Coming of Age

by Deborah Beatriz Blum

  She rested his letter on her chest, dropping her hand into the water, thrilling to the sudden shock of the cold.

  * * *

  Ruth was seated on a wicker chair, in the spot she favored, on the veranda. Whenever she and Stanley were in West Alton, they reconvened here at the end of the day, soaking up the last rays of sunlight.

  The sleeveless cut of her cotton dress revealed the shapeliness of her arms. The pattern of tiny blueberries that crawled up her bodice made her appear cool and crisp, even on this sweltering afternoon. On the tray by her side sat a pitcher of freshly brewed ice tea and and a plate of cucumber sandwiches neatly quartered.

  A problem, however, was weighing her down, so much that she could feel the tension in her shoulders and her neck.

  When she had accepted the fellowship to do research for Mrs. Parsons, she had done so with the tacit understanding that her work would be based on a firsthand experience with the Zuñi. This meant fieldwork, and there was no way around it. However, as drawn as she was to understanding how ritual functioned within the Zuñi community, she was equally daunted by the prospect of going there to experience it.

  What could she possibly uncover that would be more insightful than all the previous anthropologists who had gone before her, those who had observed the Zuñi when their culture was still intact?

  That morning she’d written to Dr. Boas:

  All summer I’ve worked on the mythology and I don’t suppose a day has ever passed that I haven’t wished fervently I could ask you some question, or wondered what you thought of some difficult coincidence in the stories. I’ve acquired considerable material but I haven’t set to work to tabulate it yet, nor even tried to summarize anything.

  This would serve as a good preface to why she’d decided not to go but she wanted to discuss the rest with Stanley. He’d know how she should frame her explanation.

  When Stanley finally emerged she could see that he was more distracted than usual. She poured him a glass of tea, garnishing it with a slice of lemon. Next to him she placed a plate of perfectly arranged sandwiches.

  Once settled into his chair, Stanley spread a scientific journal open on his lap. Adjusting his eyeglasses, he took a bite of a sandwich, and began flipping through the pages.

  Suddenly his phrase, “It’s just the nerve,” rose up in Ruth’s mind and she found herself struggling to maintain her composure. Those words, which he had uttered a few nights earlier, still inflicted pain. The conversation had occurred over dinner. Stanley had been cutting his meat when suddenly he put down his fork and looked at her. “It isn’t any laws people need for divorce, just the nerve.” When she hadn’t responded, he said, “You might find a job at Wellesley, while I go to California.”

  At the time, Ruth had thought to herself, “He has a fixed idea, and he’ll drive me to it—maybe.” She had come to expect indifference from him, but not an outright challenge. He was driving her to it, all right. She was infuriated, but she wasn’t about to let him know it.

  Suddenly his indifference was too much to bear. Rising from her chair, she walked into the cottage. Standing over the kitchen sink, fixing her gaze on the little drooping flowers that poked their heads out from the flowerbox, she poured her tea down the drain. Only later did she express her feelings, not to Stanley, but in her journal:

  For I am smitten to my knees with longing,

  Desolate utterly, scourged by your surface-touch

  Of white-lipped wave and unquiet azure hands.

  * * *

  One Sunday morning Ruth took Stanley’s motorcar out for an excursion. Driving down a two-lane highway for forty miles, she kept on the lookout for the Second Advent campground she’d heard about. Finally she spotted a dusty field that held about two dozen dilapidated cars and trucks.

  Ruth made her way across the field, passing by rows of wooden picnic tables where women in loose housedresses were setting out bowls of food. Then she saw the supplicants, gathered in a circle around the preacher:

  The great outdoors camp ground was filled with close-lipped people to whom the universe was about as rich and various as it is to a cat after mice. It seemed to me that their souls were knotted and tied against the very notion of infinity.… No stretch of sympathy could conceive that finite man was here rising toward the infinite—No.

  Filled with a kind of revulsion, Ruth couldn’t help but think about the rigidity of her own religious upbringing, and that it was “always fundamentally a paralyzing, a limiting, a mocking finite of the infinite.”

  Later in the afternoon, when families were seated at the tables, eating their midday meal, an older woman motioned her over and offered to share what turned out to be the vegetarian supper that she and her sister had prepared.

  “Old maids,” thought Ruth, “somehow they seem to find me.”

  After the meal Ruth walked slowly back to her motorcar. Many of the campers were tying bundles on the tops of their automobiles, saying good-bye. She found herself contemplating the future. She was now thirty-eight years old and locked in an empty marriage. She suspected if she did venture into the field to go to Zuñi that would hasten its end. She sensed that in the near future she might have more in common with the old maids than she did even now.

  * * *

  Ruth hurried through the lobby of Schermerhorn Hall, then through a door to the stairwell. Margaret Mead was going to talk about comparative tattooing patterns in Polynesia. Dr. Boas had promised to attend today’s presentation. Taking the stairs two at a time, she reached the fourth floor.

  Ruth arrived at the seminar room to find the diminutive Margaret up on a chair, teetering on tiptoes, struggling to hang an enormous reproduction of a Polynesian design on the wall.

  “Here, let me give you a hand,” Ruth said, rushing to support one side of it while Margaret tacked up the other. The cardboard illustration was so large it covered the entirety of a chalkboard.

  It had been Ruth who had first encouraged Margaret to pursue a doctorate in anthropology. She so believed in Margaret’s ability that she had taken the unprecedented step of giving her a $300 “no strings attached fellowship.” This had been just enough money to make graduate school possible. Referring to Ruth as a “fairy god mother,” Margaret had sent the following note:

  Perhaps there is no accepted form for thanking someone who not only opens up all the possibilities of a life work by introducing one to it, but also makes it possible for one to go into that work—perhaps there is no form of thanks because none would be adequate.

  Over time Ruth had come to realize that this young lady with the sunny disposition, when focused on a goal, was relentless in her pursuit. Margaret seemed to have an opinion about everything and had no trouble demanding attention for herself. And while this trait rubbed some people the wrong way, prompting Esther Goldfrank to call her “a pugnacious little shrimp” and others to say she “had a lot of nerve,” Ruth found this assertiveness attractive. In spite of being fifteen years older than Margaret, she was genuinely starting to enjoy the girl’s company.

  Today was to be Margaret’s debut performance as a graduate student and Ruth could see that she was quite keyed up. When Dr. Boas came through the door, the room went quiet. He bowed a formal greeting and took a seat.

  At the end of the presentation, Dr. Boas was his courtly self, congratulating Margaret on her illustrations and saying he had no idea she possessed such artistic talent. As he was walking out, Margaret turned to Ruth for affirmation.

  “I learned quite a bit,” said Ruth, trying to hide her disappointment.

  The truth was that Ruth had found it difficult to concentrate on Margaret’s presentation. She’d been distracted by the delivery, with the ideas firing out like corn kernels from a popper. Because of her bad ear, Ruth had missed much of what had been said.

  * * *

  It was two nights later when Ruth was brushing her teeth at the washbasin that she heard the sound of knocking. Turning off the water, she listened, unsure if the
knock was at her door, or down the hall. When it came again, louder this time, she wiped her hands on a towel, and unhooked the chain.

  Margaret’s husband was standing out in the hall.

  Ruth opened the door wider.

  “I am so sorry, Ruth,” he said. “I know the hour is late.”

  “That’s all right, Luther.” She stepped back from the threshold so he could enter.

  Luther moved into the room. He was a tall young man. His clear eyes were perfectly level with Ruth’s.

  “It’s Margaret,” he said. “She’s afraid you’re disappointed in her.”

  “Disappointed? For heaven’s sake, over what?”

  “The seminar report. I’m afraid she’s taking it hard.”

  “She gave a wonderful report. A first-rate report.”

  “That’s not the way she described it,” said Luther. “She said your reaction was lukewarm.”

  “Oh, my,” said Ruth. “Did she send you here?”

  “Margaret can be intense,” said Luther. “You know how she gets wrapped up in things.”

  Ruth stared back at him.

  “I’m afraid she’s hysterical. I couldn’t calm her down.”

  “Please,” said Ruth, reaching out to touch Luther’s arm, “when you go home, tell her that I thought she did a first-rate job.”

  For Ruth it was confirmation, once again, of the intensity that lay beneath Margaret’s buoyant persona.

  * * *

  One morning, as Ruth was walking across campus, she saw a small figure coming toward her. The little person walked with a light step as though she had no weight on her shoulders. It took Ruth a moment before she realized it was Margaret.

  “My goodness, you’re here early,” said Margaret, changing direction to fall in with Ruth.

  From Ruth’s vantage point the top of Margaret’s head was far below her own. “Dr. Boas is giving a lecture, why don’t you come?”

  “Oh, but it’s his introductory course. I took that two years ago.”

  “He never says the same thing twice,” said Ruth. “I find there’s always something new to learn.”

  Boas’s lecture that morning was, as Ruth had predicted, entirely extemporaneous and full of fresh insights. Ruth was happy to see that Margaret appreciated it, too, so much so that from that point on Margaret attended every lecture Dr. Boas gave.

  On some days Ruth arrived at the Anthropology Department to find Margaret already in the seminar room, seated at the long table, a book spread open before her. Ruth would join her, and the two often worked side by side for hours, reading, taking notes, and, during breaks, swapping stories about their colleagues. They were together so much that Ruth called Margaret “her companion in harness.” They found they shared a like sensibility, including a distaste for the high-handed Elsie Parsons and her protégé Gladys Reichard. It still wasn’t what one would call a friendship of equals, but Ruth felt strongly enough to say of Margaret, “I say it’s the zest of youth I believe in when I see it in her. Or is it that I respond understandably to admiration?”

  There were other times, however, when Ruth was made uncomfortable by the adulation and by Margaret’s constant need for reassurance. Margaret was full of complaints about real or imagined physical ailments. If she wasn’t talking about the ache in her arm, she was complaining about the bad case of conjunctivitis she’d picked up. Ruth could see that Margaret expected those around her to be solicitous of her fragile health, and while Ruth often acceded to these unspoken demands, saying such things as, “I can’t bear to think of your arms being so hard to live with,” there were other times when she found them excessive. Margaret seemed to sense that she’d become burdensome and would apologize, thanking Ruth for listening to her “tales of woe.”

  One day Margaret, apparently thinking about her future, turned to Ruth and asked, “How old is he?”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Boas. He looks ancient.”

  “Well, let’s see. When I started here he was sixty-two,” said Ruth. “He must be nearly sixty-six.”

  “Oh dear.” Margaret looked worried. “He does have tremendous energy, but even so, who could possibly take his place?”

  “It can only be one person. Edward Sapir.”

  “Isn’t he the head of the Anthropology Division in Canada?”

  “He’s the most brilliant of all the men,” Ruth said, thinking that even this was an understatement.

  * * *

  Having Edward Sapir as an ally made Ruth feel that her achievements were not inconsequential. The contrast between Edward and Stanley, her husband, was stark. Any time she put pen to paper, it was Edward she thought of, not Stanley.

  Although Edward still addressed her as Mrs. Benedict, and maintained a formal distance, he was making inroads into the part of her she’d kept hidden all these many years.

  It wasn’t that long ago that Edward had inquired about the poets she liked to read and she’d said, “John Donne and Walt Whitman.”

  She remembered how he’d lifted his brows in mock surprise and exclaimed, “Of course you do! I knew it! None of that feminine self-confessional poetry for you!”

  Ruth was gratified that Edward’s reaction to the women poets of the day, like Edna St. Vincent Millay, was in line with her own sensibility. He’d said:

  My main difficulty with this poetry—for I have one, a slight one—is its exceeding richness. It is hard for me not to feel somewhat cloyed, but that is my weakness. I feel more at home with spare effects.

  She exulted. She knew that—if nothing else—she herself was a woman of “spare effects.”

  Ruth discovered that Edward, every bit as much as she did, enjoyed obsessing over the subtle nuances of words arranged in verse: their variations, their progressions. For Ruth, as well as for Edward, poetry was an expression of man’s attempt to comprehend his existence. As writers, this set them apart from those who adhered to the style that was currently in fashion, which valued an expression of earnest sincerity above all else. What Ruth had in common with Edward was that they both were searching for a way to be authentic to their perceptions.

  When they talked about the creative process, his advice resonated:

  The best way to write a poem is to give up looking for a subject. Grab some phrase or sentence that you hear, if in the least striking, tear it violently from its context, idealize it or whimsicalize or in some other way sketch it on to a remote country, let a new setting grow out of it at fancy’s command and, at the end, if necessary, erase the line or phrase that served as stimulus.

  When it came to finding a publisher, Edward was rarely successful. He complained vehemently:

  My verse comes back with the regularity of clockwork. The Stratford Monthly took 4 or 5 of my verses in a lump including only one of my recent run … probably without reading them. They don’t pay and probably get nothing of merit sent to them.

  Ruth had been secretly thrilled that Edward had seized on “their shared sensibility,” and when he announced that he had “half a mind” to send her some of his verse for comments, she said she’d be happy to take a stab at it.

  The poems started to arrive, one after the other. Every week she’d find a thick envelope waiting in her mailbox. When she felt his verse was not working she tried to deliver her criticism in a gentle manner. Other times, when she could respond with enthusiasm, she was delighted by the effect her praise had on him.

  However, just because Edward was sending her his poems didn’t mean that she was ready to send him hers. She had no intention of sharing her poetry with anyone. She “still believed that it was safest to keep most of her personal imaginative life to herself.”

  And yet, the alchemy that was at work between Ruth and Edward was having a transformative effect. It was slowly melting Ruth’s steely resolve.

  11

  THE RIDEAU CANAL

  You are right in one thing. Death for myself does not seem such an evil, then why should it for Florence?

  —E
DWARD SAPIR

  March 1924

  It was barely 4:00 p.m. in Ottawa and the sun was already down. Streetlights emitted a sickly yellow glow along the wide and empty boulevards. Snow, gray and deep, had been plowed into murky furrows along the sidewalks. Edward stepped gingerly over the wet pile of slush that had formed in front of his walkway and entered the house. From the parlor came the faint tinkle of the piano where ten-year-old Michael was practicing a simplified version of a Mozart concerto. As Edward was unlacing his boots his mother suddenly appeared before him and started kvetching that Michael was not practicing with a metronome.

  From another part of the house he heard Florence’s voice, calling to him, weak but insistent. He padded down the hall and entered their bedroom.

  Florence was awake, sitting up in bed, a white wooden tray bearing her dinner balanced on her lap, the food on her plate uneaten.

  Waving her hand at the tray she said, “Can you take this away?”

  He lifted the tray off the bed and placed it on the floor. Unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, he settled himself into the chair by the side of the bed.

  Florence shifted to face him. “Please talk to Michael,” she said. “He’s upset. You know he doesn’t like the metronome, but your mother won’t listen.”

  “It’s not mother that’s making him,” said Edward, “it’s Mr. Saunders. That’s how he wants him to practice.”

  “And he doesn’t want your mother at the recital,” said Florence.

  “That’s not something you need to worry about,” said Edward. They both understood that Michael was embarrassed by his grandmother’s thick Yiddish accent, which always seemed to rise above the hum of small talk surrounding Mr. Saunders’s refreshment table.

  Rising from the chair, Edward picked up the tray and left the room.

  * * *

  That night Edward made a point of sitting down at the piano with Michael to teach him the simpler bass parts for a four-handed piano piece. It was a difficult piece by Beethoven. When Michael was unable to keep up with his reading speed and finger technique, Edward exasperated, yelled, “Now I see why you need the metronome.”