Call Me Zelda (36 page)

March 1948

The night before my trip, after my father had left, Peter and I sat with candles and tea between us at the dining table, while Will and the children slept upstairs.

“I’ve prayed for you and for Zelda,” he said. “What you’re doing is important.”

“I’m glad you think so. I feel a tremendous amount of guilt for leaving my family for this fool’s errand.”

Peter wrinkled his forehead in surprise. “Did Will say that?”

“Heavens, no. I’m saying it.”

“Well, stop saying it, or even thinking it. What you’re doing is charity, and charity is goodness, which is God.”

“It’s
God
to leave your family to embark upon a fruitless search to find the hedonistic ramblings of a flapper? A flapper who hasn’t spoken to me in years, and who is acting on the advice of her dead husband?”

“Yes.”

I rolled my eyes, and he continued. “Zelda doesn’t deserve what you’re doing for her.”

I began to protest, but he held up his hand. “The way that
none of us deserve the price of our salvation. But it was given out of love, so it is ours to have. A gift.”

I began to understand him, and this time I didn’t roll my eyes over his spiritual musings.

“You are giving Zelda a gift,” he continued, “and whether or not you find the diaries, it doesn’t matter. No one has ever done anything like this for her. Your sacrifice on her behalf will restore hope in her. And if that isn’t healing, I don’t know what is. Remember the line ‘There is no greater love…’”

“‘Than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends,’” I said. “I’m just so worried about leaving the children. And Will.”

Peter hesitated for a moment, and then looked upstairs as if he expected someone to come down. He cleared his throat. “This trip will be good for you, too. It’s time to go out on your own. The kids are bigger and you still baby them. Especially Sara.”

“She has always been shy…” I said.

“Babied.”

I began to protest until I realized that he was right. Given my past, however, could he really blame me? I understood how fleeting life could be. I never took time with my children for granted, and felt gratitude for them every day—even when muddy boot prints were sloshed across the foyer, or incessant piano practice made conversation impossible, or the shrieks of sibling confrontation sliced through the house. I was well aware of my blessings, and in no hurry to be separated from them.

“It will be good for all of you,” he concluded, reaching for me.

I nodded and squeezed his hand, and we finished our tea in silence.

When I climbed into bed well after midnight, Will was still awake. He wrapped himself around me and we whispered all night about my travel plans, what I’d find and wouldn’t find, and most important, what I would give to Zelda when I saw her. It had been Will’s idea to photograph the places I visited and put
them in a scrapbook. If I could not find her real diaries, I would create them.

I had in my possession a model of the new Polaroid Land Camera, due out later in the year. Will had paid a photographer at the paper an ungodly sum for it once he saw how it produced a picture in less than one minute. It was the most spectacular thing I’d ever seen, and we had taken several pictures of the kids and each other when we’d first gotten it. I would bring it with me on the trip so I could work on Zelda’s new scrapbook a little each night, and present it to her when I saw her.

“This will be good for you,” said Will. “I know you’ve felt guilty all these years for moving on after your time with Zelda, though I don’t think you should.”

“I’ve always felt her shadow,” I said. “We were so intensely close for so long, and then she was suddenly ripped away. I’ve never had peace with that.”

“I know.” He kissed me and pulled me closer.

In the darkness, we made love and slept in each other’s arms until the morning light awakened us. It was terrible getting out of bed that morning, leaving the warmth I felt wrapped up in Will. When we heard the kids in the hall, we finally forced ourselves to arise.

I hurried about getting ready, swallowing the lump in my throat while Will made breakfast. Peter hummed jazz songs and caused mayhem, but he did pause from chasing the boys around to help me carry my bags to the foyer. When it was finally time to go, Peter placed his hands on my head to give me his blessing. I couldn’t stop the tears any longer. Sara lunged at me with a hug.

“My little shadow,” I said. “I’ll be back to claim you before you know it.”

“How long will you be gone?” she asked.

“It all depends,” I said.

“On which way the wind blows and which way the road goes,” said Peter. “Don’t worry, kids, Uncle Pete and Poppy will come over often and give you more candy than your mother would allow, and let you stay up very much past your bedtime.”

The boys cheered, but Sara still clung to me.

“We’ll be fine,” said little Ben. I rumpled his hair.

Will stepped forward and hugged us both. Then he kissed me and put his forehead on mine.

“Call when you can,” he said. “I don’t care about the cost. Write, telegram often. I want to feel I’m with you.”

“You will,” I said.

After I pried Sara from my waist, I hugged the boys again. Then Peter grabbed my suitcase and I took my purse, and we all went outside to load up the car. The winter wind hit us with force and I shooed them back inside, worried they’d catch their death out here. I put on my gloves and closed myself in the car before looking back at the house, where the front window framed my family. Will couldn’t seem to manage a smile. The boys and Sara waved furiously. Peter winked at me, and I could still feel the weight of his hands on my head as he blessed me. I waved once more, blinked away my tears, and began the journey.

T
he thing about trips is that all the trouble is in the anticipation. Once I was under way, I was able to tuck my family into a quiet place in my heart and focus on my task.

I’d placed the photograph of Zelda and me on the passenger seat so I could look at it often and remind myself what I was after for her. Will had filled up the tank in our black Plymouth P15. We were lucky to have a car in postwar America, with factories continuing to transition back to civilian use and materials still scarce. I was reluctant to take the car, but there really wasn’t another way. Will and the kids could use public transportation or my dad’s car, but if anything happened to the Plymouth we’d be in a bind.

The first leg of the trip, however, went smoothly, and a couple of hours later on the banks of the Delaware River, I pulled up to the mansion where the Fitzgeralds had lived all those years ago.

Ellerslie.

The house looked exactly like the oil painting Zelda had made of it—stately white columns at the end of an imposing drive; the hard, square lines of the windows and porches crossed by the empty arms of naked winter trees. I noticed a cardinal hop down some nearby branches like stair steps and fly away, toward the river, and imagined how beautiful it would have been here in the spring with newly opened buds and birdsongs.

The Fitzgeralds had lived at Ellerslie from 1927 to 1929. Scott had wished for it to be a retreat where he could write, but the gin-soaked crowd penetrated the stillness and scattered it about in pieces on the lawn. I snapped a picture of the facade of the house, the cardinal that had made its way back, and the faraway banks of the river, but I stopped taking photos when the hair on the back of my neck stood. I had the most dreadful feeling of being watched. I looked up at the windows of the second floor and searched the glass, and could have sworn that I saw a shadow move away from the windows just above me.

My mouth went dry and I wondered why I was doing this at all, when I noticed a simple trapeze swing, swaying in the wind from a branch in a nearby tree. I had remembered a photograph of Scottie hanging from it, laughing gaily, with Scott standing next to her, hands on his hips, looking young and dapper and wearing an easy smile.

It was for them—the Fitzgeralds—all of this. I had to help Zelda honor the sweetness in her former life and who she was before they came apart.

With renewed courage I continued onto the front porch, stepping over peeling paint and warped boards, and knocked on
the cracked wood door. I imagined that if I were there years earlier, the suave writer or retired flapper would greet me and pull me into a tumble of partygoers and entertainment for the weekend. I knocked again and waited, but only silence greeted me.

I walked to a nearby window to peer in, but instead encountered the remains of a huge spiderweb. Gasping, I swatted it away and brushed it off my face. I turned to go back down the step, and almost ran into a scraggly man. He startled me so much that I nearly screamed. His eyes were pale and hollow, and his cheeks were sunken into his face. He had long, greasy hair and his chin was covered with stubble. A cigarette burned between his chapped lips, and he spoke without removing it.

“Ain’t for sale.”

“Excuse me?”

“The house ain’t for sale.”

He had an ax slung over his right shoulder, and must have seen my wide eyes, because he put out his free hand for me to shake. I took it and smiled, though I did not feel relieved.

“Just choppin’ wood. Nothing to be scared of,” he said. “I’m the caretaker here.”

“Oh, doesn’t anyone live here?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “No one can stand to stay here long.”

“Why?”

“The haunts.”

Chills rose on my arms. I remembered Zelda mentioning the haunts of Ellerslie, but I’d imagined she was referring to her marital or emotional troubles.

“That factory upriver owns the house and land.”

“Such a beautiful place.”

“You wouldn’t think so if you lived here awhile.”

An icy wind reached its fingers into my coat and gave me a chill, as winter clouds grew, threatening precipitation. I wanted to get through the house before I lost the light.

“Sir, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, may I go into the house and look around?” I asked, trying not to appear too eager. “My dear friend used to live here, and has spoken of it so fondly. I was in the area, so I thought I’d try to see it.”

“Why did she leave in the first place, if she liked it so much?” he asked. “Ghosts scare ’em off?”

“You could say so.”

He pulled the cigarette stub out of his mouth, tossed it on the ground, and crushed it with his scuffed black boot. Then he looked up at the second floor, where I thought I’d seen the movement earlier. His eyes seemed to darken at something he saw, and I suppressed the urge to go tearing back to my car and down the drive. He didn’t say anything, but walked up to the door, unlocked it, and gave it a shove. It stuck on its frame.

“Don’t use this entrance much,” he said.

I followed him into the foyer and then walked ahead of him, taking in the grand staircase, ornate moldings, and dusty chandelier. It wasn’t hard to imagine how spectacular this place would have been under the layers of neglect. I could almost hear the strains of an old jazz record emanating from the gramophone in the sitting room, Zelda dancing with fine, sleek-haired gentlemen and smoking long cigarettes with her red-painted lips.

The caretaker slammed the front door, calling me out of my reverie.

“Your friend isn’t that writer, is it?”

“Yes,” I said. “Well, his wife.”

“They had all this big furniture made to fill these rooms, since they’re so huge. Then they just left it all here. Can you imagine the waste?”

How could I explain to him how ill equipped they were to handle their wealth? How they were always in motion, and even tons of furniture filling up gilded rooms couldn’t anchor them? Maybe if it had, they wouldn’t have been in so much trouble.

Sheets covered massive sofas and tables, their legs sticking out below like glimpses of hibernating giants. I stepped farther into the room and saw a huge mirror covering the far wall, cut through the middle with a ballet barre—its edges tarnished with black spots like a faded photograph. My chest grew tight and I had the most unusual feeling that Zelda was there with me. I could see her moving through her warm-ups at the barre, wearing her delicate tutu, playing her records over and over again.

What else could I do but dance?
I remembered her saying about her time at the house.
He wouldn’t let me take care of the child. He wouldn’t let me write. How else could I express all those things that needed to come out?

The man released a phlegmy cough and spit in his handkerchief, and my thoughts of Zelda scattered. I knew I wasn’t going to make much progress with the caretaker at my heels.

“Sir,” I said, “if this is too much trouble, I would be happy to explore alone and come find you when I’m through. I won’t be too long.”

He smiled his rotten smile at me and again spit into his handkerchief. Then he looked out into the yard and back at me.

“You want to be alone in here, huh?” he said. “I’ll be around back chopping wood. You come out the back door and check in with me when you’re done. I don’t imagine you’ll be too long at all.”

He started toward the back of the house, but stopped and turned to me.