—LUTHER CRESSMAN
June 1925
Spools of light flared out from their moving car, illuminating hairpin turns. Margaret gripped the sides of her seat and stared ahead. North woods such as these were loaded with deer. Earlier, at twilight, she’d already seen a herd bounding through the trees.
Ruth had tried to warn her that the cottage was deep in the forest, that reaching it wouldn’t be easy.
Margaret glanced over at Luther. He seemed unperturbed.
“Please slow down,” she said.
“Relax,” he said as he negotiated another turn.
Luther was a good driver, but whenever he got behind the wheel of Charlie Cressman’s red Buick roadster, he took too many chances. She prayed they wouldn’t hit anything.
They were returning from a holiday on Narragansett Bay.
Fannie McMaster, Margaret’s aunt, had generously lent them a quaint vacation cottage on a grassy field, just a couple hundred yards in from a muddy tidal flat. Considering that Margaret’s departure for Samoa was only four weeks away and she’d be gone for almost a year, Aunt Fannie thought they needed some special time together.
Margaret and Luther decided that the Rhode Island shore wasn’t any good for bathing but they both enjoyed the isolation. On the first night they’d laughed when they noticed, on the floor by Luther’s side of the bed, a carpenter’s hatchet, positioned at the ready, just in case danger threatened. A nearby restaurant served swordfish steaks and strawberry shortcake, and after their first meal they returned there for every dinner. The six nights in the cottage had done much to shore up Luther’s flagging confidence. He’d even told Margaret that for him the week was the happiest of their marriage. He called it a “second and true honeymoon.”
Luther didn’t want the honeymoon to end, so on the way back, when Margaret suggested taking a detour to visit the Benedicts’ cottage in West Alton, New Hampshire, he readily agreed.
They had both heard so much from Ruth about the north woods. She had made the “dark, dark blue” Lake Winnipesaukee and the surrounding countryside sound irresistible:
One of these clear northwest wind days we drove up through the White Mountains, up one and down the other—a beautiful old stand-by of a ride. We found a hidden little lake on a back road—green as beryl, and set in pinewoods against a bare cliff.
Besides, Ruth would be leaving soon on her own trip; she was going again to do fieldwork in Zuñi. Margaret wanted a proper good-bye and finally, a chance to get to know the elusive Stanley Benedict.
Margaret found it exceedingly strange that Ruth kept Stanley so hidden. Obviously he was a challenging personality. Ruth had told her he barely tolerated Ruth’s passion for anthropology and poetry, shunning social encounters with any of her colleagues. She’d cautioned that because he was preparing for his own trip, a solo hiking trek across Alaska, he might be even touchier now, saying “he always needs much waiting on when he’s packing up for the summer.”
All of this had done little to dampen Margaret’s enthusiasm for a visit. She felt it was well worth the 370-mile detour to fill in this missing piece of Ruth’s life. Who could say when she’d get another opportunity?
Ruth had warned that West Alton was “isolated.” She’d said that getting a letter there “might be a precarious matter,” and that even telegrams were not delivered “unless they contain the words death or died.” With this in mind, Ruth had left her with a set of directions that one might use to locate buried treasure:
You can put away your Blue Book when you strike the New Hampshire line and keep your eyes on the green posts. Manchester is the only bad town to get through and it’s well posted. I take it that it will be after dark by the time you reach these parts. Therefore watch the left side of the road well ten miles below Lakeport—somewhere between ten and twelve miles you’ll see the “Woodlane” sign. Turn the hairpin turn into our wood road.
“It’s supposed to be on the left,” said Margaret, “about ten miles past Lakeport.”
“We’ve gone at least ten miles,” said Luther.
Suddenly they saw a road, so narrow it could be a footpath, and Luther made a sharp turn into it.
“There’s where we’re supposed to leave the car,” said Margaret, pointing to a stone garage at the top of the hill.
Luther pulled over and parked. They both got out of the car and stood for a moment, stretching, breathing in the balmy night air. Margaret could hear the soft gurgle of a brook someplace in the darkness.
Down by the cottage the earth was rich and fecund. An old stone path led to the porch. They climbed the stairs. Pushing open the door they tiptoed through a dark front room. Ruth and Stanley had obviously already gone to sleep. A door was ajar, a flickering light and a double bed beckoned from within.
Margaret undressed and slipped into her nightgown. She climbed into bed next to Luther. She’d been looking forward to this visit and she knew Ruth had, too. When Margaret had told her that they planned to visit, Ruth had said, “I’d have been more lonely than you’d have guessed if you’d decided against coming. I count the days.”
Margaret had been counting the days, too.
* * *
Margaret watched Stanley’s large pale hands crack eggs on the side of the bowl. He was making his acclaimed French toast to be served with the local maple syrup. His movements were economical, precise, and certain. “This is how he must be in his laboratory,” thought Margaret. When she finished her piece she was still hungry, but when Stanley made no motion to make more, good manners prevented her from asking for a second helping.
They’d woken up to a clear cloudless sky. It was a perfect day for a hike out to the lake but Margaret assumed their excursion would not include Stanley.
“Stanley has been immersed in Canadian Pacific literature,” Ruth was saying. “He plans to start for Alaska a week after I leave, going through Banff and Lake Louise.”
“I’ve mapped the route to take me past eight glaciers,” said Stanley.
“He’d never have started,” said Ruth, “if I’d been here to stay on with all summer.”
Inevitably the discussion switched to the Zuñi and Ruth’s travel plans.
Ruth planned to take the train to New Mexico in late July, at approximately the same time Margaret would be leaving for San Francisco, to catch the steamer that would take her to the South Seas.
It turned out that Stanley had been giving the whole situation some serious thought. He’d decided that Ruth and Margaret should travel together.
Stanley proceeded to lay out the plan: The two of them could ride together as far as New Mexico. At the Gallup station, Ruth could get off to catch her mail wagon for Zuñi. Margaret could continue on to the West Coast.
Luther agreed it was a wonderful idea.
Ruth, who had already heard all of this, caught Margaret’s eye before turning back to Stanley. “But I’ve already made plans to go with Goddard,” she said, referring to a long-standing arrangement she’d had with Pliny Goddard, the director of the Museum of Natural History. “I’m to meet him in Cincinnati and travel with him across country. I can’t possibly change that now, can I?”
“You know what I think about that,” snorted Stanley. “Why you have to ruin a good trip by traveling with Goddard, I can’t for the life of me understand.”
Ruth’s smile showed great forbearance. She explained to Margaret and Luther that as she had plans to visit a relative in Cincinnati, and Goddard was picking up his train in St. Louis, traveling together had made logistical sense.
“Logistical sense isn’t always good sense,” said Stanley. “I have a different idea.”
“It’s his contribution,” said Ruth, nodding toward her husband, “that in due time I write Goddard that there’s a chance I may not have to stay in Cincinnati, and ask for his train reservations out of St. Louis so I can go with him if I find it will be possible.”
“If it will be possible,” said Stanley, “and of course it won’t.”
“A nefarious plan,” said Ruth, winking at Margaret.
Later, when Stanley had taken up his camera and disappeared into his darkroom, Ruth took Margaret and Luther on what she described as her “favorite short walk.”
Ruth’s stride was long and both Luther and Margaret struggled to keep up.
“Isn’t this day priceless?” said Ruth. “We’ve had storms and two days of wind from the northwest.”
As they neared the lake, Ruth stopped and pointed to the gray mountain that rose behind it. “Look how it throws its shadow on the lake.”
Its stately presence, so quiet, solid, and commanding, was much like Ruth herself.
For a while they walked single file. After a bit Ruth dropped back and said, “How is Elizabeth? My mind has been so full of her lately.”
Margaret’s face darkened. “We all consult each other in corners and tell lies to her,” said Margaret. “It’s hateful.”
For weeks Margaret’s younger sister Elizabeth had been running a steady fever and coughing. In an attempt to enforce inactivity, the family had confined her to the garden. No one was uttering the dreaded word “tuberculosis,” but of course it weighed heavily on everyone’s minds. For Margaret, the mere possibility raised enough concern to undermine her determination to go to Samoa.
“They’ve consulted a specialist near Pittsfield,” said Luther, referring to a doctor who ran a sanitarium in Massachusetts.
“I wonder when you’ll have any conclusive word,” said Ruth.
“Dadda says no matter the outcome, I’m to go. He says I won’t do anyone any good by staying back.”
By the time the three returned to the cottage the sun was high above them. Luther picked up his Audubon Guide and ventured out again. Margaret said she was tired. Following Ruth into the kitchen, she saw that vegetables from the garden were resting on the counter.
Ruth laughed. “Lunch,” she said. “Another one of Stanley’s nefarious schemes with me having to do the dirty work.” She started busying herself, washing and chopping.
Margaret hoisted herself up on the counter.
“Stanley is inspired,” said Ruth, a note of giddy excitement rising in her voice. “His scheme is unequaled in the annals of Italian poisoning diplomats.”
“Stanley,” said Margaret, “is a born crook politician.”
“Isn’t he, though,” said Ruth. As she chopped, an untidy strand of hair fell over her face.
Margaret watched her purse her lips and blow it aside.
“It’s an excellent scheme to get Goddard’s plans,” said Margaret. “But I’m afraid Stanley is terribly right. Better tell Goddard, after he’s bought his tickets, that you can’t travel with him at all.”
After a few minutes Ruth said, “Darling,” and then, lowering her voice, “Luther seems better. Much better. Or am I wrong?”
“No, he is better,” said Margaret. “He wants to be sure I need him. He’s been doubting that all spring. And, of course, the verse is a symbol of it with him,” referring to the poems she’d been writing since her friendship with Edward Sapir had blossomed. “I’ve been awfully involved in it—and awfully remote. This trip has helped with him, but…”
Then, beginning to pace the room, “I find myself trying to break all the threads that bind me to this life as quickly and painlessly as possible.”
“You poor dear,” said Ruth.
Margaret walked to her, laying her hand on Ruth’s forearm. “I don’t know why, but you always seem to sympathize with my obscure vagaries.”
What Margaret didn’t say was that lately her feeling of self-sufficiency had gone to pieces. The reason was that her feelings for Edward Sapir had begun to undermine her commitment to her marriage. Luther had sensed her confusion, but had construed it for something else, reassuring her, again and again, that it was natural for her to have a case of the jitters before leaving for the South Seas.
Ironically, her show of vulnerability had given Luther the first confirmation that she needed him. He’d even told her so.
The truth was that lately Edward had been so much on Margaret’s mind that he intruded himself into nearly every situation. She found herself fantasizing about him, even when she was in bed with Luther. During their “second honeymoon,” Edward’s unspoken presence, constantly hovering over her, enveloping her in a mist of desire, was a lubricant in her lovemaking with Luther.
But Margaret knew that any talk about Edward with Ruth often ended in driving a wedge between them. The fact was he also loomed large in Ruth’s fantasy life. Ruth had told her so, saying that her unresolved feelings for Edward were so strong that even Stanley had noticed and admitted some jealousy. Some months ago she’d confided to Margaret that Edward had become “a convenient personification of all my interests apart from him, anthropology, poetry and the rest.”
Possibly Stanley was still brooding over Edward.
Margaret looked at Ruth. Her face was serene.
“How is Stanley’s state of mind?” said Margaret. “I can’t tell.”
“Well,” Ruth said, “he always believes that whenever we’re separated awhile, that something could come between.”
Margaret watched Ruth at the cutting board. She’d come to realize that Ruth’s placid features, so elegant and outwardly calm, often masked tumultuous emotions.
Margaret liked it when those feelings came to the surface.
Sensing a current running between them, Margaret moved closer. Ruth turned to her and their eyes locked. Margaret did not look away and neither did Ruth. After a few moments Ruth bent down and kissed the top of Margaret’s head.
* * *
That night, slowly rocking back and forth, Ruth sat with Margaret on the swinging bench on the front porch. Their husbands had gone to visit the frog pond down by the lake.
Fireflies darted past them. A faint odor of burning logs emanated from another house, somewhere in the darkness.
“Of course it was all right to tell Sapir I was coming here,” Margaret said, turning to Ruth.
Ruth drew her long legs up under her and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. Margaret, she thought, looked especially beautiful tonight.
Ruth was aware their arms were touching.
“It seems absurd to keep secrets from him anyway,” said Margaret. “Our three doings and conversations and obsessions have been correspondence material for so long.”
Ruth felt Margaret lean into her. In response Ruth gently ran her hand down Margaret’s bare arm. “Darling girl,” she said. “I worry so about you. Do the arms still shriek?”
Margaret cast her eyes down. As her trip approached her neuritis had increased. She’d told Ruth that often her arms hurt so much she couldn’t fall asleep.
Ruth took Margaret’s hand in hers, and with her strong fingers firmly began to massage it, working her way up the forearm. Even in the darkness she could see the relaxation spreading over Margaret’s face.
Ruth felt Margaret nestle in, closer. As she sank into Ruth’s side, she threw her head back and sighed a long, deep sigh.
Ruth looked down at her.
“Can I tell you something I’ve been thinking about?” Margaret asked, looking up at her.
“Of course,” said Ruth.
“It’s my curse, I suppose, but to me it seems perfectly natural to love two people at the same time.”
Ruth’s hands slowed and then stopped moving on Margaret’s arm. For a moment neither woman spoke. The faraway cry of a loon echoed across the lake.
“It’s a lovely sound,” said Margaret.
“Isn’t it,” said Ruth.
“I’m beginning to think that I’m incapable of meeting the demand of a single-hearted devotion,” said Margaret.
Ruth began massaging Margaret’s arm again, trying to work the pain out of it. It seemed to her that Margaret might start crying.
“Marriage,” said Ruth, “is a marvelous institution.”
Margaret pulled back to look at her.
> “I know I complain about Stanley, but really he and I are like-minded.”
“I know you are,” said Margaret.
“And for you,” said Ruth, “Luther is a perfect husband.”
“How so?”
“He, like Stanley, provides comfortable companionship. Except that Luther is even less demanding than Stanley. And if a woman has a mate like Luther, one who is mild-mannered, undemanding, and supportive, he gives one a great deal of freedom.”
Ruth thought that somehow she had to make Margaret realize that having Luther was critical to her happiness. For when she thought of Margaret—and she was always considering what was best for Margaret—she realized that in order for her to be happy, she would have to find a way to satisfy her ambition. Ambition was Margaret’s strongest impulse, the motivating force in her life. If Margaret were not to reach for her dreams, she would never, could never be happy.
And it was essential that Margaret craft an image of herself that was appropriate to that of a professional woman. Margaret, Ruth knew, must appear conventional. Any deviation from the socially accepted model would threaten her success.
“The love one has for a man,” said Ruth, “is not the same as the love one has for a woman. They move on separate tracks. They don’t intersect.”
Still resting against Ruth, Margaret closed her eyes.
“You must realize,” said Ruth, “that you’re fortunate to have a husband like Luther.”
“I do,” said Margaret. “At least I think I do.”
Ruth wanted Margaret to truly understand this. She bent and gently kissed Margaret’s hair, then tilting her face up, brushed her lips with her own, feeling Margaret’s lips slightly parting.
“Ruth,” murmured Margaret, “you give me such strength.”
Suddenly Ruth heard the men’s voices, coming up from down below. They were back from the lily pond. Margaret heard them, too, and straightened up and pulled away.
“Be true to your instincts, dear, and drink sharply from them,” said Ruth.
Luther appeared first, his face shining with happiness. “A thousand tiny frogs,” he said, “all chirping in their miniature voices. As soon as they sensed our approach they fell silent.”
Coming of Age Page 17