Chapter Forty-Six
I’ve always been good at playing my part, learning the role that has been assigned to me.
Modifying who I am and how I appear in order to give them all what they want to see.
More times than I can count, it’s been the difference in my survival.
As we showgirls often quipped backstage, with a bit more world-weariness than our tender ages should have afforded us: “It’s either learn the ropes, sweetie, or else hang. ”
But this is the hardest role I’ve ever had to play.
I’m trying my best, every day. To be a respectable Thorne, a pleasing daughter-in-law, a good Presbyterian wife.
If I can convince Mother Thorne that I’ve seen the light, that I’ve left my Broadway past behind and am now a good girl, perhaps she’ll stop loathing me; perhaps she’ll stop disparaging me to my husband.
Perhaps we might be able to settle into some sort of peace in our home. And peace is what I need.
To that end, I ask my husband for a favor.
“I wish you would build me a pool,” I declare.
“They’re all the fashion now, indoor pools.
” As I’m no longer permitted to dance or sing or really do anything diverting, I need something to occupy my hours and utilize my energy.
I’m only twenty years old, and I’m bored stiff.
Hal quickly complies. “Some men build their wives gardens, others temples. I’m building you a pool.”
He covers it with a glass greenhouse so that I may use it all year long, regardless of weather, and when it’s completed that spring, I am delighted.
The pool, set apart from the main house, becomes a much-needed refuge.
I swim every day—half a mile at first. Then a mile.
My body responds well to it. I’ve always been strong from my youth and the dancing, but this is new.
Soon I have lean and taut new muscles on my legs, my arms, my midsection.
But it’s more than my body—the laps lull me with their rhythmic movement, and I find that, gliding through the water, I can quiet my spinning mind.
It does give me some measure of peace. Learn to swim.
And then you’ll survive. It’s what Charles Dana Gibson told me years ago.
I didn’t fully understand it then, and I don’t fully understand it now, but I know that swimming is the one thing that soothes me on some desperate days, when otherwise the gloom threatens to pull me under.
As spring turns to summer, Hal and I begin to speak about traveling again. It’s hard to believe we’ve been married almost a year. I ask if we can go to New York around the time of our anniversary. “The place where we met, Hal.” And, I neglect to add, the place where I might be able to visit Penny.
But my husband immediately rejects the idea. “Then how about Philadelphia?” I suggest. If I can’t see Penny, it’d be nice to see Leah and Rachel.
“I was thinking farther afield,” he responds. “Germany?”
This catches me off guard, but not unpleasantly. Germany. I tell him I’ll think about it. The thought of a trip, anywhere, does fill me with glimmers of hope.
Shortly after that Mary prepares to host a tea at home with several dozen of her church ladies.
When the morning of the gathering dawns, I rise early to swim, then I find her in the parlor as she’s overseeing the final arrangements.
Offering my blandest smile, I ask, “Mother, I was wondering if I might join you in the parlor for tea?”
With a sigh, she begrudgingly assents. “Thank you,” I say, and then I excuse myself from the room before she can change her mind. If there are some new faces in the crowd, I might meet a friend or two. I try my best to keep hope alive.
The appointed hour arrives, and we sit in the sun-filled parlor as the ladies file in.
There is a full tea service set before us, with small plates filled with almond cakes, finger sandwiches, lemon biscuits.
The chitchat is quiet and bland, all talk of weather and children and pious church business.
Mother has gathered her coterie together today to speak about some much-needed repairs to the church’s roof, and as we are all finishing our tea, she reminds us that we must start thinking about how to raise the funds.
Mrs. Fletcher, a matron in a feathered hat, suggests a variety show. “Wouldn’t that be amusing?” And then, with an earnest smile, the woman looks to me. “A night of entertainment. Folks could read a poem or play an instrument. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a grand idea,” I respond, instantly excited.
And surprised, too, that this lady has looked to me, seemingly to seek my opinion.
Delighted, as well, to be spoken to. Perhaps responding to my animation, Miranda yelps in my lap, so I lower my squirming dog to the carpeted floor and then carry on.
“You could sell tickets, perhaps even put on a supper at the show.”
Mrs. Fletcher nods, considering my suggestions. “I like that.” Murmurs of tepid assent fill the room as Mrs. Fletcher goes on. “We could decorate the space. Should we call it Broadway Comes to Pittsburgh?”
“That’s enough for one day, ladies,” Mother interjects, and when I turn to her, I see that her features have gone startlingly pale, even whiter than usual. With a pinched smile, she rises from her seat. The tea party, and all talk of the fundraiser, has reached its conclusion.
Mother’s postulants dutifully file out. After we’ve seen our final guests to the door and Mother has graciously accepted more than twenty servile murmurs of thanks from her friends, we remain, the pair of us in the quiet foyer.
Miranda, agitated by all the visitors, runs in small circles at my feet, nipping at my skirts in her puppy playfulness.
But Mother doesn’t move from the door. In fact, she appears fixed to the spot, lifeless as a statue while she holds me in her gray gaze. And then, with her voice thin as a reed, she speaks the words so quietly that I barely hear her: “I suppose you think you’ll get up there?”
My heart could fall into my stomach. She’s displeased with me, even more than usual. “Up…where?” I ask.
“Come now, I’m no fool.” She folds her paper-white hands primly before her waist. “Broadway Comes to Pittsburgh?”
“I didn’t make that suggestion,” I say. “Nor did I suggest the variety show. I suggested ticket sales and a supper. This is to raise funds for the church, isn’t it?”
“Why do you suppose the ladies even thought of the Broadway idea? If not for being swayed by your…influence.”
My influence? Now my mere presence in a room has the power to stain these poor women, polluting their minds and souls?
I resist the urge to scowl, or to jump to defensiveness.
I remind myself to stay calm, and I try a different tack.
“Mother, if we are raising money for the church, and we find a way to get the ladies excited to plan and the congregation enthusiastic to attend, that’s a good thing, is it not? ”
Her features clench. I hear an exhale before she says, “Ill-gotten money can do no good. I’ll not have my own daughter-in-law standing up on the stage like some painted lady for all to gawk at.”
“I never said I would go up on that stage,” I hasten to clarify. “I can help plan; that’s all.” Miranda is trying to play with me, to grab my attention, and I shift on my feet to keep her from pawing my skirts. I don’t need anything to further upset Mother, especially not my puppy.
“I’m not so easily deceived.” My mother-in-law arcs a gray eyebrow, ignoring the bouncing puppy at her feet, pinning me with her stare. “You could barely hide your delight in talking about the stage.”
“The stage is diverting to speak about, perhaps, but I never—”
“You’re still the chorus girl,” she spits, her gaze as cold as the steel that has made her rich as a queen.
And I see how, also like her steel, which can be used to forge the sharpest of blades, Mother wishes to cut me.
She scowls down at the floor where Miranda is prancing around, trying to play with us both.
In the next instant my mother-in-law hitches up her skirt and lands a decisive kick on my puppy’s head.
It’s not a hard kick, but Miranda is not a big dog, and it sends her stumbling with a yelp of startled pain.
This is more than I will stand. I lean over and grab Miranda and storm from the room. I don’t stop until I’ve slammed my bedroom door shut, my puppy and I alone inside.
White-hot anger writhes within me. The dog is fine, but I am not. Oh, I’ve learned to act my roles, all right. But do I wish to continue playing this part? This role that will drain my soul, rather than save it?
Hours of pacing and brooding do little to calm my anger, but then my bedroom door opens without a knock. “Hello, booful wife.” My husband waltzes in to find me clutching Miranda and walking a straight line back and forth before my fireplace.
“How was your day?” he asks, his own mood light and unburdened. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since morning.
“Horrible,” I reply, doing nothing to mask my frown. I feel a twinge of remorse about bringing down his mood, but he must know what his mother has done. I can no longer keep it in.
But Hal, to my surprise, doesn’t seem to notice my stormy mood, nor does he ask for more information. In fact, he doesn’t even appear to have heard me as he walks to the tall window and peers out over the darkening gardens. So I ask: “How was yours?”
“Good, good,” he answers, nodding distractedly. “Every day is a good day when I have my booful wife.” And then he begins to hum some childish, jingly sort of tune, still staring out the window.
I narrow my eyes, taking a moment to study him a bit closer. That’s when I see him slip his hand into his trouser pocket and I catch a glint of something sparkling. My blood stills in my veins. “Hal?”
Now he’s whistling the tune, acting as though he hasn’t heard me. Perhaps he really hasn’t.