The Women (16 page)
“But why? Why would he come all this way just to sell one chicken?”
Both men fixed their eyes on him now.
“Because he has nothing. Because he needs the money.”
Suddenly he felt very dense. He stood there in the glare of the sun, picturing the one-room shack thrown together without benefit of blueprints, without nails or hammers or any tool but a worn machete, the porous roof, the rude furniture, no electricity, no water, no glass for the solitary window and not a single object of beauty anywhere in sight. “Tell him I will buy his chicken,” he said.
“You? What do you want with it?”
“Just tell him.”
The money was exchanged, a few coins, the man’s hand fluttering delicately against his own. And then he had the thing in his grasp, the rag over its eyes, the feel of the withered reptilian feet against his knuckles—a pitiful thing, a runt, half the size of one of Taliesin’s birds—and immediately he tried to give it back, thrusting the warm bundle up across the sweated neck of the horse, but the man wouldn’t take it. He just held up his spanned fingers and open palm, then nodded and turned the horse back down the road.
Early the next morning, before the sun had climbed up out of the sea to cut away the shadows and illuminate the shanties in the hills, Frank took Olgivanna and the children and caught the boat for home.
So she had to endure another trip, reverse logic, running to instead of from, the sea mutating from a fragile turquoise to verdigris to a deep metallic gray as they steamed back into winter, Svetlana pestering her with her interminable questions—“Where’re we going, Mama? Uncle Vlada’s? Where’re we now, do you think? Can I have a sweet? ”—and then the thundering headache of the steel wheels pounding over the icebound rails all the way to Spring Green, Wisconsin, the Richardsons peregrinating as if it were their profession. Or fate. There was the car at the station. The familiar road. The river, the bridge, the lake. The long penstroke of the walls and the flourish of the roofs. Were they home? Were they really home?
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At first she felt relief, the interior opening up to her with its familiar smells—brass polish, the wax Frank used on the woodwork, linseed oil, the sourness of the ash spread cold across the stones of the hearth all this time and a lingering hint of the charred remains beneath the floors—her bed, her things, the kitchen and its promise of homemade meals and bread and cakes and cookies, cookies like the ones she’d baked with Dione, Sylvia and Nobu, but by the time she rose the next morning, she could feel nothing but the heaviness of the place. Mrs. Taggertz reappeared to do the cooking; a skeleton staff moped round the corridors. They were burning green wood. Everything was out of place. She wanted to get up and take charge, but she was weak and ill and all the color seemed to have gone out of the world. And Frank—he wasn’t himself either, stealing around like a burglar in his own house, peering out the windows as if he expected a cordon of sheriffs, marshals and federal agents to come marching up the drive at any moment. What good were the windows, what good were the views, when all they did was make you feel naked?
“You can’t be seen,” Frank told her the day after they’d arrived, “not till this is settled,” and immediately went off to consult with his lawyers.
Then there came a morning in April when the sun edged up over the southern flank of the house to warm the stones of the courtyard and she moved a chair outside to sit beneath the awakening oaks and read to Svetlana. If her daughter couldn’t go to school—if
she
had to be kept out of sight too—then at least Olgivanna was determined to educate her in her own way. Each day there would be dance, art, music, readings from the great books in Frank’s library—the American poets,
Wilhelm Meister
,
The Man Without a Country
, Victor Hugo’s
Notre-Dame de Paris
—both of them improving their command of the spoken and written language. And Svetlana was very good about it, an angel—she really did seem to want to learn. Or maybe she was just bored, and who could blame her? She felt the tension too—they were all waiting for something indefinable, a point of release that seemed as if it would never come.
she
had to be kept out of sight too—then at least Olgivanna was determined to educate her in her own way. Each day there would be dance, art, music, readings from the great books in Frank’s library—the American poets,
Wilhelm Meister
,
The Man Without a Country
, Victor Hugo’s
Notre-Dame de Paris
—both of them improving their command of the spoken and written language. And Svetlana was very good about it, an angel—she really did seem to want to learn. Or maybe she was just bored, and who could blame her? She felt the tension too—they were all waiting for something indefinable, a point of release that seemed as if it would never come.
The housekeeper had just brought them each a cup of hot chocolate. The grass was greening on the hill behind them and there were birds everywhere, their chirrups and catcalls dampening the eternal thump of construction from the far end of the house. Frank was down there somewhere, his shirtsleeves rolled up, banging away with Billy Weston and the others. She handed the book to Svetlana. “Now you read—here—the last stanza.”
“ ‘This is the poem of the air,’ ” Svetlana began in a soft aspirated voice, “ ‘Slowly in silent syllables recorded; / This is the secret of despair. / Long in its—’ ”
“Yes,” she said. “Go on.”
But Svetlana was no longer looking at the page. She was staring over her mother’s shoulder, her tongue caught in the corner of her mouth. Olgivanna turned to see a stranger with an oversized satchel striding up the drive as if he’d been invited, as if he belonged here, and her first thought was that he must be one of Frank’s lawyers, but what lawyer would wear a pair of trousers as tight as a high school sophomore’s? Or a polka-dot vest? Or go without a hat?
“Olga,” he called out in a voice meant to be hearty and winning, a booster’s voice, his lips giving shape to an automatic smile, his right hand flapping over one shoulder in a simulacrum of greeting. Before she could rise from the chair, he was on them. “No need to get up”—he winked, shrugged, tugged at his sleeves—“I won’t be a minute.”
She set down the teacup. Her hands went to her hair. And what was he—a salesman? A curiosity seeker? And how did he know her name?
It all became clear in the next moment. He was digging into his satchel like some sort of deranged postman and she could see that he was trembling, his hands shaking, a twitch settling into his shoulders, until finally he produced a bundle of newspapers and laid them in her lap.
“Name’s Wallace, from the
Trib
. You’ve seen these?”
Trib
. You’ve seen these?”
She looked to her daughter, but Svetlana gave her nothing. She could feel the color rise to her face, hot blood burning there with her shame, because that was what it was—shame. The newspapers bore dates from November through December—DEPORT OLGA? IT CANNOT BE DONE, WRIGHT ASSERTS—and then there was a more recent one, from February, the leaf turned down to a quarter-page photograph of herself, in a silk gown and her platinum filigree earrings and looking away from the lens as if she had something to hide, and under it the legend: ACCUSED. And, in smaller type:
Olga Milanoff, to Whom Mrs. Frank Wright Charges Husband Fled.
Olga Milanoff, to Whom Mrs. Frank Wright Charges Husband Fled.
Frank had kept the papers from her. They would only upset her, he said. It was nothing, he said. It would blow over. It was nothing. When there she was, for all the world to see. And gloat over. Like some freak in a sideshow.
“What we want,” the man was saying, “is your side of the story.”
WRIGHT FLEES TO DODGE U.S. LAW, SAYS WIFE.
Claims Architect Is with Russian Danseuse.
Claims Architect Is with Russian Danseuse.
He was chewing gum, his teeth working round the remnants of his smile. “Do you have anything to say? For the record?”
CHAPTER 6 : MIRIAM AT THE GATES
T
he windows were flung open wide to the sun, the curtains bowing with the sweet breeze coming in off the lake, and Miriam felt very settled, very content, as she sat at the escritoire the hotel had provided for her, writing. In the past week she’d gone through nearly a hundred sheets of fine mouldmade kid-finish paper, with deckled edges and matching envelopes, and had just that morning called down to the stationer’s to place her order for another hundred, these to be embossed with her initials: MMNW, Maude Miriam Noel Wright. Twice now she’d had to get up to rub hand crème over the second joint of her middle finger, where a callus had begun to develop as if she were some sort of grind, a nail-bitten secretary or bloodless law clerk who never saw the light of day, but she felt strong and her hand barely trembled over the paper. She’d had breakfast sent up to the room—coffee and a bun, nothing more—and then allowed the pravaz to take the tension out of her shoulders and free her hands for the day’s work.
he windows were flung open wide to the sun, the curtains bowing with the sweet breeze coming in off the lake, and Miriam felt very settled, very content, as she sat at the escritoire the hotel had provided for her, writing. In the past week she’d gone through nearly a hundred sheets of fine mouldmade kid-finish paper, with deckled edges and matching envelopes, and had just that morning called down to the stationer’s to place her order for another hundred, these to be embossed with her initials: MMNW, Maude Miriam Noel Wright. Twice now she’d had to get up to rub hand crème over the second joint of her middle finger, where a callus had begun to develop as if she were some sort of grind, a nail-bitten secretary or bloodless law clerk who never saw the light of day, but she felt strong and her hand barely trembled over the paper. She’d had breakfast sent up to the room—coffee and a bun, nothing more—and then allowed the pravaz to take the tension out of her shoulders and free her hands for the day’s work.
She was writing letters—angry, slanderous, denunciatory letters—and addressing them to anyone she could think of who might take an interest in her situation. She wrote to her husband’s creditors, to the Bank of Wisconsin and all his clients—past, present and prospective—to the newspapers, her lawyers, and to him, most of all to him. He was a scoundrel, a fraud, that was what she wanted the world to know, and she would be damned if she would live out of a suitcase like a—a
carpetbagger
—while he paraded around in luxury with his
danseuse.
Her bill had been owing now for more than two months and the people at the desk had begun to give her insolent looks—and that she should have to endure such looks, she, his lawful wife, was unconscionable. Especially in light of the fact that the Dane County Superior Court had ordered him to pay her attorneys’ fees and per diem expenses while the divorce was being contested and he most emphatically was not living up to his end of the bargain. What’s more, she wrote, she was being threatened with eviction if the account wasn’t settled, and where would she go then?
carpetbagger
—while he paraded around in luxury with his
danseuse.
Her bill had been owing now for more than two months and the people at the desk had begun to give her insolent looks—and that she should have to endure such looks, she, his lawful wife, was unconscionable. Especially in light of the fact that the Dane County Superior Court had ordered him to pay her attorneys’ fees and per diem expenses while the divorce was being contested and he most emphatically was not living up to his end of the bargain. What’s more, she wrote, she was being threatened with eviction if the account wasn’t settled, and where would she go then?
She was in the middle of an urgent plea to the governor of Wisconsin, weighing a question of diction (should she use the term “blackguard” to describe her husband or did it sound too antiquated?; she wanted to call him a “heel,” because that was what he was, a heel and a son of a bitch, but then women of her class didn’t stoop to such language, not in letters to the governor, at any rate) when the telephone rang.
Her attorney, Mr. Fake, was on the other end of the line. “Mrs. Wright, is that you?” He had a low, considered voice, deeply intimate, as if he’d been born to collusion.
“Yes,” she returned, “I’m here,” and she couldn’t help adding a note of asperity. “And I’m doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances. The looks I’m getting—”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. There’s been no movement on their side, none at all, we’re just simply deadlocked, and I think I may have a solution for you—”
She held her breath. This was what she wanted to hear—tactics, movement, action, her forces gathering for the assault. “Yes?” she said.
“There is simply no reason I can think of for you to have to continue living hand to mouth in some hotel when Taliesin remains community property. Taliesin is your rightful and legal home and I really do believe that if you were to move back in—”
“Move
back
?” She was incensed at the thought of it, all those pastures reeking of dung, the dreary vistas opening up to yet more pastures mounded with dung, the yokels, the insects.
back
?” She was incensed at the thought of it, all those pastures reeking of dung, the dreary vistas opening up to yet more pastures mounded with dung, the yokels, the insects.
“What I’m trying to say is that it might just force the issue.”
“But he’s there. With
her.
”
her.
”
“Precisely.”
All at once the image of Taliesin rose before her in such immediacy she might have been staring at a photograph. That yellow place on the hill—or
of
the hill, as Frank would say with all the pomposity of his ladies-of-the-club tones—that palace, that monument to himself. Oh, the idea warmed her. Taliesin wasn’t his to do with as he pleased—it belonged to both of them. Equally. That was what community property meant, the very definition of it. And if she’d been willing to allow him the use of it till the fair value of the estate was ascertained and they could make an equitable division of property, now she saw what a fool she’d been. How dare he try to exclude her when his prize breeding bitch was installed there, living in all the luxury he could afford her, sleeping in
their
bed, in
their
bedroom, commanding the place like some sort of upstart queen out of a Shakespeare play, Lady Macbeth herself?
of
the hill, as Frank would say with all the pomposity of his ladies-of-the-club tones—that palace, that monument to himself. Oh, the idea warmed her. Taliesin wasn’t his to do with as he pleased—it belonged to both of them. Equally. That was what community property meant, the very definition of it. And if she’d been willing to allow him the use of it till the fair value of the estate was ascertained and they could make an equitable division of property, now she saw what a fool she’d been. How dare he try to exclude her when his prize breeding bitch was installed there, living in all the luxury he could afford her, sleeping in
their
bed, in
their
bedroom, commanding the place like some sort of upstart queen out of a Shakespeare play, Lady Macbeth herself?
“All right,” she said, crossing her legs and leaning forward to reach for a cigarette, “and how do you propose I go about it?”
A pause. Then the soft creeping tones, as smooth as kid leather: “Well, I’ve been thinking that you just might want to consider announcing a press conference.”
They all gathered in the lobby like dogs early the next morning, dutiful dogs with their teeth sharpened and a smell of the meat wagon on the air, and she held herself erect, struggled briefly with her face—with her mouth and chin and the emotion welling up like a geyser there because this was her life, her very life she was fighting for—and let them all know how Frank Lloyd Wright had betrayed and abused her and how he was living in defiance of a court order with his foreign concubine in the house that was as much hers as his and how she was facing eviction from her modest rooms even as she stood there before them. “If my husband continues to defraud me, and I’m sorry to put it in such strong terms, but that’s what it amounts to”—she’d meant to pause here for dramatic effect, but now, in the heat of the moment, she rushed on instead—“I’m afraid I’ll have no resort but to sell off my jewelry, the prints we collected together in Japan, the jade necklace and earrings given to me as a keepsake by Baron Ōkura
48
himself, my screens and shawls and the little inlaid rosewood tables that are practically the only things I have left of my home—just to pay my bills, my own meager upkeep, while he spares himself nothing.”
48
himself, my screens and shawls and the little inlaid rosewood tables that are practically the only things I have left of my home—just to pay my bills, my own meager upkeep, while he spares himself nothing.”
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