“In some ways he was.” Frank nodded. He held his finger up, his ear toward the stereo. “Listen. This nocturne always conjured thoughts of loss for Mary, remember? Particularly losses at sea.”
He turned his gaze to Lilly Schmidt, and when she smiled back at him, he tapped his wineglass with his fork, standing up as the guests grew silent. He held his hand open toward Lilly, and she set Strange Victory carefully on his palm.
“Most of you,” he said with what Lydia knew he intended to be reverent gravity, “have heard what I am about to read. Some of you have not, and you’re in for a treat. Just a couple of days ago, we sat around in the old barn, wondering if we’d stumbled onto a remarkable literary find.” He paused, letting his gaze glide from face to face. “And now we have been confirmed. By the Library of Congress. Tentatively,” he added, raising one forefinger, “but we are confident.”
There was applause, along with some whooping from Drew.
“We knew, some of us, that this day was likely,” he went on. “Mary Stone Walker left behind nine other hidden documents that we know of and, significantly, when she disappeared did not leave her body.” There was laughter, then Frank grew solemn, his voice bending in a familiar, bittersweet tone as he went on. “She lived. Mary lived past that October of 1939.”
He inhaled and pulled his glasses off for a moment to look around at everyone after he wiped his eyes. “In some ways, the poem is shocking for its time. Shockingly revealing, too, about the deep connection Mary felt to the mother she never really knew, which was a subject she had not approached often—a subject that perhaps we’ll find becomes more common in her mature years, as we continue to discover her legacy. I suspect that you will see what I mean and be impressed, as I am, by her courage and her honesty.
“So…” he said, replacing his glasses after an adequately contemplative, grateful pause, “I will read the evidence. It is signed Mary S. Walker, with the date of 1940.”
He cleared his throat. The air wavered. He began.
The Study of Lakes
They found a calcified infant
curled like an ear
in the womb of an eighty-five
year old woman.
How many years was it frozen,
motionless—
drowned.
I spend my days in motion
listening to the trains’ deep
chromatic call and answer—
like a conch shell and foghorn.
At 5:30 every morning,
their echoes reach my house.
Have you ever walked out
to the middle of the lake
in winter?
Some spots the ice is clear,
and I try to see underneath.
You can write letters there
and leave them. Yes,
I have.
Once, I imagined my mother.
During the day, I walk
and walk so that I am lost.
It’s a game I play to find her.
Houses I’ve never seen
with their trees and walkways
and wooden gates’
unkindly promise.
I think the old woman
must have known
the entire time—
this is how some of us
hold
on.
~ Mary S. Walker, 1940
Frank drifted slowly through the last lines and closed the book silently, to a ripple of whispered comments and sighs. He had lowered his eyes toward the table as if saying a prayer, and Lydia watched him in disbelief, waiting for his gaze to seek hers, waiting for some acknowledgment. When none came, she scraped her chair back from the table, nearly knocking it over backward. She rushed from the room, her hand pressing her pink cloth napkin to her mouth, and she heard the conversation behind her like a performance scripted to mock her.
“Well, Cap’n,” Shane Harding said. “Congratulations again. It’s damn cool.”
“Every time I hear it, it gives me chills,” Drew said. “Every single time.”
“When I told Judith Tomlinson at the Library of Congress about Frank’s find,” Lilly Schmidt said in her soft voice, “she said she always thought Mary might have lived past 1939. This is a gift directly from her, and her audience will be overjoyed.”
Trying to be discreet, Lydia slid barely into Frank’s view, gesturing for him to come to her. At first, he was so caught up in the excited talk that he didn’t seem to notice that she’d left the table, but then he spotted her and responded with a stony glare. Could he really be doing this? She felt dizzy, disoriented. If he didn’t come quickly, she didn’t know what she would do, so she said his name once, loudly. He gave her a fierce look and nodded once in angry acquiescence, but it was more than ten minutes before he finally came to the kitchen. She stood, hands flat on the counter, the fine curls against her neck and shoulders trembling.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“Frank,” she said evenly, staring at him. “That poem.”
He waited. She said nothing more.
“What?” he demanded.
Still she only stared. What? Did he think the theft didn’t matter?
“What? Do you disapprove? Can I not just enjoy this hour, for Christ’s sake?”
Her eyes were wide and shocked. “No, I don’t think you can. I don’t think that’s appropriate. That poem? I wrote it.”
“What?” He gave a howl of laughter. “That’s a good one, Lydia. A new twist.” Her eyes bored into him. “Christ, what is this? You’re being ridiculous, Lydia. You look positively insane.”
He tossed the napkin he’d been carrying onto the counter and spun around to leave.
“Frank!” Inside her head, her voice sounded gravelly and strange. “I wrote that poem. Mary Stone Walker did not write that poem.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Lydia. You did not write that poem. Did you see the book?” He pointed behind him toward the dining room, lowering his voice. “Is that your handwriting that Lilly Schmidt recognizes as Mary’s?”
“You are not going to stand there,” Lydia said with difficulty, breathing hard, “and honestly tell me that you don’t remember it?”
“It’s kind of an unusual subject, Lydia. I think it would ring a bell.”
“Exactly.”
“But…it does not.” He enunciated sharply, holding his finger up as if he were scolding a child, and gave her a stern, warning stare. “You hear me, Lydia? Nothing in that poem ever entered my eyes or my ears…until I found Mary’s book. Okay? You got it? Mary Stone Walker’s book. Mary’s poem. Now pull yourself together.”
The kitchen floor creaked, and both Frank and Lydia turned to see Shane standing there—for how long, it was impossible to say. Frank let out an irritated sigh. The kid wore an inquisitive expression.
“Honestly,” Frank said, his voice artificially heavy. “Listen.” He stared pointedly into Lydia’s eyes, demanding her cooperation. “Sweetheart, you’ve got to take it easy. Get some rest now.” He took her arm in his hand and didn’t let her pull away. “You have gotten overexcited. What do you need, Shane?”
“Looking for water, actually,” he said, ambling to the sink, opening a cupboard, then another, pulling out a glass and whistling casually as if he lived there.
Lydia glared at Frank, and he glared back at her.
“I want you to lie down. Please, sweetheart. You’ve done so much for me tonight, and you’re tired. I’ll be up shortly with some aspirin. Okay?”
Lydia’s mouth twitched with rage, but as long as Shane stood at the sink sipping his water and gazing out the window toward the dark backyard, Frank knew she would say nothing more.
“All set?” Frank said to Shane, clapping him on the back.
“Sure. Your wi
fe sick?” Shane asked without looking at Frank as Lydia lightly took the stairs.
“She has”—Frank used a low tone that Lydia could still hear from the upstairs hall—“some nerve issues. Please don’t mention it. And don’t worry about it. She’s fine with medication.”
“Aspirin?” Shane said.
“Of course not.” Frank scowled. “That’s what I say to avoid embarrassing her. Her prescription ran out. I’ll…have to run to the pharmacy for her later.” There was the jingling of car keys being removed from the hook on the wall. “When we finish up here. Don’t want her driving, not feeling like she does. But if she’ll just stretch out upstairs…in the dark, the quiet…she’ll fall asleep almost instantly, no doubt. That’s the way it goes with her.”
They left the kitchen, and from her bedroom, Lydia heard a burst of laughter and a toast to Frank Carroll and Mary Walker from the small group gathered around her dining room table.
28
Carson College, Michigan—July 1938
The heart of a woman falls back with the night,
And enters some alien cage in its plight,
And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars,
While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars.
~ Georgia Douglas Johnson (1877–1966), “The Heart of a Woman”
It would be unusual for Carson College to hire a twenty-four-year-old woman to teach literature, the dean of the college had warned her the week before as he scratched her name into the schedule of upcoming interviews. However, in the course of her days as a student, three of Mary’s professors at Carson had explicitly suggested that she pursue a collegiate teaching career to support herself while she wrote poetry. She was told she was brilliant, charismatic, and a precociously serious scholar. Before she was twenty, Mary Stone Walker—author of a collection of original verse that had won two regional awards—believed that a place in American letters and a future as a college literature professor were certainties for her, and all she really wanted.
She had not been able to sleep the night before the interview, and seated now in the wooden chair across from the dean’s desk, nerves fired throughout her body, making her knees shake and upsetting her stomach. In her lap she held the expensive leather satchel Bernard had purchased for her twenty-first birthday, in the first year of their marriage when he had still liked the idea of his wife being a writer. She had brought a copy of her published volume, Sea Shadows, an additional eighty-three typed sheets of new poetry, and approximately two hundred pages of essays, mostly literary criticism. The satchel was slightly damp where her hands clutched it.
Dean Wilson Hart entered his office, shut the door softly, and sat down before her in his generous leather chair, locking his hands together on his desktop. The smile he gave, tipping his head forward to look at her over his reading glasses, was formal and brief, although he’d known Mary Walker since she’d entered Carson College at seventeen.
“First of all, Mrs. Evans, let me say how proud we all are of your dedication to the art of poetry,” Dean Hart said. “As I hope I have expressed before, the publication of your book adds to the prestige of our Humanities Department. And I understand you have continued a rather prolific production of verse?”
Heart knocking in her throat, Mary adopted the dean’s serious attitude as she said, “It’s just Walker. Mary Stone Walker. I did not take my husband’s name because I have a career to think of. And yes, sir, I have the manuscript here, along with—”
Dean Hart shook his head. “I won’t need to see that today, Mary.”
“Perhaps I can leave it with you, and you can read it at your leisure?” she offered. “I have brought my literary essays as well. Three have been published, and I have copies of the journals in which they appeared.”
The man shifted to lean back in his chair, removing his glasses.
“Your achievements are impressive. But let’s make sure we are both clear on this teaching job and our mutual values before we go any further.”
She furrowed her brow. “Isn’t it true that the open position is for a professor of English, to begin this fall?”
“Yes, but I’m thinking more fundamentally than that, dear.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you’re getting at.” She bounced her knee, keenly aware of the slight rustle of cloth that the action created in the quiet room, but unable to stop.
“We are seeking a professor of English literature—all genres, not just poetry.”
Mary exhaled with relief and her voice lifted. “I am well versed in those works most commonly understood to be the pillars of English literature, Dr. Hart. This is why—” She reached to unbuckle her satchel.
Again Dean Hart held up his hand. “Please. This is not a position that will necessarily allow the chosen candidate to teach the writing of poetry, which would be your strongest asset and might at some point offset weaknesses.”
“Of course I understand. If you are asking about my long-term career aspirations, I don’t feel I need to teach the craft of poetry writing, per se. I am deeply passionate about the value of all kinds of literature as an enrichment to every individual’s life, and that will be clear when you read—”
“Miss Walker.” His voice was stern.
Mary looked up in confusion. The man’s face was set.
“No one would question that your young efforts have displayed talent. Your ability to hold the interest of a group of people during readings is also inarguable and exhibits a valuable teaching quality. However, for someone in my position, there are other concerns that must be taken seriously.”
Mary’s jaw clenched.
“Artists have, throughout history, famously destroyed their lives one way or another through vice. But this is not acceptable for a professor at Carson College, someone who will be a leader of young people. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Mary said nothing but looked directly into the dean’s mud-colored eyes as he gazed back at hers.
“Close to a year ago, I saw your husband on Water Street, leaving Dr. DeBoer’s office, the left side of his face covered in bandages. Bernard Evans’s mother, Edith, has been a generous donor to Carson College, and we do not forget our patrons or their family members. Concerned, I asked Bernard what had happened.”
Dr. Hart stared accusingly, said no more, and appeared to be waiting for a response from Mary, who froze in mortified disbelief that Bernard had disclosed personal problems to the dean of her alma mater. Her mouth grew instantly dry, and she could think of absolutely nothing to say.
“You see what I’m getting at now. Violence. Inappropriate drug use. Addiction. Your talents mean little in the balance, frankly.”
Suddenly the flat leather case in her hands felt like the last board of a wrecked ship she was clinging to, foolish and unprepared, in a poisonous sea. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Dr. Hart’s face again, more from anger than shame. Such men, such men.
“Miss Walker.” The dean’s voice had softened slightly. “Do be careful. There is no reason a man like Bernard Evans would feel the need to take care of a childless woman with such problems. He does not strike me as a highly sensitive or intellectual individual. But he can provide for you. Marriage does require sacrifices.”
Mary gave a short laugh toward the leather satchel in her lap. After a moment, she stood up and locked her gaze on Dr. Hart’s empty desktop.
“We were always told, by professors here at Carson College, to investigate the truth for ourselves and not rely on hearsay,” she said. “With all due respect, Dr. Hart, I think it would have been more appropriate for you to ask me about my life than to lecture me about some version of it that is based on the words of others. I withdraw my application. Good day.”
Rigidly, Mary Stone Walker left Dean Hart’s office, closing the door firmly behind her. As she crossed the campus green, it was blurred by unwa
nted tears and a million drifting cottonwood seeds.
29
White Hill, Michigan—April 1999
What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring,
that my songs do not show me at all?
For they are a fragrance, and I am a flint and a fire.
~ Sara Teasdale (1884–1933), “What Do I Care”
Lydia locked herself in her study, breathing heavily. She stood before the mirror on the door and stared at her reflection.
“I wrote that poem,” she said to her own image, her voice shaking with indignation. “I wrote that poem. Lydia Carroll. Lydia Milliken. I wrote that poem.”
She stared at her face, which was chalk white, mottled by angry red splotches, and her eyes looked wild even to her. Water filled the rims of them. She felt pity and dislike for the pathetic creature in her mirror.
“The Study of Lakes” she had titled that poem so long ago. She’d forgotten about it, left the original in a college notebook somewhere. But now a flood of detail returned to her from those weeks when she was studying poetry writing at Boston University’s Master of Fine Arts program. She’d written the poem to send to Frank who was in Ann Arbor working on his PhD. One of their romantic nights together during a return visit to Michigan had led to pregnancy, and all of the people closest to her were upset—her father; her sister, Louise; and most depressingly, Frank. As if it had been some reckless plot of self-sabotage, in the view of her father and Louise, and as if it were cruel and intentional imprisonment of him, in the case of Frank.
Oh yes, she remembered the pain she’d felt at their unsupportive alarm and the frustration of wondering why the event of pregnancy was somewhat universally assumed to forecast failure of the mother’s personal endeavors. This turbulence had hurled her into renewed anguish over why her mother had borne Louise and then Lydia, only to leave them forever when they were young children. Altogether, it seemed to her that the act of bearing a child was often perceived as both a punishment and a crime.
The Lake and the Lost Girl Page 24