With another set of hands in the house, I wrote later and slept in more often—one of the things I loved the best after long nights at my desk. The children ate a hot breakfast instead of cold cereal, the laundry was finished and neatly folded, and food lined the refrigerator shelves.
Joy:
How does one keep obligations when the will has grown weak? It’s a virtue, I understand, and maybe it’s only through a higher power. A giving up? Or a giving in? Somehow the secret is hidden in this idea.
Jack:
Let me tell you about Janie and Maureen Moore. Have I mentioned them as of yet? They lived with Warnie and me for twenty-four years as I fulfilled an obligation and commitment—that is indeed a virtue, Joy, and it’s just as you’re doing with your cousin, your niece, and your nephew. You see, Mrs. Janie Moore and her daughter, Maureen, came to live with us because I promised my wartime comrade Paddy Moore that I would watch over his family if he were killed, which horribly he was. Maureen moved out a while ago, but Mrs. Moore—Janie—lived with us right up until last year. Right now she is in a rest home—she left us raging and furious—and has not long in this world. The last many years it wasn’t easy, in fact for a long while it’s been quite miserable. Her exit set both Warnie and me free from a grievous burden.
Joy:
I had no idea you had two women living with the both of you for so long! Jack, you are an admirable and kind man. But I love having Renee here—it is my commitment to Bill that is tearing away at the fabric of my virtues.
I banged at the typewriter one afternoon when Renee ambled into my office with a pointed question. “If you’re miserable, have you not thought of divorce? I can see that your heart is closed to Bill.”
“I’m trying to make it work; I do love him.” I pointed at my work. “I’m trying to keep these commandments here, cookie.” I attempted levity and winked.
“I’m getting divorced,” she said, her eyes as dry as her heart for Claude. “Is that wrong and ‘unbiblical’？ I have no use for a religion like that, if one at all.”
“No,” I said with warmth. “Claude beat you. And the children. That is not my situation. My heart is troubled toward a man who says he loves me even as he berates me: a man I love and now fear. And, Renee, I’ve come to see that there is a difference between religion and God. A very big difference.”
Renee came closer with a softer tone. “Bill told me what the doctor said . . .”
My eyebrows rose. “Oh?”
“That you need to heal, that you might need to go somewhere to do so. We all need you, the kids especially, and if you’re sick and exhausted you’re no use to anyone. Not even yourself. And especially not your work.”
“I know, but leaving feels impossible. How could I leave my children? I’m not sure I could survive that either.”
“It may not be easy,” she said, “but it’s not impossible. I’ve done loads of things lately that I once thought impossible.”
“I have thought of England,” I said. “Of going there and getting some rest from these illnesses, of writing and talking to the one friend who might be able to help me. I’ve longed to see the English countryside, immerse myself in its history and literature. I have an idea for a book set there, but all I can do is keep trying to make things right here. Keep writing. Keep taking care of my family.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “If you dream of going to England, and your doctor suggests the same, then you should, Joy. We will be fine here.”
I stared at my cousin with wonder. Maybe it was possible: all the dreams and the wishes and the imaginings of England’s cool countryside.
“I don’t know.” I stared outside as if England rested on our Staatsburg acreage. “Chad went and it changed his life. When he came back he wrote his best work yet, and hasn’t quit.”
“It could change all of ours too, Joy. Maybe this is your one chance. Why not take it? I’m here to help.”
She smiled at me with the kindness one might bestow on a small child and then stood to walk away.
When the room was empty, my thoughts returned to something I’d said to Chad not so very long ago in Vermont, What would become of me if I should ever grow brave? Well, I believe I was about to find out.
Jack:
How is the visit with your cousin? With our house claimed again as our own, Warnie and I entertained a guest from Ireland—my childhood chum, Arthur Greeves—and we are now resting for the weekend. Even being turned down for a new professorship at Magdalen cannot dim my cheerful mood. And last week I gave a speech about children’s literature at the Library Association—I believe I shall take the speech and turn it into an essay; it contains much of what you and I wrote about in our letter—the good and bad ways to write for children. As has become the way: your words help to clarify my own.