Later that night, I lay awake beside his slow breathing and thought, this is freedom. What I’m feeling now—a confusion of fear and safety—this must be real. I’m truly experiencing these moments. I’m cut loose from Hope at last. It was she who snapped the thread by refusing, despite all my pleas, to come to the wedding she herself had demanded. I’m a married woman. Not playing adult. Being it.
I had done it at last—I was wed to everything I believed in, locked by choice into it so I could never desert it: a world where people felt authentic emotions, truly said what they truly thought, forged genuine art, suffered for being nonconformist or poor or homosexual or dark-skinned. People who drank jug wine indifferent to vintages while they argued into dawn about politics and poetry, rejected plastic artifacts and attitudes, were blithely unconcerned about appearances or other people’s approval. Laurence was real as the sleeping stranger beside me, frighteningly real as his sculptures that bore witness around us, blessedly real as the stranger I could now become. Under the burning-glass of his ferocious truth, I could learn to feel, think, and act without plotting how each emotion, thought, or gesture would be viewed. This was all onstage and there was no possible rehearsal for it. Like his sculptures, this was the nude torso of life itself, uncostumed. As for the fear—I would love him enough, and that would make everything possible.
Not quite everything.
Not the flaw at dead center.
Not the lie that was to become—
Julian stopped writing. She re-read the pages just scribbled, then sat back, spent. The in-flight movie screen glowed with a series of soundless tableaux: a woman and a man were arguing; the woman’s body language betrayed whatever vituperation the channel five earphones might be verbalizing; she was crying through a face distorted with anger, her outstretched hands open in a plea from which the man turned away.
Julian looked at the last page she had written.
Not the flaw at dead center.
Not the lie that was to become—
Slowly and deliberately, she tore all of the written pages, first in half, then in quarters, then again and again until a small pile of paper flakes lay on her tray-table. She carefully stuffed them into the empty Bloody Mary glass for handing to the next flight attendant who passed. Aware that Polly Esther actually had been distracted from her family homilies by this display, Julian coolly switched off her overhead light again, plumped her pillow, and settled sideways, her back to her seatmate. She glanced out the pressure-resistant window. Below, the East Coast USA already advanced, spreading its urban tentacles like seams of light in all directions until the sequins studding the dark would gradually densify into one blaze solid as a closely beaded fabric.
The flaw at dead center, the lie, she thought. For almost twenty years—half of her life—a dogged endeavor to love and live with each other had held out against every pressure. In fact, at the first hint of pressure cessation, either Laurence or Julian in an unspoken bargain could be relied upon to seek out more pressure, as if each sensed that without relentless forces battering against the membrane of their life together, the pressurized cabin within would be unnecessary, even dangerous for permanent habitation.
But inside the cabin, what hijackings to unplanned destinations? What had they done to one another, beyond what Hope could have done to them? Julian stared at her dim reflection in the window.
For how many years had Larry’s sculptures borne mute evidence to that pressure? Long ago gone into storage his gleaming marble torsos, his masks and mirrors. A sole block of Carrara remained in a corner of his studio, unchiseled, a rosetta stone he would never decode. For how many years now had he built “dwarf environments” consisting of bent iron bars, blackened and rusting like dollhouse prison cells abandoned by even the most sadistic of authorities as unfit housing for the most violent of criminals? For how many years had Julian herself been writing in cipher, with the justification that “struggle” in a marriage could be a useful subject for the women’s movement if universalized into generalization, anecdotal at times but still safe from offscreen specifics? For how many years had their relationship, and their work which had held the relationship together, been barren—as Laurence believed she was?
The flaw at the core, the lie: that they could have no child. She winced to remember all the early arguments about it, his eagerness, her insistence on postponement, his disappointment again and again, her irritation. Until one day it just seemed easier to tell him she’d seen a doctor and learned she couldn’t have a child, ever.
Did I fear then that he’d leave me? she silently asked the window-woman. Did I secretly hope so? Did I just as intensely hope he’d see through me? But he never did—and whatever he sensed or wished for, he never raised the issue of adoption.
Only Julian knew the truth. Only Julian would have been capable of such complex and intimate deception for years: the humiliation of a wretched abortion in secret; the caution that made sure the pill prescription was at a pharmacy across town, different from the one they both used; hiding the pills in a bottle labeled for menstrual cramps; the continual alert, the guilt, resolve, fear, self-disgust. So much for honesty, for the revelations of Julian Travis the writer, the fiery self-determination of Julian Travis the feminist. A real feminist would have laid it on the line: I never intend to have a child, that’s it, take it or leave it, take me or leave me; it’s my body and my decision and those are my terms. A feminist wouldn’t have skulked, connived, shuffled. Only a Julian would have been capable of decades-long double-agent contrivance—all the while waiting for Laurence to name, at whatever cost, the truth.
Lights went on in the cabin and Julian turned to see that the screen had gone blank. The pilot’s microphoned voice informed his passengers of the impending landing in New York. The seatmate glanced up, then over at Julian, then back to absorption in her trash.
Time to re-enter the present, Julian told herself, shifting her seatback to an upright position. Baggage carousel, taxi stand. Then the ride into the city—the fast-food drive-ins, factory smokestacks, giant oil drums and warehouses and cemeteries of the outer city sliding past the cab windows. Approaching the inner city, the expressway would break out in more and more billboards, SpecialOneTimeOnly neon shopping-mall marquees. How was love between two human beings, simple, frail, to survive in a country where cheer and joy were detergents, where awe and behold had slid from the King James Version to the furniture-polish shelf? Toys “R” Us! a sign would proclaim in alternating shudders of red and blue. Xmas All Yr Round! still another would wink. Even the official road-signs ached for a copy editor’s firm hand: Thruway, X Entry, Detour (King Konstruction Co.). When language becomes meaningless, when communication becomes Communications, when the mystery of a once holy Logos is cheapened to Madison Avenue slogans, academic jargon, diplomatic doubletalk, political rhetoric—how can love, a subtle and barely nameable mystery, hope to survive?
Cindy came on the intercom again, alerting the passengers that “We are in a holding pattern above New York’s La Guardia airport because of heavy air traffic, but will be landing shortly.”
Julian stretched, feeling the ache of familiar kinks in her back and neck after a long flight. Flight, hell yes. But how could you flee from it? How could she possibly be fair to Larry, if she were to write about this? Not deal with him at all? Disguise him, too? Change him from a sculptor to—what? Put him into one of his own long-lost beautiful mirror masks? How much can you torture one human being?
Christ, a voice screamed inside her, we’ve loved each other for twenty years! Doesn’t that count for something? Where does it go—the fire, the possibility, the sweetness? How does it dwindle into dailiness? And why couldn’t we have been born in some future age when women and men speak the same language?
Meanwhile—replied a Mercutio voice from the internal rep company—meanwhile, dearie, there’s a real Laurence waiting, and what mood will he be in tonight? Welcoming or sullen, hopeful or withdrawn, angry, distant, depresse
d? Will the concern you’re suddenly feeling for him appear sentimental, hypocritical—the world-traveler conquering heroine returning to the faithful spouse who’s been tending the home fires?
Julian glanced down at her writing pad. The original page lay on top. Under the words Notes for a Novel she scribbled:
(Need for Disguises)
Then she slid the pad onto her lap and clicked her tray-table back up into position.
The Sister Passenger suddenly turned toward her.
Here it comes. Places, please. Lights to full. Five seconds to airtime.
“Excuse me,” Polly Esther said, “I didn’t want to disturb you before. It looked like you were writing, or … thinking.”
Smile, Julian. There’s a close-up coming.
“I couldn’t help overhearing the stewardess earlier, about your being Julian Travis.” Her voice deepened, warmed, the pale eyes intensifying their blue. “I know what you must be thinking. But you see, the odd thing is that if the stewardess hadn’t said all that nonsense, then I’d never have known. I don’t have a television. Never have. Can’t bear it. So I would never have recognized your face or voice.”
“I—I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand …”
“I read. Addicted to it. Somehow lost my book in the airport without realizing it and so,” gesturing toward the McCall’s, “had to settle for this. Even this though, it’s better than watching the movie. To me, at least.”
“I still don’t—”
“I’ve read every book of yours, Ms. Travis, even the poems. Always wanted to write poetry but know I can’t. Always wanted to be politically involved, whatever that means, but have to settle for fighting my local fundamentalists about what books we carry in our small-town library. I run the library. I read,” she repeated, gently, urgently, as if to a child.
The lurch Julian felt was surely more than that of plane wheels touching down on tarmac. But Polly Esther gathered up her raincoat, ready to spring from her seat the moment the taxiing stopped.
“That’s all I wanted to say, really, Ms. Travis. Don’t feel you have to respond or gush or anything like that. It can’t be easy, being you. Please, don’t say anything. I want nothing of you, no favor, no autograph. Oh, I do want to add one more thing. The writing you’ve done about your marriage—loving and hating all mixed up in some kind of commitment, well, I want you to know that I was in a marriage like that. For thirty years. Often I just … gave up. I think we would have got divorced, but he died suddenly, two years ago. Still, your marriage—and your honesty in writing about it—gave me courage. That’s all.”
She was out of her seat and down the aisle before Julian could answer, and the other passengers blocked her from sight. There was nothing for Julian to do but pull herself together for the disembarking.
There it lay in her lap, staring back at her.
“A Mask of One’s Own”
Notes for a Novel:
(Need for Disguises)
The rest of the page was blank.
A MASK OF ONE’S OWN
A Novel
“Paradox: All Cretans are liars.”
—Epimenides the Cretan
CHAPTER ONE
1950–1951
Dear Diary,
These will be the first words I’ll ever write in a diary of my very own. Momma gave you to me, and I think you were the best of all the presents she gave me on yesterday, my eighth birthday. I will never ever have another eighth birthday in my life. I also got a new pair of barrettes for my hair and three more dolls for the collection and a pair of white kid gloves and Momma and I had lunch at the Plaza Hotel and last night we went to the opera to see Carmen who had a rose between her teeth and got killed. It was very interesting. But you are the best of all, Dear Diary, because I wanted a diary and Momma knew that and here you are. I love your shiny blue leather cover with the strip that has a lock in it and the tiny golden key that can shut you. Momma is going to keep the key because she says I’ll just lose it and also she wants to check and be sure I write in you every single day and also so she can correct my spelling mistakes. Because she says you never know who else might look. I’m a pretty good speller and I think nobody would look if I had the key but then you never know and they could always just cut the strip I guess anyway. So I’ll be careful what I write in you I mean about the spelling.
It is a wonderful feeling to write in you because your paper is smooth and slippery and the color of the cream I lick off the milk bottle’s round cardboard top. You are very important to me even if anybody else can look into you because you never know.
Your friend, with love,
Julian Travis
Dear Diary,
Momma says she is glad that yesterday I wrote down all the good things we did on my birthday and how special it was. She says it will be a treasure for me to look back on when I grow up and remember how happy these years were. I’m sure Momma is right because otherwise a person might forget these things when they get old.
Today was pretty normal so there’s not much to tell you about. I know it’s funny to call you “you” dear diary but you seem real to me. Anyway, today Momma and I got up and had breakfast. Momma always has coffee and a muffin which is also one of her names for me. Muffin I mean not coffee. So our joke is that Momma always has coffee and me for breakfast. I had cereal which I always hate especially the raisins which I know you’re supposed to like because most people eat the cereal only for the raisins. But the raisins don’t help me because I hate both. Anyway, so then we got dressed and I wore the pink organdy with white butterflies aplikayed (spelling? Help Momma!) on it that Momma sewed for me (Momma makes all my clothes, dear diary, and she’s wonderful at it) and my white maryjane shoes with the straps that I hate but today I didn’t have to use shoe polish to clean them because they were still clean from yesterday when I wore the black patent leather ones instead.
Then we took the train into New York City to rehearsal (we live in Yonkers, dear diary, which is called a suburb) and went to rehearsal and then I had an interview which is why the pink organdy today and then we took the train back. Then there was school and ballet and tap class and then I did my homework and practiced piano and studied my lines for tomorrow’s rehearsal. I should tell you more I guess but I’m too sleepy right now. I almost didn’t want to write in you tonight but I want to every single night so I did.
Your friend, with love,
Julian Travis
Dear Diary,
Momma says I should put the date on every time I write in you so that years later when I am grown up I will know the exact time of my happy memories. Today was October 10, 1950. I should tell you who I am, dear diary.
My name is Julian Travis and I am an actress. I’ll tell you about me the way I’m supposed to in an interview. I had my own radio program but that was when I was younger and also I was on “The Whiz Kids” for two years which is a show they put you on if you’re smart when you’re little or at least can say funny things that sound smart. But now I’m on a television show every week in “Family” (that’s the name of the program) and I’m Ingrid (that’s the little girl I play). It is very popular and I am famous I think. But I am not just famous. I am a serious actress. I can become anything anyone wants me to be. Anyway, I live with my mother, whose name is Hope Travis—and it fits her because she always says she is full of hope! We live in apartment 3-A, which is on the third floor (we don’t have an elevator but Momma thinks someday soon when I make enough money we might move into the city itself and live in a fancy elevator building). Our apartment building is only one block from the railroad station which is good because we go into the city for rehearsals and the shows and stuff every day except on weekends and sometimes I do a fashion show even on a weekend day (I’m also a model, diary). What is not so good about our apartment house is that it is right next door to a place everybody says they should tear down and make into something clean like a parking lot because it has lots of little funny wooden buildings
on it, sort of leaning as if they could fall down. A lot of Negro people live there and some of the houses don’t have electric light and everybody says they are a fire hazard. They are a fire hazard because the Negro people have to use candles to see by and have wood stoves everybody says. But I don’t know how you’re supposed to see in the dark or keep warm if you don’t have electric plugs. They are very poor, Momma says, and always on Thanksgiving and sometimes on other holidays (but not on Jewish holidays because Momma says none of the Negro people would ever be Jewish) Momma and I go over to the houses with shopping bags. We bring cans of food we buy on special at the A&P and lots of oranges you can get in sort of wiry bags. And we put some of my clothes I get too big for to give in the shopping bags. But we never put the organdies in there even when I get too big for them. Because Momma thinks we should save them so I can treasure them when I grow up and also she says where would the little girls next door wear such things?
There is one little girl next door who is just the same age as me and her name is Jewell which is sort of like Julian and I think she would look beautiful in one of the organdy dresses because she has a nice smile and is very friendly but Momma told me it would be an insult to give her one of the organdy dresses and I would never want to insult Jewell. I’d like to go play with her sometimes but Momma and I talked about that. She explained to me that everybody was exactly the same and Negroes were just as good as white people and poor people were just the same as rich ones. But life wasn’t perfect, Momma said, and you had to face facts. Facts was that if Jewell came to 3-A to play she would only get jealous of all the dolls and pretty dresses and how lucky I was. And if I went over to Jewell’s house to play first it was too small and we would have to play outside and we shouldn’t play outside because that was dangerous the ground over there has broken glass and bottle tops and rusty metal things and I might fall and hurt myself or even bust up my face. And Momma also explained that wanting to play with Jewell was a wonderful idea but it wouldn’t work because Jewell and I had nothing in common and Jewell knew that even if I didn’t. I don’t think Jewell knows that. Even if she did we would have a lot more in common if she had one of the dolls and an organdy dress. Besides, they don’t have television sets over there next door because no plugs which means that Jewell doesn’t even know I’m on television. So she might think I’m just a little girl like her. She always smiles a nice smile at me.
Dry Your Smile Page 8