lover? A neurotic lesbian, afraid to let any other woman come in contact with Fanny Anderson? In any case, it was strange and maddening, how the woman with her cold, thin voice refused to put Sara through to Fanny. Sara remembered Fanny’s voice, by contrast so warm and soft and welcoming, so personal . And Fanny had sent her more of the Jenny pages, so shewanted to keep in touch with Sara. Something odd was going on, and Sara wanted to know what it was. More, she wanted to try to persuade Fanny to finish this book, she wanted to help her to shape it, she wanted to be a real editor in a way she seldom had been before.
So, once she had made the appointment with a gynecologist in Boston, she tried Fanny Anderson’s number once again, and after she once again received the same response, the cold, hostile “Mrs. Anderson is not available at the moment. I’ll give her your message,” Sara had written a letter.
Dear Fanny Anderson,
I have tried numerous times over the past week to reach you, day and night, but the person who answers your phone seems unwilling to let me speak to you, and since you have not returned my calls, I’m afraid you haven’t gotten my messages.
I would like very much to talk with you about the Jenny book. I’ve finished reading the pages you sent me, and they are wonderful. Jenny is a fascinating person, and your writing style is at once elegant and intimate. I want to read more! And I know that many others will want to read this book, and will love it.
I have to come to Boston for medical purposes on December 19th, a Thursday. I would like to stop by your house around two-thirty, to see you and return the material you sent to me, and I hope, to pick up more. And if possible, I would very much like to sit down and talk with you about what you’re writing. I don’t know your writing schedule, but I promise I won’t take up too much of your time. Perhaps on Thursday we could meet briefly and then set up another time for a longer talk about your book. I would be very grateful if you could afford me just a few minutes in your day.
With very best wishes,
Sara Kendall
There , Sara had thought, that should do it . She had praised the book, she was offering to make the trip from Nantucket to Cambridge, she was practically groveling. If only she could get past the dreadful housekeeper, or lover, or envious spinster aunt, or whatever she was.
Fanny Anderson’s house was a tall old Victorian set behind a wrought-iron fence, graced with towering ancient maple trees that arched and draped their naked winter limbs over and in front of the house like giant garlands. The windows were long and narrow and shuttered. Stained glass glittered on either side of the massive oak door.
The woman who opened the door to Sara’s knock was so much like Sara’s mental image of her that Sara almost gasped. A woman in her fifties, perhaps, she had dark hair pulled back into a bun, and forbidding brown eyes set in a wrinkled somber face. She was wearing a drab brown wool dress and the heavy brown laced shoes of a woman who has no claim to vanity.
Jesus , Sara thought, but gave her most winning smile. “Hello,” she said confidently, “I’m Sara Kendall. I’ve been corresponding with Mrs. Anderson—” She stopped a moment, waiting. Surely this woman couldn’t be Fanny Anderson? When the woman showed no change of expression, Sara pressed on, “—and I have some material that I’d like to return to her.” She nodded down at the packet in her arms. “I wrote Mrs. Anderson a note last week, telling her I would be in town and would like to see her—is she in?”
“Mrs. Anderson is not available,” the woman said.
Oh, no , Sara thought, and nearly burst into tears. “Well, I could wait,” she said. “If she’s out. Or if she’s writing and might be available later. I could wait, or I could come back later today.”
“Mrs. Anderson will not be available today,” the woman said coldly.
Angered, Sara
So, once she had made the appointment with a gynecologist in Boston, she tried Fanny Anderson’s number once again, and after she once again received the same response, the cold, hostile “Mrs. Anderson is not available at the moment. I’ll give her your message,” Sara had written a letter.
Dear Fanny Anderson,
I have tried numerous times over the past week to reach you, day and night, but the person who answers your phone seems unwilling to let me speak to you, and since you have not returned my calls, I’m afraid you haven’t gotten my messages.
I would like very much to talk with you about the Jenny book. I’ve finished reading the pages you sent me, and they are wonderful. Jenny is a fascinating person, and your writing style is at once elegant and intimate. I want to read more! And I know that many others will want to read this book, and will love it.
I have to come to Boston for medical purposes on December 19th, a Thursday. I would like to stop by your house around two-thirty, to see you and return the material you sent to me, and I hope, to pick up more. And if possible, I would very much like to sit down and talk with you about what you’re writing. I don’t know your writing schedule, but I promise I won’t take up too much of your time. Perhaps on Thursday we could meet briefly and then set up another time for a longer talk about your book. I would be very grateful if you could afford me just a few minutes in your day.
With very best wishes,
Sara Kendall
There , Sara had thought, that should do it . She had praised the book, she was offering to make the trip from Nantucket to Cambridge, she was practically groveling. If only she could get past the dreadful housekeeper, or lover, or envious spinster aunt, or whatever she was.
Fanny Anderson’s house was a tall old Victorian set behind a wrought-iron fence, graced with towering ancient maple trees that arched and draped their naked winter limbs over and in front of the house like giant garlands. The windows were long and narrow and shuttered. Stained glass glittered on either side of the massive oak door.
The woman who opened the door to Sara’s knock was so much like Sara’s mental image of her that Sara almost gasped. A woman in her fifties, perhaps, she had dark hair pulled back into a bun, and forbidding brown eyes set in a wrinkled somber face. She was wearing a drab brown wool dress and the heavy brown laced shoes of a woman who has no claim to vanity.
Jesus , Sara thought, but gave her most winning smile. “Hello,” she said confidently, “I’m Sara Kendall. I’ve been corresponding with Mrs. Anderson—” She stopped a moment, waiting. Surely this woman couldn’t be Fanny Anderson? When the woman showed no change of expression, Sara pressed on, “—and I have some material that I’d like to return to her.” She nodded down at the packet in her arms. “I wrote Mrs. Anderson a note last week, telling her I would be in town and would like to see her—is she in?”
“Mrs. Anderson is not available,” the woman said.
Oh, no , Sara thought, and nearly burst into tears. “Well, I could wait,” she said. “If she’s out. Or if she’s writing and might be available later. I could wait, or I could come back later today.”
“Mrs. Anderson will not be available today,” the woman said coldly.
Angered, Sara
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