“He burned them.”
“Your letters!”
“We couldn’t bring everything on the ship to Europe, and as no one can tell God’s purpose, it seemed wiser not to store them and worry they’d be seen by strangers’ eyes in the event the voyage turned tragic.” She picked up a sketchbook she’d brought down. “Did I show you the drawings I did when we lived in Rome?”
May looked through pen-and-ink renderings of broken marble pillars, ruins, and ancient fountains and watercolor copies of paintings by Raphael and Correggio. “These are exquisite!”
“When we were first married, I helped make ends meet by decorating fireplace screens and lampshades. I illustrated some of Mr. Hawthorne’s stories.”
“He didn’t mind that you made art?”
“He had no patience with suffragists but knew I wouldn’t be happy if I didn’t do some kind of artwork. Of course, that was before we had children.”
“And now they’re mostly grown. Will you paint again?”
“That’s all in the past. It was my husband who was a genius. He thought painting was a gracious refinement for a lady, but indelicate for money to be exchanged. I shudder to think of what he’d make of me selling rights to his diaries. But we have to eat.”
“I know you want to keep his name in front of the public, but surely his books sell briskly enough.”
“That’s what I once thought, too. But it seems Mr. Fields paid for my husband’s postage stamps, cigars, brandy, biscuits, train fares, and even our dog. Those and other expenses were taken as advances out of sales, but apparently not enough books sold to pay them back.” Mrs. Hawthorne’s voice was low as she explained that copyright laws meant they never got a cent for novels sold in Europe. “Your mother suggested I take in boarders as she did, but I can’t bear the thought of strangers in the house. I had no choice but to accept the offer to publish parts of my husband’s diaries and letters.”
May tried to keep her face even, but she was shocked to learn of the family’s debt. Julian’s carelessness about money had been annoying before, but was worse as she realized there was none to waste. She said, “Maybe there’s something Una could do.”
“We didn’t bring up our girls to earn a living.”
The way I do, May thought. She returned to the tower room, where she pushed back memories of playing cards, swimming, skating, kissing behind doors or between houses, and hopes for a pretty proposal. She tried to concentrate on copying sentences in her best handwriting. She came across some pages where she recognized the story Julian had told about the schoolteacher who’d left her bonnet and shoes and walked into the Concord River. May read about lanterns reflecting in black water as one man rowed the Pond Lily, while two others poked hay rakes through the weeds and water. Eventually an oar struck a bruised, bloated body that they pulled to the surface, brought back to land, lifted onto a bier of boards and fence rails, and carried to the house to be laid out on the kitchen table. At the funeral, Mr. Hawthorne wrote that people said the young woman “had refined herself out of the sphere of her natural connections.”
May shut the old diary and wept. Was that all that could be said about someone who died alone, who’d wanted more than what she’d had, and been told she wanted too much? Was that what everyone was told? What if her mother, who kept them safe and taught them to be good, had claimed leather diaries instead of cardboard and lectured before the public instead of just to her girls in the parlor? What if Mrs. Hawthorne had demanded places for her pictures on walls? May heard the music box playing downstairs, the same strains rattling, chiming, echoing within tin and wood.
SITTING NEAR HER FATHER’S APPLE TREES, MAY PAINTED rowboat-shaped leaves whose colors changed with the light. Breaking a way through blank paper was hard, with each mark as much a chance for failure as success. Sometimes she thought she needed long stretches of quiet time in order to paint well, but then she remembered that serenity often came during, not before, putting her brush on paper. She heard Freddy call, “Auntie May! Mama said I could play for ten minutes before my nap. Let’s play horses!”
She lifted the little boy onto a low, curved bough, handed him imaginary reins, then helped him down. He sat before a rock, tapping it with a stick.
When Anna came out with her baby in her arms to fetch Freddy, May asked, “Is he pretending to write? Being like his Aunt Louisa?”
“Or a bookkeeper like his father. I don’t like to see him playing that.”
“You’re proud of John.”
“Of course. He works hard and earns an honest living.” Anna paused. “I know it’s wicked to sound discontented when I have so much, but I wish John worked in an office where he had a chance of moving up. I can’t help wanting more for my boys. Can’t you see Freddy preaching from a pulpit?”
“He’s three years old.”
Anna curved her hand over the baby’s head. “I love this age, when it seems you know everything about them.”
“You’re a good mother, Anna.”
“That’s all I ever wanted to be. I’m not talking about you or Louisa, but some women who don’t have children can get selfish.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“I should have known you’d take it wrong. I only meant that it’s impossible to really know what love is until you hold a baby who depends upon you for everything.”
After Anna brought her boys inside, May returned to her watercolor. Gradually, one wash made the next evident and necessary. She forgot everything but what was close. Then she heard footsteps. She glanced up and saw Julian’s blue-specked eyes framed by wavy dark hair. His shoulders pulled at the broadcloth of his shirt, a sight that turned her belly tender before remembering her resolve to end whatever was between them.
He threw one arm around her waist, kissed the bottom of her ear, and waved a kite. “I made this from an old shirt of my father’s. I can show Freddy how to fly it.”
“What a bonny idea! I think he’s sleeping now, or pretending to, and not to be disturbed.”
“How I hated naps at his age. Staring up at the ceiling when it was light outside. Of course, now naps seem delightful.”
“Freddy is still talking about how you took him sledding behind our houses.” May handed him her sketchpad and asked, “What do you think?”
“Lovely. But isn’t a tree enough without painting it?”
“There are more to trees than leaves, branches, and trunks.”
“Next you’ll be telling me the woods are transcendent.”
“No.” May hated the way that word appeared like a sign, wrecking the view.
“I stopped at the river. The water lilies are out.” Julian set the kite by a stone and handed her a ball of string. “Tell Freddy I’ll come back soon. May I see you tomorrow before dawn?”
There seemed no harm in one last small adventure. Early the next morning, May’s narrow bedroom was dark, the gods and goddesses she’d drawn on the walls hidden, when a tug on the string she’d wrapped around her ankle woke her. She unknotted the string that dangled through an open window, slid out of bed, took off her nightgown, and slipped on a white frock. She held up the hem as she tiptoed downstairs, then ran across the dewy clover.
She and Julian held hands, guiding each other around blackberry and huckleberry bushes and over roots and rocks, which were hard to see in the dim light from stars and a waxing moon. They hiked through a meadow of wild strawberries and honeysuckle. A kerosene lamp flickered in the window of a farmhouse.
Soon she heard the slow river and rushes and horsetails blowing in the breeze. She smelled moss and stone. Water caught and reflected moonlight, so it wasn’t hard to find the rowboat kept by the Old Manse. Julian held her arm to steady her as she climbed in, but the boat tipped, then settled. Their knees touched as they faced each other on narrow seats. He picked up the oars and rowed with smooth strokes through water that quietly swirled and foamed.
Hoping her added effort would help them reach the lilies before sunligh
t touched them, she moved next to him, rocking the boat as she grabbed an oar. The pale moon fell in the west. Mist rose, and pink streaked the blue-black horizon. By a big, smooth rock where the river split, the water slowed down enough to let lilies and pickerelweed grow. Their oars caught wide, flat leaves. Lily buds, rounded as closed fists, bobbed on the water’s surface. As sunlight slowly spread, dim colors appeared, but the spot around the river bend stayed in shadows. Leaving her oar in its lock, May bent over to fold a closed, slippery bud in her hand. It wasn’t shut tightly, but like gently folded fingers, and it fit perfectly in her palm. She let it slip away as Julian rowed into the midst of the lily pads.
At last, sunlight touched the water. All around them, petals unfurled. The river turned gold and white. She reached out again and grasped a slick stem, which slipped from her hand. The rowboat wobbled as she stretched further, and still further. The boat teetered, and water splashed in. She lost her balance. The wooden boat tipped. Water flooded and filled it, spilling May and Julian into the river. They thrashed among the flowers, sputtering, kicking, shrieking, and laughing. He caught the boat and dragged it closer. She felt her dress press against the curve of her breasts as she raised the lily over her head.
“I hope you like it.” Standing waist-deep in the water, Julian’s soaked shirt outlined his broad chest.
“I want to paint it.”
They waded to land and moored the boat. Butterflies fluttered over red trumpetweed. May lifted her white dress, now streaked with mud, to her knees and wrung it. As she climbed past willow trees, she stumbled into a puddle and laughed. Julian embraced her from behind, turned her around, and kissed her. His warm mouth was as wet as their clothes. She kissed him hard, like someone who hadn’t known she was thirsty until she was offered water. She dropped the lily. The space between her breasts seemed to widen and reach. She placed her palm on the side of his face.
His hand slid from the small of her back to a softer curve, which made something open between her legs. The air smelled of his skin and sweet ferns and wild peppermint. He pulled her toward him and pushed his hands under her dress. His fingers spread across her thighs. Her palms curved over his hips. Her breath heaved through her chest. She wanted him to unbutton her dress and touch all of her body, which felt long and soft and good. But she grabbed his wrists and pulled her damp dress back down over her legs.
“May, don’t you want more?”
“Of course I do, but …” Her broken breath made her voice burst out. “I’m not ready to have children.”
“Some of the fellows at school told me what to do.” He put his hand over her breast.
“It’s not just that. We have to think about the future.”
“You want to wait until we’re married?”
Her face burned, partly with excitement, partly anger. She’d been foolish to expect words in a rose garden. But couldn’t he at least get on his knee and pose words that didn’t sound like they came on a lark? “Do you call that a proposal?”
“Marry me,” he whispered, undoing a button behind her collar. He slipped out another button with one hand and tugged up her dress with his other.
Wind sighed through the pines and touched her throat and wrists. She said, “Julian, we can’t risk this.”
“I thought you liked babies.”
“Of course I do. But they stop everything else for women. And you know you’re not ready to be a father.”
“That may be just what I have a talent for. We could rent a little cottage. Plant a garden. Maybe keep bees and sell honey and candlesticks and huckleberry pies.”
This was like her own daydreams, but coming from his mouth, she heard its foolishness. “That’s hardly a living.”
“The bookshop at the college put up some of the illuminations I copied from medieval manuscripts. Maybe I’ll sell more.”
“You’re not that young anymore. It’s time to think ahead.”
“You mean you’re not that young anymore.”
“I meant you’re not a boy, conjuring a future as a vagabond. Julian, you need some means of supporting a family one day.” May flushed. She didn’t mean to talk about this, or anything. She pressed her lips on his.
He stepped back. “You didn’t answer me. Do you want to get married?”
“You don’t mean it. You’re just lonely.”
“Aren’t you?”
“It’s not a reason to get married. Not now, while you’re deciding if you want to be an artist or a beekeeper or a baker for all I know.”
“You don’t take me seriously.”
“I do.” She felt a tug through her throat, thinking how she hated when Louisa hinted that she lacked character because she didn’t see things just the way she did. “I know you don’t want to be stuck in a dark office. I understand. But we can’t live like field hands, at least not when we have children.”
“Then I’ll look for a job somewhere else. Some of the fellows are going to New York to make their fortunes.”
“For goodness sake, who lives there?”
“I don’t suppose everyone can trace their roots back to patriots and ship captains, and there’s no history of tea spilled in the harbor. But there’s been a lot of building going on since the war. I can use a saw and hammer.”
“You change your mind all the time about what you’ll do. We need …”
“Money, I know, that’s what you care about. Do you know what that feels like? To be always told to wait?”
“Julian, your mother told me that your family is in debt. That Mr. Fields has paid for everything.”
“I suppose something is owed him, but income from the books is bound to pay him back. Things always turn out.”
“I won’t see my children go hungry, or ashamed of their clothes or their home.” She struggled to keep her voice even. “You don’t want that either. Why, your parents gave you an excellent education in Europe.”
“I’d rather have been with other fellows, making slingshots and shooting marbles instead of listening to my father recite Shakespeare or my mother insist we sketch Roman ruins.”
“I just saw the sketches she did there. It’s a shame she didn’t paint more.”
“That would have been grand. Then I’d have two parents shut behind closed doors.”
“And someone should have pulled your father from his room.”
“My mother wasn’t earnest about art. Surely you aren’t either.”
“You assume that because we’re women.”
“There’s never been a female Michelangelo or Rembrandt.”
How had they begun arguing about art? May touched his arm and saw the blue leave his eyes as they clouded. His cheeks crumpled. His chest shook. She thought he might cry, but his voice burst out in anger. “I used to think you were different from your family, but you’re not. Your mother has to right every wrong, feed every stranger. Your father can’t let an apple just be an apple. No one can be just enough, and you’re the same.”
“I’m not like them.”
“You want to paint lilies prettier than they really are. You can’t leave a plain wall alone. You want to make everything better than it is. You tell me I’m too young, too aimless. And it’s not just me. I expect you’ll find something wrong with every man you meet, even one who promises to sweep you off to Europe. You don’t know how to love.”
“I do!” Hadn’t she loved him, and rowing, and the way the lilies made the water pale? But maybe because she didn’t plead more, he spun around and headed toward the woods.
She stood by the empty rowboat at the spot where a young woman had left behind her shoes and bonnet. May picked up the water lily, which was already wilting. She’d never be as foolish as the woman who’d waded too far, but she shouldn’t have pulled the flower from the water. The pearly shine of its bloom was magnificent, but she loved more the beauty of what didn’t stay still, but opened and closed, and was impossible to hold.
8
ART ANATOMY
As fa
ll arrived, May tried to put aside thoughts of Julian even as she copied letters and diaries in his house. The work let her afford art anatomy classes, which were held every Wednesday. She liked each better than the one before, though she worried that her interest in art, choosing the distance a painter needed, always gauging perspectives, had doomed her romance with Julian. Was squinting and stepping back a dangerous habit? But learning about bones and muscles would improve her ability at painting portraits, something she might make a living at. Could she one day even earn enough to travel to Europe, without depending on a man?
On a day when the milkweed leaves had turned yellow, she wore her favorite dress and a hat with a velvet bandeau and an egret feather. The train from Concord arrived well before her class. Remembering the sculpture of a dying gladiator she’d admired in Alice’s house, May decided to see one of Dr. Rimmer’s recently erected sculptures. She strode past Boston Common, where veterans, one with a missing arm, another with a bandaged head, sat by faded blue caps holding a few coins. Nursemaids wheeled carriages and held the collars of little boys getting too close to the pond while tossing bread to swans. May turned down Commonwealth Avenue and stopped at the statue of Alexander Hamilton. The founding father was shown in a windblown cloak and with muscular calves below breeches that buttoned below the knees. His stance was bold, his mouth determined, his chin lifted high, looking proud but, May thought, too much alone, until a pigeon lighted on the granite shoulder.
She continued past a department store, an art gallery, and a shop displaying tins of paints with postage-stamp-sized blocks of colors and pristine tubes of blues and reds, too dear for her to buy more than a small tube at a time. She could almost taste the lemon yellow, imagine the rich scent of burnt sienna. Passing an antique store, the stuffed owl in the window made her wish she could paint from such a model, not just remember glimpses from a dark tree. But the owl was expensive, too.
May entered a room in the Art Studio Building. She greeted Alice, Charlotte, and Anne Whitney, who was perhaps the most dedicated student and the only one older than May. They looked through the sketches of bones, muscles, and organs they’d done in earlier classes. Alice said, “I can’t wait until we draw a real person, but the model won’t come until after New Year’s. Dr. Rimmer will have us sculpt before we paint. To master three dimensions before we attempt two.”
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