A Woman of Independent Means (29 page)

June 8, 1921
Dallas

Dearest Manning and Lydia,

I find myself in the unusual position of accepting an invitation before it has been extended. However, propriety is shaped by circumstances and the children and I have just been provided with the occasion for a trip to New England, and an opportunity to visit you at the farm. The trip is prompted by the admittedly impulsive decision of my two dearest friends, Arthur Fineman and Totsie Davis, to join their lives in marriage. It was a little less than a year ago that I introduced them, and I frankly had no idea their friendship was heading toward such a conventional conclusion.

I never told you at the time, but it was not by accident that I met Arthur in Boston last year. He wrote and asked me to join him there for the purpose, I learned later, of proposing marriage. I did not think our relationship would prosper in an atmosphere of exclusive loyalty, and so I refused. We continued to see each other and I was convinced experience was confirming the wisdom of my decision. However, I had not counted on the attraction offered by another woman's need for his advice. I suppose there is not a man alive who can remain oblivious to the charms of a damsel in distress.

I do not mean to burden you with all the details of my involvement in this most unexpected event but I do want you to understand my reasons for making the trip. Arthur and Totsie are my closest friends and I love both of them. They have asked me to be a witness at their wedding and I cannot refuse, whatever the cost. If I am to find a form in which our friendship can not only continue but thrive, then it is imperative that I prove my good will by being present at their wedding.

Marian had such a good time visiting us alone last spring that my three are eager to have the same experience. Would it be possible for them to stay with you at the farm while I go to Boston for the wedding? Forgive me for acting on the assumption that we are welcome, but time is so short it would be impractical to assume otherwise.

I trust Manning will forgive us for this invasion, but I could not bear to journey to Boston alone when the children would rather be on the farm at this time of year than anywhere else in the world. How fortunate for all of us that you followed your impulses and leased it in spite of my reservations, which I only voiced out of concern for you. But I have often proceeded without regard for well-meant words of caution, and I am delighted you had the foresight to do likewise.

Much love—and
à bientôt,
Bess

June 20, 1921
Dallas

Dearest Papa and Mavis,

The children and I are packed and ready for an early-morning departure for New England.

Robin complained of aches and pains all day but begged me not to delay the trip on his account. The doctor said we could leave on schedule if he promised to rest on the train so that he will be completely well when we arrive. I expect it will be easier to keep him amused in a berth than it would be in a bed. Where else can you lie perfectly still and watch the world pass by your window?

Robin has already reached our destination in his mind. Today, lying in bed, he drew scene after scene of the farm, as if he were summoning it into existence by giving it form. He talks as he draws, even if no one is listening, describing every detail of our life there. Tonight he propped the picture he drew of Pinetree Lodge on the table beside his bed and pretended he was falling asleep there. Pinetree Lodge was the name the children gave to the shelter they discovered beneath the low branches of a huge pine tree. The ground was soft with pine needles and on warm nights they would spread blankets and stay till morning.

I have never known anything but happiness in Vermont, and I am looking forward to our arrival as eagerly as the children.

Good-bye for awhile,
Bess

June 24, 1921
New York City

Dear Arthur and Totsie,

I tried to reach you by phone but there was no answer, and it is just as well, for I do not think I could bear to hear the sound of your voices.

By the time we reached New York my precious Robin, who had left Dallas with an undiagnosed illness, was delirious with fever. Fortunately my brother-in-law had taken a train down from Vermont and was waiting for us at the station. We went straight to the hospital where I learned Robin was suffering from spinal meningitis.

At my insistence Manning has taken the other two children to the farm. There is nothing any of them can do here and my suffering is only augmented by seeing it reflected in their eyes.

Though I cannot witness your wedding in person, all my good wishes will attend you. I know you will find joy and solace in each other's presence even in moments of pain and sorrow. Until now I could not admit how much I envied you. Forgive me.

 

JUNE 25, 1921
NEW YORK CITY

MRS LEONARD MAXWELL
5620 WATERMAN AVENUE
ST LOUIS MISSOURI
ROBIN DIED THIS MORNING AM BRINGING BODY TO
TEXAS FOR BURIAL PLEASE ARRANGE TO HAVE ROBS
COFFIN AT STATION TOMORROW READY FOR SHIPMENT
I CANNOT BEAR FOR ROBIN TO BE ALONE

BESS

 

 

June 27, 1921
Dallas

Dearest Lydia and Manning,

Two nights have come and gone but the nightmare does not end. The only way I have survived is by cultivating a sense of complete detachment. Mentally I assume a stance far away from the scene at hand and then watch the proceedings with the un-caring eye of an outsider.

It was kind of you to offer to make the trip to Texas with me but I am happier thinking of you in Vermont with the children. Nothing can be gained from getting close to death. Death is the enemy and every instinct urges us to keep our distance. I am so glad the children are there with you. It would take more courage than I possess now to find words of comfort for them, and even my silence reverberates with anger.

I am not sure I could have boarded the train without the unexpected assistance of Arthur and Totsie. They were married in Boston as planned and came into New York that afternoon. They were to sail for Bermuda the next day on their honeymoon. Instead they came straight to the hospital and spent their wedding night sitting with me. They were still there the next morning—the anniversary of my own marriage—when the nurse took me to Robin's bedside to tell him good-bye. I have never seen a fever create such a sweet dream. Robin thought he was lying in Pinetree Lodge and he made me promise he could sleep outside all summer under the stars. He said even if none of the other children wanted to stay there with him, he wouldn't be afraid to sleep alone.

Arthur and Totsie were with me all day after he died and never mentioned that their ship had sailed without them. Without even asking, they arranged to accompany me on the train back to Dallas and to spend their honeymoon looking for a place to live.

There was a large crowd waiting at the station in St. Louis when our train arrived. I had forgotten how many friends I made there. The conductor was kind enough to allow me to remain in my compartment during the long layover and my friends boarded in small groups to pay their respects.

There was a great deal of confusion about which baggage car was going on to Dallas and the conductor was calling, “All aboard,” when I suddenly realized Rob's coffin was still on the platform waiting to be loaded. I gave a shriek, more of anger than of sorrow, as I realized nothing is accomplished in this life without constant supervision. I was not even to be allowed the luxury of total surrender to my grief.

Several well-meaning friends, thinking I was hysterical with emotion, tried to restrain me as I bolted down the aisle of the train. I broke free and leapt onto the platform, throwing my arms around the coffin. Finally the conductor understood and the large coffin was quickly loaded onto the baggage car to lie beside the smaller one.

I boarded the baggage car with it and refused to leave. I felt I belonged there with my husband and our son on the last trip the three of us would ever make together. I cannot explain the strange sense of calm that came over me as I sat in the darkness between those two coffins, wrapped in the blanket Arthur insisted on bringing me. At that moment I knew it was not possible to lose completely anything I had ever loved. I spent a sleepless but tranquil night and was not prepared the next morning when despair descended over me like a shroud, smothering in its dark folds all the hope I had felt the night before.

A very simple funeral service was held at the mortuary—just a few prayers and a hymn, all Robin would have understood since he had not been confirmed and thereby educated in the more elaborate rituals the Church has devised to disguise the brutal truth of our mortality.

The minister closed with the prayer Robin said every night: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep”; then continued with the words I never taught him: “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” By that omission I had hoped to spare him any thought that death could take him unaware. In that at least I was successful. For, more than the other two children, he accepted his father's death as part of life and never considered the possibility of his own. He was truly alive for every moment of his allotted decade. Even in his sleep his mind was always active, creating settings in which his restless spirit could roam, looking for adventure. I cannot believe even death will put an end to his happy dreams.

I find it difficult to bring this letter to a close. Somehow the effort of shaping my thoughts into sentences gives me the illusion I am in control of my feelings. But I know when I put down my pen all will be chaos again.

Kiss Drew and Eleanor for me and hold them close. Do they understand at all? But how unreasonable of me to expect that they would when nothing makes sense to me.

I must sleep now and hope the night will free me from the nightmare of this day.

June 30, 1921
Dallas

My precious lambs,

I have just finished reading your letters, and it is the first time since I left you that I have felt like smiling. It was so good of Aunt Lydia to ask you to write down everything you have been thinking and feeling. All we have is each other and we must share as much as we can.

Darling Drew, where did you ever learn a long word like “condolences”? It is such a sad-sounding word to me, much too long and sad for a little boy who was as happy as Robin. I am glad the two of you are there at the farm he loved so much. Marian loves having you there and Aunt Lydia hopes you will stay all summer.

I am very tired now so I have been staying in bed and trying to rest. Annie comes every day to take care of me. She tells me she is at the head of her class in nursing school and I can see why. She is so calm and efficient no patient would dare contradict her. I take all the medicine she gives me, even though I am not really sick, just very tired.

Grandpa and Mavis are here too. Sometimes after supper we talk Annie into joining us for a game of bridge but she is such a bad player we usually end by just talking. Grandpa has been telling me stories about his boyhood, most of which I had never heard before. I realize more and more that we have to work at making friends with members of our family the same way we do with strangers, by asking them questions and relishing their answers. I have asked Grandpa to remember all the stories he is telling me so he can repeat them to you when you get home.

Eleanor, I think your cat is about to become a mother, though I have no idea who the father is. However, she seems to have no further interest in him anyway and is quite content to sleep at the foot of my bed all day. I am very grateful to have her company, the sound of her purring helps me fall asleep. Which I am about to do right now.

Goodnight, my angels. I will come to you when I can.

Love and kisses,
Mummy