Becoming Mrs. Lewis(42)
Have you ever had this in your mind’s eye when you told your stories? I wrote to Jack. A fortress city made of stone and lichen, bowing down in reverential worship to Castle Rock above.
The towers of Edinburgh thrust toward the sky, with the churches and buildings stepping-stones that climbed ever farther up and up into the hills. The great clock watched over the city, a timekeeper. The fountains gurgled over sculptures so finely wrought, I felt the mythical creatures in them would surely come alive.
I didn’t feel a stranger, and I never once became lost. Hope arrived—this King Charles II book could become something I could write with passion. It would keep my mind from the uncoiling of my life as well as offer some financial freedom for all of us.
Libraries are sanctuaries, and the one in Edinburgh was a sacred space, with its soaring ceilings and hovering lights dropping circles of gold onto tables and floors. The open center, an aisle of desks and chairs, winged to reveal the second floor, which soared above me with an iron railing like black lace. I stood in the middle, my neck hinged back to stare up. The Corinthian pillars and dark, scarred wooden desks beckoned me to my work. I settled in with books and pad and pen and began to write. I exhaled with relief: now this was a place I could work, not like Staatsburg at all.
I was only half a day into my notes when again the dark fatigue settled around me, and I realized I hadn’t felt this tired and worn since my last bout with a kidney infection. I craved nothing but sleep.
The fever came on slowly, and it was with sorrow I realized I was sick with something awfully near the flu. Shortening my trip, I hurried to pack and return to London.
Joy:
Dear Unconquerabill,
I am terribly sorry for all the grief at home. I have been derailed with the most awful flu I’ve ever had—I thought I might die. But it led, as pain often does, to a great spiritual awakening. And I know I must get my emotions in order.
Bill:
I’m sorry for your illness. Here we are well. Renee has become dear to all of us, and especially to me. Maybe it really is over between us—you and me, other than our abiding friendship and being parents to these spectacular children.
Joy:
I must be happy for you that things are well there; that Renee is as dear to all of you as she has always been to me. The bad time is over on this end, and I can now tell you the truth: October was a Dante’s inferno of a month in low-middle-class London, where I’ve moved in with a woman named Claire I met at my Tuesday night sci-fi boys meeting. No man—no matter how wonderful, as you are—is worth dying for with lovelorn languishing. I’m better now and today I’m going to watch the queen’s procession to open Parliament. We will save all discussions of our future for when I return home.
Love to all,
Joy
CHAPTER 19
Oxford is cold (and I’m not warm!)
The blizzards drive upon sea and shore
“APOLOGETIC BALLADE BY A WHITE WITCH,” JOY DAVIDMAN
November 1952
“Joy!” Michal’s bright voice rang out across the foyer of the Mitre Hotel in London. Near Hyde Park, the bar was warm and rich feeling, with damask wallpaper and leather furniture. In an hour Jack and Warnie would join us, but for now it was just us ladies. Michal waited for me at a corner table, and I hurried to her.
“I’ve missed you,” she said. “This flu has kept you away from me for far too long.” She gave me a warm hug. Her heart-shaped face, long bourbon-colored hair, wide red-lipstick smile, and jaunty accent comforted me.
“Oh, Michal! It’s so good to see you. I feel on the mend now, and I’d like to forget that October even happened. Can one do that?”
We sat together, and her laugh fell across the table like nourishment.
“Yes, like editing a book? Charles used to say that to me when he was editing. ‘Ah, if we could only do this to life.’”
“Yes.” I banged my hand on the table. “I would delete the pages of this month. Put them in the rubbish and then light them on fire.”
“But you can’t get here without being there.” Michal slid off her stylish red coat and set it on a hook behind the chair. “Would you like me to take your coat?”
“I think I’ll keep it on for a bit. I just haven’t been able to get warm for so long now.”
“Oh, poor Joy. You are so brave and yet so hurt by life.” Michal made a motion for our drinks, and when they arrived we lifted them to each other before taking our first sip.
“Yes, my friend. I believe I may be both, but let’s not talk about me. Tell me what’s happening with Charles’s manuscripts.” I eagerly placed my hands around the glass and inhaled the deep scent of the sherry.
I had broached the most sensitive subject—her husband, who’d passed away unexpectedly just six years before, and still his estate was in chaos. I knew the pain lingered.
I continued. “The last I heard from you, his executor hadn’t given them over.”
“He doesn’t seem to care that they were left to me.” She glanced around the room as if someone might hear her. “Joy, Charles’s manuscripts are everywhere. He gave them to other women also.”
I reached my hand across the table. “Oh, Michal.”
I didn’t have to ask, because I saw the pain in her eyes. I’d felt the same betrayal—the knowledge that your man had been with and given something of value to other women. It was a knowing that wounded the soul.