Nicky drew the white cloth a half inch down his eyes. “You look an awful lot like her,” he said.
“That is because I am her. I’ve only been away a little over a year. Even the dullest of boys wouldn’t forget his mother in that time.”
Her son waited, then seemed to collapse into the napkin, which had come undone. Etna reached across the table and held his hand. She waited for him to collect himself.
“I must go,” he said, red-eyed, lowering the napkin. “I need to get back for class.”
“We have plenty of time,” Etna said, standing. They left the lobby and then the hotel.
“Where are you going after this?” he asked.
“I’m staying here at this hotel. I plan to see you often.”
“I’m hardly ever free,” he said.
“Nicky.”
The boy dropped his head and gave his mother the quickest of embraces. He pulled away as if hoping no one had seen him do it. All Etna wanted was to hold him close to her.
As they drew nearer to the school, the Van Tassel in Nicky seemed to reassert itself. Etna hated to see it happen. It was clear to her that she had hard work ahead.
“I think we shall have to keep this a secret between us,” he announced in the same voice he had used to issue his command about “the rules.” “We shall say nothing to Father.”
“If you say so,” Etna said. “I love you very much. I will see you very soon.”
“It will have to be on my schedule,” he announced, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if she had not lost him after all.
“What will you do when I am in school?” he asked.
“Do?” she asked as they reached the gate of the school. “Well, I shall draw. I’m an artist.”
“Was Mother an artist?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Well, I am your mother, and though I really didn’t feel confident about being an artist in the past, I am one now.”
“Can you do that?” he asked. “Just decide to become an artist?”
“Well, you could. It’s better if you feel you have some talent.”
“Are you any good?”
“I think so, yes.”
“I play the piano,” he said. “I started this year. I’m quite good.”
“Are you?” Etna asked, suppressing a smile. She would start by taking her son as seriously as he took himself.
“I shouldn’t go visiting my father if I were you,” he warned.
“And why is that?”
“He has a terrible temper where my mother is concerned. He said she was gone for good.”
“Well, I am not. But I won’t go to see him if you’d rather I didn’t.”
Later, after Nicky had gone on to his class, Etna paid a visit to the headmaster. Mr. Price helped her to draw up a schedule during which she might see Nicky more often. Etna sensed in the man a sincere concern for the boy. He alluded to problems Nicky had had in adjusting to the school. Perhaps he felt that a mother’s influence would help. Etna had no way of knowing whether the headmaster would contact Van Tassel. She knew that Nicky would say nothing.
Shortly after she had seen Nicky, Etna arranged for Clara to travel north to join them. Meritable and Etna had agreed that Clara, at sixteen, was old enough to make the solo voyage, and indeed, Etna’s daughter seemed to be trembling with pride when she stepped off the train at White River Junction and embraced Etna. Clara wanted very much to see her brother.
After Clara had been fed, Etna collected Nicky at his school. When he came through the doors of the hotel and caught sight of Clara, who was waiting in the lobby, he ran forward and pushed his head into her stomach. This might have been taken for a hostile gesture, but Etna knew it had been his way of greeting his sister when he was younger. Clara batted him off, as an older sister must, yet Etna noted that she was grinning broadly when Nicky stepped back, his hair mussed and his face flushed. Etna had a waiter bring the pair of them cups of cocoa. After the children had settled into their warm drinks and had started to bicker as they used to do, Etna knew that all was well.
The three played in the snow until it was time for dinner. They ate at the hotel, in a dining room with a great fireplace. Nicky had become skilled at checkers, which pleased him enormously, since his skills enabled him to beat Clara for the first time. Later, when the three had settled into their separate beds in Etna’s room, they remembered funny incidents from the past.
In the middle of the night, Etna was woken by an owl. The moon was up as she glanced at Clara. What she saw there moved her. Nicky had crawled into his sister’s bed for comfort. They lay sprawled among the sheets, the covers thrown off. Clara had the pillow, and Nicky’s head was more or less hanging over the bedside. The sight of her two children, in a bed right next to hers, was one Etna had never thought to witness again. She was both soothed and elated by the tableau. When she and Clara took Nicky back to his school, the three parted with a ferocious hug.
After her first several letters, Etna wrote to Dr. Bridge again. She had sent him a number of letters in the intervening months, keeping him abreast of her reunions with her children.
Dear August,
When I was in New Hampshire waiting for one of my visits with Nicky, I asked the innkeeper if I might borrow a motorcar. On the first day, I drove to Exeter, where I once lived with my family while my father taught mathematics at the boarding school there. Though every place one inhabits contains both good and bad memories, I tried to stay in a positive frame of mind. The preparatory school in Exeter has grown considerably since my father’s time there, but it is slowly emptying as the students leave to join the war. Even juniors, I am told, are faking birth certificates. The school does not allow students to sign up—but really, what can they or their parents do? And I imagine that some parents are encouraging. (Well, the fathers, possibly. What mother has ever encouraged her son to war?)
My second excursion was not as pleasant, but it was one I felt compelled to make. I drove to Thrupp, meandered the streets of that grim college town, and saw the place where I once lived with my aunt and uncle. Finally, having found my courage while having a cup of tea at the Thrupp Hotel, I drove to the street on which I had lived with my husband and children. I wore a hat with a veil, and I knew that Van Tassel would not be expecting me. Nevertheless, it was with a great breath that I entered the street. The house has been meticulously kept up, but the garden is gone—razed completely. I felt no sadness or nostalgia and only a little fear lest Van Tassel open the door and call out to me, which did not happen. It is worth noting that I have not suffered from the specific ailment of a feeling of menace at the back of my neck since that day.
You are often in my thoughts.
Etna
Counsel for the Relator wishes to address the court:
“Your Honor,” begins Mr. Hastings. “I have here a writ of habeas corpus for the body of a male child, Nicodemus Van Tassel, aged nine years, currently a resident at the Hackett School for Boys in Croydon, New Hampshire.”
Etna blinks at the phrase the body of a male child. What a terrible thing, this legal language.
“He resides at the school?” Judge Warren Kornitzer asks.
“Yes, Your Honor, though technically he is in the custody of his father, Nicholas Van Tassel of Thrupp, New Hampshire, whom he sometimes visits during the school vacations.”
“Mr. Bates,” says the judge, addressing counsel for the Respondent. “Where is your client?”
Mr. Bates stands. “Your Honor, my client, Dean Nicholas Van Tassel, has judged his duties at Thrupp College to be of such importance that he cannot be called away for a matter he did not bring to the court.”
“Dean Nicholas Van Tassel will appear in my court when he is ordered to,” the judge says in a voice just this side of angry. “He should be ready to appear at any moment.”
“I do request, Your Honor,” Mr. Bates says, “that you give me fair notice of his summons due to the distance between his place of work in Thrupp
and the court here in Newport. It would take the man the better part of two hours at least to get here if he were called. Four hours to get the message to him and back.”
“The man does not own a telephone?”
“I shall determine if he does.”
“You do that, Mr. Bates. Mr. Hastings, where is the child?”
“The child is at school, Your Honor. He can be produced whenever you think wise. It was thought that the child should attend to his lessons until such time as it is necessary for him to appear.”
Judge Kornitzer searches through papers on his bench as though he has missed a fact or two.
“My client, Your Honor, is Mrs. Etna Van Tassel,” explains Averill Hastings. “It is she who wishes custody of the young boy. As the court has already ruled, since Mr. Van Tassel will not grant Mrs. Van Tassel a divorce, the only means that Mrs. Van Tassel has to be with her son is to seek custody. My client’s contention is that the boy has been forced into a boarding school at too young an age, and that even when he is not a resident at the school, his father often sends him away to camps and to other people’s homes during the vacations. In short, the boy is not at all well supervised.”
“And we know this how?”
“From the boy himself, sir.”
Judge Kornitzer bends his head and closes his eyes. Etna has been told that the judge deeply dislikes cases in which young children must be brought in to testify.
“It is my understanding, Mr. Hastings, that the child has a sibling.”
“Yes. Clara Van Tassel, currently living in Gainesville, Florida, with her aunt Meritable Root and her husband, Henry. Clara has lived with her aunt and uncle since August of 1915.”
“And why is that?”
“This is owing to a great rift between the father and the child.”
“What is the nature of this rift?” the judge asks.
“With your permission, Your Honor, that is a matter I wish to put more fully to the court at a later moment.”
“And why was the mother, your client, not able to care for her own children all this time?”
“Your Honor, from early September, 1915, until October, 1916, my client served with distinction in the Voluntary Aid Detachment of the British Red Cross in Camiers, France, and with the Croix Rouge in Marne at great personal sacrifice to herself. She was unable to return to the United States until February, 1917.”
Judge Kornitzer nods slowly. “What was her sacrifice?”
“She sustained injuries to her head and feet. She was forced to work under extreme hardship with constant fear of injury and death.”
“Yet she chose this course of action, did she not?”
“She was under duress at the time she signed on.”
“And what has your client been doing since February, 1917? If I am not mistaken, the date today is May 17, 1918. That is a year and three months. Where has she been?”
“She has been in this country spending as much time with her children as possible, and trying to make a decent living so that she may care for the boy.”
“She does not want the girl?”
“Clara Van Tassel will turn eighteen this October. It is my understanding that Clara, as soon as she finishes her schooling in a few weeks’ time, will come north to study at secretarial school in Boston.”
Mr. Bates, Van Tassel’s lawyer, snaps his head in Mr. Hastings’s direction. This is news to him.
“Mrs. Van Tassel very much wants to be with her daughter and will be close enough that this will be possible,” Mr. Hastings continues. “Clara, as I understand it, feels the same way. Therefore, there is no need to seek custody in her case.”
“How is the mother getting her living?” the judge asks.
“She makes detailed drawings of surgical procedures at Mary Hitchcock Memorial Hospital in Hanover.”
“How would she be able to care for a young boy if she must be at the hospital?”
“She visits the hospital once a week, makes sketches, and then goes home to perfect them. These drawings are said to be vital to the surgeons experimenting with new techniques.”
“Very well, Mr. Hastings. We shall hear testimony in this matter.” The judge sighs. “This is a complicated case, is it not?”
“Yes, Your Honor, it is.”
“Mr. Bates,” the judge says, addressing the lawyer sitting opposite Mr. Hastings. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Mr. Bates, a fair-haired man in a light brown plaid suit, appears to be somewhat put off by the provocative tone of the judge. “I have a case, sir.”
“Very well, state it.”
“Your Honor, this is a simple matter,” Bates begins, his face flushed, his gold-rimmed spectacles, in the light from the sole window, smeared. “There is no statute in the great state of New Hampshire that would prompt the court to give custody of a nine-year-old boy to the woman sitting to my left. Let us consider the facts. Etna Van Tassel fled her family house on August seventeenth of 1915 without so much as a good-bye to her husband or to her children. From that date until February of 1917—a period of a year and six months—they did not know where she had gone. There was no note, no letter from abroad, no person who came to the house with a message, no communication whatsoever. For all the children knew, their mother, whom they had loved deeply, had abandoned them forever or was dead. For that reason alone, Etna Van Tassel cannot be considered fit to be a parent, and I request that this case be dismissed.”
Etna lightly scratches the back of her hand. Everything Mr. Bates has said is true. She has struggled to understand how it was that she did not write to her children. Hastings has told her she must think hard about her answer when he asks her this question on the witness stand.
“Hold on, there, Mr. Bates,” says the judge. “As far as I know, this is not a simple case. Did I not just say as much? There may be good reasons why the case should be heard by the court. Or there may not. I cannot determine that at this time.”
“But, Your Honor, even if the case were to be heard and mitigating reasons for Mrs. Van Tassel’s absence found, which will not happen, how could the state ever trust the woman to be a steady parent again?”
“You make a good point, Mr. Bates. I hope to have the answer to that question during this hearing. Mr. Hastings, call your first witness.”
Counsel for the Relator calls Dr. John Hobson Gile to the stand.
“Dr. Gile,” says Mr. Hastings, “thank you for coming today. I know you are a busy man.”
Dr. Gile nods. Etna is surprised to see her employer in Newport, the county seat, some twenty-five miles from Hanover.
“Dr. Gile, can you tell the court what you do for a living?”
“I am head of the surgical department of the Mary Hitchcock Memorial Hospital. I am also a professor of anatomy at the Dartmouth Medical School.”
“You are acquainted with Etna Van Tassel, are you not?”
“Yes, I am.”
“In what capacity?”
“I hired Mrs. Van Tassel to make detailed drawings of our surgical procedures while we are performing them. These are extremely valuable as teaching tools.”
“Etna Van Tassel is in the operating theater with you?”
“Yes. It is quite unusual to find someone who has frequently witnessed surgical procedures and therefore will not flinch at the sight of open anatomy—and who is at the same time an expert draftsman. Draftswoman, I suppose I should say.”
Mr. Hastings smiles. “And how would you describe her demeanor and her work?”
“She is dependable, easy to work with, and meticulous in her renderings. Her drawings are extraordinary, and, indeed, I intend to see that they are published in a book about surgical procedures.”
“How did it come about that you hired her?” Mr. Hastings asks.
“She came to me, actually. She showed me a dozen drawings of doctors engaged in surgery at the hospital camps to which she was attached while she was serving in the war abroad. I was very taken with t
heir precise execution and, to be frank, their beauty, even though the subject matter was—how shall I say…quite raw. I asked her if she had ever attended a surgical procedure, and she said she had done so dozens of times. I did not query her too much on her reasons for having left the country and served abroad. It was not unheard of at that time. I asked her to attend a surgery the following week and do a drawing for me, explaining that I would then decide if I could use her.”
“And you were happy with the results of that trial?”
“Extremely.”
“How long has she been in your employ?”
“Nearly a year now.”
“If you do not mind my asking, how much does Mrs. Van Tassel earn per drawing? Or does she have a salary?”
“I recently offered her a salary of eight hundred dollars per annum for her services. I asked her to sign a contract, as I did not want to lose her.”
Etna was relieved when he offered it to her. To have a contract of employment can only help her case.
“Have you ever had occasion to speak with Mrs. Van Tassel on matters other than surgery?”
“She works on Mondays, which is when we schedule many of the procedures for the week. She returns to my office on Friday afternoons to deliver her work. During those meetings, we have sometimes chatted, as colleagues will do.”
Mr. Hastings, Etna can see, is visibly pleased with the word colleagues.
“Did she ever, during that time, mention her children to you?” the lawyer asks.
“Yes, she did. I believe we spoke about our families. I recall vividly her pride at telling me that her daughter, Clara, had been accepted at secretarial school in Boston.”
“Did you talk of other matters?”
“I’m afraid I queried her at length about her time in the war. One rarely has a chance to speak with someone who has actually been in the hospital camps.”
“Did she ever talk about her son?”
“Nicky? Yes, several times. Recently she mentioned that he was having a good time playing baseball at the Hackett School.”