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

She plopped down at the kitchen table and collapsed onto her forearms. She couldn’t go on like this, racked with fear and desperation. She’d turned into a bundle of jangling nerves. She needed to summon calm—and a shred of confidence—so she could talk to Nick in a reasonable way.

She bathed, dressed in a lightweight cotton dress, and took herself out to the Kent Street Diner for a lunch of fried eggs, potatoes, and toast. After smothering everything with butter, she managed to force down half her breakfast. Then she walked home and picked up a book—Sense and Sensibility. She’d read it years before and thought she could manage it now: She’d always enjoyed Jane Austen’s clever works. For nearly an hour, her gaze wove over the pages, but her mind wandered. She repeatedly caught herself and circled back through the paragraphs. Finally, she gave up and slumped down on the sofa.

She looked around the living room: at Nick’s photographs of quaint Spanish villages and the rolling German countryside; at her bookshelf packed with novels, mostly the works of her favorite writers, Conrad, Dickens, Kipling, and Wells; at Nick’s tidy arrangement of their sofa, two easy chairs, and modest drop-leaf coffee table; at the Philco tabletop radio they huddled around Sunday evenings for the “Chase and Sanborn” and “Ford Sunday Evening” hours. This was where she and Nick lived. This was their home. This was what she wanted.

Nick would be home tomorrow. She must get herself under control. A plan, that’s what she needed.

She’d walk to the harbor and back to tire herself out. She’d buy some groceries—a can of Campbell’s tomato soup for her dinner and some chicken to fry for Friday’s dinner. Nick liked fried chicken, and she’d learned to cook it passably well. She’d take two of those pills tonight so she could get a good night’s sleep. In the morning, she’d launder the sheets and dirty clothes and hang them out to dry, and she’d spend the rest of the day cleaning the apartment, top to bottom. When Nick returned, she’d apologize to him, tell him she’d been all wrong, that she hadn’t understood how much he wanted a family. She’d promise to make a home for him, a real home with all the children he desired.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

BARBARA AT TWENTY-FIVE

Boston, November 1939

November 4, 1939

My dear Alice,

Many thanks for your consoling letter. What would I do without you? You’re the staunchest friend I have, and I need your guiding hand now more than ever.

Yes, I’m relieved Nick is giving me another chance. But I can’t say the situation is getting better. I’m so weary. I slouch around all day as if I have a boulder strapped to my back. At work, I try to distract myself with my duties, but I only manage that in dribs. And to find a bit of oblivion at night, I take sleeping dope.

The worst thing is, I’ve discovered there’s someone else. I don’t ask Nick about her. I don’t know who she is, how serious it got, or if he’s still seeing her. I only know that we’re chillingly courteous to each other and that under the surface, things are horribly, terribly wrong. He’s not his usual serene self around me. He’s as stiff as a palace guard. I suppose it’s all my fault. I didn’t understand how much having children meant to him. I only hope it’s not too late to save our marriage.

It’s curious. If he only said he’d come back to me, I wouldn’t care about this other woman. Jealousy pales compared to my need for him and his steadying love. That’s how important he is to me.

I’m trying as hard as I can. I don’t pry or beg him to talk about our chances. I keep my agonies to myself and try to show him nothing but good cheer. I cook his favorite foods and keep the apartment neat and sparkling, just the way he likes it. He even thanked me for a tasty dinner last night, which gives me a scrap of hope. And this morning, he patted me on the head, the first time he’s touched me in ever so long.

I’ve got to think it’ll be all right. Last week, he told me he doubts a leopard can change its spots, but I intend to prove I can be a good wife to him. I’d always rebelled against the confines of a tame domestic life, and now it’s all I want. If I can convince him I really will give him children, I believe I can win him over. I only want us to get back to honestly and easily loving each other instead of acting like we’re delicate china that’ll shatter at the least nudge.

This is turning into the shortest letter ever because I don’t want to go on burdening you with talk of how dreadful my life is just now. I must believe Nick will come back to me, for I don’t know how I can go on without him.

So I’ll imagine you urging me on and telling me I’m doing the right thing and that all will soon be well.

All my love,

Barbara

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

BARBARA AT TWENTY-FIVE

Boston, December 1939

Though they lasted only two or three days, Nick's business trips invariably set off waves of ambivalence in her. At first, she’d think, ah, a break from the stifling, contrived accord, a chance to write letters without fearing he’ll walk by and spy a few words. But after that initial blush of relief, she descended into panic.

For some reason, it’d been much worse this time. She’d paced, written a long letter to Alice, even emptied, scrubbed, and reorganized the cupboards and closet. Not that that kept her from worrying. Why did he claim he was too busy to telephone her? He knew she’d be home evenings after work. Surely he didn’t have business around the clock. Might he be seeing that girl? No, he wouldn’t do such a thing—not while