Call Me Zelda (26 page)

S
cott wrote to Anthony’s doctor in Alabama, where he’d returned to see a nerve specialist. His suicidal and homicidal thoughts had worsened, but his doctor mentioned that he didn’t feel Anthony was a real risk to his family or himself.

“He wrote that the condition might indeed run in the family,” said Scott, “which I can certainly confirm on this end.”

As I prepared a cup of tea for Zelda, Scott sat at the kitchen table telling me about the letter. Zelda bathed herself in the unburned bathroom upstairs, with her record of
La Gioconda
at full volume. I looked at the ceiling and then back at Scott with raised eyebrows. He drained what remained of his sixteenth can of beer that day, put his face in his hands, and rubbed his eyes.

“What did he mean by ‘homicidal’ thoughts?” I asked.

Scott hesitated a moment, then spoke. “He’s had thoughts of killing his mother.”

I put my hand to my mouth.

“He is distressed by these thoughts and says he’ll kill himself before killing someone else.”

“Do you think we should still attempt a visit with Zelda?” I asked.

Scott looked back up at me, and he appeared to be so ill, I felt my heart reach out to him. As mean and difficult as he could be, he also hadn’t given up on his wife, his daughter, or his work. I knew that his alcoholism was a major factor in his attempt to cope, though it had the opposite effect. He was a sick man.

“I don’t know,” he said. “His doctor mentioned that Anthony begged to come to Hopkins to be near Zelda. The Sayres don’t have the money for Phipps, though, and I sure as hell don’t either.
I can barely afford to keep up with Zelda’s therapy sessions there.” He stood, lit a cigarette, and began pacing the kitchen. “Once I publish
Tender Is the Night
, our financial issues will be solved. It’s my finest work yet.”

I was glad to hear this. His popularity in the short-story market had been waning, and I knew from Isabel that their bills were piling up. I felt a small ripple of panic at the thought of being financially dependent on them, but felt better that Scott was so sure his novel would be a success.

“Anna!” Zelda called from upstairs.

“Excuse me,” I said, and turned with the tray to leave.

Scott put his hand on my arm and looked up at the ceiling. “I’ll take it to her.”

I worried that Zelda would be angered if Scott showed up instead of me, but I couldn’t refuse him.

Z
elda’s paintings now lined the perimeter of the front parlor. I had used a cloth to wipe the smoke and ash from as many of them as I could, but some were beyond help. Zelda expressed that they accurately reflected her mental state and should remain, but Scott had insisted we take those paintings to the junkyard. I stacked them in a pile and would have Zelda help me remove them from the house after convincing her how depressing they were.

The other canvases reminded me of a funhouse with moving walls. Motion was a theme, and though the pictures were strange, they were captivating. Contorted ballet dancers with bulging muscular legs, enlarged feet, agonizing positions. I had wondered whether these compositions were the result of her poor eyesight until she told me, one day, about the technique of enlarging parts of the human body for thematic emphasis.

The hue of red paint she used reminded me of blood, and I didn’t know whether that was deliberate or just my own morbid
take on her palette. The Chinese acrobats were splashed in red, the dancer in arabesque, and finally, a portrait of Scott. There were two portraits of Scott, actually, and the one that struck me most showed him with a crown of thorns. I couldn’t decide whether it was out of love or irony that she had drawn him in such a way.

Behind Scott’s crown-of-thorns portrait was an unfinished painting I hadn’t seen before. It appeared to be a woman, eyes facing heaven, with her breasts exposed. It was such a collection of arcs and circles that I initially had a hard time discerning the infant at her breast. Was it a picture of Mary and the child Jesus? Was Zelda becoming more religious?

The grandfather clock in the hallway bonged the six o’clock hour, and thus time for me to catch the bus home. I took one more look at the canvas, uncertain about what drew me to it but intensely interested in it just the same. Then I went up the stairs to bid Zelda good-bye.

The recording of
La Gioconda
had reached the beautiful lovers’ song, and I felt chills rise on my skin at the passion it conveyed. I wondered whether playing the piece on the piano would do it any justice. When I reached the top of the stairs and turned toward the bathroom, I stopped in my tracks.

Scott was kneeling at one end of the bath, behind Zelda, pouring water over her shampooed hair and rinsing the suds away. Her face was tilted toward the ceiling and her eyes were closed. It was the loveliest expression of tenderness I had ever witnessed.

When he finished rinsing her hair, Scott placed the pitcher on the floor and eased Zelda back to recline against the side of the bathtub. He ran his hands over her shoulders and massaged her for a moment, until he slipped his hands down farther to her breasts.

I felt my breath catch in my throat and tiptoed down the stairs, careful not to make any noise. I stood at the bottom until my heart stopped hammering and walked to the kitchen, where I left a note sending them wishes for a good weekend.

For once, I felt certain that it would be so.

NINETEEN

August 1933

But peace never stayed long in the Fitzgerald house.

In August, Zelda’s brother Anthony committed suicide by leaping from the window of his psychiatric hospital. No work, no money, and his terrible murderous thoughts had pushed him too far.

“No!” screamed Zelda. “He needed me, and I didn’t go to him. This is
your
fault!”

She pointed her finger at Scott and he stared at her, his face aged and racked with guilt, his mouth half-open in disbelief.

“We said we’d wait until the autumn to visit,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

I felt the need to step in. “Zelda, it was not because you did not see him. He was sick beyond anyone’s help.”

“No,” she said. “If he could have seen me it may have made him better. Scott had to finish that damned novel—” She grabbed a stack of papers from his writing desk and threw them all over the floor. Scott’s face changed and he lunged toward her.

“How dare you!” he shouted.

I pressed him back with my hand and then took him by the
arms. He turned his face toward mine and I pleaded with him with my eyes to have some understanding. Her brother had just killed himself. This would be horrid for even the sanest person to face, and Zelda was so fragile. He seemed to understand and turned away, crouching down to pick up the papers. After a few moments, he spoke softly. “Zelda, I am very sorry for you and for him.”

She cowered in the corner of the room with her eyes squeezed shut, shaking her head from side to side, as if trying to keep the terrible vision of her brother’s death from her mind. I crossed the room and took her in my arms. She allowed me to hold her while she wept.

A
fter that awful afternoon, Zelda clamped shut. She refused to write or speak at the house, and would only paint. She developed a twitch on her face, and began to contort her mouth in strange ways and laugh at inappropriate times. She didn’t even want to spend time outdoors, which had always been her favorite release. I tried to lure her outside by opening the window to the sweet beckoning of the September breezes, but she would not come.

After Zelda’s episode with Scott, he again retreated from her. He was immersed in revisions and lived inside of his writer’s mind, which must have been the only place where he felt safe and in control. Mercifully, Scottie was busy with the start of school and friends, so she continued on, the third piece of this broken family, each inhabiting separate spaces from one another.

Once November arrived, they finally moved from La Paix to a house not far from mine in the city. Moving into Baltimore made more sense for them, since it was closer to Hopkins and felt less isolating for Scott. Scottie elected to spend most of the week with the family of her friend nearer to her school, and they seemed delighted to keep her. I accompanied Scott and
Zelda to weekly therapy at Phipps, and noticed that Scott was becoming more hostile to Dr. Rennie and Dr. Meyer under their scrutiny.

“Are things any better now that you are away from La Paix?” asked Dr. Rennie.

“And the writing is complete,” murmured Zelda.

Scott shot her a piercing look.

“Shall I stop writing?” he spat. “Shall I paint pretty pictures like you all day and see if that will support us?”

“You know painting is therapeutic for me,” said Zelda.

“Yes, and we wouldn’t want to take anything therapeutic away from our dear, fragile Zelda.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she said. “You’ve taken everything else from me in the world; now do you want me to stop painting?”

“I don’t know what I want,” he said, trying to light a cigarette. His hands shook so badly that he could not do it. Zelda’s face suddenly softened and she looked at him with pity. She reached over and lit the cigarette for him, and then placed her hand on his knee.

“You are worn out, my husband,” she said.

He coughed and laughed a little. “Just noticing?” he said, not unkindly.

She reached up and ran her hands over his hair and down the back of his neck. It was an intimate gesture, and I noticed Dr. Rennie shift in his seat. He looked stiff and uncomfortable. Was he jealous?

Living with the Fitzgeralds, I’d seen moments of tenderness, but this was the first time Rennie or Meyer had ever witnessed the depth of their feeling for each other. They were spellbound as Zelda leaned in and kissed Scott softly. They let their foreheads rest together.

“These battles are destroying us,” she said. “We must stop. We don’t want to kill each other.”

Zelda folded her arms and leaned on them in Scott’s lap.

Dr. Meyer spoke. “I have never seen you treat each other so kindly.” His voice was gentler than I’d ever heard it. “Perhaps you should go away together.”

Zelda sat up slowly and faced him. “Yes.”

“A holiday for you to find each other again.”

My spirits lifted. It was a good idea—though I worried whether Scott would be able to handle her alone.

“Do you think she could?” asked Scott, with eagerness.

“It would be a risk,” said Meyer.

“Perhaps Anna could go with us,” suggested Zelda.

“I don’t think a romantic holiday should include a nurse,” I said, smiling.

“Well, you don’t have to come to bed with us,” said Zelda. Dr. Rennie gave a nervous laugh. I blushed.

“Yes,” said Scott. “Anna, you have a way of floating beneath the surface until you’re needed.”

Another reference to my blandness frustrated me. He must have seen my displeasure, because he quickly elaborated.

“I mean you fit so seamlessly into our lives and reinforce us when we need you. You are perfect for us.”

Better, I thought. He was smooth.

I finally spoke. “If Dr. Meyer and Dr. Rennie think it is a good idea, I will fully support you the best way I can.”