Learning to See Read online

  After the first night of sleeping in the cabin, fusty and thick with the smell of old smoke and damp wood, we abandoned the rickety metal cots, nestled our bedrolls together outside, and lay on our backs to stare at the stars. Our breath sent vapors drifting overhead. Tangled under the covers, our bodies heated our nest. While he pointed to constellations and told me how the Hopi believed there were nine universes, I stroked his forehead and traced the line of his jaw. My hands wandered farther down under the blankets, and eventually I climbed astride him to block his view of the sky. The groaning of nearby trees swaying in the wind, the scraping of dry leaves, the crackling of small animal paws around us, all made the surrounding wildness infinitely more romantic. It felt as though we were the only two people left on earth and that suited us just fine.

  Tempting as it was to stay hidden from the world, I had portrait appointments booked back in San Francisco. We finally pried ourselves away from our encampment to return to the city. On our way down the hill to the road where we had prearranged to be picked up by a farmer in his truck, Maynard announced that his daughter, Constance, was staying with his great-aunt Esther in Sausalito while on a holiday break from her boarding school. Since our ferry back would leave from there, he suggested we visit her. I agreed, guilt threading its way through my conscience. Why had Maynard not visited the child earlier during her break?

  After being delivered to the ferry dock in Sausalito, we heaved our packs over our shoulders and plodded several blocks lined with gingerbread-trimmed Victorians until we reached a white picket fence encircling a small cottage. Colorful phlox and foxglove surrounded the place. Our knocks on the front door were answered by a smiling older woman who greeted Maynard fondly and welcomed us inside. On a needlepointed chair in the parlor, a young girl sat picking at invisible pieces of lint on her plaid skirt. Her expression remained sullen despite Maynard’s enthusiastic greeting. Her limbs stayed wooden as he embraced her. The glow of our trip faded as I stood before Constance. Through expressionless eyes, she took in the bandanna covering my wild hair, the scuffs on my brown leather boots. Our hostess brought out tea. Constance, hands clenched in her lap, spine rigid, remained unmoved by Maynard’s attempts at charm.

  “So, your father says you’re in fifth grade,” I finally ventured.

  “Sixth.”

  Maynard gave me an apologetic widening of his eyes and I nodded. “I see. What’s your favorite subject in school?”

  Without answering, she gave me a long look.

  “Now, Consie,” Maynard said, briskly wading into the conversation. “Dorothea is a portrait photographer. It’s about time I get a new picture of you. She could do it. What do you say?”

  Her granite-colored eyes didn’t so much as blink. She said nothing. By that point, I felt so eager to escape the girl’s resentment, I was practically ready to dive into the Bay and swim back home. Why wait for the ferry? When the clock on the doily-covered end table clanged at the hour and Aunt Esther announced our boat would be arriving shortly, I almost leapt out of my seat to run for the door.

  The older woman escorted us outside, merrily describing how busy the afternoon boats could be, but Constance remained in her seat. On the porch, Aunt Esther whispered, “I’m sorry, the girl seems tired. I think she woke up too early this morning.”

  Maynard shrugged. “Adults are boring. I’m not surprised she seemed a little distracted.”

  Distracted? I wanted to protest, but one look at Maynard’s hopeful expression and I held my tongue.

  As we said our goodbyes, I looked past Aunt Esther and saw Constance’s face peeking around the edge of a lace curtain. I gave a small wave, but she stared right through me.

  By the time we arrived back at my studio on Sutter, my head was throbbing as though it intended to crack open. Maynard helped me lie down on the velvet sofa. He then handed me a glass filled with honey-colored liquid.

  “Drink this,” he commanded, lifting the tumbler to my lips.

  My nostrils flared at the medicinal smell of alcohol, but I didn’t protest. My throat ached as the liquid worked its way down. He lifted my feet and sat down on the chair, resting my heels on his lap.

  I groaned. “Maynard, she hated me.”

  He pushed off his cowboy hat, tossed it to the floor, and rubbed his hands through his black hair. “Kid, she doesn’t hate you, she doesn’t even know you. I’m the one she’s not so thrilled about, but I mean to make things right with her.”

  I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly, letting the warmth of the alcohol seep up from my belly to untie the knots in my neck. Without the lights on, marine shadows of the late afternoon swam along the walls. Noise from the street outside sounded distant, almost as if we were in a small underwater cavern.

  He ran his hand up the inside of my leg and rested it on my thigh, its pressure a reminder of all that had been right in Sonoma. “Hey, I have some great ideas for a couple of new canvases. That trip to the cabin was exactly what I needed.” His hands continued to travel upward, and I couldn’t help myself from arching toward him. “I know what can cure that headache,” he said, laughing.

  “What if someone comes in?” I whispered as Maynard climbed on top of me.

  He winked. “Stop thinking about everything.”

  “I never stop thinking.”

  “I know, it’s one of the things I like about you.”

  “What else do you like about me?”

  “Stop talking and let me show you.”

  Despite the tightness in my chest about Constance, I pulled him toward me and wrapped my legs around his waist, ready for the world beyond that room to fall away.

  Chapter 11

  Wedding Announcement—March 21, 1920

  Miss Dorothea Lange, aged 24, portrait photographer, married Maynard Dixon, renowned painter, in a small ceremony with Mrs. Florence “Fronsie” Ahlstrom Stockton serving as matron of honor and Roi Partridge as the best man. The bride hails from New York and graduated from the art school of Columbia University while the groom . . .

  Aboard the train, I leaned into the sunlight coming through the window to scan through the newspaper’s wedding announcement for the millionth time but it still didn’t feel real. Mother had written a short telegram: I wish you all the best. In it, I heard all that was unspoken between us: I hope you picked well, better than I did. I glanced over at Maynard dozing beside me and felt a tickle of excitement in my chest. Of course I did. It was a relief when Mother hadn’t come out for the ceremony, citing the long distance as too much. My old life was better left behind.

  With the clipping folded between my fingers, I thought back to when Maynard proposed. We had lain sprawled on one of his Navajo blankets on the floor of his studio, our limbs braided together. He had surprised me by asking, “What do you say we make this official, kid?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about getting hitched.”

  I rolled over onto my stomach and rested my chin on my palm. “Your track record isn’t so good.”

  “It will be different between us.”

  “Gee, thanks, that’s the oldest line in the book.”

  “Ha, that’s what I love about you: you’re such a romantic. Well, what do you say? I’d like to make an honest woman out of you.”

  I smiled. An honest woman was easier said than done. But still, this felt right. “I suppose if you’re willing to roll the dice again, I’m game.”

  “Thatta girl,” Maynard said before pressing his lips to mine. “Should I write to your father to ask for permission?”

  “My, my, aren’t you feeling traditional?”

  “I’m not sure you’d call anything we just did traditional,” he said, winking. “But really, should I write him?”

  I straightened up to look for my blouse in the tangle of clothes nested around us. Dust motes held suspended in the late-afternoon sunshine flooding through the windows. All felt surprisingly peaceful in the Monkey Block.

  “He’s de
ad.”

  “Sorry, I’d no idea. You never mention your family.”

  “It’s nothing, it was a long time ago. I barely remember him.” I slid my blouse over my shoulders and turned away to button it, closing my eyes briefly. In truth, I had no idea where my father was, but suspected he was alive somewhere, rarely thinking of me, my mother, or my brother.

  The train lurched, derailing my memories. I glanced at the wedding announcement a final time. I’d send it to my mother, along with a letter in which I’d made no apology for changing my name from Nutzhorn to Lange. My ears burned to think of the description of me graduating from Columbia, but it had come out so easily when the reporter called. And really, who cared about a few old details when my success in San Francisco was indisputable? Mother was hardly someone to quibble over the truth of anyone’s past.

  I pocketed the wedding announcement and glanced out the window at the scenery drifting by in a blur of tall brown grasses, red rocks, and the jagged lines of far-off mountains. Arizona. For our honeymoon, we were finally going to roam the land that Maynard loved. He sat next to me, still asleep, his head leaned back, mouth opened slightly. He was a terrible passenger, impatient and incapable of entertaining himself. He claimed reading or sketching on trains gave him headaches so he’d nagged me about playing cards as soon as we left the station in San Francisco. Hearts, poker, gin. We played them all until I insisted he deal himself a hand of solitaire. He barely made it past creating the tableau before he leaned his head back and nodded off. Finally, quiet in our compartment.

  My stomach growled, but I was reluctant to awaken him. Instead I leaned forward and took a biscuit tin of crackers from my satchel. At the thought of food, my mind turned to the kitchen in our new little bungalow back in the city. It had taken Imogen a while to get over her grudge against us marrying, but she’d come around. She could never stay mad at me for long. Before the wedding, she helped me paint the kitchen of the new place where Maynard and I would live upon our return. While we covered the walls a cheerful yellow, she said, “Do you know why I don’t drive?”

  “Because you don’t know how?”

  “I didn’t grow up in the city like you, I could have learned.”

  “Because you like being difficult?”

  “Ha, I suppose that’s part of it. Since I don’t drive, Roi’s forced to stick around and help me.”

  I stared at her blankly.

  She shook her head with impatience. “Make sure you don’t end up doing everything for Maynard. These men only think of themselves. When I was pregnant with the twins, Roi disappeared from our place in Seattle to go to Carmel on a sketching expedition. He said he’d be gone for a few weeks but was gone for four months. Well, I was having none of it, so I closed my studio and moved to San Francisco with Gryffyd. Roi was none too pleased by my impulsiveness, but what could he do? I was practically bursting with two more of his sons. He buckled down and took a job with an ad agency. So, what I’m saying is don’t make his life too easy. Don’t neglect your work to do everything for him.”

  I hated to be told what to do but nodded, pretending to agree. The truth was that I wanted to do everything. In my experience, tenacity was the key to success. It had taken me this far in life. The same ethos could apply to my marriage, couldn’t it? Since meeting Maynard, I could see his confidence growing after the ruinous ending of his first marriage. He was healthy. His color looked better. He stopped drinking. He was painting all day and into the evenings and kept talking about how inspired he was. All because of me. After this trip, our new lives together would begin. There was no chance our marriage would resemble his first. I’d nurture Maynard instead of competing with him and punishing him as Lillian had. By all accounts, she’d been a talented artist, but a miserable one, drowning in depression and alcohol. I was nothing like that. There would be no competition between us. This marriage would be different. Better. Certainly better than what I’d grown up seeing with my own parents.

  WE ARRIVED IN Kayenta, Arizona, near the border of Utah, and our host, John Wetherill, a friend of Maynard’s, met us at the station to drive us to our destination, a nearby Navajo reservation. Our first few days were spent examining the terrain, so different from everything I’d ever known: wide sweeps of empty desert, soaring sky, endless clouds. It felt timeless, nothing like the city. The simple geometry of the landscape’s lines and bold shouts of color left me awed. During each sunrise and sunset, under a sky bruised with purples and rippling with flames, the desert was reborn. The air thrummed with possibility. It gave me a sense of the mysticism I imagined sailors felt when surrounded by the ocean: a sacred unification with nature. We were small and large at the same time, both diminished and empowered. And Maynard’s transformation astonished me. The misplaced energy, the restlessness, the twitchiness—it vanished. He appeared calm and ignored everything except for the land. For hours, he would sit on a camp stool, sketching with pastels and watercolors while I wandered nearby, taking photos and collecting stones and small plants. I’d never seen him so focused and peaceful.

  Eventually John brought us to an old trading post. The men explored the wash outside the squat sandstone building while I wandered the interior, inspecting the baskets dotting the walls, shelves of Hopi pottery, barrels of horse tack, and bowls of colorful glass beads. From a case of silver jewelry, I took out a big, clunky silver Navajo bangle and slid it onto my narrow wrist. Pleased with how it bent and distorted colors and shapes on its shiny surface, I raised my arm and studied it. From over my shoulder, Maynard appeared. “What do you say, want a trinket as a reminder of this trip?”

  My enthusiastic response was all he needed to hear. After he purchased the bangle, we left the post and drove through the Painted Desert. While John and Maynard talked quietly in the front, I rested my forearm along the rim of the car’s open window and watched as settlements passed, sometimes no more than a gas station and a few lonesome outbuildings. The day’s heat and the land’s constancy lulled me into a state of drowsiness until we approached a sign that read, TUBA CITY INDIAN SCHOOL. I craned my head around to take a closer look, but we had passed it. “Wait,” I called out to John, “I’d like to see that.” They turned to me, confused. I pointed to the road behind us. “Let’s go see that school.”

  John looked puzzled. “I don’t think the landscape around there has any particularly interesting features.”

  “I don’t care about the landscape. I’d like to see the students.”

  In the front seat, Maynard lit a cigarette and the woodsy smell of the kinnikinnick smoke wafted over me. “There are Indian kids? I’d like to see it too.”

  John’s shoulders rose and the cords of his neck tightened, but he said nothing and pulled a U-turn on the empty road, heading back toward the Indian school. After about a half hour, we arrived at a three-story Federal-style brick building. We all climbed out and stood, stretching our limbs and brushing dust off our laps. “I’ll go in and see if we can get a tour,” John said.

  Maynard leaned against the car and studied our surroundings. The property consisted of the large rectangular schoolhouse, a rickety water tower listing to one side behind it, and a scattering of several more buildings. A pale sky drained of color pressed down on the loneliness of it all. It seemed like the last place a parent would choose to send their child.

  After a few minutes, John emerged from the double doors of the main building and walked toward us, a young man at his side. “Apparently we’re too late to visit any classrooms today, but we can view the students singing hymns before they head to work.”

  “The students work?” I asked, looking back and forth at John and the young man beside him.

  “Yes,” said the man. Muscular and compact, he stood ramrod straight and wore his hair cropped close to his head. He pointed to the smaller buildings flanking us. “This boarding school is entirely self-sufficient. There’s a bakery, a laundry, and woodshop. The boys spend half their days in lessons and half working and cleaning.”r />
  “How productive.” Maynard let out a rueful laugh. “Sounds like the army: drills in the morning, chores in the afternoon.”

  “This school is administered jointly by the Bureau of Indian Affairs and the U.S. Army,” the man said, ignoring Maynard’s sardonic smile. “I’m Lieutenant George Beasley.”

  Before anyone could say anything more, two rows of children emerged from the school and marched down the steps to create several lines. Once in formation, they faced the last man to exit the building, the headmaster. The boys wore uniforms of black knee socks, dark gray short pants, and jackets buttoned up the front. A small army. Three rows of grimly set brown faces stared at the man as he marched down the lines inspecting the appearance of each child. I heard him murmur something to one boy who bent over and yanked up his sagging socks. The headmaster then scolded a different boy for missing a button on a jacket.

  The rumble of an engine in the distance made all faces turn. A lone motorcar chugged along the road toward us, trailing a cloud of dust behind it. Once parked, a man in a suit emerged from the driver’s seat. He opened one of the backseat doors and pulled out a bundle drooping from his arms. As I looked harder, the bundle became a young boy. Beside me, Maynard stiffened. Tussled and squirming, the boy wriggled out of the man’s arms and began to run, his little legs appearing to move as if on pistons, kicking up dust. The man took several large steps, scooped up the little lad, and tucked him under his elbow.

  “Excuse me,” said Beasley, leaving us to stride over to the new arrivals. While the three rows of boys began singing hymns, he consulted with the man from the car over the writhing boy.

  Turn your eyes upon Jesus,

  Look full in His wonderful face,

  And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,

  In the light of His glory and grace.

  Suddenly a keening pierced the flat melody coming from the boys in the school yard. I spun around to locate its source and realized the newly arrived child was wailing. Without looking at the boy, the driver of the car cuffed him soundly on the ear with his free hand. The howling stopped, the singing continued.