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

With cordial wishes,

Barbara Follett

CHAPTER SEVEN

HELEN

New Haven, December 1927

Helen perched on her side of the bed, tapping her fingers on her knee tops and wondering how to begin. On their walk home from the neighborhood Christmas social, Wilson’s mood had veered from jovial to somber. He’d even recoiled when she reached for his hand.

She kept her back to Wilson as he undressed, but she could picture his expression—silent and self-absorbed, his brow furrowed, his eyes sullen, his jaw set hard. She dreaded facing him.

Clank, clank. She winced at him dropping his cuff links on the dresser. She knew he intended the clatter to signal her: Keep your distance. But she couldn’t tolerate this standoff any longer. She’d rather force the issue than endure this gnawing purgatory.

“Wilson,” she said, unbuttoning the sleeves of her dress and tempering her voice, “this arrangement isn’t working. Can we please talk about it?”

Fabric snapped. Wilson had flicked his shirt to whip out the wrinkles. “I don’t see how it can be otherwise.”

“You didn’t always spend weeks at a time in the city. Can’t you come home on Fridays, like you used to?”

“I have more responsibilities now. I don’t stop working on Friday. Or even on weekday evenings.” How steely his monotone sounded—as if he plied it as a shield.

“You could bring your work home.”

“It’s not that easy. There are calls to make. Meetings, lunches, even dinners.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Surely not on Saturdays and Sundays.”

He stood on his side of the bed, gripping his shirt by the collar. “Are you telling me how to do my job?”

“Of course not.” Patience, she told herself, keep your patience. “Can’t you at least think of Barbara? She misses you terribly.”

Wilson stood there, stoic as stone.

The two hot toddies she’d nursed during the party curdled in her stomach. Bitter bile surged up her gullet. She swallowed it down. “And Sabra’s old enough to miss her father. She’s even turned shy around you.”

“It has to be that way for now.”

My God, if his daughters’ distress didn’t budge him, could anything? Dread as heavy as chain metal descended on her. “Do you think I haven’t noticed you’re not keeping your suits here anymore? Not even your Florsheims?”

Wilson thrust his chin out. “What do I need them here for?”

She stopped up the words that came to her: Because you live here, you brute.

Turning away from his icy gaze, she tugged the Bakelite comb from her hair, letting its thick tresses drop. Her hair was the thing Wilson had most complimented her on—its chestnut-brown richness, the waves it expressed when freed. With the back of her hand, she pitched her hair over her shoulder. Of course, the gesture wouldn’t move him. Was there any way to reach him? She edged around the corner of the bed and faced him squarely. “Wilson, this is your home. The girls and I are your family.”

“I’ve been nothing less than a loving father. I’ve provided well for this family—and fostered Barbara’s writing.” Wilson wagged his head from side to side like a dismissive parent. He tramped to the closet and grabbed a hanger for his shirt. “Not that you don’t deserve the lion’s share of credit for her education.”

She certainly deserved the credit. Wasn’t she the one who taught Barbara to type? Didn’t she design the daily lessons she’d studied these many years? Hadn’t she schooled her in biology and calculus, French and Shakespeare? But that wasn’t the point.

She sighed and stared at the wall. The delicate green vines of the ivory wallpaper wrapped around teal poles as if to mock her with their frippery. How could she break out of this prison of unending argument? She wanted to feel the warmth of Wilson’s caress on winter nights. She wanted to hear him coo in her ear. She’d had none of that lately. In bed, he hugged the edge while she tentatively curled against his back. And the only emotion he seemed capable of showing her was irritability or, on occasion, anger. Trapped—that’s how she felt. Trapped in acrimony with her husband.

She slipped off her pump heels and massaged the cramp out of her foot. Wilson passed by her again, over to his side of the bed. She caught the trail of his scent—the stale smell of old smoke that clung to his clothes and hair, the sweeter scent of fresh tobacco, the musk of manly sweat. His smoking used to irritate her; now, she only wanted its familiarity to fill the room. Twisting around to face him, she asked, “Is it time for us to move to the city?”

His gaze froze into a glare. “No, it is not.”

He’d moved the family several times: from Hanover to Providence in 1916; to New Haven in 1919; and, as the whim struck him, from one home to another—four different places just in New Haven. Each time, she set aside her writing projects, dutifully packed up the household, and resettled the family. She’d made only halting progress on her book about home educating, all because of the disruptions. And now he wouldn’t budge?

She unbuckled her hose and rolled them down her legs and over her ankles and feet. She stood, padded to her dresser, and placed her hosiery there. She watched Wilson unzip and slip out of his pants. He used to sleep in the nude, but nowadays, he wore his Topkis to bed. She pulled her dress up over her head and faced him. “Wilson, I love you. I want you with me.”

He shot her a begrudging glance. “You don’t act like it. All you do is nag.”

God, she was trying. She was trying as hard as she could. But all he did was blame her. “I can’t do it by myself. I don’t feel any sort of love or warmth from you. And I haven’t for months.”

“It’s a bad time. You can’t imagine the pressure I’m under.”

“How could I? You never tell me. I learned more about your job eavesdropping at