Waiting for the garden to burst forth here—the birch trees sprouting green above our heads. I believe spring comes later for us than it does for you. I hope this season brings you back to your poetry, as I know you miss it. Oh, and have you heard—Queen Elizabeth will now succeed to the throne at only twenty-four years old. At that age I didn’t know my bum from my nose, and she will be the Queen of England.
Joy:
The primrose is poking above ground, red and yellow and shy. The tomatoes are so rich they burst through the skin as if impatient. Some day I hope to see England, to see your garden. Yes, I’ve returned to my poetry, and I’m even trying my hand at sonnets. Oh, poor Elizabeth. At that age, I was a resounding atheist. I was active in the Communist party and the League of American Writers, writing my first book of poetry （Letter to a Comrade）—not exactly a queen.
I didn’t hold back with Jack, and because of that I knew he truly saw me, even through the sharing of my most embarrassing gaffes and mistakes, my most humiliating reviews and blunders.
Late one January afternoon, bent over my typewriter, a torrid cough ripping a hole in my chest, I attempted to start a short story. The allergy medicine kept me jittery and awake, but still useless. I had dropped my head to the table when Bill appeared with a letter in his hand.
“Here is another delivery for Mrs. Gresham,” he said. “From Oxford, England.”
“At least it’s not another bill.” I tried to smile.
Bill dropped the letter on the table and paused. “What are we doing about dinner tonight?”
I glanced at him, weary to death of it all. “I don’t know.”
He walked out without a word, and I tore open the envelope that had traveled across the ocean from England.
Jack:
It is only in the giving up of ourselves that we find our real self. Giving up the rage, your favorite desires and wishes.
Joy:
Oh, how is that possible? I want to know.
My mother always wanted me to be someone else, comparing me to my cousin Renee and to the beautiful women on the streets. My father, well, I’d never be good enough for him, much less be understood. My parents believed criticism was a show of love. And Bill? He wants from me the kind of wife I cannot be no matter how hard I pray or try. These hurts don’t melt easily even under the “giving up” of a false self to find the real self.
Winter continued in its usual way in upstate New York, and the infection that had started in my lungs burrowed deep into my kidneys. Eventually the fever, jaundice, and vomiting sent me to the hospital for a few days. When I was finally sent home, it was straight to bed with doctor’s orders to rest.
Illness had followed me all the days of my life, but always I’d rebounded. As a child I’d had everything from a radium collar for low thyroid to liver pills for fatigue. This last blow, however, left me bereft. In the bed, I stared at the ceiling as the walls closed in and the doors felt locked tight. No escape. I ran my fingers along the lump in my left breast—at least the doctor had said that was of no concern.
Dr. Cohen, the gray-haired family doctor with glasses as thick as windshields, visited the house one afternoon and sat at my bedside with his stethoscope dangling and his weedy eyebrows bending toward each other. He directed his words to Bill as if the illnesses had left me invisible. “Your wife must get some rest.”
His wife. My definition now. I was the object of someone’s life instead of the subject of my own.
A sudden thump emanated from the hallway, and then Topsy’s bark and Davy’s scream. Bill bolted from my bedside to the door.
“Bill,” Dr. Cohen said firmly.
“Yes?” He turned with his hand on the doorknob, ready for escape.
“I’m very serious. Your wife will not recover from the next blow. It’s too much. You both must find a way to get her some rest, even if it means going somewhere else for a while. I don’t care where—but somewhere where she can heal. Her body cannot sustain any more illness in this state. Do you understand the seriousness of what I’m telling you?”
Bill nodded. “I do.”
Douglas burst through the bedroom door with Davy fast at his heels, fists flailing, and Bill just as quickly ushered them out, slamming the door shut.
Dr. Cohen and I heard him shouting, “Both of you straight to your rooms and wait for the spanking. I’ve had enough of this.”
I closed my eyes and spiraled into despair. What could be done? My body had betrayed me.
Hopelessness was my companion and fantasy my escape.