects. It might help you develop a more sophisticated telling of the gold discovery and how it affects the young couple.”

Barbara nodded, clutching her stomach to quell its churning. Who was he—this Babbitt of the publishing world—to speak to her of Conrad? What did he know of the dreams of young people? Or of the wonders of nature? It was civilization that was barbarous. Did he fail to see there was something fundamentally and irrevocably wrong with the modern world? Didn’t he understand that was the very point of Lost Island?

He’d thoroughly whacked the legs out from under her project. How could she possibly take his advice and salvage her story? She’d set the manuscript aside, give herself time to consider her next move. Perhaps she’d take up Farksoo and the magic land of Farksolia again. There could be no question about its audience: Many youngsters had yearned for, even written, a secret language. Who among them hadn’t imagined a private world, a place where they could be free from the pretension of adults?

She hoped she would never outgrow the child’s grasp of wonder. Mr. Ashworth and his ilk were welcome to whatever joy they could salvage from their hollow world—if they could ever overcome their devotion to the vulgar dollar.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

BARBARA AT EIGHTEEN

Lake Massabesic, July 1932

The bus had barely left the station when her mother piped up with the same sour refrain. “I can’t believe you’re putting yourself in this position.”

Barbara had given her mother the window seat, hoping the sights would occupy her. That was clearly a batty idea. “Please don’t make a fuss. It’s a hiking trip. Something I’ve done dozens of times.”

“I just have a bad feeling about this.”

Egad, how did her mother manage to pack so much bossiness into five feet, two inches? She didn’t need her mother’s permission anymore; she was 18. She stood a half head taller than her. “Honestly, I’m not a child anymore.”

“Nor are you behaving like an adult, quitting a perfectly good job to go traipsing around the woods.”

“You have a book to show for our traipsing. And another in the making.” Barbara didn’t care if Americans were clawing after work or if President Hoover thought this was a “great depression.” She hated New York. Some poor starving soul was welcome to her job.

“Yes, and you were supposed to help me with the second book. And with Sabra.”

In June, her mother had quit her job so she could write full time and bring Sabra to New York. Barbara enjoyed having her sprightly sister around, but their apartment was cramped and she had to share her room with Sabra. It was suffocating. As the bus rounded a corner, Barbara braced herself to avoid scrunching against her mother. “You two’ll get along just fine without me.”

“I’m the one left juggling my writing and an eight-year-old.”

“Nine.”

“Oh, her turning nine will make a world of difference.”

Barbara shifted to unstick her sweaty leg backs from the seat. How she longed for the shade of towering trees, the refreshing gurgle of brooks. “You’ll like Nick. I promise. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’ve been saying all along this was a ridiculous scheme. And it’s only gotten more so.”

“I can’t help that Denise and John backed out.” Nick had telephoned five days earlier to inform Barbara their two hiking companions couldn’t manage the trip. That had provoked her mother to even more tiresome bouts of grumbling.

“It’s not right, you wandering around the woods with a boy.”

“He’s practically engaged. To someone named Cynthia. And I have Ethan.” Couldn’t her mother understand? If she didn’t escape the crass accountability of city life, it’d destroy her. Her mind hummed with the thrill of anticipation: Soon, she’d be free again, a nymph of the woods. But no, her mother kept trying to deflate her. The best Barbara could do was steer the conversation to other subjects. She asked her mother about the outline for her next book. She assured her Sabra would do just fine with Mrs. Farnsworth to help watch over her.

Their bus delivered them to the Manchester bus station late afternoon. And there was Nick, sitting on the runner of a dusty black sedan.

“Hello,” he called, marching toward them.

How splendid he looks, Barbara thought. Helen can’t help but be impressed by his sturdy six-two frame, his wavy auburn hair, and a face glowing with camper’s tan.

“Hi, Nick,” said Barbara. “This is my mother.”

Nick turned to Helen and bowed slightly. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Follett.”

“Likewise, Nick. And thank you for arranging the weekend.”

“I’m glad you could come.” He gave Helen a closed-mouth smile and reached for her suitcase. “I can take that.”

They drove about five miles out of town to a winding lakeside road, where Barbara pointed to a painted sign atop a driftwood post: Rogers Retreat.

Nick nodded. “That’s the place.”

They turned and trundled over a dirt road, and Nick parked alongside a boxy cabin on cement blocks. They climbed out of the car, and Barbara hitched her knapsack over her shoulder.

She stood akimbo, surveying the scene. “Quite a plucky cabin.”

Pine trees cast spiky shadows on the cabin’s log sides and its faded-green tin roof. A chimney pipe climbed