Stella Bain

  “You and your husband lived together for fifteen years.”

  “Yes.”

  “And how would you characterize this marriage?”

  How is she to answer this question? The marriage was different minute to minute, as are all marriages, she suspects, and yet maddeningly the same day after day. Until the end. Until the unbearable end.

  “We had respect for one another,” she says, deciding even as she answers him that she must tell the lawyer the truth about the marriage if he is to properly represent her. “But there was great unhappiness on my part. You see, I married Mr. Van Tassel because I had sympathy for him, not because I loved him.” And that was the original sin, she thinks now, from which came all that happened later.

  “Can you explain?”

  “In 1899, he became, I suppose you would say, obsessed with me. If that sounds overly self-regarding, I apologize. I suspected that one day he would propose to me, and when he did, I turned him down, as I did not love him.”

  “If you did not love him, how was the man encouraged to propose to you? I assume you had walked out with him?”

  “Yes,” Etna says, remembering the stifling atmosphere of her aunt and uncle’s house in Thrupp, her desperate desire to be out of doors, even on the coldest of days, and how she happened to meet Professor Van Tassel during a hotel fire. He offered her the very thing she craved: a chance to be away from the house. What irony that she should have been with him so that she could breathe, and yet she was always short of breath in his presence. “I suppose you could say that I used him to get away from rather stifling living conditions.”

  “No, you will not say that,” Mr. Hastings quickly informs her. “You will not say that you used him. And I am quite certain that you are misstating the case. You have mentioned that he pursued you in an obsessive fashion.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that you refused to marry him.”

  “Yes. After that refusal, I left Thrupp to go live with my sister and her husband in Exeter.”

  “In what used to be your own home.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what was your position in your sister’s house?”

  “I went to visit so that I might get away from Mr. Van Tassel, but it soon became clear to me that I had my room and board in exchange for being governess to my sister’s children.”

  “Indeed. Did that strike you as degrading or attractive?”

  “Not necessarily degrading, but it was not a life I wanted for myself.”

  “So if you accepted that proposition, you would have again entrapped yourself?”

  “My sister and I were never close.”

  “Mr. Van Tassel must have approached you again about marriage.”

  “Yes. He came to Exeter some weeks after I had arrived there. When we had an opportunity to speak alone, I saw genuine love and hope and promise in his face, and in that moment, I pitied him.”

  “You pitied him.”

  “Yes. I agreed to his proposal.”

  Mr. Hastings flips a page of his notebook. Etna notices that his little finger and the side of his writing hand are stained with black ink.

  “How old were you when you had Clara?”

  “I was twenty-five.”

  “And Nicodemus?”

  “I had several miscarriages,” she says and immediately sees a purplish color flood Mr. Hastings’s face. Is he embarrassed, or has she become so used to the functions and parts of the body that she is too free with her descriptions? “Nicky was born when I was thirty-three.”

  “How would you characterize your relationship with your children?”

  “I loved them with all my heart.”

  “Mrs. Van Tassel, I think it would be better to say, ‘I love them with all my heart.’”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “I was very involved in their daily lives. I played with them. I corrected their behavior. I tutored them in lessons. I inspired in them a love of the outdoors with outdoor games. They became very interested in our garden.”

  “And I assume you took them to Sunday school regularly.”

  Etna does not respond immediately, because she understands the import of the question. She and Van Tassel nominally belonged to the First Congregational Church, but she cannot say she regularly took her children to church or to Sunday school.

  “Mrs. Van Tassel?”

  “I took the children to church, but not regularly.”

  Mr. Hastings’s left eyebrow rises.

  “Will that be a problem?”

  “I think you will say that you took your children to church and leave it at that and hope that the inquiry ends there. If Mr. Van Tassel is in the courtroom, will he tell his lawyer to query you further on this?”

  “He had little interest in church, either, so I think he will say nothing. When we are at the hearing, I suggest you address him as Dean Van Tassel, since he is likely to bristle at a simple ‘Mister.’”

  “Good point. Thank you. Mrs. Van Tassel, were your children aware that there was no love on your part toward your husband during the marriage?”

  “I cannot say for sure.”

  “May I guide your answer? If you are not sure, you must, of course, say so. But a better answer might be, ‘I saw nothing in their behavior that would indicate that.’”

  “My husband and I were not overly affectionate with each other in their presence, but we did not argue, either. We were affectionate with the children in each other’s presence. I think other parents behave the same way.”

  Or do they? Etna wonders now. Might an astute daughter of thirteen years have wondered why her mother seldom laughed with her father?

  “Mrs. Van Tassel,” Averill Hastings asks, “have you seen your children?”

  “Oh, yes,” Etna says to the lawyer. “I have seen my children.”

  When Etna arrived at her hotel in Gainesville, after an arduous journey by sea and by train, she sent a note to Meritable Root, her sister-in-law, who had been taking care of Clara since Etna had fled the house in 1915. Meritable replied that she would meet Etna for tea in the hotel lobby at four o’clock.

  Etna was in the lobby early and had a chance to watch the stout Meritable be helped from her motorcar. Her sister-in-law did not resemble Van Tassel at all in personality—being the mother of eleven children, she had a simple, jovial manner about her—but the physical resemblance to Etna’s hated husband was still evident.

  Meritable took Etna’s hand, as a woman will, a clasp and not a shake. Etna helped her sit, because Meritable seemed to be out of breath. After they had exchanged pleasantries and ordered tea, Meritable talked about Clara.

  “This will hurt you, Etna, but I must tell you that she rarely speaks of you. One of the reasons is that we told her you had gone away for your health, that it was necessary for you to have complete rest in order to fully recuperate. She asked us what your ailment was, and we told her it was a kind of exhaustion only rest could cure. One other time, about six months ago, when Clara and Henry were out riding, she asked him if her mother would ever get better. Henry replied it was just a matter of time. So you see, Etna, it will not be as difficult as it might be for us to inform her that you are now well and have come to see her.”

  “She’ll be upset,” Etna said, still shaken by the news that her daughter rarely spoke of her.

  “Maybe, but she is a strong girl.”

  Etna asked how best to approach the meeting of mother and daughter. Meritable said she would speak privately with Clara first and set a time and day on the weekend—perhaps the following Sunday—because Clara was still in school. It was decided that Meritable’s home was a good meeting place, one in which Clara could flee to her room if necessary; she would not feel as cornered as she might at the hotel. Meritable left Etna with an embrace, which she returned. Though the circumstances had been difficult, Etna rejoiced in the fact that her daughter had been cared for by such a warm and sensible wo
man.

  The five days until the meeting tested Etna’s patience. Clara was so close and yet unreachable. What if Clara heard of the meeting and ran away before Etna could get to her? What if she refused the meeting and would not come out of her room on the appointed day?

  Etna spent her time walking around Gainesville and the campus of the University of Florida to make the hours go faster. Even in early March, the sun was strong. She visited the town center, walked along University Avenue, and strolled along the streets of the nearby neighborhoods. She found the town center to be a small one: a grocery, a laundry, a photography studio, a pharmacy, and an ice cream shop. Most days, she retreated to her room and drew the shades. She had many memories to sort through, both distant and recent.

  On Sunday, Etna walked to Meritable’s house. As it was a hot day, Etna was perspiring and had nearly soaked her handkerchief from blotting her face and neck. She strode up the front walk, wanting to appear confident. Meritable, who had been watching for Etna, opened the door herself and led Etna into a sitting room that was deliberately kept dark to stave off the heat. Meritable reached over and opened a shutter so that they could see each other. After that, she left to fetch Clara.

  Etna composed her expression into one of gentleness, for she did not want to frighten the child.

  The door opened, and Clara stood before her. In an instant, four distinct emotions crossed the girl’s face. Surprise at Etna’s actual presence. A flash of joy. A sudden and fixed look of anger. And then, with chin raised, an effort to display a mask of indifference. Etna wanted to take her daughter into her arms. Perhaps she showed some astonishment as well. Clara had grown a good three inches in Etna’s absence and had slimmed out in body and face. She wore a pair of trousers and a white sleeveless blouse, as though to say this was no special occasion for her. Her hair was lighter blond than Etna had ever seen it. Etna said, “Clara.” And then, anguished, Etna watched as tears filled her daughter’s eyes.

  “Oh, Clara,” Etna said again.

  “I’m sorry,” Clara blurted as she put an arm up to cover her face.

  Etna went to her daughter. At first, Clara stood limp against her, but then Etna felt the faintest pressure against her back. She ran her hand through the silk of Clara’s hair.

  Etna drew the girl to the sofa and made her sit down. “It’s I who am sorry,” Etna said, receiving from Meritable a clean handkerchief to give to Clara. And in that simple gesture, Meritable made plain to Etna that she was the mother now.

  Etna asked her daughter why she had apologized, and Clara said it was for lying to her mother about Phillip Asher. “I did it to bring you home,” she added.

  “And that is the best of all possible reasons,” Etna said.

  She did not belabor the point just then, knowing they would have time to talk later. She was, instead, struck by the wonder of having her child within her reach. She told Clara that it was she who had abandoned the family. Clara said she understood it was because Etna had been so unwell. Etna realized then that Meritable had left it to her to tell the truth.

  She said, as gently as she could, that she had not been in a sanitarium, but had gone to France to serve as a nurse’s aide in the war. Clara seemed bewildered by this news, and Etna knew it would take some time for her to absorb it. Etna added that Meritable had been told that Etna was ill and had never had reason to question that statement. Etna could see that the confession of her whereabouts altered Clara’s imaginings of her mother and that their relationship had become more complicated, as it was bound to do. Imagining a mother sick in bed was one thing; knowing that she had been alive and well and at war was quite another. Of course, Etna had not been well, not well at all, but it might be weeks or months before Etna could explain that to her daughter.

  “You’re so beautiful,” Etna said to Clara.

  “How could you just go off to France and leave us?” Clara asked with sudden anger.

  “The situation is complex,” Etna began. “We will talk a great deal over the coming weeks. I think you have enough information now to overwhelm anyone. And there is really only one important fact you need to know: I love you very much. I always have and always will.”

  “I won’t leave here,” Clara announced.

  “No one is asking you to leave. I’m not going to snatch you away, if that’s what you are worried about. I’m staying at the hotel. You can visit me there. And I’ll be coming to dinner here. If you are uncomfortable with this, you must say.”

  They did not touch again that afternoon.

  The days and weeks that followed were not easy for Etna, or for Clara. When Etna misread her daughter, the girl had sudden fits of anger that caused her to weep and once again ask the questions that could never be answered no matter how many times Etna attempted to. How could she tell the truth about Van Tassel and still have her daughter not think ill of him? Etna was not blameless, she had told the girl, but then she began to realize that Clara did not want her mother to be a guilty party. The child desperately needed one parent who would always say and do the right thing, who would be a rock in her shifting world, who would tell her how to behave, if necessary.

  For the first time in almost two years, Clara had an opportunity to express herself on the entire matter. She was not yet in control of her feelings, however, and Etna determined that she herself must be steady and calm when they were together. That was all Clara wanted, a righting of the ship.

  Several weeks after her first visit with Clara, and only after the two had established a solid bond upon which to build a new relationship, Etna made plans to visit Nicky.

  Etna wrote to the headmaster of the Hackett School in Croydon, New Hampshire, and said that she would soon be coming to see her son and that she would send word from the hotel when she had arrived. She did not ask him to check with Mr. Van Tassel about the request, nor did she want Nicky to know about the impending visit until the day of the meeting itself. She explained her situation and where she had been and added that she hoped for good news of her son.

  On the day of the visit, Nicky appeared in the headmaster’s office and spoke at once. “You are my Aunt Etna. I have heard of you. You’ve come back from Europe to visit. I have a rule.”

  Etna was abashed to hear such abrupt statements issue from this small boy. She turned to the headmaster, who only shrugged.

  “What is that?” Etna asked.

  “You are not to speak of my mother.”

  “Why?” Etna queried, almost certain that her son knew that she was his mother. He had flinched slightly when he had entered the room and had colored with the same blush that used to bedevil his father.

  “It is not allowed.”

  “Nicky.”

  “I am not Nicky. I am Nicodemus.”

  “This is the rule at your home?”

  “No, it is the rule at all times. The staff here and at home have been informed.”

  My gosh, Etna thought. My son has turned into a little prig. The boy Etna used to tickle and hug and squeeze was suddenly a not-very-likable stranger to her. He even looked like Van Tassel, with his face and lips and heft, and he seemed to have used his father as a mirror for his expressions. Distaste, dismissal, and even, she thought as she stood there, a certain helplessness. Etna went along with “the rules” because she knew that Nicky would not leave the headmaster’s office without her agreeing to them.

  With their hats and coats on, they walked to the hotel across the street from the school. Nicky pointed out his room on the third floor of the building they had just left. Not with pride. It was merely fact. In the dining room, he snapped his napkin across his lap as he had seen his father do hundreds of times. For a while, they spoke of his studies, his friends, his interests. He favored dessert over lunch itself, and Etna indulged him. After a bowl of ice cream and a piece of chocolate cake, she asked him why they were not allowed to discuss his mother.

  “She left me and my father and sent my sister to live far away.”

  “Di
d she?”

  “Now I have no real family, which is why I am here.”

  Etna wanted to cover her face with her hands and weep, but knew she could not in front of her boy. “That must be very hard on you,” she said.

  “It was very bad at first, but now I have the hang of it.”

  “I’m glad,” she said.

  “There are boys here worse off than me.”

  “And how is that?” she asked.

  “At least I have a father.”

  “So you do,” Etna said. “Does he take you home on vacations?”

  “Sometimes,” Nicky said, looking away. “The big ones. Christmas and part of summer. Some of the boys have to go to other people’s houses for all the vacations. I would hate that.”

  “Your mother did all this?”

  His confidence faltered for just a minute, or perhaps he had an ache in his tummy from all the sweets he had eaten. “Yes, she did.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “How should I know?” he asked. “You are her sister. You ought to know.”

  “Nicky,” Etna said, for she felt it was time to stop the charade.

  “Is it true that if you are in England you can hear the guns from France?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Sometimes.”

  Etna saw a tear forming at the corner of one eye. Nicky looked every bit the child he was. “I hardly knew her, you know,” he said. “You look terribly like her.”

  “Nicky, you know who I am.”

  “You are my aunt!” he cried out in one last desperate attempt to shore up the fragile carapace around him.

  “No, Nicky. I am your mother. Yes, I am Etna, but I’m your mother. I think you know this.”

  Nicky picked up his napkin and tied it around his eyes as though it were a blindfold.

  “I have been to Florida and have visited Clara,” Etna said. “She misses you, Nicky.”

  He shook his head. He was a curiosity in the dining room, and several women turned in their direction. Etna ignored them. “I love you, Nicky. Yes, it’s true I went away. I felt I had a mission in Europe. Maybe I’ll tell you about it one day.”