I brought several tuna sandwiches and Star the next day. He gave a series of sympathetic squeaks when he came near Nan. Virgil and I watched with fantastical hope, but there was no miracle response. Star lay by her for an hour and then I took him home and didn’t return for the rest of the day; the drive was simply too long.
So the days went.
Virgil and I didn’t say more than a few words to each other over the course of hours every day. Yet much feeling and empathy developed between us in our shared concentration and purpose. I had all the gravestones removed from the yard and taken away. A local stonemason is making flat markers for me, and when spring comes I’ll have them dug in at ground level so they’ll be safe as a floor.
Finally we were allowed to bring her back to Leeward Cottage, and that is where she is right now, Elspeth, in your room. Presumably she has opened the presents I left for her. I left him one, too—an old fountain pen I found in a desk. I have considered writing to him, but what would I say? I have reports of Nan from Mrs. Circumstance, so I can’t use that as an excuse. He hasn’t written to me either, but does that mean anything? I am thinking of him, though, all the time. Yes, I know what that means! I am familiar with the literature. I know it’s bad. But it feels just the opposite.
CHAPTER 23 Agnes, Philadelphia, January 1961
Dear Elspeth,
I am going back to Maine tomorrow. I can barely wait. I have had that stereotypical yet nevertheless confusing experience of feeling lonely among people—and I have been among a lot of people. My quiet life on FP is richer now. Always has been, in a sense, but my conclusion about the difference between the two is now final.
Anyway, it hasn’t been quiet, as you know. That’s only what people think. Fine with me.
Two things have happened of note. The first is big, though I am trying not to be too concerned. I went to see my lawyer yesterday—at his request. He told me that because of certain purchases and financial decisions Lee & Sons have made, I will not be able to count on a specific income for the future. I don’t know exactly what that means, and nor did he. I do know that I lived like a child under my father’s roof, and he paid my way. If there were money worries, I was not responsible for solving them. That may no longer be the case. The implication was that my relatives had made poor business decisions, or that business has become less profitable for whatever reason, and that I was being warned. My immediate thought and concern was for Leeward Cottage. Was there enough money for me to cover expenses there? The answer was that it really depends on the future! It was a cat-and-mouse conversation, maddeningly so, with my lawyer not being as explicit as I would like or need, and me trying to scaffold his crumbly answers into a solid structure. My conclusions are that I need to read through all our bank statements and I need to make money. What can I do? Send me inspiration, El. Honestly, I’d sell myself on the streets before I’d lose Leeward.
My other news is that I finally saw Polly alone, and it was an eventful visit.
She came at noon. I spent all morning getting ready. Knowing I was soon to sit with her was a huge relief. Relief… then nothing, nothing at all. The whole of the self that has been focused on one object, one need, one occupation, when suddenly, sharply freed, can’t immediately resume its former shape. The cessation of pain bares the soul, and the soul is no person. It has no creaturehood. The frozen emotions and limbs must be thawed after a period of suspended animation, the body revived.
The lull doesn’t last long before it is filled with a feeling. Emily Dickinson called it a formal feeling. What a beautiful phrase of double meaning; formal as opposed to wild; and also something formed, deliberately, from out of a void.
I went through the cycle this morning; the cessation of pain; the moment of stupor; the formal feeling. Then I let go. Thank you, Emily, for the rubric.
Polly arrived on the dot, entering in her stalwart way and, as I hoped, noticing everything I’d done to brighten the house for her visit. She knows these rooms as well as I do. I’d brought downstairs a few of our old dolls. She swooped for them, as I’d known she would.
“Well isn’t this the living end! Let’s see—that’s Arantha, Gabardine, Stella, Muncie, Jamaica, Iceland, Therese. I bet you couldn’t have named them.”
“Not all.”
“One?”
I laughed. She shook her head, and we sighed, remembering us, remembering you. You had an elaborate life with the dolls, including naming them so unexpectedly. What other girl had a doll called Iceland? But it did suit her, with her sweater and white hair.
She sighed. “So many happy hours.” She picked up Gabardine and straightened her collar.
“You may have your pick, or take them all. If you don’t, I’ll save a few for Nan.”
“I may take one, I do feel sentimental about them.” She looked them over. “Remember how protective Elspeth was of Muncie? She thought no other girl would ever want her. The ugliest doll ever made.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“You didn’t differentiate. No interest in dolls at all.”
“No. Never.”
“Would you mind if I choose Muncie, or do you want to keep her because of Elspeth?”
“That’s up to you.”
She lifted Muncie, like a baby. “How about it, Muncie? Do you want to come home with me?”
Her eyes welled up, and her face filled with distress. She crumpled to the floor, shoving the doll aside. Mrs. O’Hara appeared to announce lunch and we widened our eyes at each other. I waved for her to go and she whisked off. I knelt down beside Polly and put my arm around her shoulders.
“Polly, Polly, what is it?”
She reached for one of my hands and squeezed my fingers tightly, so tightly I had to grit my teeth to bear it. Her weeping was forlorn and bitter, and it frightened me. I’d never seen her in anything close to this state. We were, are, relentlessly, pridefully, stoical. We admire fortitude. We were raised to think a person has a right to be upset, in the event of loss or disappointment, but there are ways to acknowledge it without plodding through the embarrassment of a scene. Stop crying. Pull yourself together. Be brave.
Selfishly, I wanted and needed her to buck up. It was my turn, wasn’t it? What could possibly be so upsetting to her? I felt pressure to talk, to tell at least some of what had happened to me. I shifted back and forth between these extremes, and I wondered about the lunch… would it stay warm? The mind is so unruly. The tears lasted probably three minutes, an eon for people like us. Star looked at my face for clues as to the level of danger this posed, so I stroked him and he lay down between us, touching Polly’s skirt.
When she sobered, she rubbed her face, and we held hands and leaned back to pull each other up, the way we’d done as children. I leaned down and picked up Muncie and placed her with the other dolls. Polly and I sat on the sofa.
“I’m so sorry, Ness. I didn’t think that was going to happen.” Her voice was low and thin with exhaustion.
“Please tell me what’s wrong?” I feared one of her boys had a disease.
“Oh, Ness, I know how badly you’ve wanted to talk to me. I’ve wanted it, too, just as much. But I couldn’t bear to. That’s terrible, I realize. You want to share your excitement with me, and I couldn’t bear to hear it. I’m so sorry. I’m ready, though, now, and I really want you to tell me everything.”