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

now, her funds were running dangerously low, even though she agonized over every nickel she spent. Helen’s last check would get her through the rest of August. But she had no new typing jobs in the offing, and she hated begging her mother for money.

She was trying; she truly was. But reworking the tragic ending to Lost Island demoralized her, and no one wanted to publish her story about the Appalachian Trail. She’d just completed something new, “Mothballs in the Moon,” a grown-up story about two young people—a free-spirited woman and a society man—who slowly realize they’re meant for each other. She might even ask her father for advice on where to submit it. And she’d tell him about Nick, whose Dartmouth degree and research position would surely impress. Then, if she didn’t sell any of her pieces, she’d take an office job. She ended the letter by asking her mother if she’d pay her room and board for September, during which time she’d send out her new story and look for a regular job.

✭

The week after she mailed the letter, one of the girls knocked on her door. “Barbara, you have a telephone call.”

Barbara pushed back from her writing table and loped down the stairs, wondering who it could be. She hoped it wasn’t Nick canceling their Friday night date. She gripped the telephone earpiece and spoke into the black cylinder. “Hello.”

“Bar, it’s your mother.”

Barbara turned her back on the two girls sitting on the parlor sofa. They softened their voices, maybe so they could listen in on her. She asked her mother, “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve just been mulling over your letter.”

“How’s Sabra?”

“Fine. Amazingly energetic for a kid on crutches.”

“She’s a real sport, that Sabra.”

“Don’t you miss her, Bar? She’d love to see you.”

The two boarders got up and walked toward the stairs, passing her on the way. Their syrupy perfume mingled with the house’s dusty atmosphere. Barbara wrinkled her nose. She hated to think of her private affairs spreading around the boarding house. Cupping her hand over the mouthpiece, she lowered her voice. “Of course, I do. But this is where I live now.”

“I’m just going to ask since you’ve not been forthcoming. What exactly is the understanding between you and Nick?”

Barbara hesitated, waiting for the girls to reach the top of the stairs. Finally, she was alone. “Just what it’s been all along. We see each other as often as we can.”

“And that’s all? Is he seeing anybody else?”

“He has friends if that’s what you mean.”

“Is there some other girl that keeps him from doing right by you?”

“I know you mean marriage, Mother, but I’m not old-fashioned like you.”

“It’s not a matter of what’s in fashion. I hate to see you relegated to a boarding house while Nick has a perfectly good job.”

“But that’s the point. He should be establishing his career.”

“It’s getting more and more difficult for me to respect that boy—first, he represents you as his wife all across Europe, and now he treats you like a sometimes sweetheart.”

“You’re so passé. It’s the 1930s, you know. And you didn’t complain in Germany.”

“You left me no choice. And you still haven’t told me if he’s seeing somebody else.”

Barbara refused to mention Cynthia by name. “His mother occasionally invites family friends over. But he’s not the one doing the inviting.”

“Barbara, don’t you see what’s going on here? If he truly cared about you, he’d ask you to marry him. Frankly, it’s dishonorable—him taking advantage of your favors while he entertains other girls. Where is your self-respect?”

“I’m going to do things my way, and that’s the end of it. I’m not a child, and I hate you treating me like one.”

“Fine, then you can just act like an adult. I can’t afford to send you money every month.”

Barbara asked, “Not even a few more weeks of room and board?”

“No, it’s time you fended for yourself.”

That evening and all the next day, Barbara fretted over her plight, trying to conjure some plan. She could pay for two more weeks of room and board, but that’d leave little for lunches, paper, and typewriter ribbons. The thought of going on relief repelled her: She refused to give Nick’s snobbish mother any reason to deride her. She could hunt down a job. But if she didn’t secure a paycheck in the next few weeks, she’d be forced to retreat to Manhattan and stay with her mother, at least until she sold Lost Island or one of her short stories.

Only she couldn’t conceive of leaving Nick, not even for a few weeks. She lived for their dates, sustained herself on his encouragement: “Yes,” he’d told her, “if you want to be a writer, you shouldn’t give up. You can always take a good-paying job and write on the side.” And she delighted in his firm grip on the dance floor. When she was with him, in the fever of dance, her worries vanished.

But since her mother’s prying about Cynthia, her vexation had boiled up. She couldn’t get Cynthia out of her mind. The thought of Nick sitting around the dinner table with his mother, brother, sister, and Cynthia—as if they were one happy family—galled her to no end.

It was so confusing. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing Nick. In her heart, she knew they were perfect for each other. She’d never encountered a man of such constancy and practicality. She felt utterly serene in his company. True, they no longer shared the light-hearted pleasures of their traveling times, but that was because he had a demanding job. And because his mother kept telling him that he was the man of the family and needed to take his responsibilities seriously.

Except having Cynthia in the picture unnerved her. Nick’s reassurances simply didn’t satisfy anymore. Was he really, as her mother implied, taking advantage of her? Why did he allow his mother to push Cynthia on him? Surely, Cynthia couldn’t make him happy. She was a frilly thing from a well-to-do family