Coming of Age

by Deborah Beatriz Blum

  Some awkward minutes pass. Father Sparks was watching Luther, his blue eyes unreadable. Finally he smiled, the pink skin crinkling around his nose. “The family told me of your kindness, how much it meant to them.”

  “I tried to do what I could,” said Luther, moving back against his seat and looking out at the Sunday morning traffic.

  They continued on, mostly in silence. Luther felt his decision to help in a lowly but useful manner had been correct. He had won back at least some measure of his self-respect, but when he thought about what had motivated his actions, he realized it was not his religious training, but the ideals set by his mother and father who had served the people in their county so selflessly.

  At the cemetery, Luther walked among the graves, unconsciously taking note of the dates engraved on the tombstones. So many of them marked lives cut short. Infants and children gone before they had reached the age of three. Young women, in their twenties and thirties. How many of these poor women had died during childbirth? Had their families sufficient money to pay for prenatal care and proper food? Could these tragedies have been averted?

  In the following weeks Luther continued performing the ritual of Mass, but from outside the seminary other influences were at work undermining his equanimity. His courses at Columbia raised questions about the role of the Church in regard to poverty.

  Then, of course, there was Margaret. She had opened his eyes, too. He wrote to her, “I have you to thank for the incentive and the awakening to new ideas and a new world of thought … for my interest in the church regardless of what happens to develop.”

  A few weeks later, during the Evensong service at eight o’clock, Luther was assisting Father Sparks at St. Clement’s. Doing more talking than sermonizing, Luther told his small congregation that he believed in the Lord’s saying, “Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free.” With this in mind he quietly urged his listeners to stay informed.

  Several people looked at him quizzically.

  “Try to read more than one source of news,” said Luther. “You will find that each newspaper is biased.”

  Following the service Father Sparks was waiting for him in the vestry. Luther was surprised.

  “What were you thinking?” demanded Sparks.

  Luther’s face reddened.

  “Don’t preach any more of that New Republic stuff here,” said Sparks.

  Before Luther could respond, Sparks turned on his heel and walked into the dimness of the chapel.

  * * *

  Greenwich Village could boast many unusual establishments but, in Luther’s mind, none was so special as Pagan Books. Its floor-to-ceiling shelves were bent under the weight of thousands of treasures. The velvet couches that faced each other from either side of the fireplace sagged from years of heavy use. In the late afternoon, Hudson, the shop’s proprietor, served tea in chipped porcelain cups and his wife, Janet, told stories about their daughter, a would-be opera singer. In Luther’s mind this was a perfect place to sit and read. Then he had brought Margaret to the shop and she had rewarded him by exclaiming that Pagan Books was her favorite bookstore in the whole city.

  One afternoon, sitting next to one another on one of the settees, Luther lay down the book of essays he was reading.

  “You will like this,” he said to Margaret. “This woman Magdeleine Marx believes that in marriage, a woman needs much more than romantic love to make her happy.”

  Margaret slowly raised her eyes from her book. “Continuing in school is what will make me happy,” she said. “We’ll have to economize, so we both can continue with our courses.”

  “We’ll make it go all right,” said Luther. “I’ll get thirty-six credits this year if it all goes well, then six this summer, making it forty-two. That will leave me eighteen to complete my degree. I’ll be able to take a minimum and do extra work.”

  “So you really think we can manage?” asked Margaret.

  “There’s no cause for worry,” said Luther. “We’ll fool them all.”

  He laughed. “And unless one or the other should develop an aversion to it—and I don’t expect to—we will be married in September.”

  Margaret moved closer to him, her eyes searching his face.

  “Martha has a gas plate we can have,” said Luther. “Everything will be okay.” He threw his arm over her shoulder.

  “I expect it will,” she said.

  He slid closer to her and said into her ear, “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love every vibrant part of your body and spirit. Not my reflection in you. Not my control over you.”

  In fact, Luther firmly believed that love was the only justification for marriage, and when that foundation ceased to exist, dissolution was called for. He knew that Margaret felt that way, too.

  “And the last thing in the world I would want, darling, would be that you were tied to me by my affection for you,” said Luther. “That in fear of hurting me—if you no longer cared for me—you would feel bound to me so that your freedom was destroyed.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to feel that way towards me either,” said Margaret, holding his gaze.

  “It would be terrible,” said Luther, reaching out and taking both of her hands in his, “if you felt you could not leave me for fear of hurting me.”

  9

  A COTTAGE ON CAPE COD

  I’m going to be famous some day … and I’m going to be known by my own name.

  —MARGARET MEAD

  July 1923

  After a five-year engagement, Margaret and Luther had finally picked a date: September 3, 1923.

  In the weeks and days leading up to the wedding, an assortment of packages had been arriving at the Mead family home. Now, piled high on the dining room table were the boxes, some opened, some sealed, holding all manner of ceremonial trappings.

  There were hats made of pale pink tulle to coordinate with dresses of the same color, and parasols to match, gloves to complete the ensemble, and then keepsakes to mark the day: silver lockets for each of the bridesmaids, each with the wedding date engraved on the back, and simple gold cuff links for the five ushers, who all happened to be Luther’s brothers.

  A long cardboard box that contained Margaret’s gown lay open on the table.

  Marie Eichelberger, visiting for the weekend, stood over the box, pulling open the tissue-paper sleeve that enclosed it. Marie fingered the line of delicate seed pearls that trimmed the neck.

  Margaret stood behind her, waiting for her reaction.

  “Satin crêpe, so versatile. Your train should be cut from the same material, with a full veil of tulle.”

  “I thought you’d like it,” said Margaret.

  Marie gently lifted the gown up, uncoupling it from its wrapping. Fashioned from a satin crêpe of the palest ivory, with long close-fitting sleeves and a bodice embroidered with rose point lace, it was soft, lovely, and yet still formal. Marie approached Margaret and held it up against her body so she could see the length. The hem reached to mid-calf, classical yet stylish.

  “You’re going to look so charming and beautiful,” said Marie. “I wish I could be here to see it.”

  “So do I, dear,” said Margaret.

  Looking at Margaret with unabashed affection, Marie said, “I haven’t yet discovered the word in any language which describes you.”

  “Believe me, there are plenty,” said Margaret.

  Marie carefully replaced the dress in the box. Then, turning to face Margaret, now seated on the divan, she said, “If only I could manicure your hands for your wedding day.”

  “Margaret’s slave” may have been what some of the others called Marie, but to Margaret she was nothing short of a godsend. Too busy to do so herself, Margaret had asked Marie to find a florist to design the bouquets, to order the gifts for the bridesmaids, and, in a show of real trust, to assist in organizing the seating chart for the luncheon.

  For her part, Marie had learned to tolerate Luther. However, what she couldn’t accept was that
Margaret had other close friends. When a letter had arrived from Léonie Adams saying, “How jolly that everyone is to turn up. We all promise not to be Ash Can Cats, if we can maintain respectability throughout the ceremony,” Marie had sulked all afternoon.

  Just then Margaret’s mother came through the door from the pantry carrying a tray laden with butter cookies and ice tea.

  Margaret waited until her mother left the room. “I have something to show you,” she said, as she poured the tea. Rising from the divan and walking to the corner cupboard, she retrieved a small cardboard box. She held it toward Marie. “Take one.”

  Marie pulled an At-Home Card from the box.

  Margaret watched Marie’s face.

  Marie peered at the card, and then held it closer so she could examine it. On the card was printed the address of Margaret and Luther’s future apartment, along with their names.

  “Your At-Home Cards look a little queer,” said Marie. “Look at them. Your name is all wrong.”

  “No,” said Margaret, “my name is correct. After I’m married I’m still going to be Mead. Margaret Mead.”

  “Goodness,” said Marie, sinking back in her chair, contemplating the card. “It looks, I don’t know, a trifle immoral.”

  Margaret smiled.

  Both girls were well aware that an At-Home Card was mightily important. Generally speaking, a personal card like this one was considered to be a measure of a young lady’s character. According to Emily Post’s Etiquette published just the year before, and a book Marie frequently referenced, “A fantastic or garish note in the type effect, in the quality or shape of the card, betrays a lack of taste in the owner of the card.”

  Now, though she attempted to hide it, it was clear that Marie was flabbergasted. And Margaret, for whom good manners had always been the bedrock of all social interaction, was enjoying Marie’s consternation.

  Margaret wanted Marie to know that, really, etiquette had no bearing in this case. Her decision to keep using her maiden name was a way to assert her core values.

  She’d first started thinking about it earlier in the summer, after one of Mother’s cousins from the Fogg side of the family had come for a visit. The ladies had been discussing Margaret’s wedding plans when the cousin, who had always disapproved of Mother’s impractical idealism and her “little independent academic projects,” had turned to Margaret and in a snide voice said, “If your mother were getting married today I’ll bet she’d even keep her own name.”

  “I resented the tone with which she was putting Mother down,” said Margaret, “and I said to myself, why not?”

  “Would she really have kept her own name?” asked Marie.

  “I expect so,” said Margaret.

  “Why ever would she have done that?” said Marie.

  Margaret explained that her mother had always believed that women should keep their own identity and not be submerged into a man’s. That’s why she gave each of her daughters only one given name, so they’d keep their surnames after marriage.

  “But Luther?” said Marie. “Have you talked it over with Luther?”

  “Luther approves. And the Cressmans weren’t a bit shocked,” said Margaret. “Mrs. Cressman told Luther it was my own business and she was perfectly willing to call me Margaret Mead.”

  “Well,” said Marie, “I suppose it’s all right because it’s you.”

  A week later, after Marie had gone home, Margaret received a note of apology. Marie explained that the initial shock of seeing the cards had caused her to be too critical. Now that she’d recovered, she wanted Margaret to know that she appreciated her for “being her own person.” She ended the letter by saying, “Part of my college education is knowing you, anyway. Barnard or New York City hasn’t broadened my ideas as much as you.”

  What Marie did not know was that at the dinner table, a few nights earlier, Margaret had had a similar discussion with her father, albeit a more heated one. When Dadda had objected to her keeping Mead for her last name, Margaret had ended the argument by stomping her foot and yelling, “I’m going to be famous some day. And if I’m going to be famous, I’m going to be known by my own name.”

  Famous one day? Where had that outburst come from? And famous for what? Margaret had no idea. Certainly her pursuit of anthropology didn’t seem a likely path toward achieving that goal. She herself had said, “It is so non-lucrative that I fear I’ll have to do other things first,” making the joke, “I’m going to get a job giving change in the subway.”

  Yet Margaret was so fiercely determined to make something of herself that she made a point of working harder than everyone else. Louise Rosenblatt, also a dedicated student, once told her, “Your industry makes me feel like a good-for-nothing.”

  When kidded about having an unrelenting work ethic, Margaret had said, “If you’d been brought up in my family, you would, too.” Much of the pressure, of course, came from Dadda. On the day she was elected to Barnard’s Phi Beta Kappa chapter, Dadda was in the audience, taking great pleasure in his daughter’s achievement. After the ceremony, he went up to her, grasped the key that hung on a chain around her neck, and said, “That cost me ten thousand dollars. And you know what, Mar, it was worth it!”

  * * *

  Two weeks before the wedding, father and daughter were seated in the study of the Meads’ house. Dadda had been reading one of the serialized Westerns he enjoyed. Margaret was engrossed in her writing and didn’t notice that he’d laid down the book and was watching her.

  “Mar,” he said, “I have a proposition for you.”

  Margaret looked up. She knew that tone of voice too well. “What is it?”

  “I have it from Mother,” he said, referring to his own mother and Margaret’s grandmother, “that you’re getting married because in your mind it’s the expected thing to do.”

  Margaret assured him that Grandmother was wrong but Dadda was not to be deterred.

  “My proposal,” said Dadda, “is that I pay for you to take a trip around the world and give you an allowance to boot. And you don’t get married.”

  “But I want to get married,” said Margaret, her face growing red. Picking up her stationery and pen, Margaret rose from her chair and left the room.

  Margaret was accustomed to her father’s attempts to manipulate her through money. A bribe of twenty or thirty dollars in the form of a check tucked into a letter was his way of expressing love. It was also the method he used to control her. On the occasions when they reached an impasse, which happened often because both were stubborn, Dadda would offer a more robust amount. Her acceptance of his check constituted her tacit acceptance that “he who pays the piper calls the tune.”

  Dadda wanted veto power over her choice of a husband, and he did not like Luther. She wasn’t sure why. There had been a time, in the heat of an argument, when she’d told him what she valued in Luther were those abilities that he, Sherwood Mead, lacked, like Luther’s “precise physical skills, and his sensitivity to other human beings.” Perhaps this was what had turned Dadda against Luther. On the other hand, it might be something else that she hadn’t yet discerned.

  Surprisingly, in spite of how much Grandma genuinely liked Luther, the old woman had also had a lukewarm reaction to Margaret’s announcement that she planned to marry in the fall. She’d told Margaret, “He’ll be riding up to marry you any time you want to in the next five years. You don’t have to marry him to keep him.”

  Margaret, however, had a mind of her own.

  * * *

  On the morning of September 3, 1923, an open touring car pulled into the small village of Lahaska, Pennsylvania, and stopped in front of the town’s only hotel. Inside the car were six adults, all in high spirits. The young man behind the wheel peppered the horn several times.

  Upstairs, in the hotel suite, Luther Cressman was dressing. Hearing the screech of tires, and the horn, he opened the window. Looking down over the circular drive, he hollered out a greeting.

  By the time he
reached the bottom of the stairs, his mother and father were already standing in the lobby and two of his brothers were struggling with the luggage.

  “About time,” said Luther, clasping his brother George’s hand and embracing him.

  “Well, here we are,” said George. “After all, I’m the one responsible for all this.”

  “Not entirely, George. Luther himself might have had a little bit to do with it, don’t you think?” their mother said with a laugh.

  “Wasn’t easy to find this place,” said Morris, setting down a suitcase.

  Luther stepped back and looked them over. A thick layer of dust covered their hats and clothes and they were all laughing.

  “We stopped at the Meads’ for directions,” said his father.

  “We didn’t see your little girlie though,” said George, “They kept her hidden away.”

  What about the other Meads?” said Luther. “The older ones?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Morris, “if you mean the Mister, we saw him.”

  Luther led his brothers and parents into the dining room. As coffee was being poured, the hotel manager entered. He announced that a young lady was on the phone asking to speak to Luther Cressman. Luther followed the manager into his office where a receiver waited, off the hook. He picked it up.

  “Luther?” demanded the voice on the other end.

  “Margaret?”

  “Your family’s not coming to the wedding in those clothes, are they?”

  “No, Margaret, they’re not.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Luther could see one of his brothers on the stairs, ascending to the second floor. He said, “They’re changing now.”

  * * *

  The wedding took place at Trinity Church, just outside the village of Buckingham.

  Father Pomeroy, Luther’s favorite professor from the seminary, came to perform the nuptial Mass. Friends and family arrived by train and by car for the eleven o’clock ceremony, which was performed by the parish priest, the Reverend Mr. Hollah.

  After the wedding everyone proceeded to the farm for luncheon. The Meads’ Georgian house stood proudly on a rise above a sprawling lawn. Dotting the lawn were tables covered by white linen cloths and adorned with flower arrangements that had been designed by Marie Eichelberger’s florist.