Fallen Beauty (25 page)

“I cannot bury my self,” she said. “Or rather, I won’t. I must give it voice. Otherwise it will eat me alive. This worm inside is a parasite.”

Grace shrieked with delight, and we all stared out the window.

“All of you Kelley girls have that same fair beauty,” said Millay. “I would love you less if your eyes weren’t so blue, but blue’s my favorite color.”

“My mother was fair,” I said. “Both she and my father had light eyes, but we get our hair and skin from her side of the family.”

“Are your parents living?” asked Millay.

“No,” I said. “My father fell from the falls before Grace was born, and died from his injuries. My mother died in the influenza epidemic of 1918.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Those years claimed so many. How old were you when your mother died?”

“Ten.”

“What happened to the shop when she died? It was a family place, yes? You and your sister must have been too young to sew.”

“I was actually quite adept at that age, but you’re right. We couldn’t have taken over a shop. My father did. He was trained at the Chatham Shirt Factory, which closed in ’twenty-two, and was able to keep the business going until Marie and I had completed home economics in high school.”

“Do you remember your mother?”

“Not really,” I said. “I remember emotions connected to her or small moments with her. She instructed me to stand up straighter. Try harder. I remember her temper—quick, harsh words. But I also recall careful instruction in sewing. Teaching me how to pair colors and fabrics. Her hands around mine, showing them how to work the material.”

“That is a beautiful series of memories,” said Millay. “Like a poem.”

“I feel her quick temper inside myself,” I said. “Grace has it too.”

Grace walked in at that moment with rosy cheeks and wet clothes. I sent her back to the foyer, where I removed her boots and snowsuit, and carried her into the room to sit on my lap by the fire.

“I couldn’t have gotten along in the world without my mother,” said Millay. “I still couldn’t. She is divine perfection, a loving angel watching over me. Of course she’s trouble, but of the best kind. My father, however, was lost to us when my mother divorced him.”

“That must have been quite a scandal.”

“Indeed,” said Millay. “But he and my mother were like weather fronts, and he had a capacity for cruelty. And for gambling. It was for the best.”

“Your mother raised you and your sisters alone?” I asked, privately weighing how Millay had turned out against my own child. Would Grace always live on the fringe, without regard for societal rules? I did not want that for her. I didn’t want her to be forever fighting the tide of public opinion. If she did, she might end up on a mountain, half-mad, overindulged, and out of touch. Was there a way to live freely without being wild, to live a balanced and satisfied life? To have good fortune in love, parenthood, and work?

I didn’t think so.

“Yes,” Millay said. “We lived on our own, in harmony with one another. Mother supported us, and we made do.”

“Now you support all of them,” said Eugen. “Good, good Vincie. Mother to her mother; mother to her sisters; but no one’s mother.”

“Mother to my poetry,” she said. “It’s a selfish thing, the need, the longing of the words to find homes on paper. The writing is like a hungry child, demanding more and more, never satisfied, keeping no regular hours, depleting me while making me love it, guard it, swat the outside world away. I am forever pregnant with words.”

I thought her comparing poetry to children was dramatic, but I could see that she believed every word she spoke.

“You remind me of my mother,” she said. “You are the harp weaver.”

I was moved, and rested my chin on Grace’s shoulder, pulling her closer into me.

“Vincie won the Pulitzer for that collection,” said Eugen. “You must read it.”

“I know,” I said. “I have.”

I thought of Millay with a growing awe, and some jealousy. Whether she was a witch or not, her words meant a lot to many people, including me. I felt pride at the thought of creating for this woman child. A woman who needed a well of experience from which to draw her words.

And a husband willing to allow it.

•   •   •

W
hen dinner ended, I walked to the front door and opened it with a feeling of dread. The great drifts and banks still growing from the persistent snowfall confirmed my fears. We should have left hours ago.

Millay walked up behind me. “You aren’t going home tonight.”

It was not a question, and I had to agree with her. Knowing we’d have to stay brought a strange and sudden peace to me. The inevitable confrontation with Marie was coming. I’d known it for a long time. I would have to face it.
This
would be the catalyst for
next
.

I wrapped Grace snugly in blankets and lay with her until she slept on the reading chair in Millay’s library. The
SILENCE
sign hung above her. Dolly looked out from Grace’s embrace. When I got downstairs, Eugen had just kissed Millay.

“This old man is tired,” he said. “I’ll leave you two to each other.”

“Good night,” I said.

Millay sat by the fire, the pattern of orange light and black shadow on her, reminding me of a tiger. I wasn’t scared of her, though, as I had been. I was no longer her prey.

Eugen proceeded up the stairs. I waited until I heard him close the door to his rooms, and joined Millay by the hearth. She’d poured a glass of wine for each of us, and left the bottle uncorked. I sat in the chair next to her and stared into the flames.

“I’m glad you decided to stay,” she said.

“It would have been madness to try to leave in this storm. And secretly, something inside me must have wished for exile, even if it’s only temporary.”

“It’s a hard place to live,” she said.

“I’m tired of being watched in town,” I said. “It’s better here, on the mountain, away from their eyes.”

The wood popped in a violent manner, sending sparks up the flue.

“Their eyes never leave,” said the poet. “Their eyes are your eyes, your conscience reflected back at you. They never leave, but down there you can blame them. You can live with it. Up here you can blame only yourself. You cannot escape yourself.”

I turned my eyes to our shadow forms on the wall, and noted that they overlapped. I could not make out one of us from the other. When I looked at her, her face became alive and active in the changing light. The set of her forehead gave her the appearance of vulnerability. It was a new look on her, and one that unsettled me.

“Tell me a secret,” she said suddenly. “Tell me about the time that the little Grace seed was planted. Tell me of when your passions ran unchecked, when you may have even embraced them.”

“Isn’t it best to let sleeping beasts lie?”

“No,” she said in a whisper. “Never.”

With the snowdrifts piled against the house, amplifying the quiet, it felt as silent as an empty church. It felt safe.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“We have all night.”

I drank from the wineglass until my shoulders tingled and warmth rose from within. “It began on the night of my nineteenth birthday,” I said, staring at our blended shadows. “It began with a car accident.”

May 1927

Our heads crowded together to read the headline in
The
New York Times
.

Lindbergh Does It! To Paris in 33½ Hours!

Father Ash stood in the doorway of the drugstore and soda fountain and whistled through his teeth, which sent Marie and me into a fit of laughter. We were high on ice-cream floats and the knowledge that in just three hours we’d be heading to Pittsfield for a dance on my nineteenth birthday. Our father had given his reluctant approval for the Winslow brothers, two town boys near our ages, to motor us to the dance and then straight home when it was over. We knew that we were old enough to make our own plans, but we indulged our father to make him feel that he still had control. And though neither of us was interested in the Winslow brothers, they had a car, so we played along to get to the dance.

“Do you think we’ll ever be able to fly to another state for a dance?” I asked. “Like Lindbergh?”

“I don’t care much about flying,” said Marie. “But I’d go along for the ride if Lindbergh was the pilot.”

All afternoon, as we did each other’s hair and makeup, and ironed the gorgeous dresses we’d sewn—pastel blue for me, lilac for Marie—we talked of our own dreams. We imagined bridal boutiques or fancy dress stores on Fifth Avenue, upscale establishments where we wouldn’t have to sew a button on a farmer’s winter wool coat, or a frumpy mourning frock for a widow.

When Billy and Tom had arrived, we promised our father we’d be careful and come straight home from the dance, but we never made it there.

Billy drove, his slender knuckles white from his tight grip on the steering wheel. When Tom’s joking got too loud, he shushed him and lectured him on the importance of paying attention to the road. Marie and I rolled our eyes, certain that there could be no danger at the slow speed Billy was going. But when a deer jumped out of the brush and darted in front of the car, Billy flinched and turned the wheel too sharply. The car crossed the yellow line, clipped a massive oak, and shot down a ravine, where a thicket of holly trees caught us.

Marie and I whimpered in the backseat. Tom held his head in his hands where he’d struck the windshield, and a thin trickle of blood slid down his face. Billy cried like a child. I didn’t know if he was injured or devastated about the crash, but the way he sobbed scared me. I leaned against the door to get to Billy and see what ailed him, but searing pain ripped through my shoulder so hard, I couldn’t breathe. I noticed my arm hung at a strange angle, and a bone on the top of my chest appeared to be trying to poke through my skin.

Nausea welled up in me. I leaned back on the seat and closed my eyes, trying to find a position that didn’t feel as if someone was jabbing a knife into my shoulder, but there was no relief.

“Is it broken?” asked Marie, in a panic. She slid open the collar of my dress and covered her mouth, slowly arranging the material back in place.

Billy had stopped crying, and our sorry quartet began trying to figure out who could seek help, while we lost more and more evening light by the minute. I didn’t want to be stuck at the bottom of a ravine without anyone able to see us. My poor father would think we’d run away or died.

“Marie, you have to go. I can’t move,” I said.

“I’m afraid,” she said.

“Please,” said Tom. “My head’s going to split open.”

“Billy,” said Marie, “come with me.”

“I’m stuck,” he said in a hoarse voice. “My door won’t open and the steering wheel is so close, I’m lucky to be breathing right now.”

Marie shut her eyes and laid her head back, then leaned up and looked out the window. “It’s almost dark. And we’re miles from town.”

Suddenly we saw a flash of lights.

“Go!” I said.

Marie threw open the door before she could change her mind, and began to climb up the ravine. For a moment, I heard nothing, but then a male voice. Another woman. Shouts.

Dr. Daniel Dempsey was at my window, peering through at me. I gave him a halfhearted smile, in spite of the pain, and he began pulling on the door. It was dented in toward me and jammed tight, but with a hard tug, he was able to open it.

“I don’t want to move you,” he said. “Tell me where it hurts.”

“Here,” I said. My skin grew clammy, and to my embarrassment I leaned over and vomited all over the back of Billy’s car. He groaned in the front seat. I was sure it was more because of the mess than his pain.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s all right,” said Dr. Dempsey. He pressed his handkerchief to my lips and slid his hand along my neck. “It’s your collarbone. Broken. You may have other injuries as well. The way you’re flinching has me concerned about your internal organs.”

“There are others here, Daniel,” said a sharp voice from behind him. I glanced over Daniel’s shoulder and saw Darcy, his girlfriend. She’d snatched the young doctor up as soon as he’d started working at the hospital. Marie and I had often thought of sending him anonymous letters of warning, having grown up with Darcy and knowing her nature, but we decided to let him find out for himself, confident that it wouldn’t take long.

“Of course,” he said.

Marie worked to open Billy’s door while Daniel moved around to the passenger side and checked on Tom, who had begun to shiver. After using a penlight to check his eyes, Daniel said that we needed to get him to the hospital immediately.

“There goes our night,” Darcy mumbled under her breath.

She wore a pink silk dress with layers of fringe from the waist to the hem, and matching pink high-heeled shoes. They must have also been heading for the dance.

“I don’t want to move them,” said Daniel, “but it will take too long to fetch an ambulance. Darcy, help me get them to my car.”

Darcy looked down at her dress and shoes and then at me, half covered in vomit and blood, and didn’t move. Billy crawled out of the driver’s side, and helped Daniel. They looped Tom’s arms around their necks and started up the ravine. Marie came to my side of the car.

“Forget it, Darcy,” she said. “I’ll help her. We wouldn’t want you to get dirty.”

I winked at Marie as she leaned into me.

“This is going to hurt,” she said.

I nodded and took a deep breath.

“I want you to slide to my side of the car so I can get you out on your good side,” she said. “I’ll meet you there.”

Each movement brought a new blast of pain, and by the time I’d scooted the short distance, I felt dizzy.

“I can’t climb up that hill,” I said, finally allowing the tears to come.

“Just close your eyes for a moment,” she said. “Open them when you think you’re ready.”

I tried to focus on my sister’s calming words. She held my hand and I felt comforted by her simple presence. She leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Darcy gathered our purses. Isn’t she helpful? I hope she slips and gets mud all over that dress.”

I smiled, but even that hurt my shoulder.

I heard a rustling, and in a few moments, Daniel was back and breathless. I opened my eyes and watched him loop his scarf around the back of me and tie it as gently as possible over my arm to keep it immobile. I winced as he pulled the knot.

“I know,” he said. His mouth was at my ear and he smelled faintly of aftershave. I tried to concentrate on that as he slipped his arms under me and lifted me from the car.

“I’ll walk behind you,” Marie said, “and support your back.”

Up he carried me. It was no easy task. His breath was so labored by the time he reached the top of the hill, he had to place my feet on the ground. He leaned over with his hands on his knees while Marie walked me the twenty or so more feet to his car, piled with wounded people. Marie settled me in the front next to Darcy, and then went around back with Billy and Tom. Soon Daniel was in the car and we were off, racing to the hospital.

“I got their purses,” said Darcy.

No one replied.

When we arrived, we were lifted and scattered to various rooms. Tom had a concussion but would heal. Marie had escaped with only scrapes and cuts. Billy was fine, but mourned the ruin of his beloved car. Because they worried my bruised spleen might rupture, I stayed in the hospital for two weeks. I took comfort in the steady presence of Dr. Dempsey, whose visits to me lasted longer and longer. We’d talk late into the night, and laugh, and he tended to me with a gentleness I hadn’t known since my mother’s touch.

The night before I was scheduled to go home, after my father and Marie had left and the lights in the room were darkened, I dozed until I saw at the door the familiar shape that I had grown to love in that short time. Daniel looked up and down the hallway, quickly entered and shut the door, and leaving the lights out, went to my side. I smiled at him in the shadows.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to work tonight,” I said. “We said our good-byes in the bright and honest daylight.”

His face was serious. I began to worry that something was wrong. He pulled a chair up to my bedside and grasped my hand. His palms were moist and his breath was quick.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“I am,” he said, finally smiling. “Look at you. Asking after me while you’re wrapped in bandages in a hospital bed.”

He brought my hand to his lips, something he’d never done, an acknowledgment of our growing affection for each other. I felt the air shift between us.

“I know this is sudden,” he whispered, “but I love you, Laura. I hope it’s all right that I’m saying this to you.”

At that moment I imagined a secret space opening between the two of us, where our feelings met. In spite of my battered body, my heart felt warm and alive.

“I love you too, Daniel.”

His face collapsed with relief and he smiled. He leaned in and kissed me on the lips. The space I’d felt between us seemed to grow around us. We existed there alone for a few blissful moments, but then he pulled away. He kept his face close to me, and again grew serious.

“There is the problem of Darcy,” he said. “I hate to hurt her, but she just isn’t right for me. We’ve been together for less than a year, and all she talks about is marriage. I can’t marry her. Does that make me a scoundrel?”

“No,” I said, relieved that he saw her for what she was. “I knew you’d figure that out sooner or later. I just didn’t know why I cared so much. Now I realize that crash must have been fate. That sounds so silly.”

“Not at all,” he said. “It took the accident to really show me what she was made of. Or what she wasn’t made of. She’s a good actress under most circumstances.”

“I know.”

“All right,” he said. “I have to slip out so I’m not found, but the next time you see me, I will be yours. I promise.”

My emotions prevented me from speaking, but I knew he understood. He leaned in and kissed me once more; then he disappeared into the night.

I would later learn that he went to Darcy’s house, was admitted by her mother, and met Darcy on the back porch, where she told him that their wedding would have to take place very soon because she was pregnant.