Love to all,
Joy
CHAPTER 19
Oxford is cold （and I’m not warm!）
The blizzards drive upon sea and shore
“APOLOGETIC BALLADE BY A WHITE WITCH,” JOY DAVIDMAN
November 1952
“Joy!” Michal’s bright voice rang out across the foyer of the Mitre Hotel in London. Near Hyde Park, the bar was warm and rich feeling, with damask wallpaper and leather furniture. In an hour Jack and Warnie would join us, but for now it was just us ladies. Michal waited for me at a corner table, and I hurried to her.
“I’ve missed you,” she said. “This flu has kept you away from me for far too long.” She gave me a warm hug. Her heart-shaped face, long bourbon-colored hair, wide red-lipstick smile, and jaunty accent comforted me.
“Oh, Michal! It’s so good to see you. I feel on the mend now, and I’d like to forget that October even happened. Can one do that?”
We sat together, and her laugh fell across the table like nourishment.
“Yes, like editing a book? Charles used to say that to me when he was editing. ‘Ah, if we could only do this to life.’”
“Yes.” I banged my hand on the table. “I would delete the pages of this month. Put them in the rubbish and then light them on fire.”
“But you can’t get here without being there.” Michal slid off her stylish red coat and set it on a hook behind the chair. “Would you like me to take your coat?”
“I think I’ll keep it on for a bit. I just haven’t been able to get warm for so long now.”
“Oh, poor Joy. You are so brave and yet so hurt by life.” Michal made a motion for our drinks, and when they arrived we lifted them to each other before taking our first sip.
“Yes, my friend. I believe I may be both, but let’s not talk about me. Tell me what’s happening with Charles’s manuscripts.” I eagerly placed my hands around the glass and inhaled the deep scent of the sherry.
I had broached the most sensitive subject—her husband, who’d passed away unexpectedly just six years before, and still his estate was in chaos. I knew the pain lingered.
I continued. “The last I heard from you, his executor hadn’t given them over.”
“He doesn’t seem to care that they were left to me.” She glanced around the room as if someone might hear her. “Joy, Charles’s manuscripts are everywhere. He gave them to other women also.”
I reached my hand across the table. “Oh, Michal.”
I didn’t have to ask, because I saw the pain in her eyes. I’d felt the same betrayal—the knowledge that your man had been with and given something of value to other women. It was a knowing that wounded the soul.
“And the entire Oxford set has snubbed me since his death. All except Lewis. So I can’t reach out to them for help. And what would it matter if I did? Maybe I don’t want to know what those women have or know. Perhaps it’s best if I just let it go.”
“Just let the sleeping women lie,” I said. “Let them keep their papers and their souvenirs.”
She leaned closer. “I think you’re right, Joy. I don’t know what letters are out there either.”
“It’s horrid. Men can be absolute animals,” I said. “Others see them as heroes, while we’re the ones who live at home with them and are expected to tolerate their infidelities and peccadillos.”
“Yes.” Her head bobbed in agreement.
“Not Jack.” I glanced toward the door as if my voice might hurry him to us.
“You think he’s different? That once you lived with him he wouldn’t have the same proclivities?”
“I do think he’s different.”
“Oh, Joy. You might be right. But how could we ever know? How could any woman but Mrs. Moore—God bless her soul—know? She’s the only one that ever lived with him, or probably ever will.”
“You might be right.” I took a long sip and felt the warmth of the sherry fill the cold crevices inside. I wanted to ask more about Mrs. Moore, things I wouldn’t ask Jack, but I stilled those inquiries and smiled at Michal.
“Joy.” Her voice was soft. “Tell me what’s troubling you. I want to help if I can.”
“Am I that transparent?” I lifted my glass in salute.
“To me, yes, you are.”
“It’s hard to pin down, but it’s Bill. Something seems really off. He’s not answering me, and he’s not sending money. I’m busted. I know I could ask Jack for money, as he’s offered, but I’d rather cut off my ear.” I pulled my coat tighter around me. “I’ve asked Bill for my thyroid meds and some food and a few books, and yet he’s sent nothing.”