CHAPTER 10
An Ocean Away
Peter dreamed of a dense forest. Something was falling from the sky. It was a beautiful white bird. He began to run, straining to get to the spot where the bird would land. He could hear it crashing through the brush in front of him.
Up ahead was a small clearing and he glimpsed the pitiful creature lying prostrate on the ground, unmoving. As he came closer, he saw the bird had long blonde tresses, delicate hands, and little feet. It was not a white bird at all but a girl in a nightgown. Sticking out of her breast was the shaft of an arrow.
She appeared to be dead. Her head was facing away from him so it was not until he circled round the girl that he realized she was familiar to him. Heart hitching painfully in his chest, he realized the motionless girl was a younger version of his Wendy.
A groan escaped from Peters lips. Frenzied he looked about him for the archer who had delivered Wendy’s fatal blow. In his shock, he was barely conscious of grasping something in his hands; he looked down as if in slow motion and saw he held a bow. With horror he realized that his own hands were responsible for Wendy’s fate. Peter had shot the Wendy bird.
Traversing the Atlantic was not the cathartic experience that Peter had hoped it would be. New York, particularly Broadway, was an exciting, exotic place and Peter did his best to immerse himself in the hustle and bustle. Everything, however, seemed to remind him of she whom he was trying to forget. Each time something would delight him his immediate thought would be of Wendy and her imagined reaction.
Every night Peter still dreamt of her. Often there were strange islands surrounded by rough seas, frequently there were murderous pirates, sometimes there were strange boys, occasionally he encountered Indians or Mermaids, sporadically his dream guide still appeared, and always there was the separation. Sometimes he would wake up with her name on his lips, exhausted from spending the whole night searching for Wendy in a strange netherworld. No matter what he tried, he could not control the dreams nor stop them from coming.
So, Peter threw himself into his work; and being a young, handsome actor, the American public in return, threw itself at him. Within six months of his arrival, there was an endless amount of ladies wanting to make Peter Neverland’s acquaintance, among other things. These women were everywhere. They stalked the alley behind the stage door, bribed their way into his dressing and hotel rooms, even staked out his favorite restaurants. The better-connected and moneyed ones, under the guise of patronage, hosted dinners and organized parties. Peter, of course, was always the esteemed guest of honor.
Despite being offered every manor of lavish gift including physical charms, Peter delicately refused them all. He still wanted that which was an ocean away. Without being able to help himself, he compared each woman he met to Wendy and found them all wanting…
Still heavy with melancholy from his latest dream, Peter walked through the newly renamed Belasco Theatre. He moved reverently, pausing to admire the beautiful George Keister architecture, the opulent Tiffany glasswork, and the lively murals by Everett Shinn. This theatre had been his closest thing to an actual home for the last six months and he adored it.
In the approaching evening, the building was uncharacteristically still. Peter’s company had packed earlier in the day—they would be leaving for Chicago in the morning—thus the theatre was dark. As Peter moved through the stillness, he wondered why he had been summoned to the Bishop’s residence above.
The designer and namesake of the theatre, David Belasco, was considered an innovative eccentric among the American Theatre world. His insistence on clerical garb, a black suit with white rounded collar, had earned him the nickname “the Bishop of Broadway”. Peter, whose very nature was to be charitable in spirit and mind, supposed all-encompassing passion for the theatre was a religious calling of sorts and respected the man for his devotion.
Mr. Belasco, perhaps recognizing a fellow devotee, had been trying to entice Peter away from his company with a series of appealing offers, but the actor had made it clear that he had committed to the run of Musketeers in Chicago. Afterwards, Peter thought, was quite a different story. Although he hadn’t informed them, Peter never intended to return with his fellow thespians to London. It was too near his pain, too near his heart and her.
Eventually Peter made his way to the Bishop’s apartment high atop the east side of the building. The formidable man was waiting for him at the door. In anticipation of yet another flattering offer, Peter stepped into the Bishop’s chambers clearing his throat.
“Mr. Belasco,” he began.
“David,” corrected the Bishop.
“David, your offers flatter me, but…”
“Sit down, son.” The Bishop gestured to a chair.
Peter seated himself. Something in the faux cleric’s face divulged that this meeting had nothing to do with any previous offers.
“Peter, this arrived for you, care of the theatre, this morning.” He handed him a slip of paper. “I’ll give you a few minutes.” Then the Bishop was gone.
Peter turned the telegram over and over in his hands, afraid to open it. His first thought, however improbable, was that it was from Wendy; then he worried that it was about her. Deciding it was probably no cause for alarm, he reluctantly opened it. It was from Griffin.
DEAR PETER. I AM SORRY TO INFORM YOU THAT FATHER HAS PASSED AWAY. AT HIS REQUEST THERE WILL NOT BE A FUNERAL. PLEASE DO NOT COME HOME. CONTINUE WITH YOUR PERFORMANCES. LETTER TO FOLLOW WILL EXPLAIN ALL. GRIFFIN.
Peter was not sure how long he sat, but he was in complete darkness when the Bishop returned with a drink for each of them. Later, stunned and slightly drunk, he returned to his hotel room where a grinning bellhop informed him that a certain well-known actress was waiting in his private rooms. For the first time since his arrival in America, Peter did not turn a female admirer away; in fact, she did not leave until morning.
At this point, we must take caution not be hasty to judge Peter by virtue of a closed door and a sunrise. Appearances, after all, are seldom as they seem. Peter was a gentleman of the highest moral caliber. This, above all else, is to be remembered.
If only the loose-tongued bellhop would have given Peter the same benefit of the doubt instead of jumping to scandal-sized conclusions…
An ocean away, Wendy was tired of her dreams; waiting for Peter, wanting Peter, searching for Peter, screaming for Peter, hating Peter for leaving her. Every night the darkness pressed in around her. Terrible, evil forces divided her from her love and threatened them harm. She thought she was going mad!
Seven months had passed since the handsome, young actor had left for America. At first Wendy didn’t want to go on living. She shut herself in her room and barely got out of bed. At Aunt Mildred’s insistence and for fear of driving Wendy into the actor’s arms, her family indulged her.
Successfully she cut herself off from nearly everyone and everything. Despite her best efforts she had only two faithful visitors: Maimie, whom she admitted; and James, whom she did not.
Like clockwork Maimie arrived on Saturday afternoon. For Wendy’s benefit, she brought the daily and weekly papers already scoured for any mention of Peter or his company. This particular Saturday she entered Wendy’s room with less sympathy and more purpose. In her hands she held a beautiful summer hat, which she proceed to thrust at Wendy.
“Wendy, get dressed!” she ordered. “I am taking you to tea.”
Wendy set the hat on the edge of the bed and tightened her robe around her thin frame. “Oh Maimie, I am not inclined to leave the house today. I already arranged to have tea brought up.”
“Nonsense!” Her companion crossed to the window, parted the curtains, and opened it. “You haven’t left the house in months. It is a beautiful day! Today we are going out.”
Indignantly, Wendy opened her mouth in offence. “I get out! I went to your wedding,” Wendy snapped. Fancy Wendy snapping! But she had been much tried, and she little knew what loyal service her dearest frie
nd would perform on behalf of her broken heart. If she had known she would not have snapped.
Maimie’s gaze cut her short and Wendy’s eyes dropped to a spot on the rug. Her best friend and confidant came closer. Reproachfully, Maimie picked up the hat and held it out to her. “That was one time. One time in seven months and you didn’t even dance.”
“I didn’t feel like it,” she mumbled accepting the beautiful millinery.
“I do not think you feel at all. Whatever you are doing, you are certainly not alive. Now get dressed. Today you rejoin the living.”
Wendy looked skeptically at her boon companion and sank to the edge of her bed. The latter picked her back up and tenderly smoothed a wisp of hair away from her face.
“It is just tea, dearest. I’m not asking you to throw a party!”
Sensing that her dear friend was not about to yield, Wendy began to dress. The ritual of dressing seemed strange after so many months of apathy. It occurred to Wendy that the whole point of clothes—from hair combs, to corset, to boots—was to transform a woman into something contradictory to her natural state. At the same time there was something cathartic and calming in those same ministrations. For the better part of an hour Maimie helped her dress. By the time she was finished, Wendy was surprised to realize that she was actually looking forward to leaving her house.
Seated at the best table in the most fashionable tea shoppe in all of London, Wendy felt lighter than she had in a long time. She smiled at her faithful friend. “Oh, I didn’t realize how much I missed this.”
“And I missed you! Nothing is the same without you.”
“Have you been to the theatre recently?”
Maimie frowned, shaking her head, “No, the Opera.”
Wendy mirrored the expression. “Oh, dear.”
“Oh dear, indeed!”
The friends began to laugh like old times. When a dour grand-dame and her unfortunate looking daughter passed by casting the pair reproachful glances, Maimie responded with a snort. Then they giggled like schoolgirls, until their cheeks ached and tears were streaming from their eyes. In those precious moments all Wendy’s pent up emotions were released.
After a bit, when things had calmed down, Wendy glanced expectantly at a small stack of newspapers folded under Maimie’s handbag.
“What news of Peter?”
“Well,” Maimie hesitated, “the company has moved on to Chicago, last week in fact.”
Wendy sensed her friend’s reluctance. “What else?”
Maimie placed her hand over her companion’s. “Are you sure you want to know?” Wendy’s somber nod prompted her to continue in careful words. “It seems Peter has been linked to a well-known actress.”
Wendy pulled back her hand as if stung. “Who?” She demanded.
Maimie exhaled and pulled out the small stack of papers. “Edith Wynne Matthison.”
“And what do you mean by ‘linked’?”
“It seems she spent the night in his hotel room.”
Wendy snatched the papers from her friend’s hand and read the accounts for herself. (This was still a couple of years before the scandal between Edith and the pretty Vassar coed that would have dispelled any gossip about her and a member of the opposite sex.) After reading, Wendy was silent for a long time. When she finally looked at Maimie, her face was deliberately blank.
“Well, he’s found someone, at long last.” She smiled a pitiful smile. “Good for him.”
Her friend was not so accepting. “More like someone found him. For Heaven’s sake, she’s married! It’s nothing more than a tawdry affair.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Wendy folded up the papers.
“Of course it does! You could still go after him. The Lusitania leaves tomorrow for—”
“No, Maimie!” Now it was Wendy’s turn to be firm. “It doesn’t matter because I have decided to face the facts and move on. Peter is not coming back. He has made a new life for himself and I have to do the same.”
Later that day James called upon her, flowers in hand, for his weekly visit. For the first time since Peter’s departure, Wendy did not refuse him.
That night, as Wendy slept, a boy dressed in leaves flew into her room. She awoke to find him seated at the foot of her bed. Although he was unknown to her, he was at the same time familiar.
“Boy, what do you want?” she asked.
“For you.” He held out his hand and she took his offering. It was an acorn button.
She took his gift and placed it on a small silver chain, which she fashioned around her neck. “Thank you.”
The boy grasped her hand and began to draw her toward the open window.
“Come away, Wendy.”
How she longed to go with him. Somehow, she knew he could take her to a place where all her adult heartbreak would melt away and vanish like spun sugar. The boy released his grip and glided out the window. Floating in the air, he turned in a graceful loop and looked at her expectantly, a dimpled smile lighting his face.
“Come away, Wendy.”
Perched on the windowsill, arms stretched outward, she murmured, “I can’t. I can’t fly.”
“I’ll teach you,” the boy said hovering in front of her.
His outstretched hand was just beyond her reach, so Wendy strained forward to grasp it. Struggling to maintain her balance, she wildly flailed her arms. The boy disappeared before her eyes and Wendy began to fall toward the darkened garden far below. With all her strength she hurled herself backwards. For a moment she was suspended mid-air as her feet flew out from under her, then she landed on her bedroom floor with a jarring thud.
Disoriented, Wendy sat in stunned silence trying to figure out if she was awake or dreaming. She settled the matter by giving herself a strong pinch on her forearm, which hurt rather a lot but left no doubt that she was awake.
She stood uncertainly and went to the open window. The cloudless night, illuminated by a harvest moon, revealed many twinkling stars but no flying boy. She did not know whether she was relieved or disappointed that he was just another figment of her dreams. And yet…
She turned and walked slowly to her dressing table. Opening its drawer she pulled out her neglected keepsake box. Inside were her thimbles, including the mysterious porcelain half. Gently pushing them aside she pulled out a tarnished silver chain. Attached to the end was a faded acorn button.
Although she had had the necklace since she was a child, she could not recall where it had come from. She pulled the acorn out of the box and examined it in the moonlight. It had a jagged hole in the center as if something had pierced it violently. Running her finger across it, she wondered what had made the hole and why it didn’t go all the way through.
Clasping the chain around her neck, the acorn fell against her breast. She placed her hand over it. Surely, it was a good luck charm—a talisman that would protect her from harm and keep her safe. Maybe, she thought, it already has…
CHAPTER 11
The Wild West
Odd things happen to all of us on our way though life without our noticing for a time that they have happened. Now such an experience had come that morning to Wendy as she contemplated her next visit from the young banker.
In truth, she was surprised by how much she actually enjoyed James’s company. He was an attentive listener. A bit too reserved for her tastes, but nonetheless, his insights were remarkably thoughtful and mature. Although he lacked passion, he did love her in his quiet, faithful way. Above all Wendy felt so sure of him; he would never hurt her, nor abandon her. He would always put her above all else and with him her life would be safe.
So dread had evolved into anticipation and she received him—warmly.
But every so often when they were at tea or strolling in the park, James would get that familiar look in his eyes. The look that said, I am ready to ask you the question, the most important thing a man can ask a woman. I am ready to be husband, father, and provider.
Then in answer to James’s eyes, Wen
dy would get a look of her own. Hers said, Don’t dare ask it! I am not yet ready.
In those moments of unspoken communication, James and Wendy reached an understanding. Eventually she would marry him, so for now he would be patient and hold his tongue. Like the spring, their friendship progressed, with minor setbacks, but all in all developing slowly and steadily from a fragile shoot, cultivated in trust and dependability, growing until the day it would become a garden in full bloom.
It had been four months since she started seeing James and two since she had let him take her on outings. Saturday, they would join Lord and Lady Withington for the premier of George Bernard Shaw’s Misalliance at the Duke of York’s Theatre. This was the company’s first production since their triumphant return from America minus Peter. All of London society, despite mourning the loss of its favorite young actor, was coming out to welcome them back. It was a first for Wendy too. Her first venture back to the theatre…back to Peter’s world.
Despite the immense joy the theatre always afforded her, Wendy knew almost immediately that coming had been a mistake. However certain she was that Peter remained in America, she could not help but anxiously look for him in every direction she turned. Every person shadowed in the stage wings could have been him. Each scene change left her fretfully holding her breath in anticipation, waiting for his entrance. Might her intelligence be wrong? Perhaps Peter had changed his mind, returned to take his rightful place on the London stage and restore meaning to her precarious world. Hope was futile, yet it was not in Wendy’s nature to do less.
Wishing aside, the play itself was painful—seeming to expose the fragile truce between her disappointed hopes and safer, more realistic, expectations. The subject, marriage for the wrong reasons, was too raw to heed, lest she begin to scrutinize the folly of her life and return to her bed indefinitely.