him. Well, your work is done now. I’m his father.”
“Did your father toughen you up by making you feel worthless and, and—less? Was he that cruel, as cruel as you are? Tell me. I want to know, because you never tell me anything. You go off and leave me here to raise your children, and you tell me nothing about your life. I don’t know anything about your childhood. I don’t know what you did yesterday. I don’t know what you’re going to do tomorrow. I’m your wife—talk to me! We used to, don’t you remember? Don’t you remember talking over things, when you’d come home from working in the city with Carrel? Don’t you remember our conversations on our flights, how much we shared? What happened to that? I miss it, I miss it so much that—”
“You’re hysterical, Anne.” Still he remained unperturbed, giving outward evidence, once more, of his superiority; he actually picked up a magazine, settled into a chair, and began to read. As if I were simply an annoying fly, buzzing around his head.
I yanked the magazine out of his hands.
“No, I’m finally pushing back,” I hissed. “You told me to go find my voice—well, I did. I’m using it now, or can you not hear me, up on that pedestal of yours?”
He didn’t respond; we glared at each other for what seemed like the entire length of our marriage, right there—spreading, like a noxious stain, between us, pushing us farther and farther apart. Once, we’d shared the same tiny cockpit for days on end, and he didn’t mind. He’d made room for me, even though it meant he had to sit cramped, his long legs twisted and bent. He never once complained.
Now it seemed as if he had to keep entire continents between us. And I had no idea what had changed; I only knew I was the only one of us who seemed to care.
Charles finally rose from his chair, still deliberate, untouchable, and went outside to the garage, where I knew he would remain all night. Lately, when he was home, that’s where he spent most of his time, working on some engine or another—something orderly, mechanical, full of gadgets and gears and springs and not emotions; something he could understand.
I crumpled the magazine and threw it away, although I didn’t follow him. I nursed my hurt and honed it, just as I had as a child when my father called me “the disciplined one.” I carried my grievance about until I couldn’t even feel its weight; it felt as much a part of me as the old dirndl skirt I wore when I tramped about outside. I forgot what it was like to be near my husband and not seethe or grind my teeth, even as I couldn’t help but weep each time he left, wishing he’d ask me, just once, to come with him.
But I suffered the most for my children, especially Scott. He withdrew even from me; during family celebrations he was there, but he wasn’t, sitting, watching; brooding so, you could almost see the tension radiating from him in cartoonish waves.
When he left for school, I knew it would be a very long time before I saw him again. And I knew it was my fault, as well as Charles’s. Had I known more about my husband’s childhood—still cloaked in mystery, he never would tell me more than he had early in our marriage—would I have been able to protect my own children from his demons? Had I found my voice earlier, would I have been able to ask the right questions, speak up for them, too?
It was too late now. We were all shattered into pieces, pierced by that unflinching steel gaze that judged us all and found us lacking. I could only hope my children would one day be able to reassemble themselves, as I had only begun to do, into the people they wanted to be. And not the people
The girls were easier, although I despaired to see my own compliant nature so obvious in my daughters, especially Ansy.
She had wanted to go to Paris, to the Sorbonne, but Charles wouldn’t hear of it. So she made do at Radcliffe, pointedly, but sweetly, not choosing Smith. She struggled so much to separate herself from me, but it was never a violent wrenching. It was gentler, more persistent; like the endless slapping of waves against a rock, wearing it down over time.
Reeve, the easiest (and most spoiled, we all knew it, were all responsible for it, even Charles), followed her sister to Radcliffe. But even before she left for school, she was never home; the most social of my children, she was always vacationing with friends, sleeping over, going to parties.
And I was alone. For the first time since before I married Charles. I’d thought marriage would mean I’d never be lonely. Now I knew: Marriage breeds its own special brand of loneliness, and it’s far more cruel. You miss more, because you’ve known more.
The calendar—once so full of dates and appointments and concerts and practices—was increasingly just row after row of empty white squares. One morning I picked up a pencil to write something in—a trip to the grocery store, maybe, so it didn’t look so dauntingly vacant, but then dropped it. Charles was away, as usual, and I had no idea when he would be back. The older boys were gone by then, Scott was at camp, Anne was spending the summer with her aunt Con, Reeve was vacationing with a friend. Determined not to feel sorry for myself, I decided to go for a walk. I left the tidy, orderly house—strange, how every sink and appliance decided to behave beautifully now that I had little use for them—and marched toward my cabin, far down the hill, in that little dip of land.
But I paused in the middle of the yard and looked around. It was June, and I wore a blouse, dungarees, loafers. The saltwater spray from the ocean far below occasionally flew up and got caught by the wind, misting me gently. The leaves were full, canopies of green splintered with golden rays of sun. A couple of rusty bicycles leaned against a shed, my garden beckoned, a hammock, strewn with paperback novels, half-eaten apples, waved gently between two trees.
This had been—still was—a good home in which to raise children, I decided, and allowed myself the warmth of satisfaction. I had raised these children, these two adults, three adolescents who never failed to astonish me with their opinions, their fully formed personalities, their rebellions large and small. There had been a time when I thought I could never love a child again; there had been a time when I couldn’t imagine how to raise one past the age of twenty months. Always, I had an image of a child, and a birthday cake with one candle, and then—someone whisking it away, out of my arms, and having to start all over again.
But I had done it. I had seen them through teething and toddling and adolescence; heartache, tears, stupid jokes and silly laughter. Here, in this strip of land where Charles had hidden us away, only occasionally remembering to come and find us, I had raised a family. Me. By myself.
I knew, finally, that Charles would never really come back to me here. Especially now that the din and racket of children were dwindling, not explosive enough to find its way up to the stratosphere, where he, and only he, resided. He was back to where he had started; the Lone Eagle, jettisoning anything that might weigh him down. Even me.
So I began to build a life for myself. It wasn’t easy. I felt guilty—I, who had written a book that urged women to do just this! I, who had sounded so strong on the page; at times I couldn’t recognize my own words, because I was still so often afraid in my life. Afraid to anger my husband. Afraid to disappoint him.
Afraid to recognize that he had disappointed me.
My guilt at my success, my need to be his “good girl,” combined with my anger at no longer being invited to share his world, no longer being quite so necessary to my children; for a time I found solace in psychoanalysis with the doctor who was treating Dwight.
Charles punished me by moving his belongings out of our bedroom before flying off again, leaving me behind.
But the analysis helped; gradually I was able to release my anger, my grievances, setting them free in the wind that blew up from the sea outside my door. I also released any notions of us settling down in our golden years, or flying together once more, just the two of us.
The next time he remembered to come home, he sat across from me at the dinner table, empty chairs on either side. When he asked me what was for dessert, I told him instead that I wanted to sell the place.
“It’s too big for me, alone.”
“You’re not alone.” He actually looked surprised.
“Charles!” I had to laugh. Where did he think the children were? Hiding somewhere in the attic? “Of course I’m alone, more and more. Oh, yes, technically we have three teenagers still at home, but they’re never here. The older boys are gone for good now.”
“They’ll be home for holidays.”
“Yes, for a little while, but do I stay here, shut away from everything, until then? Just waiting for them—and