by May Sarton
But I am about to die. Harriet comes back on Saturday, in three days, in seventy-two hours. When Anna told me this morning my breakfast tray had a deep red rose on it. I went absolutely blank and turned my head away. I was falling through space in a state of uncontrollable panic. I could feel the sweat on my upper lip.
“Are you all right, dear?”
I was unable to answer. I was afraid that a single word, even “yes,” even “no,” would open a floodgate, that I would cling to her like a baby and howl. Perhaps Anna sensed that the best thing was to leave me alone. I listened to her gentle cheerful voice talking to the old men, their murmurs and cackles like a crowd of starlings.
How can I handle Anna’s leaving? It was always there, the darkness ahead, but until the time of Harriet’s return had become definite, circumscribed, I could pretend that she might be killed in an automobile accident. I could indulge in fantasies. Two weeks is a very short reprieve for those in Hell. A two weeks holiday, one might say. I cannot imagine a way to get myself ready for what must come. I suppose it is a matter of closing the door. Battening myself down. My jaw aches from holding a grief back. And I cannot summon the courage to get up and dress. It is all very well to scold myself, “Don’t be absurd, Caro,” but reason tells me that it is a disaster, a real one. It cannot really be transcended.
When Anna came back at eleven with a glass of milk and a biscuit I asked whether she would come and see me “afterwards.” Her words were reassuring but I saw the shadow of a doubt cross her candid eyes—would she be allowed to?
“Anyway I could write to you, couldn’t I?”
“Yes, dear, of course.”
“And will you answer?”
She looked daunted, for once at a loss. I could see that the idea of putting feeling into written words was disturbing. “I’m not very good at writing letters,” she said with that secret smile that hovers about her lips as though she were about to say something that will never be said. “My son James laughed at me when he got back from Vietnam last year. Apparently all I ever said was, ‘I miss you and come home soon.’ I’ll try, dear,” she said quickly, “but you mustn’t expect too much.”
“But you will read my letters?”
“Of course.” For a second our eyes met. Then she fumbled for words, “I think so much of you, Miss Spencer … you must know I do.”
So I am busy making up letters. That is something to hold onto. How very strange that at seventy-six in a relationship with an inarticulate person who cannot put any of it into words, I myself am on the brink of understanding things about love I have never understood before. But then I remind myself that this is one of the proofs of true love: It always comes as revelation, and we approach it always with awe as if it had never taken place before on earth in any human heart, for the very essence of its power is that it makes all things new.
Have I ever before really understood the power and the healing grace of sensitive hands like Anna’s? Have I ever experienced loving as I do in one glance from her amazing clear eyes that take in at once what my needs are, whether it be food or a gentle caress, a pillowcase changed, a glass of warm milk? No wonder so many old men fall in love with their nurses! I used to think of them with contempt—old babies, old self-indulgent babies. And now here I am in much the same plight! But I cannot offer Anna marriage or take her into my life, or in any way help her as she helps me. I cannot bind her to me.
Oh dear, that is what makes the separation so agonizing—our mode of expression will be gone. She will forget me soon enough, no doubt. She is still carried forward on the demands of day-to-day living. I am frozen here in this “still pond, no more moving.”
And I am crying again and cannot go on.
Yesterday I was unable to write, but I did get up, made myself dress and go out, though the air was chilly. It was lucky I did because Lisa came, and I can always talk more easily outside this jail. She came, bless her heart, to say that she has arranged to bring Eva here next week, and she must have seen what a tonic effect that news had, something to look forward to after the disaster tomorrow. I am quite proud of myself because I did not break down. It is odd how not crying makes my whole jaw ache. But I must try to appear at least to be normal. I want this girl to believe in my sanity. It is quite necessary for my future plan that she do so. I asked her quite casually whether she could bring me a large can of lighter fluid when she comes next week—she brought me a carton of cigarettes and a crossword puzzle book.
(I didn’t tell her that ever since a very rough passage to Europe, years ago, when I did crossword puzzles between bouts of seasickness, I can’t look at a crossword puzzle without my stomach heaving.)
It is a comfort to have a plan that would end the Hell here but the strange thing is that the very existence of Anna (even though I shall see her rarely if ever), the fact of pure human goodness having come into the orbit, makes it harder to do anything drastic now. And perhaps it was her presence, shaking out a mop as we talked, giving me a wave of her hand in the doorway, that made it possible for me to get Lisa to talk a little about her world, as shaken by love as mine is, avid for food that will nourish that hunger—poetry, music. Her young man has gone to Turkey this summer, the mecca for youth these days, a kind of new world where they imagine they are Marco Polo all over again, bumming rides to cross mountains and deserts to Katmandu—I think she said Katmandu. She is afraid of losing him to the wandering girls, to the pick-ups, afraid of his losing his way. He had wanted to be a doctor, she said, but was wavering now before the arduous years of training.
“Peter is very young,” she said, as women have said of their lovers from time immemorial. She seemed rather an old-fashioned girl this time, and I teased her and told her she had better go to Turkey herself.
“I’d be scared to death,” she admitted, a quick wild blush rising to her ears. “I’m not adventurous.”
“He’ll be back with the winter birds,” I told her. “You’ll see.”
With this visit I climbed out of that pit of panic and loneliness. It gave me back a sense of proportion. It’s too easy in this place to go a little crazy as prisoners often do. The inner world blows up like a balloon. But now I can rest. I must prepare to say goodbye to Anna and do it with dignity. Compose the mind, Caro! Think of goodness. Think of courage. Think of all you know that a young girl cannot know, and be strong.
Words … words … words … I reread that last passage and it was dust and ashes.
Harriet has been back for two days. She is full of hearty cheer and hatred. I suppose she hated to come back as much as we dreaded her return. She is brown and has lost a little weight. The first morning she brought in my tray, the old plastic one, as before, she greeted me with “I hear you’ve been spoiled, Miss Spencer, but you must understand that I have no time for fol-de-rols.”
“I understand,” I said meekly. I am terribly afraid of her, irrationally afraid. I feel like an animal that growls at some perfect stranger as if meanness and cruelty had an actual smell. But I do not dare growl. The mean mistress has to be placated if possible.
“Did you have a good holiday?” I managed to ask.
“Good enough, but everything is so expensive, how can a person have any fun?”
I wanted to say, if you mean sex, that usually does not cost money, but I refrained. I suppose she pays for her lover, but perhaps it is mean-spirited of me to think so. At any rate she dominates Ned completely, and he looks exhausted. She is always cajoling him into doing some odd job. He comes home from the day’s work—a mechanic, I think he said he was—looking as if all he wanted was a beer and some peace and quiet. Instead I hear her shouting at him, “You haven’t been emptying bedpans all day! Take out the rubbish and stop babying yourself!” He never talks back. They have sex, as the saying goes, but it doesn’t look as though they had much else.
I breathe Anna in and out with each breath. Her name is my air. And today I reread all I had written about her coming, the miracle that it was. But I am
very sore inside as if I had been beaten. So sometimes “breathing Anna” is breathing pain.
My daily stint is to endure. It is different from conflict. Conflict may be fruitful, at least it contains in it the seeds of a future, of a resolution. I endure in a vacuum. What I endure will not end ever until my death. When I wake up I still imagine I will see Anna, that her smile will soon come to me, and then I have to realize that the good dream is over and the nightmare is the reality. The early morning is the hardest time. I can hardly bear to see the sun rise, to see the golden leaves sifting down, down, down, and to know that I have to get through a whole long day. So I get up and dress. Today I cleaned my room myself, to no praise, I may say.
“What do you think you’re doing with that dustpan?” Harriet asked irritably. “Isn’t it clean enough for you here?”
“I just felt like doing it.”
“Mind your own business, Miss Spencer. Please give me that dirt and I’ll dispose of it.”
Unfortunately it is too cold today to sit outside. Perhaps I can manage a little walk later on. But first I want to write a letter to Anna—I have waited two days to do it, two long days. I felt unable. And even now my hand shakes when I take the pen. It is as though I were somehow contaminated already, not the person she knew. Hatred seeps in, the fear of madness. Anna, help me.
I will try a letter out and see what happens. But words are no help. She is not a word-person. She is back in her own life now. What did I mean to her? She is “outside,” safe. I am inside, in danger of despair and madness, in danger of appearing ridiculous—even to myself.
Yet I must believe. I must try to keep intact what is gentle and loving—as long as that is possible. So I lie here on my bed and look out at the sky, pure and brilliant, the wholesome world outdoors, where there are seasons, the leaves change and fall.… The chipmunks are busy these days. I love to watch their swift runs, tail in air—they are harvesting. And I must harvest, too, stow somewhere in the depths of my heart all I have been given to sustain me, all I can keep of Anna. And give her all I can summon today to tell her what she has given me.…
End of September
Dearest Anna,
You have been gone now for two days. And I have wanted to write you. I hope that you miss me sometimes, although I am sure your own life has filled in whatever emptiness you may have experienced at first. It is different for me, of course. I do not lead a normal life any longer and so, perhaps, am not quite normal myself. You may think I am a loon when you read this, yet I must try to trust you. You are the only person whom I can trust now. Lisa came and told me she would bring me down to see you next week if that is all right with you? You must imagine how much I need your answer. I feel so hopeless.
I want to tell you that you have brought me back from Hell to Heaven, from nothing but hatred and despair to love. You must understand that this is a miracle. I shall never forget your face, your gentle hands … I want to tell you what touch can do to bring life back to the dead. The first time you clasped my hand I became a little child. I felt safe for the first time since I came to this dreadful place. Every morning I woke before sunrise and knew you were coming soon, I was filled with joy like a child. When you were busy working I heard your voice. The rose you had put on my tray was beside me. Of such small things is Heaven made when one loves again. But all the time I knew it was only for a little while. Perhaps that is why my feelings were so intense. It all had to be experienced immediately for it could not last. I wonder whether you ever felt like this—that we had very little time.
You gave me so much and I could give you so little, that is what bothers me. But once you said you liked my blouse from Hermès. I want to give it to you and when Lisa brings me I’ll have it with me. We won’t be able to talk at all, I fear.
I bought the blouse to please Alex, the man I loved. So it comes from my old love to you, my miracle of new love, with all my heart.
This letter says too much and too little. But I have found it very hard to write. What we had was a silent communion. Words are leaden by comparison. God bless you and keep you, and do not forget that I love you.
Caro
I have read and reread this letter, so inadequate. But I doubt whether I can do it better. I have to hold so much back. I will copy it out this afternoon. Now I must go for a walk, get out. Perhaps I can manage to walk this ache out, get myself really physically tired.
Did I go for a walk? I don’t even remember. I must have, yes of course I did, for that was how Harriet got hold of the letter. I had left the copybook open on my bed. Since then—how many days?—I am being tortured. Harriet read what I had written. She has made everything dirty and destroyed it.
“I didn’t know you were a dirty old woman,” she said when she brought my lunch in that day—when was it?—“At least the old men think about women. They are not filthy like you.”
“It’s not filthy to love Anna,” I said. “She’s a beautiful person.”
“And she kisses you, no doubt, and she clasps your hand.”
The sneers fell like stones, well aimed. Every one found its mark. “This is no place for queers,” she said. “We’ll have you in the State Hospital if you ever dare send such a filthy letter.”
I was silent—silent with dismay.
“At least I’ve saved Anna from your dirt,” Harriet said smugly. “She is a good wife and mother and grandmother. She doesn’t need your smears, Miss Spencer.”
How much was I supposed to take in silence? I got up and walked out of the house. I felt I would walk till I dropped dead. But they soon caught up with me in the truck, she and her lover.
“Oh no, you don’t run away,” Harriet said as they came to a halt and the man jumped out. “I undertook to take care of you and I will.”
Every word of this is grooved so deeply into my mind that I write it down now, days later. I was put in the dark when they got me back, and I suppose Lisa, if she came, was sent away. Now they think I am tamed out of any reaction, I am back in my bed. I am given light again. I am very meek and mild, of course.
Today I was handed a postcard from Ginny and John, from Forida. It said, “A bit hot here, but John is getting along nicely. We both send our love.”
Love? I have come to loathe the word. I hope never to utter or to hear it again as long as I live.
Harriet holds over me the threat of commitment to the State Hospital, but I doubt if she would have the legal right. I suffered real panic about this and have lain low. But sometimes I long to be put out of my misery. At least there they have drugs. I would be put to sleep, I suppose, kept in a state of lethargy. Wouldn’t that be better than my present anxiety—am I a dirty old woman?—guilt, and despair. I have spoken, I feel, lightly of despair before this episode. Now I know more about it. Now I begin to understand Standish. There is a point of no return, a point when the only question is whether to choose to starve to death or to use a more violent means.
The Lord’s Prayer has ceased to be of any comfort. I cannot forgive my enemies. I have been murdered. Murdered in the most cruel of ways possible. How can I ever forgive Harriet? Why should I? If Richard comes I shall refuse to see him. I cannot offer him my humiliation or even talk about it. I have become a leper to myself. I cannot contaminate lovely innocent Lisa. I am beyond the pale. Very well—I have my own ideas of what those beyond the pale do—the blacks, for instance. They finally come to see that violence is the only answer to oppression. They make bombs. What was good in them becomes evil. They want only to destroy. I understand them now very well. I have been punished enough. Once I believed in mercy and had a supreme example of it in one who shall be nameless now. But mercy fails against wickedness. God, if you exist, take me away. Blind me, destroy my every sense, make me numb. Drive me mad. It is all I can pray for now.
Days have gone by. It must be October, mid-October I think, because the leaves are flying fast. The great maples are skeletons against the sky. The beeches are still a marvelous greenish-yellow, a Ch
inese yellow, I have always thought. Pansy, now the nights are cold, sometimes comes to sleep with me, and slips out (clever cat) before anyone has stirred. The only time I weep is when she is there, purring beside me. I, who longed for touch, can hardly bear the sweetness of that little rough tongue licking my hand.
There is nothing to say any longer. And I am writing only because Lisa is to bring Eva today. Harriet doesn’t want them to see me as I was—dirty hair I hardly bothered to comb, an old woman, a grotesque miserable animal. She washed my hair and it is drying now. This time she was gentle, thank God. I suppose she can be because I am just a passive bundle. She brought me a clean and, for once, properly ironed nightgown. I do not dress very often any more. I feel safer in bed. I suspect they are putting sedatives in my coffee, for I feel very sleepy after breakfast. I am too tired now to go on writing—anyway why go on? I once believed I could keep myself alive here, partly by recording the experience. But I had not reckoned with … but I simply must not think about that. The only thing a tortured being asks is not to be tortured any more. I wonder whether X—I shall never speak her name again—has tried to reach me. But who knows? I may have made the whole thing up. Mad people do have dreams, I suppose. Anyway, it was all such a long time ago, if it ever happened. How am I to hide my misery from Lisa, from Eva? How not to hurt them and hurt myself by spreading this leprosy? I do not address myself any more as Caro. Caro is dead. I cannot say “Pull yourself together, Caro,” for that person has ceased to exist. Someone else, mentally ill, tortured, hopeless, has taken over my body and my mind. I am in the power of evil.