“Stop that, cookie. We’re family. We’ll get through this together. And frankly, I’m thrilled for the company, for a girlfriend to talk to. I’ve been very . . . confused. It will be wonderful to have you close again.” I brushed stray hair from my eyes. “Even if Mother did always say, ‘Why can’t you be more like Renee?’”
“Oh, Joy, she never meant that.” Tears brimmed like snow on the windowsill. “I’m glad to be here. It’s just been awful. We need something steady. All of us do.”
“I know.” I reached across the space between the beds and took her hands in mine. “Let’s get you settled. We can talk later.”
Joy:
Must the most awful parts of childhood always turn into unconscious urges that influence our life for all time? Why is it hard to overcome the past and fall into Greater Love, where our True Self can guide our life? It seems this should be the easiest thing in life. But ah, we return again and again to that word—surrender.
Jack:
And how do we feel about discovering we are not our own Master? Just when we believe we want our life to be our very own, we discover we can only have our life by surrendering our life to that Greater Love to which you refer.
After dinner, settling the children in bed, a round of Chinese checkers, and a few glasses of rum, Renee and I reclined in our single beds.
I sank onto the pillows, slightly buzzed and sleepy. I shifted my hands behind my head, knitting them together as my elbows splayed wide. “How did we come to this, Renee? How did we both fall in love with and marry alcoholics?”
“I’ve asked myself that many times, Joy. We did what was expected of us. And now look at this mess. Was it something in our childhood? Something we were unconsciously taught? I don’t know.”
“I think somewhat. We were taught to dim our light so the men might shine, or at the very least look good. We were trained to appease, to please, to dance to the tune of their needs. We were held hostage by my father’s rage and expectations of perfection, always scared to be who we were, to be ourselves. And now—how could we have done any differently with our own men?”
“We will do differently now, Joy. We must.”
“Yes.” I sat and looked across the dark space between us. “There must be another way to live a woman’s life—make it our own. I want to find out who I am beyond all these expectations that fold us into a neat box. I want to unfold. How do we do that?”
“I don’t have any answers. I’m just trying to survive—and thanks to you, I might.”
“It’s not much better here, cookie. Bill is still on and off the drink. He wants me to be who I cannot be: a housewife, maid, and submissive spouse. He knew me when he married me. Now he wants someone different, as if marriage would turn me into a compliant doll. I don’t want to make you hate him, but he has said and done terrible things.”
“Has he hit you?” she asked in a whisper.
“No. It’s not like that. He hits other things—like the time he smashed his favorite guitar over a chair or threw his rifle across the room. Usually it’s just the screaming. The yelling. The irrational rage.” I stopped. “Renee, he told a friend that he’s not as successful as he could be because a writer needs two things, a typewriter and a wife—and they should both be in working order.”
“What an asinine thing to say.”
“I shouldn’t complain. It’s not as awful as your situation. My children are safe. No one is dying or ill. It’s not all that bad, it just feels like it sometimes.”
“I don’t compare, Joy. There are many ways to be miserable in a marriage. Claude hit us and threatened to kill us. He threw us around and almost drank himself to death. But there are other things that can happen to make you feel like you’re dying. At least you have your passion for writing. I have nothing.”
“It does help,” I said. “But, my dearest, now you have us, and your children have mine.”
“Yes, I’m here now,” she said.
As if she’d come to save us, and not the other way around.
CHAPTER 8
Yet I lie down alone
Singing her song
“SAPPHICS,” JOY DAVIDMAN
Weeks passed, and I wondered how we’d all done without each other: how the children had not rolled around together like puppies, or Renee and I hadn’t always sat up late playing Chinese checkers and drinking rum, talking of life and love.
It didn’t take long for my cousin to take over many of the household chores, and she did it smoothly, as if this was what she’d been sent for. Her natural impulses were always toward neatness and elegance, and I welcomed this as a gift. We laughed, sipped, and helped each other with the children, who often ran wild through the house and gardens. The radio I’d kept off, Renee turned on, and it murmured with news of the outside world. Britain announced it too had atomic weapons. Albert Schweitzer won the Nobel Peace Prize. Herman Wouk was awarded the Pulitzer for Caine Mutiny. Each time I heard about a literary prize, my old dreams awakened inside, stretching and breathing life into my work.