Tiffany blues, p.13
Tiffany Blues, page 13
I looked out at the land that stretched in front of us. A ditch perched on the edge of a marsh, surrounded by a slight rise. What had it been like for him? How had he lived with the sacrifice? How had it affected his talent? How bad was his injury? I wanted to know everything about him, and at the same time nothing about him mattered except that we were standing there, together.
“See those stones, there and there?” He pointed out sections of a dilapidated wall that formed a corner, then broke, then continued on. “Those were once the walls.”
We walked inside the partial perimeter. Off to one side was a large pile of shells, bleached by the sun.
“It’s called a shell dump heap. Indians used shells to make beads, and we found hundreds of them in there. We also found arrowheads, bone fishhooks, and clay pipes.” He reached down, grabbed a handful of shells, and put them in my hand. “If you look, you can probably still find some beads.”
He scooped up another handful for himself, and we both searched through the broken pieces.
“It was our favorite place to play until Grandfather put an end to our excursions.”
“What happened?”
“He heard about our discovery from one of my aunts, who found a stone knife in my cousin’s pocket. Fascinated by what the site might turn up, Grandfather invited an archaeologist to investigate. There are quite a few forts like this up and down Long Island. Ours was probably built in the 1640s and used as a refuge in a time of attack and as a trading post in peacetime. Once my grandfather heard its history, he forbade us to come back here, lest we ruin it.”
Oliver threw down his handful of shells and scooped up a new one. “He planned on funding an archaeological dig here. But we were kids, and rules were made to be broken. Once we learned this was an Indian fort and that Grandfather didn’t want us here, we couldn’t stay away. As you’ll see, my grandfather has quite a collection of Native American art at Laurelton Hall. We took to borrowing headdresses, drums, baskets, and rugs, bringing them out here in the dead of night and conducting made-up rituals and ceremonies. Eventually, we got caught and severely punished.”
For some reason, I felt a jolt of fear upon hearing this.
Oliver plucked something out of the mess of shells in his hand. “Here you go.” He handed it to me.
The round, irregular bead had a crude hole through its middle. In the afternoon sun, it shimmered almost like a pearl but with a blue-violet tint.
“This is abalone, isn’t it? I noticed some in the house.”
“Yes, Grandfather uses it in some of his brass frames, inkwells, desk blotters. Even in some jewelry. I’ve always believed the nacre was more beautiful than pearl because there are so many colors reflected on its surface.”
He held it up to the sun. “I’ll put a cord through it, and you can wear it as a necklace. A memento of your first day at Laurelton Hall,” he said, with another devilish grin and raised right eyebrow.
He pocketed the bead and then took my hand. “Let’s go. The sun is starting to set, and it’s going to get chilly soon.”
I wanted to tell him it didn’t matter, that his touch was warming me. But of course, I didn’t. As the sky took on a lavender and pinkish tint, similar to the abalone, I glanced at Oliver. The setting sun reflected off his skin, made him look as if he were sculpted from the shell. But the feel of his fingers clutching mine, in an urgent way, as if he had to hold on, was so welcoming and familiar. I closed my eyes and tried to memorize the moment. In all its wonder and color.
12
Minx knocked on my door at six and asked if I wanted to go downstairs for a drink before we went to dinner. I said I did but needed to change. She sat on my bed while I opened the closet.
“What did you do this afternoon?” I asked, as I pulled out a dress and a sweater.
“I worked in the studio, and then Edward and I explored the estate.”
“Are you falling in love with him for real?”
She shrugged. “Too soon to tell.” She leaned forward. Even though no one was around, she spoke in hushed tones. “I didn’t tell you this before, but when Edward isn’t painting, he drives a truck for a bootlegger. He brings the stuff down from Canada.” She was almost breathless. “It’s all very hush-hush, but I’m not going to pretend it’s not scary, too. It is. Jenny, he carries a gun.”
“But you can’t be with someone who—”
“Before you start sounding like my mother again, he’s going to stop as soon as he gets enough paintings together for a show. That’s why this session at Laurelton is so important for him. If he wins the prize, with all the attention that goes with it, he’ll be able set himself up in the city with a studio and a gallery, and everything will change. He’s so passionate about his art.” Her eyes lit up. “About everything.” She bit down on her bottom lip.
“But your mother is right to be worried. She cares about you. After everything that’s happened, she just wants—”
“After everything?” Minx asked. “What’s ‘everything’?”
I’d said something I shouldn’t have. I’d alluded to the past she’d never told me about but that her mother had discussed with me. Before I could try to smooth over my faux pas, she persisted.
“After what, Jenny? Wait, wait . . . my mother told you, didn’t she?”
“Only because she doesn’t want anything to ever happen to you. She doesn’t want you to fall in with the wrong crowd and be tempted again.”
Minx walked away from me and went to the window. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“I wanted to but . . . no, I didn’t. I’m sorry, Minx.”
She spun around. “It was almost two years ago, and it’s not something that will happen again. You certainly don’t have to worry about it or watch out for me. I don’t need a keeper.”
The invitation for drinks abandoned, Minx stomped away to her room. For the next hour, I worried that she was too angry to forgive me. But at six forty-five, she was back, asking if I was ready to walk down for dinner.
· · ·
By the time we arrived at the Foundation’s dining room, most of the fellows had already assembled. We’d all been thrown together for two months, and this was our inaugural meal. Fourteen artists ranging in age from twenty-two to thirty. Twelve men, two women. Nine painters. Two sculptors. Minx, who was both. One photographer and one potter. I’d wondered if Oliver would be there, since he was at Laurelton to learn the business of running the Foundation. But he was family and probably ate in the mansion with his grandfather and whoever else was in residence.
Dinner was a semiformal affair. We all sat at a long table in a rectangular room with floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed for a merging of the indoors with the outdoors. While we ate, we were treated to a view of woodlands and lawn, flowers and sky. As evening settled into darkness, the view disappeared, but tiny colored lights strung through the trees enchanted us with a different kind of magic.
Two male servants waited on us, one of whom offered us wine as soon as we sat down. Minx had told me that Tiffany was no teetotaler, but I hadn’t expected us to be treated so much like guests. Everywhere I looked, even there in the Foundation’s quarters, Tiffany’s artistry, sense of design, and love of beautiful things was on display. Not surprisingly, the tableware was of the finest white china decorated with a cobalt-blue and gold edge and swags of green leaves. The green and blue motif continued with pastel wineglasses and water glasses—the bowls blue, the bases green. And the leaf motif continued as the decoration in the silverware.
Our three-course meal began with stuffed mushrooms, followed by a roast duck with boiled potatoes, carrots, and peas, and ending with Nesselrode pudding and butter cookies.
The conversations were tentative at first, as was often the case between strangers. But Minx wasted little time in livening things up by suggesting we all play a game to get to know one another better.
“We’ll go around the table,” she said. “First, say the one thing that scares you the most in the world.”
Had I not been her friend and seen her do this kind of thing before, I might have felt uncomfortable about being forced to open up. But I knew she would go easy on me, at least.
After some consideration, Henry Goodson said quicksand. Paul Cadmus said poverty. Blindness and fire were other answers. I said injustice. In an instant, Edward Wren said failure.
Next, Minx asked what each of us was most proud of. Prizes and scholarships were the most common answers. Minx said hers was being Mrs. Whitney’s assistant. Alan Higgins said surviving the war. I said getting to New York City on my own. Edward said his ability to survive and succeed.
She continued peppering the meal with questions. Over the years, I’d learned how to sidestep awkward topics and believed I was doing a good job, until Edward pushed me on two questions I hadn’t answered at all.
“Jenny, what about you? What is your worst childhood memory?”
I took a sip of wine. “Our cat’s death,” I responded. I hadn’t thought about the parsonage’s cat for more than eight years, but this somehow seemed like the kind of meaningful yet still innocuous response that would avoid any large discussion about my past.
And then, later, when I hadn’t answered Minx’s question about our fathers’ occupations, Edward asked, “What did your father do? I missed it.”
I said he’d been an architect. I was relieved that dinner was soon over.
As Minx and I walked back up to the main house, we talked about each of the artists and our impressions of them. I was glad that we didn’t talk any further about Edward. I was willing to put up with him for Minx’s sake but was beginning to find him abrasive.
Later, alone in my bedroom, I sat in the window seat. Below me, the Laurelton Hall grounds glowed and twinkled with all the tiny lights strung in the trees, along the paths, across the terraces, illuminating the fountains and fanciful sculptures. Night-blooming flowers scented the air. I looked out past the estate to the Long Island Sound. The half-moon cast shimmers of light on the rippling water.
The day had been overwhelming on every level, and I wasn’t at all tired. I wished I could call Aunt Grace and tell her I was there, at the Foundation, on a scholarship, with eight weeks to work without pressure, living in a home built by none other than Louis Comfort Tiffany. Just thinking his name, I shivered, remembering myself at fourteen, the very first time I ran away into the cemetery and found the Fond du Lac Mausoleum door open seemingly just for me.
Though I couldn’t call Aunt Grace, I had promised Ben I’d write as soon as I got to Laurelton Hall and tell him about it. Sitting at the desk, using all of Mr. Tiffany’s beautiful brass and glass writing accoutrements, I penned a letter to him. For the next fifteen minutes, I wrote and drew little sketches, telling him about our trip and the other fellows but mostly about the artistry of the estate. Finished, I blotted the letter, folded it, and addressed the envelope.
Putting my thoughts down helped me relax, and even though an hour before I hadn’t believed I’d ever fall asleep, I dropped off right away.
· · ·
The next morning, I woke up with the sun, thinking, as I did most days as my eyes burst open, of the place where I’d been sent after the trial. Because I was a minor, I’d been sentenced to two years at Toronto’s notorious Andrew Mercer Reformatory for Women. The judge had told my mother that I’d be well taken care of there, assuring her it was a homelike place for wayward young girls.
It was anything but.
The other inmates were all also younger than eighteen. A mix of unwed mothers and unmanageables, as the matron called us, girls like me who had either committed crimes or been falsely accused of them. We were worked too hard, fed too little, and abused both verbally and physically without remorse.
Some of the girls, especially the pregnant ones, were exposed to medical experiments, and many of the babies delivered during my internment were born sickly or dead.
Because I had been sent there for manslaughter, the wardens and other girls treated me as if I were a murderer. And of a Christian minister, no less. No one befriended me. I was a leper. And I was always given the worst job, cleaning the latrines for weeks on end in the summer and shoveling snow in the winter.
I was the outsider, and, as I learned, they all took glee in watching whoever was new suffer through the initiation into the hell I had all but volunteered for.
Pain finally woke me one morning, radiating up my back in excruciating spasms. The matron, Mrs. Clarkson, a thin woman with steel-wool-colored hair and a voice the color of mud, stood over me, holding the switch she’d just used on me.
“Get up unless you want another lashing,” she spat out. “This isn’t a hotel, dearie. Of all wretched women, the idle are the most wretched. Which is why, while you are here, we will impress the importance of labor upon you. Only hard work will reform you, dearie.”
And just for good measure, she whipped me once more and then sent me to class.
We studied in the morning—history, geography, literature, stenography, and home economics—and worked in the afternoon either sewing, cooking, woodworking, or cleaning. Each day felt as if it lasted a week. My only relief from the boredom came at four in the afternoon, when we were given an hour and a half for physical activity. The school didn’t care what we did, as long as we were moving. Regardless of the weather, I spent those precious ninety minutes drawing in the woods on the school grounds. I had no brushes or paints, no colored crayons or sketch pads. My only tools were the ordinary yellow pencils and white lined paper I used for class assignments. But it didn’t matter. I still could lose myself in the quest to understand light through the way it cast objects in highlights and lowlights and shadows.
For the first two and a half months, Mother wrote often, with words of love and gratitude, of the child growing in her womb and of the time we would be together again.
When we’d said good-bye after the trial, Mother said she would be going to live with Aunt Grace in Ithaca for the duration of her pregnancy, but her letters never had Ithaca postmarks. Instead, they came from several different cities: Burlington, Amherst, Boston, then finally the Bronx.
Almost a year after she passed away, Aunt Grace forwarded me a letter she had received. She wrote that she hadn’t been sure if she should show it to me, but she thought it was important for me to know what had happened to my mother.
Dear Grace,
One of your sister’s last requests was that I write to you and tell you what happened. She knew you would want to know. And that hopefully understanding, you would forgive her for not coming back to you.
I met your sister when she was still married to her husband, the Reverend. I was younger than she was, an art student. At first, she was just helping me hone my craft. But then we fell in love.
She told me I was a tender relief from the abuse inflicted by the Reverend. Those were her words. A tender relief.
We never knew if her baby was mine or his. Either way, the child was part of her, and I wanted to save her—to help get her out of Hamilton and away from him for good. The original plan had been for Faith and Jenny to run away and go to Ithaca. I’d go to New York and find us a place. Then Faith would join me and Jenny would stay with you.
That was the plan, except, of course, the Reverend ruined it like everything else. Or so it seemed. Until Faith and I got a second chance when Jenny was sent to the reformatory and Faith and I left Hamilton together. We made our way to New York, stopping in different cities, claiming we were newlyweds heading back home after visiting family. We had to be careful to cover up Faith’s identity, as the press would have been all over her so soon after the trial. She was paranoid, forever thinking we would get caught by someone, a reporter or a detective. I wanted to get married for real. I loved her and would have done anything for her, even work at a factory, in order to support her and the child. But she saw the artist in me and wanted me to be able to create, wanted us to get to New York as we’d planned and settle into the Village, blend in with the other artists and actors and bohemians who wouldn’t blink an eye at an older, pregnant woman and a younger man.
But we never made it to Manhattan. We were staying at a rooming house in the Bronx when Faith went into premature labor. She was bleeding and in terrible pain. We both knew she needed a doctor, but she insisted that I drop her off at the hospital and then leave. She promised she’d send for me at the rooming house once the baby was born. She didn’t want to risk anyone knowing that Faith Haddon—“the wife of the Reverend William Haddon, who had been murdered by her daughter Jenny Fairburn”—had arrived at the hospital with another man.
I never saw Faith again. Never held the baby who might have been my son. All I had left was the memory of her and her wish to see me become a successful artist. It became my obsession to fulfill that wish, no matter what it took. But what happened to me isn’t of any interest to you. I’m writing because Faith asked me to. To tell you that she was happy those last weeks. Filled with hope. And so was I.
Signed,
A Friend
During my incarceration, Aunt Grace wrote at least twice a week. I received her long letters, rife with stories, news, and her wonderful kernels of wisdom. Many days, I believed the only thing keeping me sane were my aunt’s letters. Except for the day I received that letter. I’d had no idea my mother had a lover. What else didn’t I know? What else wouldn’t I ever know?
· · ·
Mr. Lothrop had told us breakfast began at eight, so I dressed in brown slacks and a white blouse, threw an amber cardigan around my shoulders, grabbed my sketch pad and pencils, and ventured outdoors.
All the paths looked inviting. I chose one and within minutes found myself walking through a wooded glen. I followed a stream until it emptied into a pond surrounded by lilies and irises, boxwood bushes, and weeping willows. Tall cedar trees in the background scented the air. The whole scene was a painting waiting to be committed to canvas. But it wasn’t the colors that made me stop but rather the light filtered through the trees.
“See those stones, there and there?” He pointed out sections of a dilapidated wall that formed a corner, then broke, then continued on. “Those were once the walls.”
We walked inside the partial perimeter. Off to one side was a large pile of shells, bleached by the sun.
“It’s called a shell dump heap. Indians used shells to make beads, and we found hundreds of them in there. We also found arrowheads, bone fishhooks, and clay pipes.” He reached down, grabbed a handful of shells, and put them in my hand. “If you look, you can probably still find some beads.”
He scooped up another handful for himself, and we both searched through the broken pieces.
“It was our favorite place to play until Grandfather put an end to our excursions.”
“What happened?”
“He heard about our discovery from one of my aunts, who found a stone knife in my cousin’s pocket. Fascinated by what the site might turn up, Grandfather invited an archaeologist to investigate. There are quite a few forts like this up and down Long Island. Ours was probably built in the 1640s and used as a refuge in a time of attack and as a trading post in peacetime. Once my grandfather heard its history, he forbade us to come back here, lest we ruin it.”
Oliver threw down his handful of shells and scooped up a new one. “He planned on funding an archaeological dig here. But we were kids, and rules were made to be broken. Once we learned this was an Indian fort and that Grandfather didn’t want us here, we couldn’t stay away. As you’ll see, my grandfather has quite a collection of Native American art at Laurelton Hall. We took to borrowing headdresses, drums, baskets, and rugs, bringing them out here in the dead of night and conducting made-up rituals and ceremonies. Eventually, we got caught and severely punished.”
For some reason, I felt a jolt of fear upon hearing this.
Oliver plucked something out of the mess of shells in his hand. “Here you go.” He handed it to me.
The round, irregular bead had a crude hole through its middle. In the afternoon sun, it shimmered almost like a pearl but with a blue-violet tint.
“This is abalone, isn’t it? I noticed some in the house.”
“Yes, Grandfather uses it in some of his brass frames, inkwells, desk blotters. Even in some jewelry. I’ve always believed the nacre was more beautiful than pearl because there are so many colors reflected on its surface.”
He held it up to the sun. “I’ll put a cord through it, and you can wear it as a necklace. A memento of your first day at Laurelton Hall,” he said, with another devilish grin and raised right eyebrow.
He pocketed the bead and then took my hand. “Let’s go. The sun is starting to set, and it’s going to get chilly soon.”
I wanted to tell him it didn’t matter, that his touch was warming me. But of course, I didn’t. As the sky took on a lavender and pinkish tint, similar to the abalone, I glanced at Oliver. The setting sun reflected off his skin, made him look as if he were sculpted from the shell. But the feel of his fingers clutching mine, in an urgent way, as if he had to hold on, was so welcoming and familiar. I closed my eyes and tried to memorize the moment. In all its wonder and color.
12
Minx knocked on my door at six and asked if I wanted to go downstairs for a drink before we went to dinner. I said I did but needed to change. She sat on my bed while I opened the closet.
“What did you do this afternoon?” I asked, as I pulled out a dress and a sweater.
“I worked in the studio, and then Edward and I explored the estate.”
“Are you falling in love with him for real?”
She shrugged. “Too soon to tell.” She leaned forward. Even though no one was around, she spoke in hushed tones. “I didn’t tell you this before, but when Edward isn’t painting, he drives a truck for a bootlegger. He brings the stuff down from Canada.” She was almost breathless. “It’s all very hush-hush, but I’m not going to pretend it’s not scary, too. It is. Jenny, he carries a gun.”
“But you can’t be with someone who—”
“Before you start sounding like my mother again, he’s going to stop as soon as he gets enough paintings together for a show. That’s why this session at Laurelton is so important for him. If he wins the prize, with all the attention that goes with it, he’ll be able set himself up in the city with a studio and a gallery, and everything will change. He’s so passionate about his art.” Her eyes lit up. “About everything.” She bit down on her bottom lip.
“But your mother is right to be worried. She cares about you. After everything that’s happened, she just wants—”
“After everything?” Minx asked. “What’s ‘everything’?”
I’d said something I shouldn’t have. I’d alluded to the past she’d never told me about but that her mother had discussed with me. Before I could try to smooth over my faux pas, she persisted.
“After what, Jenny? Wait, wait . . . my mother told you, didn’t she?”
“Only because she doesn’t want anything to ever happen to you. She doesn’t want you to fall in with the wrong crowd and be tempted again.”
Minx walked away from me and went to the window. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“I wanted to but . . . no, I didn’t. I’m sorry, Minx.”
She spun around. “It was almost two years ago, and it’s not something that will happen again. You certainly don’t have to worry about it or watch out for me. I don’t need a keeper.”
The invitation for drinks abandoned, Minx stomped away to her room. For the next hour, I worried that she was too angry to forgive me. But at six forty-five, she was back, asking if I was ready to walk down for dinner.
· · ·
By the time we arrived at the Foundation’s dining room, most of the fellows had already assembled. We’d all been thrown together for two months, and this was our inaugural meal. Fourteen artists ranging in age from twenty-two to thirty. Twelve men, two women. Nine painters. Two sculptors. Minx, who was both. One photographer and one potter. I’d wondered if Oliver would be there, since he was at Laurelton to learn the business of running the Foundation. But he was family and probably ate in the mansion with his grandfather and whoever else was in residence.
Dinner was a semiformal affair. We all sat at a long table in a rectangular room with floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed for a merging of the indoors with the outdoors. While we ate, we were treated to a view of woodlands and lawn, flowers and sky. As evening settled into darkness, the view disappeared, but tiny colored lights strung through the trees enchanted us with a different kind of magic.
Two male servants waited on us, one of whom offered us wine as soon as we sat down. Minx had told me that Tiffany was no teetotaler, but I hadn’t expected us to be treated so much like guests. Everywhere I looked, even there in the Foundation’s quarters, Tiffany’s artistry, sense of design, and love of beautiful things was on display. Not surprisingly, the tableware was of the finest white china decorated with a cobalt-blue and gold edge and swags of green leaves. The green and blue motif continued with pastel wineglasses and water glasses—the bowls blue, the bases green. And the leaf motif continued as the decoration in the silverware.
Our three-course meal began with stuffed mushrooms, followed by a roast duck with boiled potatoes, carrots, and peas, and ending with Nesselrode pudding and butter cookies.
The conversations were tentative at first, as was often the case between strangers. But Minx wasted little time in livening things up by suggesting we all play a game to get to know one another better.
“We’ll go around the table,” she said. “First, say the one thing that scares you the most in the world.”
Had I not been her friend and seen her do this kind of thing before, I might have felt uncomfortable about being forced to open up. But I knew she would go easy on me, at least.
After some consideration, Henry Goodson said quicksand. Paul Cadmus said poverty. Blindness and fire were other answers. I said injustice. In an instant, Edward Wren said failure.
Next, Minx asked what each of us was most proud of. Prizes and scholarships were the most common answers. Minx said hers was being Mrs. Whitney’s assistant. Alan Higgins said surviving the war. I said getting to New York City on my own. Edward said his ability to survive and succeed.
She continued peppering the meal with questions. Over the years, I’d learned how to sidestep awkward topics and believed I was doing a good job, until Edward pushed me on two questions I hadn’t answered at all.
“Jenny, what about you? What is your worst childhood memory?”
I took a sip of wine. “Our cat’s death,” I responded. I hadn’t thought about the parsonage’s cat for more than eight years, but this somehow seemed like the kind of meaningful yet still innocuous response that would avoid any large discussion about my past.
And then, later, when I hadn’t answered Minx’s question about our fathers’ occupations, Edward asked, “What did your father do? I missed it.”
I said he’d been an architect. I was relieved that dinner was soon over.
As Minx and I walked back up to the main house, we talked about each of the artists and our impressions of them. I was glad that we didn’t talk any further about Edward. I was willing to put up with him for Minx’s sake but was beginning to find him abrasive.
Later, alone in my bedroom, I sat in the window seat. Below me, the Laurelton Hall grounds glowed and twinkled with all the tiny lights strung in the trees, along the paths, across the terraces, illuminating the fountains and fanciful sculptures. Night-blooming flowers scented the air. I looked out past the estate to the Long Island Sound. The half-moon cast shimmers of light on the rippling water.
The day had been overwhelming on every level, and I wasn’t at all tired. I wished I could call Aunt Grace and tell her I was there, at the Foundation, on a scholarship, with eight weeks to work without pressure, living in a home built by none other than Louis Comfort Tiffany. Just thinking his name, I shivered, remembering myself at fourteen, the very first time I ran away into the cemetery and found the Fond du Lac Mausoleum door open seemingly just for me.
Though I couldn’t call Aunt Grace, I had promised Ben I’d write as soon as I got to Laurelton Hall and tell him about it. Sitting at the desk, using all of Mr. Tiffany’s beautiful brass and glass writing accoutrements, I penned a letter to him. For the next fifteen minutes, I wrote and drew little sketches, telling him about our trip and the other fellows but mostly about the artistry of the estate. Finished, I blotted the letter, folded it, and addressed the envelope.
Putting my thoughts down helped me relax, and even though an hour before I hadn’t believed I’d ever fall asleep, I dropped off right away.
· · ·
The next morning, I woke up with the sun, thinking, as I did most days as my eyes burst open, of the place where I’d been sent after the trial. Because I was a minor, I’d been sentenced to two years at Toronto’s notorious Andrew Mercer Reformatory for Women. The judge had told my mother that I’d be well taken care of there, assuring her it was a homelike place for wayward young girls.
It was anything but.
The other inmates were all also younger than eighteen. A mix of unwed mothers and unmanageables, as the matron called us, girls like me who had either committed crimes or been falsely accused of them. We were worked too hard, fed too little, and abused both verbally and physically without remorse.
Some of the girls, especially the pregnant ones, were exposed to medical experiments, and many of the babies delivered during my internment were born sickly or dead.
Because I had been sent there for manslaughter, the wardens and other girls treated me as if I were a murderer. And of a Christian minister, no less. No one befriended me. I was a leper. And I was always given the worst job, cleaning the latrines for weeks on end in the summer and shoveling snow in the winter.
I was the outsider, and, as I learned, they all took glee in watching whoever was new suffer through the initiation into the hell I had all but volunteered for.
Pain finally woke me one morning, radiating up my back in excruciating spasms. The matron, Mrs. Clarkson, a thin woman with steel-wool-colored hair and a voice the color of mud, stood over me, holding the switch she’d just used on me.
“Get up unless you want another lashing,” she spat out. “This isn’t a hotel, dearie. Of all wretched women, the idle are the most wretched. Which is why, while you are here, we will impress the importance of labor upon you. Only hard work will reform you, dearie.”
And just for good measure, she whipped me once more and then sent me to class.
We studied in the morning—history, geography, literature, stenography, and home economics—and worked in the afternoon either sewing, cooking, woodworking, or cleaning. Each day felt as if it lasted a week. My only relief from the boredom came at four in the afternoon, when we were given an hour and a half for physical activity. The school didn’t care what we did, as long as we were moving. Regardless of the weather, I spent those precious ninety minutes drawing in the woods on the school grounds. I had no brushes or paints, no colored crayons or sketch pads. My only tools were the ordinary yellow pencils and white lined paper I used for class assignments. But it didn’t matter. I still could lose myself in the quest to understand light through the way it cast objects in highlights and lowlights and shadows.
For the first two and a half months, Mother wrote often, with words of love and gratitude, of the child growing in her womb and of the time we would be together again.
When we’d said good-bye after the trial, Mother said she would be going to live with Aunt Grace in Ithaca for the duration of her pregnancy, but her letters never had Ithaca postmarks. Instead, they came from several different cities: Burlington, Amherst, Boston, then finally the Bronx.
Almost a year after she passed away, Aunt Grace forwarded me a letter she had received. She wrote that she hadn’t been sure if she should show it to me, but she thought it was important for me to know what had happened to my mother.
Dear Grace,
One of your sister’s last requests was that I write to you and tell you what happened. She knew you would want to know. And that hopefully understanding, you would forgive her for not coming back to you.
I met your sister when she was still married to her husband, the Reverend. I was younger than she was, an art student. At first, she was just helping me hone my craft. But then we fell in love.
She told me I was a tender relief from the abuse inflicted by the Reverend. Those were her words. A tender relief.
We never knew if her baby was mine or his. Either way, the child was part of her, and I wanted to save her—to help get her out of Hamilton and away from him for good. The original plan had been for Faith and Jenny to run away and go to Ithaca. I’d go to New York and find us a place. Then Faith would join me and Jenny would stay with you.
That was the plan, except, of course, the Reverend ruined it like everything else. Or so it seemed. Until Faith and I got a second chance when Jenny was sent to the reformatory and Faith and I left Hamilton together. We made our way to New York, stopping in different cities, claiming we were newlyweds heading back home after visiting family. We had to be careful to cover up Faith’s identity, as the press would have been all over her so soon after the trial. She was paranoid, forever thinking we would get caught by someone, a reporter or a detective. I wanted to get married for real. I loved her and would have done anything for her, even work at a factory, in order to support her and the child. But she saw the artist in me and wanted me to be able to create, wanted us to get to New York as we’d planned and settle into the Village, blend in with the other artists and actors and bohemians who wouldn’t blink an eye at an older, pregnant woman and a younger man.
But we never made it to Manhattan. We were staying at a rooming house in the Bronx when Faith went into premature labor. She was bleeding and in terrible pain. We both knew she needed a doctor, but she insisted that I drop her off at the hospital and then leave. She promised she’d send for me at the rooming house once the baby was born. She didn’t want to risk anyone knowing that Faith Haddon—“the wife of the Reverend William Haddon, who had been murdered by her daughter Jenny Fairburn”—had arrived at the hospital with another man.
I never saw Faith again. Never held the baby who might have been my son. All I had left was the memory of her and her wish to see me become a successful artist. It became my obsession to fulfill that wish, no matter what it took. But what happened to me isn’t of any interest to you. I’m writing because Faith asked me to. To tell you that she was happy those last weeks. Filled with hope. And so was I.
Signed,
A Friend
During my incarceration, Aunt Grace wrote at least twice a week. I received her long letters, rife with stories, news, and her wonderful kernels of wisdom. Many days, I believed the only thing keeping me sane were my aunt’s letters. Except for the day I received that letter. I’d had no idea my mother had a lover. What else didn’t I know? What else wouldn’t I ever know?
· · ·
Mr. Lothrop had told us breakfast began at eight, so I dressed in brown slacks and a white blouse, threw an amber cardigan around my shoulders, grabbed my sketch pad and pencils, and ventured outdoors.
All the paths looked inviting. I chose one and within minutes found myself walking through a wooded glen. I followed a stream until it emptied into a pond surrounded by lilies and irises, boxwood bushes, and weeping willows. Tall cedar trees in the background scented the air. The whole scene was a painting waiting to be committed to canvas. But it wasn’t the colors that made me stop but rather the light filtered through the trees.
