“Magical,” said Stanley. “They’re always magical.”
Ruth looked at Stanley, then glanced back at Margaret. Margaret’s face was flushed.
It was important for Margaret to understand that in the coming months she could feed on Ruth’s strength, whenever she needed her.
Ruth reached out and squeezed her arm.
* * *
On the night of July 5, 1925, Margaret was at the family farm, sitting in Dadda’s office. Luther had left for a few days to stay with his own parents in Pughtown. The rest of the family had gone to bed, but Margaret was up late writing to Ruth.
She reported, “Elizabeth’s a little better and the Doctor says there are no ‘positive sounds’ in her chest and that she can cure here this summer.”
She knew Ruth’s concern for Elizabeth was genuine, not only for Elizabeth’s sake but also for her own. Ruth desired to see Margaret make the trip to the South Seas free of unnecessary anxiety. Not a day went by without Margaret giving silent thanks to Ruth for her unconditional love and support:
… all this should be hearty prelude to a proper expression of our gratitude for your hospitality. All thanks to Stanley for host-like qualities by day and hermit proclivities at night. I can write quite properly about your bread and butter and strawberries—But when the bread of heaven is still sweet on my lips, it is not so easy to say “thank you.”
Now for the challenging job. All afternoon Margaret had been trying to make heads or tails out of the transcontinental rail timetables. At her side was a pile of dog-eared, annotated brochures. She needed to relay this information to Ruth.
Positioning a piece of carbon paper between two sheets of Dadda’s stationery, she fed them into the typewriter. A typed timetable would be so much easier to deal with than one she could produce by hand:
Enclosed you will find the result of several hours intensive examination of all known time tables. This is the best we can do. It’s a day in New York versus a day at the Grand Canyon and you will have to decide how you want it to be. The waits between trains and the number of nights and days are equal.
Margaret and Ruth were now fully committed to making the three-day train trip together and alone, without Goddard. But the situation was delicate. As director of the Museum of Natural History, not only was Goddard Ruth’s senior colleague, but he was also Margaret’s potential boss.
Recently a position had opened at the museum for an assistant curator to take charge of the African, Malaysian, and South Sea exhibits. The job was subject to the passage of the budget, but if approved it would start in the fall of ’26, after Margaret’s return from Samoa. It would be the perfect fit for her.
As exciting as the prospect of spending three days and nights alone together was, they both knew they had to be extremely careful not to offend Goddard.
She presented the comparison between the two routes, leaving the final decision to Ruth. “Will you check your preference and send it back so I can put it through, please.”
A few days later Ruth’s reply arrived: “Does it mean we go all the way together? That’s an excellent hope—I promise not to count on it too much till I know. By all means I vote for the day at the Grand Canyon.”
Then in a rush, Ruth explained how she’d already set in motion the first phase of their plan to jettison Goddard. She’d told him that she was unable to leave with him from New York because of an obligation to care for one of Stanley’s relatives who was sick and on her way to a sanitarium.
The next phase of the deception was to occur when it was too late for Goddard to change his tickets:
… then I’ll telegraph him after we’re started … telling him “she” is suffering from melancholia and has gone from Cincinnati to a relative’s where I must follow her.—What a masterpiece! Art for art’s sake!—the only problem is, who will telegraph for me after we’re well on our way?
Margaret slipped Ruth’s letter into the pocket of her sundress and walked to the back door. Three days and nights alone with Ruth; there was much to contemplate. From where she was standing she could see her sister stretched out on a rattan lounge, on the lawn. Elizabeth seemed a little better; her temperature had returned to normal and she was more animated.
Margaret crossed the lawn and sat down at Elizabeth’s feet.
Elizabeth repositioned herself on the chaise. Turning to look at Margaret she said, “You see how I’m taking care of myself?”
“You’re an angel,” Margaret said with a smile, thinking that it had been smart of Dadda to promise Elizabeth a year abroad if she behaved herself. Leaning back, looking up into the clouds, she realized that now she was free to start her own adventure without gnawing guilt. The prospect left her both thrilled and terrified.
17
ARIEL
Of the heedless sun you are an Ariel,
Rising through cloud to a discovered blue …
—EDWARD SAPIR
July 1925
“We call this Rabbit Run,” said Margaret.
“I can see why,” said Edward. He looked down at Margaret. Somehow she seemed different in this rustic environment. It suited her. When he’d received her letter inviting him to come to the farm for the weekend, he’d been surprised. She’d told him, quite directly, that Luther would not be present. He’d come without any preconceptions. Now that he was there, amidst her family, the experience was turning out to be more enjoyable than he expected.
They were walking away from the house down a winding, tree-lined road. The lane was so narrow that every few feet Edward’s arm brushed against her shoulder. In the distance he could see a meadow carpeted with wild blue hyacinths that rolled down to the edge of a stream.
“I mapped out my courses and sent them off to Cole for announcement,” he said, making reference to Fay-Cooper Cole, the head of the Anthropology Department at the University of Chicago and his new boss.
“Oh, my,” she said. “It’s really happening.”
“I’m not buoyantly pleased about it, yet not depressed—quietly expectant about expresses it.”
“Maybe it’ll be the change you wanted.”
“Maybe,” he said. “For years I’d been placing my hopes in Columbia and Boas, but it seems fated not to be. Boas said he wanted me. Obviously he didn’t want me keenly enough to really wrestle.”
Margaret was looking up at him, listening.
“I suspect Boas merely goes through a few innocent motions and comes away thinking he’s moved heaven and earth,” he said, warning himself to be careful. Boas was always more receptive to his female students. The girls—both Margaret and Ruth—worshipped him. It would be a mistake to heap too much criticism on the old man. “I decided there was no use waiting any longer and that I must take what I could get,” he said. “I shall miss you and Ruth very much.”
They walked on in silence.
“You and Ruth would have been my chief reason for preferring New York, aside from the obvious advantages of New York as New York, but perhaps you girls can come to Chicago yet, or maybe I won’t stay there very long.”
He looked at her face. Usually so zestful and garrulous, today her mood seemed almost dreamy.
“Once this farm had over a hundred acres planted in wheat and rye and oats,” Margaret was saying, “and two fields of maize.”
Edward realized he felt more comfortable in her presence than he ever had before. Breathing in the sweet hot air, he said, “This looks like it was once a real working farm.”
In the distance she pointed out an old threshing machine now collapsed in a rusting pile. She told him how, when she was young, more than a dozen men worked there to thresh the wheat. Sometimes her mother brought her down to the lunch table so they could serve them their midday meal.
An old windmill stood by the stream. All around them, it seemed, were the relics of the farm that used to be.
Edward wondered how Sherwood Mead, a man seemingly so urbane and out-of-touch with his physicality, had ever managed to run this
place. Perhaps he’d left it to his wife.
As they neared the ravine, Margaret surprised Edward by taking his hand. It was totally unexpected. Whatever happens today, he told himself, he wasn’t going to let himself feel guilty about it.
Margaret led him off the path and they passed under a little bridge. Suddenly the earth crumpled inward, slanting down precipitously toward the stream. Letting go of his hand, she picked her way through the mud and stones. He followed closely behind. The late afternoon sun glinted off the gold in her hair.
They walked along the banks of the brook. Every so often Margaret bent down to pick a wildflower.
“Oh, look,” she said, “there’s the barn.”
She led him toward it. It was a three-storied structure, the wood bleached and dilapidated. Obviously it hadn’t been used in quite some time.
“Up there,” she pointed, “are the old pigeon lofts.” She was straining up on her toes to see into the lofts. Standing so close to her he could feel the heat coming off her body.
She guided him into the old barn, taking his hand again. Shafts of sunlight pushed through the rafters.
“This haymow floor was just the right height for giving plays,” she said. “See those chutes—that’s where we used to play hide-and-go-seek.”
He looked down at her. “Sometimes you’re like a child,” he said, laughing, “an absurd little girl.”
“Well,” she said, as if considering that idea, “I am virginal.”
“What does that mean?” he asked. “You’ve been married for how many years? Two? Three?”
“I don’t mean it in a literal sense.”
“No?” said Edward. He couldn’t for the life of him penetrate to the heart of her relationship with Luther.
He hesitated, then pulled her to him and took her up into his arms.
She met his kiss with an open mouth.
He thought her body might be childlike, but she felt like a full woman.
“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” he said.
“Whatever was stopping you?”
“Come here,” he said, pulling her down on the hay.
She was under him, the contours of her body fitting so perfectly with his. He felt her reposition herself and hike up her dress.
He was conscious that her hands were at his belt, undoing it.
It was happening so fast that he couldn’t stop himself.
Later he said, “What are we going to do about Luther?”
She ran her fingers through his hair. “Luther won’t mind,” she said. “He’s not jealous. He believes that I should be free to do what I want.”
“Am I supposed to believe that?” said Edward.
She just looked at him.
“I hardly think that’s possible,” he said.
“No, really. We made a vow, before we got married, that neither should try to control the other.”
They were lying side by side, facing each other. “With all my heart, I love you,” she said, snuggling into his body. He pulled her closer. As they were kissing Edward became conscious of a voice calling out Margaret’s name. He pulled back. The voice was right outside the barn.
“Oh, my God,” Margaret said, “it’s my mother!”
Edward jumped up and grabbed for his trousers. As he thrust one leg into the pants he nearly lost his balance before he managed to get them up.
Margaret was already up on her feet, smoothing down her dress.
“Margaret,” said Mrs. Mead.
Edward turned. The woman was standing in the doorway. “There you are,” she said, her eyes taking in the scene, glancing at Edward’s shoes on the ground. “Dinner is ready.”
* * *
That night sleep proved to be elusive. Edward was in a state of excitation. He knew Margaret was somewhere down the hall. His mind replayed every detail of their lovemaking in the barn. All he could think about was when he’d be with her again.
There were so many questions he wanted to ask her. Their future together was so fraught with challenges he couldn’t imagine how they were going to work things out. Luther, her “childhood friend,” as she referred to him, was the least of their difficulties.
The next morning, at breakfast, he noticed that Margaret was subdued.
He returned to his room to pack his bag and gather his thoughts. As he was carrying his suitcase down the stairs he found her waiting in the foyer.
“Come outside with me,” he said.
She followed him out the door.
“Find a reason to come into the city for a day. And a night. I’ll get a hotel room.”
She looked at him like he was crazy.
“Why not? We deserve to be happy.”
“It’s impossible.”
“Impossible?” He searched her eyes. They were clear and true. “What do you mean? Impossible? Do you love me?”
“I love you beyond words,” she said. “You know how much I love you.”
“Then you want to be with me.”
She flushed.
“You do.”
Then, squaring off her body to his, as if to underscore the point, she glanced back at the house and said, “You know I can’t.”
His eyes searched her eyes again. “How am I supposed to believe you love me?”
“You have to believe me.”
* * *
Ruth was troubled. It had been five days since Edward’s weekend at the Meads’ farm and Margaret had not yet said a word about it. Later that day she wrote to Margaret, doing her best to sound nonchalant.
Perhaps I’ll hear today about the weekend you had with Sapir. He congratulated me on my trip with Goddard—no other comment;—he shall not be forgiven for that! Is he really as ebullient as his letters have sounded?
The next day the hoped-for letter from Margaret finally arrived. It had been written a few days earlier:
Sapir’s visit was most delightful. He is, as was reported to you, in a happier mood and quite encouraged about Summer School.… We talked amicably of all sorts of patterns; they are the order of the day—the raison d’etre and the “open sesame”; Jung to the reference shelf, and less amicably, we argued about Boas. It is so easy to involve sex differences as explanation. “You girls are humanizing him, etc.”
According to Margaret’s telling, the visit had been quite innocent. But Margaret could be a dissembler. Edward was more trustworthy. Ruth would have to talk to him to find out what had really happened on the farm.
* * *
As soon as he returned to the city Edward sank into a depression. He couldn’t believe that he might not see Margaret again before she departed for Samoa. The strange thing was that he had not sensed, in any of their murmured discussions, any disposition on her part to allow the world of practical affairs to have a place in shaping their love.
He’d written a verse about her. He called it “Ariel,” a reference to the androgynous sprite in Shakespeare’s The Tempest, who—held captive at the beginning of the play—yearns to break free. Edward considered it one of his best efforts:
Of the heedless sun you are an Ariel,
Rising through cloud to a discovered blue …
Reckless, be safe. The little wise feet know
Sun-ways and clouds and earthen aim,
And steps of beauty quicken into flame
Wherein you burn up wholly in arrest.
Two days later he received a note from her. She announced that since he seemed to “doubt her love,” she had decided to meet him in the city after all. Besides, as luck would have it, she’d been given the perfect pretext for a visit—Pliny Goddard had written, asking her to come in for a job interview.
Margaret said she’d be arriving by train Thursday morning, July 23. She told him to book a hotel room for that night.
He wrote back, naming the Pennsylvania Hotel, right across the street from Penn Station, as the site for their assignation. He had six days to wait. It felt like an eternity.
* * *
&
nbsp; Edward went over and over the events of the weekend. He could hear the lilt of her voice when she said his name and the pleasure in her laugh when he made a joke. Then, of course, there had been the electric touches from her hands moving over his body. All this had “reawakened his capacity to love which he thought had died for all time.”
Margaret, his Ariel with “little wise feet,” was so much on his mind that he wanted nothing more than to talk to someone about her. Just the mere thought of saying her name was as tempting as red meat to a dog.
He fought the impulse and the following day, after teaching his morning class, was finally able to resume some of his own work. After all, he told himself, he would be seeing Margaret by week’s end and there was nothing to do in the meantime.
As Edward was leaving his office, he encountered Dr. Boas in the hallway.
Boas was moving purposely toward his own office and seemed disinclined to stop.
Suddenly Edward was reminded of the recent conversation he’d had with Margaret, the one in which she’d told him how solicitous Boas was of her health and well-being. Edward had responded by saying that with men Boas was aloof, formal, and superior. Margaret had laughed and said, “It’s easy to blame everything on sex differences.”
Seeing Boas now, stooped over yet still energetic, Edward’s anger increased. How many years had he waited for a permanent position at Columbia, all the while believing the old man’s assurances that it would happen? And when Boas had finally thrown him a crumb—two summer school classes—he’d been fool enough to feel encouraged. The end result? Now he was going to the University of Chicago.
Well aware that if he’d been able to remain in New York, with Margaret, many of their challenges would have disappeared, he pounced. “Dr. Boas,” he said. “How are you?”
“Ah, Dr. Sapir,” came the thick German accent. Boas reached out and shook his hand. Then, fishing out a handkerchief from his pocket and removing his spectacles, he began to clean the lenses. “How do you find your students?” he said, looking down at the glasses in his hand. “Are there any we should be following?”
“What? You mean in my summer classes?” said Edward.
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