INTRODUCTION TO VAUGHAN
Dear Diary, June 10, 1935
Dear Diary, June 10, 1935
I suppose I should begin by telling you about my family. First of all, I
will be 14 in August. My sister Janeth will be 11 in August. I have a darling
beautiful mother named Ernestine who is around 40 years old. Her birthday is in
August, too. She used to be an opera
singer and we didn’t see much of her in those days. We heard her more than we saw her. She would turn the water on in the bathroom tub and practice her scales. I can remember
being allowed to stay up late when she sang on the radio.
My father David is 13 years older than my mother and has curly hair that
was straight until he got maleria in the Spanish American war. He is a very strict man, especially with
Dicky. Oh-oh, we must say Dick. He doesn’t want to be called Dicky any more. He gets mad at me, even though I don’t do it
just to annoy him. He will be 21 in
October.
I usually never knew why my brother was getting punished except when he
wet the bed. I could hear him getting
the razor strap almost every morning.
When he got to be 12 and still wet the bed, my father tried a new
punishment. He made Dicky stand in the
front hall for hours with his wet sheets hanging over his head.. When Vaughan called the family to dinner, he
still had to stand there. I felt so sorry for him, I didn’t want to
walk past him, so I went down the back stairs and through the kitchen to get to the dining room.
You’re probably wondering who Vaughan is.
You’re probably wondering who Vaughan is.
When my Aunt Mimmy got sick with cancer,
mother hired Vaughan to help take care of her. She wore a white uniform and cooked
wonderful meals, but my aunt hardly touched the food on her tray. I never saw
her up and around. All I knew was, she
didn’t like noise. Every morning she
would call me into her room and promise Janeth and me a nickel each if we’d try
not to shout in the back yard. I’m
afraid we often forgot, but she gave us the nickel anyway.
No one told me Aunt Mimmy was dying.
To me, she was just a white face on a white pillow. Then one day she dissapeared. When I was older, Vaughan described the way
she died.
“I’ll never forget seeing your mother holding Aunt Mimmy in her lap in
the rocking chair. She had lost so much weight, it was easy to lift her out of
bed. Mother rocked her and sang to her
in a soft voice, and after awhile Aunt Mimmi just stopped breathing. She went very peacefully.”
That was the end of the nickels, of course.
We children all loved Vaughan and
her cooking and begged mother to let her stay.
I think of her as my second mother because she understands my feelings
better than my first mother.
It’s a comfort to talk to her because she
can see why my sister gets on my nerves.
“I’ve seen what goes on, and I know how hard it is on you,” she said
during one of our private talks. “Janeth
is determined to have her own way. Your
dear mother doesn’t realize she should find friends her own age instead of
pushing herself on you and your friends.” Mother makes me drag Janeth along wherever I
go. “Janeth isn’t a leper,” she
says. “Why don’t you love your little
sister? I always loved my little
sister.” I get very tired of hearing this over and over, but I don’t dare talk
back. Daddy doesn’t spank me anymore,
but he has an almost worse punishment.
He sends me to my room and says “Don’t read,” He knows I
wouldn’t care if I had a book.
Saturday, August
24, 1935
I am still shaking from the most horrible experience of my life. I was just waking up when I heard mother
calling Vaughan in a strange tone of voice.
By the time I got my bathrobe on, Vaughan had hurried to mother’s room
and was talking to her, trying to calm her down. I knew something was wrong, so I went to the
door and looked in. The first thing I
saw was Vaughan in the bathroom, cleaning up blood that had spattered all over
the place. Mother was sitting on her
bed, her face as white as Aunt Mimmy’s used to be.
“Mother! Are you all right?” I
screamed.
She said she was all right, but she was going to lie down because she
felt faint. Vaughan said, “I’ll tell you
what happened, dear, as soon as I finish mopping up. Go get dressed and I’ll see you in a minute.”
Oh, what a long minute that was!
Diary, you won’t believe what daddy did.
He circumcized himself.
Mother tried to stop him, but he said he’d made his mind up. He was sick and tired of having to clean
himself every day, so he was going to take a razor and get rid of the damn,
dirty nuisance. With mother begging him not to, he locked himself in the
bathroom, sat on the edge of the tub with a razor, and that’s where all the
blood came from. He used mother’s kotex
to bandage himself, and then he left.
I don’t know where he is now.
Vaughan doesn’t either. “You know
how he hates doctors,” she said. “Maybe
he went to the drug store to get bandages and some kind of ointment. If he’d allow it, I’d be glad to help him get
through this craziness, now that it’s done.
The biggest danger is an infection.”
Later: Daddy came home this afternoon, and he’s resting in his room with the
shades down. He told mother not to
worry, he’ll be fine in a few days.
Monday, August
26, 1935
Vaughan says the bleeding has almost stopped. She stands outside the bathroom and hands him
a bandage coated with vaseline. He hands
her the bloody bandage. Mother told me
not to talk about this with Janeth because she’s too young to understand. Well, so am I!
Tuesday, August
27, 1935
Vaughan says to try and forget what happened. I’m trying, but it’s hard. I keep thinking about how painful it must
have been. Did it hurt as much as
pulling out a fingernail? Did it hurt as
much as an artist I read about who cut off part of his ear? Did it hurt as much as Dick hurt when daddy
used to beat him?
I know Vaughan is right, I should think of pleasant things instead of
unpleasant things. From now on, that’s
what I’m going to do.
Monday,
June 21, 1937
Last night, on Father’s Day ironically enough, daddy was stricken with a
heart attack. I didn’t know how serious
it was until I came home from school today and found the house full of friends
and relatives. I was terribly frightened
until Vaughan comforted me by saying, “Where there’s life there’s hope.” Daddy
called for all his business associates and he’s signing papers. The gravity of the situation still hasn’t
quite sunk into my brain. I keep saying
over and over, “It’s my father, my own father.” Vaughan says he has a 50-50
chance.
Wednesday, June
23, 1937
I went into daddy’s room for a few minutes yesterday and it was
upsetting to see him looking so weak under the oxygen tent. Mother was quite hopeful yesterday, but he
got worse today. Mother said he was
half-delirious, saying funny little things to her. When he was restless, mother said, “David, if
you love me please try to keep still.”
“All right,” he said, “but is it all right if I hug my nurse?” With that, he gave mama a big wink. Then, when the doctor said his condition had
improved, mother told daddy it was because he had been quiet. “Yes,” daddy said, “I’ve been an angel.”
Mama overheard him say to the doctor, “I want to live just ten years
more so I can see my children settled in life.
Then I’ll be willing to go.”
Saturday, June
26, 1937
Daddy isn’t going to get well. I
heard the doctor telling mother that it would be cruel to let her hope any
longer. Mother is so dear and so
brave! She said she was afraid she’d
never be able to catch up with daddy—that she’d have to be awfully good if she
was going to meet him in the after-life.
I don’t know what mother will do.
She loved daddy so much, especially during the last week.
Sunday,
June 27, 1937
Daddy died this morning at 12:55.
I still can’t believe it—just last Sunday, on Father’s Day, he sat
smiling at the head of the table and demanded, “Kiss me, everybody.” Yesterday
he said, “How did I get into such a jam?”
This morning I started into mother’s room but stopped in the doorway
when I overheard something she said to Aunt Mary. They were changing the beds, and mother said,
“I know he’s in heaven, but I loved his body.” Aunt Mary answered, “I felt the
same way when I lost Sherm.”
I backed out of the room, terribly embarrassed. I didn’t know middle-aged people had feelings
like that.
May 8, 1938
May 8, 1938
The most awful thing has happened!
Mother says we’ll have to let Vaughan go. I heard Janeth telling mother that Vaughan
wasn’t co-operating on keeping our food bills down. Oh, if she really leaves, I don’t know what
will become of me! Mother can never
see my point of view. It was such a comfort to pour my troubles out to Vaughan.
Saturday,
July 1, 1939
When I got home yesterday—well, I say “home” mechanically—the place was
empty, echo-y, with newspapers scattered all over the floors. Yes, we have moved at last, after a lot of
hard work, to 521 Commonwealth Ave., only a few blocks from 716. Oddly enough, I don’t mind a bit. Our new house, two-family, is very nice, with
plenty of room for everyone, including our roomer, Jim Foster. My room opens onto a lovely airy porch, where
I shall sleep this summer when Vaughan comes.
Oh, I forgot to tell you. Vaughan’s
back was so strained in an auto accident that the doctor won’t let her go back
to working at Aunt Alma’s camp. He said
light housekeeping for a private family would be all right, so my wonderful
“second mother” will soon be with us again. Saturday,
July 29, 1939
Never before have I been so happy with Ed as I was last night. We went dancing at the Totem Pole and for the
first time, danced well together. In
fact, we coordinated so perfectly that people stopped to watch us.
Today I can say that my future looks bright. I was thinking this morning how fortunate I
am to have four years of college ahead of me, no troubles on my mind—no tonsilitis, no financial problems, nothing to
worry about. Isn’t life wonderful! Isn’t it wonderful to be young!
Something just happened that everyone thought was funny except me. I had put my hair up in curlers and gone out
on the porch to be with the family—mother, Janeth, and Vaughan. Suddenly I heard Jim Foster coming up the
stairs and heading our way.
“Move over, Vaughan!” I said, scrambling into the narrow space under the
day bed so Jim wouldn’t see me in curlers.
I absolutely refused to come out unless he left.
Jim said, “Oh, come on, Barbara, you
can’t look that bad!”
I said yes I could, but he hung around
for the longest time while my family laughed at my predicament. Finally, on the verge of suffocation, I asked
mother to bring me the kerchief in my left bureau drawer. It wasn’t easy putting it on in my cramped
quarters, but I managed. Then I crawled
out, knowing my face was flushed, my kerchief askew, and my blouse
untucked. I scowled at Jim, who said,
“You’d look just fine if you’d wear a smile along with those curlers.” Mother
said, “Really, dear, you shouldn’t worry about your looks in front of Jim—he’s
one of the family.”
I retired to my room and didn’t return until my hair was combed out and
my face was almost back to normal.
Mother said, “You look lovely, dear.”
“Indeed she does,” said Jim, whereupon I felt myself turning crimson
again.
“Look! She’s as red as a beet,”
Janeth giggled.
Saturday, August
5, 1939
Last night, to celebrate mother’s 46th birthday, Ed and I
arranged a dinner party at Pieroni’s.
There were five of us, including Vaughan and Janeth, and we had a
delicious shore dinner for five dollars plus 50 cents for a tip. Then we all went to a show.
Vaughan told me she has become very fond of Ed. She admitted she wasn’t at first, but now she
really likes him. Mother reproached me
for picking at him and said he must be a nervous wreck from trying to please
me.
“But he’s so conceited, I’m always afraid he’ll say something that will
make a bad impression on you and Vaughan.”
“I like Ed!” mother said. “I
think he’s a grand person and anything he does is all right with me. You don’t want a wimp, a yes-man, Barbara—you
want someone with a mind of his own, don’t you?”
She is right. I have carried my
reform movement to extremes—almost giving Ed an inferiority complex, if such a
thing is possible.
Monday, August
21, 1939
Back to my filing job at Liberty Mutual.
I slogged through the day, wondering how much longer I could stand this
monotonous work. Only two weeks to
go. Then possibly a week in New
Hampshire with Ed and two weeks to prepare for college.
Sunday, August
27, 1939
I can’t believe that in just four more weeks I’ll be at Smith. How will I ever be able to adjust to being
separated from Ed? He is still
pressing me to marry him, but I’ve definitely decided against it. Suppose I got pregnant and had to leave
college. It isn’t just me—it’s mother
and Vaughan and Mr. Rinker, my favorite teacher, and all the nice
unknown people who had enough faith in me to give me those scholarships. I can’t let them down.
Smith College Sunday, September 24, 1939
Did ever a girl arrive at college in such a frantic state, saying
goodbye to friends and loved ones, all the while praying she wouldn’t soon be
saying hello? Ed, Mother, Vaughan,
and Taffy drove to Northampton with me to see my room in Gardiner House and
help me get settled. Only Ed knew the
strain I was under.
Smith College Monday, September 25, 1939
I am becoming acquainted with my dorm mates, but it looks as if it will
only be until Christmas. College isn’t
so wonderful, anyway—at least the two days I’ve spent here haven’t made me want
to stay.
Later: Thirty-four days and all is
well! Things look mighty different
now. College is swell, the girls are
swell—life is wonderful! I telephoned
Ed to set his mind at rest, and the silly boy sounded almost disappointed. I'll be seeing him when I go home for Thanksgiving. Monday, December 25, 1939
Ed and I went up to New Hampshire yesterday to
have the blood test required if Fate pushes me into eloping a week from
today. I was pleased to see my prospective husband again—so
pleased, in fact, that I decided it wasn’t going to be so bad being married to
him. I’ll just have to make the best of it, that’s all
there is to it.
What worries me most is the thought of Vaughan. I could probably convince mom that I will be happy to marry Ed, but I have assured Vaughan again
and again that I had no such intention.
affair during a serious quarrel with daddy. I don’t believe it.
I think she made up the story just to make me feel better. I told her
Ed and I would be married in New Hampshire on Monday. Sunday,
December 31, 1939
Betray some wound your speech denies.
You need not fear. I shall remain
Outside. That baffled look of pain
I shall not see, for I must learn
To mask my pity and concern.
And I am proud that you have shown
Courage to face your world alone.
Only remember this: when there
Are times when you have need to share
Your problems, I shall always be
Waiting for you to come to me—
Eager to help you on your way,
Or blunt the sharp edge of dismay.
Your need of me, if you but knew
Is nothing to my need of you!
Elizabeth Grey Stewart
Today, New Life Day, Ed and
I drove to Hampton, New Hampshire, “the marrying town.” My wedding finery was a plaid skirt and
jacket, scuffed white moccasins, and socks (with a hole in the heel). I don’t have a ring yet, but the Justice of
the Peace declared us man and wife nevertheless. We agreed to pick one out tomorrow and then
go to a hotel in Northampton for our wedding night.
We stopped for a hotdog at Howard Johnson’s, then Ed dropped me off at
my house. Oh, how I dreaded facing
Vaughan. She had just come back from a weekend baby-sitting job and had no idea
what I’d been up to during her absence.
I begged mother to break the news before I came home -- I was too cowardly
to do it myself.
“Where’s Vaughan?” I asked. “How
did she take it?”
“I think she went up to her room to recover,” she said. Then she described what had happened.
“Can you stand a shock, Vaughan?”
“Sure. Are you married?”
“Oh, no. Sit down. Barbara’s married.”
“No!” Vaughan screamed. “She isn’t!
She isn’t!”
“She married Ed today.”
Vaughan was practically beating her breast and tearing her hair. “I don’t believe it! How could Babbie do this to us! Oh, I hate that Ed -- he has ruined my
Babbie’s life! I’ll kill him!”
I raced up to Vaughan’s room, my mind a
blank except for wondering if she’d be able to forgive me. Her arms reached out to me. She hugged me and we both cried, and she
promised me she’d always love me no matter what I did. “Anyone can make a mistake,” she said, “but I
did so hope you wouldn’t make this one.”
Then she told me that old Nanny over in Arlington has been seeing this
marriage in the cards for a long time.
“Barbara is either married or she’s going to be.”
Vaughan said she laughed. “Oh no,
that isn’t possible. Babbie’s going to
college.”
“Well," said old Nanny, "I’m positive you’ll find out soon that I am right.”
Wednesday, January 3, 1940
I took the
subway and met Ed in Boston yesterday afternoon. Together we picked out a darling wedding ring
with ten little diamonds for $25.00.
When I slipped it on my finger I felt really married for the first
time. My dorm mates won’t believe their
eyes.
January 16, 1940
Smith College
Dearest
mother—
Enclosed
is two dollars. Would you please send me
a check for this amount, payable to the Registry of Motor Vehicles? It seems so funny to write Barbara B. Malley
on my license. I’ll never get used to
it!
Did Ed tell you about our
apartment? It's on Beacon Hill, right plunk
in the middle of everything that is of interest in Boston. It sounds ideal, although Ed told me
gloomily that the refrigerator is in the bedroom. When I pointed out how convenient this was
for midnight snacks, he felt better.
I had a terrible dream about the family
last night. I dreamt that when I came
home, I found an official-looking document in my room, stating that the
undersigned intended to have nothing to do with me. Signed: Mother, Vaughan,
Jim, and Janeth. I was heart-broken when
Jim, instead of greeting me with his usual warmth, said frigidly, “Oh, hello
Barbara.” Vaughan stayed in the kitchen, and you just looked cold and
reserved. I was so miserable that Jim
finally spoke kindly to me.
Tell Vaughan that I’m mad at her for being
so mean to me. She’d better send her
love in her
next
letter to blot out the impression of that nightmare of a dream. You, too,
mother dear.
March 2, 1940
Newton Center Saturday afternoon
Dearest
mother—We were glad to hear that you and Vaughan survived your long drive to
Florida. I am having a wonderful time
keeping house. This place has one big
advantage over our tiny apartment -- sunlight!
I think I shall visit you every day when the warm weather comes. It’s fun to cook in a kitchen that has such
an ample store of provisions, spices, and an assortment of pots and pans and modern
gadgets that make cooking a fascinating game.
Jim and Janeth have been praising every meal I cook.
Monday, March 4,
1940
Newton Center
Paul Elicker came over Saturday morning to give me his senior
picture. I learned that most people
don’t know I intend to pay back the scholarship money, that I would not be cordially
received if I visited the high school, and that it would be folly to show my
face at the Women’s Club. Before he
left, Paul autographed his picture, “To a girl who had everything.” What a cruel slap in the face that was.
Jim felt too ill to go to the symphony Saturday night, so he gave Ed and
me his tickets. During the intermission,
Mr. Rinker was the only person who greeted me kindly. My other English teachers, Miss Robinson and
Miss Bigelow, said hello hastily and then walked on. This facing the music—what an appropriate
cliche!—is distressing, especially since I have no one to blame but
myself.
March 11, 1940
Newton Center
Dear
mother—If you don’t get this letter, I don’t know what I shall do! We have all written you—Janeth, Jim,
and this is my third letter, but I’m very much afraid the address you left us
in incorrect. At least it is different
from the one you enclosed in one of your recent letters.
Of course we haven’t forgotten
you! How could you think such a
thing? We think about you and talk about
you all the time. It is the most
frustrating feeling to be unable to get word to you. I’m so upset I can’t think of anything to
say. I can hardly wait until you get
home and everything is straightened out.
Florida sounds wonderful! You are so lucky to be surrounded by color
and green growing things. The cold, grey
winter’s end here in the north can look beautiful to no one but a poet.
Tell Vaughan I stuffed and roasted a
chicken all by myself last Saturday. It
was just as good as Dorothy Muriel’s Bakery and almost as good as hers. Jim said it was delicious.
Much,
much love goes with this letter. I do
hope you get it.
May
13, 1940
It looks as if Ed has won Vaughan over. I thought a few months ago those two would
never be on speaking terms again, but lately she laughs and jokes with him, and
yesterday she even kissed him goodbye.
For a Mother's Day celebration, mother, Vaughan, Ed, Janeth and I
went to "Sailor Tom's" for a shore dinner. I footed the bill (only $4.50). I think I enjoyed the party more than
anyone—eating out is a big treat for me these days. June 10, 1940
Dick is home for his vacation. He is being very kind to the family—stayed up
with Janeth and her algebra until midnight—and he came to see my apartment and
left three books I didn't discover until after he had gone.
June 20, 1940
Mother read one of the books Dick gave me, "Look Homeward,
Angel," by Thomas Wolfe. She was so
shocked that she immediately wrote him a letter reproving him for permitting my
pure eyes to see such ugliness and asking him not to send me any more books
like that. When mother told me what she
had done, I flew off the handle. I told
her she could stick to "Alice in Wonderland" and "Little
Women" if she wanted to, but I was going to continue looking for Truth,
even if it wasn't always beautiful. I
had read books much more lurid than Wolfe's; why had she always given me free
rein in my reading before? Well, she
fondly imagined that if I came across anything naughty, I wouldn't understand
it.
I shouldn't have lit into mother the way I did—especially in front of
Ed. When he finally ventured,
"But the book really isn't indecent, Mrs. Beyer -- “ that was too much for my
harassed mother. She screamed at us both
to get out, she never wanted to see either of us again. I went down to the car
with Ed, but of course I couldn't leave her feeling that way. After a few minutes I went back alone and
apologized.
Mother can't help thinking the way she does. She belongs to a generation that prefers not
to call a spade a spade, while my generation has no such inhibitions. Mother doesn't mind an author talking about
sex, as long as he does it subtly, delicately, without coming right out and
naming things.
I thought my apologies of last night had cleared the air, but this
morning she came all the way into Boston at 8:30—Ed was in the bathroom, shaving --to
tell me she had telephoned Dick's landlady in Philadelphia, asking her
to mail back the letter without letting Dick see it. She wanted to inform me of her action so I
wouldn't write to him about it. As a
matter of fact, there was a letter in Ed's pocket that I had asked him to
mail this morning. Only it didn't say
what mother seemed to think it would. I
didn't write him to take sides with him against her. I begged him not to reply to her in a biting,
sarcastic vein (for I feared he would react to her attitude as I had). A critical letter from him would have been
the crowning insult after the way I wrangled with my poor unsophisticated
mother last night. Damn, I wish it
hadn't happened. We were getting along
so happily together.
Later: All is well. Mother was as unhappy all day as I. She said she had been wrong and I said no, it
was my fault, and so we made up.
July 21, 1940
I saw my doctor for the first time Friday -- the doctor who is ushering Kathie
into the world at the Boston Lying-In.
He is young and good-looking and charming -- and married, I am sure. That’s funny, so am I. Dr. Kirkwood told mother I was made to have
babies, I could easily accommodate a ten-pounder.
July 26, 1940
Boston, Mass.
To Dick
I’m sorry I didn’t see you to say good-bye
before you left. Anyway, thank you for
the books and for the nice time I had on your vacation. I wish you had more of
them.
Poor Janeth! What a miserable time she is having at Aunt
Ruth’s. I really feel sorry for her,
don’t you? Mother has sent me a couple
of her letters which are so pathetic, they are funny. She has to write them on the sly after she
goes to bed. Otherwise Aunt Ruth would
insist on reading them, point out misspellings, make Janeth look the words up
in the dictionary and write them 20 times correctly on a notepad. I wouldn’t be in her shoes for anything, even
though my own don’t fit very well at present.
My condition, alas, is no longer
concealable. People are beginning to
look twice as I walk along the street -- and not because of my arresting beauty. The neighbors say solicitously, “How are you
doing today?” and they smile significantly.
Only another month to go, though.
I guess I don’t mind being a walking side-show for that long.
Ed and I are swamped with books. We fine-tooth combed the library and found six good ones: Wolfe’s The Web and the Rock, Of Time and the River, O’Neil’s
plays, The Forsythe Saga, The Late George Apley, and Healthy Babies Are Happy
Babies.
August 16, 1940
For my nineteenth birthday tomorrow,
mother gave me a book by our favorite author, P. G. Wodehouse. When I had my lazy eye operation six years ago, she read
to me every day about the comical adventures of Bertie Wooster and Jeeves, his
problem-solving butler. What a good
mother she was—and is!
The doctor who examined me at the clinic yesterday said he thought Kathie
was a boy. I can't believe it. I have concentrated so long on a girl, I can
scarcely comprehend the idea of a boy.
It feels like a girl. It must
be a girl.
When Kathie read my diaries a
couple of decades later, she penned a note:
“I hope it’s a girl!”
