Dream Catcher: A Memoir

by Salinger, Margaret A.

  Kit was all smiley-smiley to him when he came to visit at Thanksgiving and put her arm around me. He said she didn’t fool him in the least. “She wants people to believe she’s a wonderful woman, a pioneering educator, but you see right through her. She’ll never forgive you for that, Peggy, never.” He said I was “cursed with a readable face” just like him and I couldn’t hide how I felt about people. I saw her self-image in the mirror and must have let it show that I thought, You don’t really look like that, you’re not the fairest of them all.

  My father also had some interesting things to say about the school program. We put on a big show for the parents with music and skits and all sorts of wonderful artistic stuff we were being exposed to. Don, the music teacher, composed the songs and the school play in a great flurry just three days before the performance. We were so impressed (though less so when I visited fifteen years later on Thanksgiving, heard the same buzz about the show being composed in just a week or so, and I recognized half the tunes), I expressed my enthusiasm to my father about the amazing amount of work Don was able to produce in such a short time. Daddy said, “He knew all fall that the show had to be ready by Thanksgiving, didn’t he?” I nodded. “I don’t find it so admirable that he waited until the last minute to begin work on it, do you?” Hmmmm. I never thought about it that way.

  Daddy called a spade a spade, but he neglected to give me a few pointers that his “rugged, resourceful, and resilient characters,” Seymour and Buddy Glass, had mastered when faced with bullying directors of camps or schools. Seymour, already a three-R savant at age seven, writes of an encounter between the camp director, Mr. Happy, and Buddy. During Mr. Happy’s weekly inspection of the boys’ bungalows, he starts giving Buddy, age five, holy hell about not making his bed the way Mr. Happy did in the army. My father often told us that at military school there was always someone coming around inspecting your bunk—regulations stated that a quarter must bounce a certain height on your bed to pass inspection. Seymour said he didn’t “step in or interfere with these bullying insults. I have complete confidence in this young lad’s ability to fend for himself at all times.” Sure enough, the ever-resourceful Buddy, in the midst of Mr. Happy’s tirade, suddenly turned his eyes upward so that only the whites showed, a trick he’d mastered, scaring the bejesus out of Mr. Happy, who left in a hurry, “forgetting to give your self-reliant son any fresh demerits!”

  Perhaps my father overestimated his daughter’s powers of resilience and resourcefulness. Nevertheless, Daddy did arrange, during his Thanksgiving Day visit, to speak man to man, I suppose, with Herbert about Kit’s behavior toward me. The results were not heartening. My father told me over turkey dinner at the Mirror Lake Inn that Herbert was genuinely embarrassed and dismayed by the strength and unseemliness of his wife’s feelings toward me. But, Daddy said, “Herbert is a weak man. I don’t think he’ll be able to stand up to her at all.” And that was the end of that. “Have some chocolate cake. It won’t be as good as Wolfie’s I’ll bet, but it looks pretty good.”

  After dinner, my brother and I went downstairs to where the inn had a game room. In the corner of the room stood two gorgeous candy machines, sacred objects, risen idols awaiting our silver offerings. Celestial gifts of Sky Bars and Milky Ways and rainbow-colored Life Savers rained down from above into our waiting hands. Food, food, food. I was always hungry. At school they maintained total, absolute control of food. Personal snacks of any sort were strictly forbidden. Even saving an apple from the table to eat later was punished. We were to eat what was in front of us at mealtimes and nothing in between. If you were in the vicinity of the main building during the late afternoon, two of the kitchen staff, both named Gladys, were allowed to dispense a measured spoonful of snack: shoe-leather-hard bits of dried date that you warmed in your mouth and reconstituted with your saliva for about ten minutes before they were chewable. Even British boarding schools regarded a child’s personal “tuck box” from home as close to sacred. Here it was strictly verboten. Holly and I whispered “Health Nazis” under our breath while bent over in the bitter cold, harvesting the winter root crop. We mimed bludgeoning each other to death with an organic turnip.

  As requested, my brother had brought from home a plastic container with a tight-fitting lid. In my letter, I had asked him for an airtight container to collect leaf specimens. We stuffed it full of soft white dinner rolls and candy, and when I returned to school that evening, I headed straight for the woods and buried it a foot deep in the ground. Barring hounds, I figured I was safe.

  IT INFURIATED KIT that she was in the minority, of one really, to truly hate me. And these were teachers who were not shy about sharing their dislike, if not loathing, for students. Witness the bluntness of the progress reports as to our character molding that were sent home at the end of term:

  [My midyear report from the headmaster]

  Peggy’s fall term here has been filled more with searching, experimenting, questioning, and to a limited extent complaining rather than well-organized, productive effort. She is eager to find direction and values but still too uncertain of herself to make strong commitments. . . .

  It is more than likely that a girl with her sensitivity, talent and projective power will mature into a well-organized, happy person. Our regret is that in her particular case her time at Cross Mountain is too short for the establishment of solid self-confidence and competence. I am hopeful that she and we together can accomplish much in the few remaining months. She is making notable progress.

  —Herbert

  [Holly’s initial year-end report from the headmaster]

  As Holly approaches the end of her first turbulent year at Cross Mountain School, there are many signs that she has grown to a better understanding of herself and her relationships and responsibilities to other people. She still exhibits the characteristics of a self-centered, self-pitying, immature youngster [don’t hold back now, Herbert, tell us what you really think] who is struggling valiantly to assert and establish herself in a world that both challenges and frightens her. . . .

  On standard achievement tests given this spring she had a median score of 11.6 which is a very high score for a girl ending 7th grade. Actually, this score is about the same as it was last fall and suggests that her energies have been used more in coping with the demands of group living than advancing herself scholastically. [Or perhaps it suggests that we haven’t taught her a goddam thing since she’s been here?]

  I think Holly’s second and last year here will be far more affective [sic] and productive in all respects; although like all of us, she has some rather strong personal characteristics to contend with and manage.

  —Herbert

  [My house report from the other house parent, Sue]

  Peggy has, on the whole, made an excellent adjustment to the very difficult situation of arriving here from somewhere else for only the senior year. She is quite socially adept and has developed many friendships and much influence among her peers already. She and her roommate have a good time together and with the other girls in the house. A certain laxness in regard to possessions, efforts, and obligations has been her greatest difficulty, but she is showing good signs of progress in most of these areas even though you might not suspect it from looking at her room! Much of Peggy’s time has been spent in experimentation with what we have to offer, and her whole review was punctuated with remarks about what she wanted to try next, and what to pursue further. She has done a little free time art work, much work in music, read several books, went to Montreal after surviving a day when she could speak only French, worked in the laundry and on the ski hill, served on the bicycle committee and two dance committees, and did some exploring around the place. She is already a girl of considerable maturity and strength, and it is a pleasure to watch her moving ahead so vigorously. We are glad that she is with us.

  —Sue

  [Holly’s house report by Katherine—Kit’s daughter—and her husband, John]

  Holly went through a qui
te turbulent beginning at Cross Mountain. Her concern only with herself, her babyish protests, complaints, and down right rude behavior soon made her a target for teasing and unkind attitudes on the part of the children. It took many sessions both with us and with Kit to help her see what she was doing and her defense of such behavior began to melt. . . . The social demands of a community such as ours are great and Holly has found the adjustment difficult. . . . In other areas, two examples being skiing and softball, Holly protested loudly about the encrouchment [sic] on her “rights” and refused to participate. Because of our conviction that we can do no child a favor by letting such behavior succeed, we insisted on Holly’s participation, and she soon discovered the pleasure that these activities had to offer. I think that the only area where this was not the case was our out-door camping program, for she still claims to “hate” trips. . . . I told her that unless she could develop a less self-centered attitude toward other people that she was not really ready to assume the responsibility of being a member of the senior Class. This seems to really have had an effect on Holly. [No joke! Threatened with yet another year in that place.] . . . Her major interest continues to be reading, but her selection is moving away from shock value books such as The Valley of the Dolls and Hell’s Angels and her most recent reading includes I Never Promised You a Rose Garden and The Wayward Bus . . . she reads the New York Times daily and most of the magazines in the library. [Another house report said Holly reads at least three books a week—no mean feat with activities scheduled every waking hour—including, they listed, Autobiography of Malcolm X, Tales of the South Pacific, Call It Sleep, Catcher in the Rye, Return to Paradise, Tortilla Flat, 1984, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, To Kill a Mockingbird, Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Airs Above the Ground, Black Like Me, The Stranger. “To name a few,” it said.]

  My favorite line from this house report, one that Holly should have had framed on her office wall as lawyer and vice president of business affairs for a major record company, or perhaps in her current job as a member of the management team for such rock bands as Motley Crüe and Duran Duran; or maybe on the wall, in the home she shares with her husband of twenty years, a successful producer and songwriter for heavy metal bands, right next to the forty or so gold and platinum records they’ve earned:

  At this point, Holly’s favorite activities do not involve interaction with other children. Her major attempt to make contact is an apparently contrived interest in rock and roll. It is our hope to help her acquire the skills that will enable her to gain the pleasure that comes from group activities.

  —Katherine and John [my emphasis]

  A mutual friend of Holly’s and mine recently read the above house report that talked about Holly’s “contrived interest in rock and roll” and suggested she send a copy of it to the school on her record-company letterhead. He was stunned by her response. He told me that instead of the Holly he knows—one of the toughest dealmakers in the business, no-bullshit, take-no-prisoners negotiator and lawyer—she looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “No way!” she told him. “They’d know where I am.”

  Holly had gotten off to a great start her first morning at school when she found out, to her eloquently and loudly expressed horror, that she was not going to be allowed a cup of coffee—good or otherwise—and no, she could not bring the New York Times to the breakfast table. Newspaper reading beyond the farm and tool section was highly suspect; coffee, sugar, and Satan were synonymous. While I had arrived at school poorly educated—I really had to keep on my toes to keep up and I knew it—Holly arrived in seventh grade working near the level (11.6) of a senior in high school. She was bored out of her mind. Clearly, this occurred to no one. In this temple built to honor the gods of Muscular Christianity, being a smart, well-read urban Jew meant big trouble.

  [French] Holly can be reading something completely unrelated during class, and yet score well under “cross-examination” despite the heaps of complaining that seem to go into any efforts she makes.

  —Barry

  [English] Holly writes beautifully and has no mechanical problems with English. Her assignments are always done well and turned in on time. . . . Holly has improved in her class habits somewhat, but is still quite loudly negative in her comments. She has learned, I believe, that it does not accomplish anything to blatantly refuse to do an assignment. She will do very well on a spelling test, and write “This is a crummy test!” at the top of the page.

  —James

  I’m rather surprised and disappointed that James, a clandestine friend of mine (Kit, he said, would make his life hell if she knew we were friends) whose family visited me in Cornish on summer vacations, seemed so bullish on attitude and character-molding in his report on Holly. For me, he and his wife were a lifeline of warmth and affection and support in an otherwise very cold place on the part of the adults. In fact, he would write to me at Cambridge School the following year complaining:

  You are a topic that Herbert and I cannot discuss, which I am reluctant to discuss because of the strong emotional basis of my feelings, but which Herbert chose to discuss with me the day after I talked with you on the phone at your mother’s house. The old argument was taken off the shelf, dusted off, and discovered to be completely unresolved. (The basic issue, from my point of view is this, which will perhaps explain its inherent “unarguability.” You stand accused, by much of the school, of certain crimes. Of most of the crimes of which you have been accused you are guilty. It is not my function to defend you, and I have no intention of “defending” you, because I question the very assumptions upon which their whole definition of a “crime” is based. . . . I hate to say it, but the way the world is set up now, much of your energies will be devoted to disguising your true feelings, and at the same time doing your own thing to the greatest extent possible without bringing down the wrath of someone you depend upon. It’s a game but one that we’re all locked into. We can’t quit because we don’t like the rules, because at present there is no place else to go. It’s a real bringdown, one which will bug you a lot in the future. It bugs me—CMS is the place where the rules are most agreeable to me, but also the place where they require the most strict compliance to the GAMES I have ever seen. There are two people here out of the entire faculty that I feel I can be totally open with, and those are D.&B. The rest—even P.—make me feel as if somehow, somewhere, Big Brother is watching. At times I feel as if I may as well be a junior exec in an advertising agency, so strong are the rules of protocol and “attitude.” Makes me wonder. . . .

  Love, James.

  Makes me want to wonder, “throw up both my hands.”4 It also makes me think about Holden’s exchange with his teacher, where he is told that life is a game and he needs to learn to play it by the rules. Holden agrees with the teacher out loud, but to himself, he thinks:

  Game, my ass. Some game. If you get on the side where all the hot-shots are, then it’s a game, all right—I’ll admit that. But if you get on the other side, where there aren’t any hot-shots, then what’s a game about it? Nothing. No game.

  (Catcher, p. 8)

  I took Holly out to lunch recently to pick her brains for this chapter. I asked her what she remembered of Kit. In profound contrast to Viola and me reminiscing about Miss Chapman, our fourth-grade teacher, and giggling about how she once shook Vi so hard she wet her pants, Holly and I had no giggles. Holly told me that she has tried to put the whole thing as far out of her mind as she possibly can, with multiple drugs when necessary. She said she’s been pretty successful at doing so, yet every once in a while she’ll be walking down the street or riding on a subway car, and suddenly she’ll shudder as if death itself had brushed her sleeve. Then she’ll realize that the old woman across from her looks something like Kit.

  * * *

  1. Anders and Lane, Cults and Consequences.

  2. My school report confirms this: “A bit reluctant to plunge fully into out-time, Peggy has nevertheless come to enjoy sports like volleyball.—Paul”<
br />
  I think that’s how I’d like to see my obituary begin: “A bit reluctant to plunge fully into out-time, Ms. Salinger . . .”

  3. I’m not sure the kind of hypermaturity we showed was evidence of good health, but I do know that given the general level of neediness and abandonment we embodied, it’s a darn good thing kids didn’t get in over their head sexually. The following year, in high school, breakups often engendered full crack-ups and a stay in McLean’s. When your boyfriend or girlfriend is your whole family wrapped up into one person, the one who kisses you good-night and has breakfast with you in the morning, attachments can become symbiotic in the extreme. At Cross Mountain, twelve- and thirteen-year-old passion was nipped in the bud and proceeded directly to sedate middle age.

  4. Marvin Gaye

  22

  Christmas

  DADDY WAS COMING TO PICK me up and take me back to Cornish for Christmas. Looking back, it occurs to me that my mother always got the hard job, of dropping me off, whereas my father got to be the good guy who picked me up at vacation time. I packed my suitcase, mostly ski stuff, because I’d spend most of the vacation on the slopes at Mt. Ascutney. I also packed a few mandatory craft projects we were to bring home as gifts and evidence of our enriched education. Some of the children, such as Holly, worked for weeks, weaving truly splendid pieces on looms, experimenting with color and texture, learning to love the sensual feel of drawing wool through thread, fingers flying. Years later, there were times I experienced something perhaps similar at the piano. A place beyond technique and practice, where creation in the mind’s eye flows seamlessly through body and instrument. Beyond I and thou. Other children worked in clay, making pots on great stone wheels turned by foot, or by shaping large coils of it into vessels. Carefully, they chose their glaze and painted the raw clay. Then, in that leap of faith beyond one’s control, they placed their unfinished work where, in the womb of the kiln, the alchemy of creation takes place. A percentage of the pots, no matter how well made, abort, crack and char. It’s not so much due to inherent flaws, but to the luck of placement inside the kiln. The vicissitudes of flame kiss some and burn others. The shelves of the pottery studio held their quotient of kids’ lumpy ashtrays, but here and there were pieces worthy of the life corner in a Japanese house.1