Coming of Age

by Deborah Beatriz Blum

  Surely Margaret could see that Edward, with his possessiveness, would put restrictions on her, restrictions that would make her very unhappy.

  He would kill what she and Margaret had together. Ruth knew this, and knew she must help Margaret realize it, too.

  * * *

  Good-byes were being said and the entire Mead family—Margaret’s parents, grandmother, and three siblings—had moved off to the side to give Luther a last moment alone with his wife.

  The vast station—dark, steamy, and brooding—rose around them. Luther stood with Margaret, holding both her hands in his.

  “Good luck,” he said, pressing her hands and looking deeply into her eyes. “I’ll see you in Marseilles next spring.”

  Over and over, he had told her that he would never stand in her way. Letting her go off on her own for ten months was the ultimate proof.

  “You’re hitching your wagon to a star,” he said.

  “What star is that?” She laughed.

  He was conscious that her hands were clammy, a sign, no doubt, that she was nervous.

  At the porter’s last call Margaret climbed aboard the Pullman. Luther watched from the concrete platform. A moment later he saw her turn and wave. The porter closed the door. With a great clanking and belching, the train lurched forward. A moment later she was gone. Luther and Emily Mead waited on the platform until the last car cleared and then suddenly a yawning emptiness enveloped them.

  Luther took Margaret’s mother’s arm. They walked slowly and thoughtfully toward the Meads’ car where the others were already waiting.

  In a voice that indicated she was looking for reassurance, Emily Mead said, “You will meet her in Marseilles next spring, Luther?”

  “That is our present plan, and I don’t anticipate any change,” he said, wondering what they both would be like after a year apart.

  That afternoon Luther returned to his own parents’ house. He wrote a note to his mother-in-law:

  You made my visit so pleasant with all the somberness that overhung. Thank you so much. I don’t know about coming down again. I could not come for quite awhile. I have never known the valley or your home without Margaret and I’m sure I should find myself wandering about expecting to see her. So if I hesitate about coming please understand and don’t think me ungracious.

  * * *

  Margaret sank into her seat, looking out at the line of concrete block factories and tenements that stretched endlessly along the tracks.

  Edward Sapir, with his ardent lovemaking, had done his most to hold her back.

  When they had left the hotel room that morning, he had gone up to the concierge to return their key. She’d waited next to him. A moment later he’d turned to her and whispered, “For God’s sake, do you remember what name I used to check us in?”

  “No,” she said, reflexively moving away so as not to be associated with this embarrassment. “I wasn’t there when you checked us in.” On quiet feet she headed across the lobby, then to the street.

  When he caught up with her, his face was still red.

  “What did you say?”

  “What could I say? He just had to look me up by our room number.”

  She laughed thinking about it. At least that had added some levity to a morning that had ended on a difficult note.

  The night before he’d shocked her by taking her hand and slipping Florence’s wedding ring on her finger.

  “I can’t take this,” she’d said, pulling her hand back. “It would be disloyal.”

  “Margaret,” he’d said, “don’t think of it as a cultural symbol. Those symbols are meaningless to me.”

  She looked down, twisting the ring on her finger.

  “It’s meant to say that I’m giving you all the love that had once been Florence’s.”

  This had been alarming. She’d yearned for him, dreamed of being with him, and now the intensity of his feelings frightened her.

  The rhythm of the train moving forward was a relief, and later, when she had tired of blaming herself for the emotions she’d unleashed in Edward, she went to find her carry case. Inside was the letter Dr. Boas had sent, just last week:

  Another interesting problem is that of crushes among girls. For the older ones you might give special attention to the occurrence of romantic love which is not by any means absent as far as I have been able to observe, and which, of course, appears most strongly where the parents or society impose marriages which the girls may not want.

  How, Margaret wondered, would she ever learn enough of the Samoan language to converse freely with teenage girls? Her first task, once she reached Pago Pago, the U.S. naval port, was to find someone to give her lessons.

  Edward had stressed the importance of mastering the language before she ventured into the field. But she was no Edward Sapir, a man who could immerse himself in a foreign language and become fluent within weeks. Learning Samoan could eat up months of precious time and prevent her from doing any work at all.

  She wanted to talk to Ruth. Ruth would know what she should do—how long she should work at the language, how long she should remain in Pago Pago. Blessedly, soon Ruth would be with her, to talk to her, to give her strength, because that’s what Ruth did. And Ruth made her feel so good inside.

  Beautiful, beautiful Ruth.

  19

  A NEED FOR SECRECY

  Ruth … was the most impressed by the effort of the river to hide, a torturing need for secrecy which had made it dig its way, century by century, deeper into the face of the earth.

  —MARGARET MEAD

  August 1925

  They sat across from each other, both leaning forward, their elbows resting on the white linen tablecloth. The place settings before them gleamed, fine white porcelain and silver-plated flatware. In the center of the table was a small crystal vase filled with roses. Quiet waiters circulated among the tables, taking orders for dinner.

  The train was moving, moving with a rhythm and a sway, like some living being with a heartbeat. The light from the setting sun coming in the windows reflected off the glass of the vase.

  “Darling,” Margaret said, “I was so afraid you’d mind.”

  Margaret’s eyes were still red from crying.

  She’d been caught in a deception and was ashamed.

  Ruth’s legs moved to touch hers under the table, a gentle nudge as if to say all was right between them again.

  * * *

  Earlier that afternoon, the trains had made their connection in St. Louis and Ruth’s car had been hitched to the train that Margaret was traveling on.

  Margaret had walked from one car to the next until she’d seen Ruth coming toward her.

  Waving, Ruth had said, “I knew the exact moment our trains were hitched.” She’d sounded happy, but when they embraced, her touch was stiff.

  It was clear that she already suspected something had happened with Edward.

  For days Margaret had known she was going to have to confess it all to Ruth. She’d fully expected there to be a scene. She had assured herself she didn’t care, that she’d reached a point where she could no longer hide what had happened with Edward. She wanted to make love to him, and she’d gone after him.

  Once they had reached their compartment and had a moment of privacy, Margaret had blurted it out. “I wanted him,” she told Ruth. “Without the moves I made, he never would have realized my existence.”

  Ruth’s face sagged. She sank down on one of the bunks and pulled off her sweater, throwing it aside.

  “It’s too hot in here,” she said. Finally she looked up. “I can see your eyes are dizzied with this other love. I’m happy for you.”

  “No,” Margaret said, “that’s not how it is.”

  Ruth was quiet.

  “Don’t you see?” said Margaret. “It’s the association with you. Maybe it’s symbolic, but so much of it has to do with you.”

  Ruth shook her head. As she turned away, Margaret sat down next to her and reached for her hand,
sliding in closer.

  Now, sitting in the dining car, waiting to be served, they were past the confession, searching for ways to again reconnect with each other. As they had on so many other occasions, they discussed the death of Edward’s wife, a loss that had left him so vulnerable. Margaret was insistent that she didn’t want to cause him any more pain.

  Ruth turned to catch their waiter’s attention. She motioned for him to refill her water glass. Repositioning herself to face Margaret, she said, “Trust love to be sheer gain.”

  Margaret looked into her eyes, perplexed. Ruth went on, “Whatever happens, it can only mean gain for you, gain for him.

  “He wants me to leave Luther.”

  “Don’t you see?” said Ruth. “That’s part of the warping.”

  The crease between Margaret’s eyebrows deepened.

  “The warping goes deep, deep, deep,” Ruth said. “The thing you must never do is to imagine that by any utmost giving of yourself you could disperse his obsessions.”

  “He says it’s not possible for me to love him, really love him, and stay married to Luther.”

  “Of course he does. He will say many things that sound plausible. You must not let your brain shrink from understanding which wells in him they spring from.”

  Margaret looked down at her hands, folded in her lap.

  “There will be letters from him, words fused by his love into a shape you hadn’t reckoned possible,” said Ruth. “He will say many things. You must keep your head.”

  Margaret glanced away.

  “Sweetness,” said Ruth, “it’s the one thing I know out of the extra years—this return of the spirit of life when it all seemed impossible.”

  Ruth’s feelings and her need for physical contact, were palpable.

  “Didn’t you come to me?” asked Ruth.

  Margaret nodded.

  “Well, you came to Edward, too,” said Ruth. “You’ve done more for him than you imagine. No matter what happens.”

  * * *

  While they had been at dinner, their porter had made up their adjoining berths, turning down their beds. Wall sconces threw a pale golden light on the narrow bunks.

  Margaret slipped into the toilet to undress and brush her teeth. When she returned to the berth, Ruth was already seated on one of the beds, her simple white cotton nightgown revealing her shapely shoulders and arms.

  Margaret went over to Ruth’s bed, climbed past her so she could position herself against the wall. Lying on her back she said, “It’s a shame really, that we had to buy tickets for two berths.”

  “Precious,” said Ruth, spreading herself out, and rolling toward Margaret, her long legs entwining themselves through Margaret’s shorter ones.

  Margaret leaned in to Ruth, opening her mouth, pressing her lips to Ruth’s, enjoying the sweetness of the kiss.

  They kissed for a long time.

  Then Ruth said, “Come closer.” Repositioning herself and raising her arms to pull off her nightgown, she pulled back the sheet. Margaret sat up, unbuttoned her own nightgown and slipped it off. Naked, she slid in next to Ruth.

  Once under the sheets together they began to explore each other’s bodies, Ruth stroking every part of Margaret, and Margaret quivering with pleasure under the touch.

  Ruth seemed to understand just how to excite her.

  Afterward, lying peacefully side by side, Ruth said, “Now you know everything I could ever say to you.”

  Margaret took her finger and traced the line of Ruth’s lips. Then letting her hand fall, she lay back and sighed.

  “Darling,” said Ruth, “we might have loved each other with all our hearts and not had this, too.”

  “When I’m earthborn this year,” said Margaret, “I will draw my strength from you.” She paused. “And this night.”

  “Take the days as they come,” said Ruth, pulling Margaret’s face a little closer, “and trust that there’s something worth the learning in the blackest living.”

  “Dearest,” said Margaret, “I do, I really love you.”

  * * *

  The next morning they sat in the dining car, once again across from each other.

  In the early light the landscape of Kansas was flying by, flat and dreary, stretching on seemingly forever. Every so often an unpainted house, weathered and forlorn, appeared then disappeared.

  “If I was less selfish I’d have denied myself the privilege of burdening you with my bewilderments all across the continent,” said Margaret.

  Ruth looked at her. She knew she had to help Margaret “develop all the expedients she could against weeping.” One such way was to remember that living alone in Samoa would not last forever.

  “Around the time you plan to meet Luther in Marseilles, next spring,” said Ruth, “I will be traveling to Europe myself.”

  Margaret was surprised.

  Ruth explained that Stanley had been invited to deliver a paper at a scientific conference in Sweden, that he imagined they’d go over the first of June. When he returned to the States, Ruth would stay on in Europe with the idea of attending the Congress of Americanists, scheduled to take place in Rome in September of 1926.

  She knew that Margaret was also hoping to attend the congress.

  “Come stay with me in Rome,” said Ruth.

  “It’s always been one of my dreams to see Italy with you,” said Margaret. “I never reckoned it in the world of possibilities.”

  “What have the meetings to do with it really?” said Ruth. “They’re admissible for public use. We must stay a teeny while in Rome. I have a towering affection for Rome—and Florence.”

  An hour later they were still seated in the dining car, a sheet of paper on the table between them. This sheet, which contained two long columns consisting of letters of the alphabet, was of great interest to both Margaret and Ruth. This was the key for a code that would enable them to communicate with each other by cable.

  For one as dependent as Margaret on daily and close contact with family and friends, having access to some form of rapid communication was essential. After all, it would take more than three weeks for a letter from the United States to reach Samoa, and at least as long for the answer to get back. A telegram, while providing nearly instantaneous communication, would be wildly expensive, its cost calculated by the number of characters in the text. Consequently, Margaret had devised a way to truncate the already abbreviated form of a telegram. She planned to distribute a copy of this key to her family and friends.

  Naturally there would be some messages that were private, meant for only a special few. It was in regard to these secretive exchanges that Margaret and Ruth now turned their attention.

  “There must be a letter that stands for Edward,” said Ruth, “and one that stands for ‘I had a letter from Edward and it was everything you could have wished. He was happy and on your terms.’”

  Margaret jotted down combinations of the letters, “Ex” and “Exx.”

  “And another,” said Ruth, “that means he writes happily having worked past the words you’ll probably get for the next three weeks.”

  Margaret toyed with her pen. “I don’t as yet know his cabling habits,” she said. “Perhaps he will tell me that himself.”

  “And there must be one that means, ‘I’m sending this just because all day I’ve been unbearably lonely without you—in a very particular way,’” said Ruth, fixing her with a look. “It will mean I can’t go to bed without sending you this, just for the sake of love.”

  * * *

  Sunrise over the Arizona desert covered the whole bowl of the sky.

  “The desert has charms of its own,” said Ruth, looking out at the bright sandy surface of the clay-colored terrain, which was spotted with sagebrush and cut into deep temporary channels by the rain. The pueblos they passed here were sand-colored, too, the adobe houses so flat that they receded into the landscape.

  At the stop in in the town of Williams they changed trains to travel the last sixty-fives miles o
n the Grand Canyon Railroad. As their train approached the southern rim of the Grand Canyon, Ruth became agitated. She had only twelve hours to show Margaret the land she had developed such a fondness for.

  Along the way they saw many Indians baling alfalfa into square blocks.

  “It’s still green,” marveled Margaret. Pointing to some gaunt and gray cattle grazing close by she said, “Those poor creatures, they look so lost.”

  As they passed some juniper trees, Margaret opened a window. “They smell like evergreens,” she said. Then she noticed some delicate scarlet-colored flowers, growing here and there. “Amazing that they bloom in this wasteland.”

  Ruth was gratified that Margaret took notice of many of the things that she, too, loved about the desert.

  But it was at the Grand Canyon that Ruth realized how different she was from this girl she considered so “like-minded” in all the important ways.

  Looking out at the miles of pinnacled clay, red and white, and fantastic, changing their aspect under each new shadowing cloud, Margaret sighed and said, “The part I love the best are the endless possibilities.”

  Ruth’s eyes scanned the view.

  “Look,” Margaret said, pointing at a far-off canyon wall, “there’s a castle, with a great white horse of mythical stature, tethered by the gate.”

  Ruth looked, but did not see it.

  “And there,” said Margaret, pointing farther over, “that’s a great Roman wall.”

  In the afternoon the rain did not stop the sun from shining until a dark blue cloud moved over them. It was then that Ruth told Margaret what the canyon always made her think about.

  “The river,” she said, “and its torturing need for secrecy.”

  Margaret was silent.

  “The river had to hide,” said Ruth, “that’s what made it dig its way, century by century, deeper into the face of the earth.”

  Margaret looked down, toward the deep crevice with all its dark shadows that wound through the canyon, many hundreds of feet below.

  Ruth felt Margaret’s hand reach around her waist.

  In the late afternoon, as they turned to head back to the train depot, Margaret said, “We had everything except the canyon by moonlight.”