The Portable Veblen

5 PLIGHT OF THE BOOKWORM

One could opine that this bewitched outlook, this confounded optimism that was Veblen’s most notable feature, this will to believe, as William James called it, took hold early in Veblen’s childhood, perhaps most urgently in the thorny days leading up to her brief childhood visits with her mentally unbalanced father. To give herself the special powers to deal with it, Veblen concocted a potion out beside the ravine, of nettles (for the muckraker), a pinch of jimson weed (for the carouser), ripe blackberries (for the sweet-toothed), and dandelions (for the lion-hearted). It hurt to swallow, but that’s how she knew it would work.

In the days prior to the yearly, court-appointed visit, Melanie began to fester notably. On the morning of Veblen’s departure, she simply wouldn’t get up. Veblen would dress from a pile left out the night before, meant to look especially sharp when she first arrived to show off Melanie’s superior taste and mothering skills. Back then Melanie made her clothes, insisting that homemade clothes were more attractive and unique, but the clothes represented to Veblen everything that was difficult for her — how her last name didn’t match up with her mother and Linus, the very short haircut her mother gave her in the bathroom every month with her sharp snapping shears whose tips poked into her neck and cheeks, how it wasn’t fun to have friends over because her mother always criticized their manners or hygiene after they’d left. (“I want you to take note. Jody didn’t look me in the eye once. Nor did she say thank you when I offered cookies. She grabbed them off the plate and didn’t say a word.” Or, “I don’t think Terri is well cared for at home. Her neck was filthy, as if she hasn’t bathed in days.”)

(Veblen washed her neck often and vigorously. Also, she looked people in the eye and said thank you. She believed in an ideal human identity, and that to fall short of it would lead to exile.)

One year, Veblen’s mistake was to ask if it was okay if she didn’t take her mineral collection to show Rudgear — Melanie had packaged it up in a box the day before, made sure all the labels were in place, wrapped the samples in tissue, but Veblen knew Rudgear would despise the collection and know that it was being foisted on him by Melanie, who fostered the interest and was the one most partial to rocks.

“You’re not interested in sharing something from your life? Are you going to cut us off, forget we exist?”

“No, Mom, no!”

Nothing could have been less true. Veblen dreaded the visits to Rudgear. His behavior was bizarre, erratic — only later was he diagnosed with severe PTSD and offered treatment. It was always a very stressful two weeks of being a child trying to figure out how to act to escape scathing criticism and anger (and of course there was no way to escape it, but she was too young to know that), and yet she couldn’t tell Melanie the details partly because she would try to forget them and partly because Melanie couldn’t handle hearing anything bad that happened to Veblen, and the visit was court decreed, and that was that. Ultimately, all her mother was trying to say, clumsily, opaquely, was that she’d miss her. And she loved her mother so much that injustices of this sort, rather than turning Veblen against her mother, made Veblen all the more resolute in wanting to be a strong person and a fair one. In some way, she wished to be a good example to her own mother and, in a dream of greatly delayed gratification, believed she’d someday witness the desired results.

Linus had been an academic librarian at UC Berkeley, and a rare-book dealer. He had a beard and glasses and a friendly word for everyone, such as the people in banks and grocery stores, all the people Melanie regularly picked fights with. He made Veblen breakfast every morning before school. He helped her with homework and looked up pertinent information in the encyclopedia when she needed it, and had lots of information under his own belt, such as a complete mastery of modern history and baseball. He regularly brought home books about explorers and artists and philosophers for her, which complemented the library at home and was how Veblen came to know the writings of William James and John Dewey and Richard Rorty and many others over the years. He liked to ski at Squaw Valley and took Veblen every winter to see the Cal Bears at the old Harmon gym in Berkeley, where he taught her how to keep track of free throws and field goals the official way in the program, with Xs and Os.

Melanie met Linus in the Bancroft Library. She checked out a stack of books and he helped carry them to her car. They married soon after at the city hall in Berkeley, when Veblen was seven. She wished for a brother or sister, even a pet, but Melanie said Veblen was more than enough.

• • •

FINALLY, IT WOULD be time to leave. She’d choke down her potion at the last minute, just outside the back door. One year Linus emerged from the kitchen, holding his glasses and rubbing his eyes. He appeared disarmed without glasses, his eyes small and blind looking. “All right, go in and say good-bye to your mother,” he murmured.

Veblen would get her audience after all. Red and weepy, like a timeworn tomato, Melanie sat wrapped in her old robe. She wanted to look horrible, Veblen thought, to encourage pity. “I’m supposed to pull myself together for your sake,” Melanie said. “So I suppose you’ll have a wonderful time down there. But try to refrain from coming home with all that crap he loads you up with.”

“I’ll try.” This magnified Veblen’s gloom — her only consolation on her last trip was this so-called crap, such as the electric-pink dress with the big gold hoop on the front zipper, the supertight pants, the big inflatable pillow with all the astrological signs on it, all purchased during an impromptu shopping spree at Sears. It was hard for Veblen to understand the revulsion Melanie had exhibited when she’d unpacked and shown off her trophies. “I put the rocks in my carry-on,” she offered.

“Well, good. I think it’s good to show him you spend your time constructively. Do you have your books?”

“Yeah, all of them.” Linus had brought home a complete set of Sherlock Holmes mysteries, as well as White Fang and Call of the Wild and a few other novels about ill-treated beasts.

“I have a very funny feeling about this trip,” Melanie said quietly. “I had a dream — that you were in trouble and you were calling for me.”

This made Veblen feel uneasy, but taking it as a test of strength she said, “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.” Melanie often bragged of her sixth sense, of how she could predict earthquakes, and how she had known the exact moment Robert Kennedy was killed because she felt like a bullet had entered her own body, causing her to leap up and turn on the television, which was showing the pandemonium inside the Ambassador Hotel.

“I like to pretend you’re Linus’s daughter,” Melanie went on. “If only you were.”

“Sorry,” Veblen said, helplessly.

“Hurry up, you’ll miss the flight and then he’ll call and chew my head off.”

“Bye.” She went forward for a kiss, but Melanie pulled her cheek away.

“I can’t stand this. I hope you appreciate how lucky you are. My parents were so horrible to me, I got myself in a hideous mess.”

Veblen squirmed uncomfortably. “I wish I didn’t have to go.”

“You won’t go off on your own, you won’t talk to strangers, you won’t get in cars with strange men?” Melanie croaked.

“Why would I? I don’t do that here.”

“His values are so different from ours. For all I know”—her nostrils flared and her brow bunched—“he’ll try to sell you into slavery!”

It was a joke but Veblen could picture it, being toted away over the shoulder of a pirate with a gag in her mouth, Rudgear counting his take.

“Bye, Mom.”

They hugged each other at last. Melanie’s big warm body comforted her, no matter what she said. Suddenly Veblen felt terrified and didn’t want to leave her.

“Go on now.”

Veblen held on, digging her fingers into her mother’s fat.

“You’re hurting me, let go. For Christ’s sake! Don’t do this to me! Linus, come get her! Go on! Go!”

The potion was kicking in. She let go, of course. And stood it. She had a lot of practice standing things because she had to stand them, which was a hard habit to break.

At the airport Linus bought her a chocolate bar, and told her he couldn’t wait to talk about White Fang when she got back, and that someday soon they’d drive over to Sonoma to see the remains of Wolf House, which burned to the ground before London ever had a chance to live in it. And soon a stewardess took two unaccompanied minors on board, Veblen and a boy who looked to be about the same age. They ignored each other, but they were seated in exactly the same row.

Dear Melanie,

During this visit with Veblen, I noticed a definite trend for the worse in her personality. Probably since you are around her all the time, some of these traits don’t stand out clearly. She appears to be a very unhappy child, unable to let go and almost devoid of emotion. She lacks enthusiasm for most any project and has very poor manners. If you don’t do something for her now, it will only get worse.

Rudgear

Dear Rudge,

I appreciate your concern but the problems you describe do not exist here. Veblen is a happy girl with her own personality, and she can’t understand why you can’t accept her for herself. She is a mature young girl, interested in many, many things, has many friends and is happy. She doesn’t want to change herself when she visits you and wouldn’t even know how. And now she is beginning to dread her otherwise good visits for fear of your reaction to her and the pressure you put on her. I will continue to encourage her to feel at ease there, and I hope you will try to make her feel at ease as well.

Melanie

(Linus composed all correspondence to Rudgear, as Melanie couldn’t quite manage to strike the right tone.)

Dear Melanie,

I believe medical help should be sought. This girl has problems, too many to list. She can’t relate to any adult, only to little kids and animals. I’m sure this whole thing can be rationalized but don’t do it — this kid is headed for trouble later on. You may not wish to do anything about it, but Veblen is the loser, believe me. You must know Veblen has problems and to bury your head in the sand only works against her.

Rudgear

Dear Rudge,

I am prepared to make reservations for Veblen’s visit with you this summer, but until we reach an agreement I will not purchase the ticket. I appreciate your previous letter and we have discussed her difficulties with her physician in several conferences. The doctor has urged me to write you before this upcoming visit. Veblen feels pressure when she’s there to behave in some other way than she is, and has become increasingly withdrawn and unhappy, not sure of her footing while there.

Yes, she reads a great deal and enjoys make-believe. Yes, she throws herself into the world of her books, and imagines great adventures. But this is normal for a child her age and it’s hurtful for you to ridicule her. She found it terrifying when you grabbed her book last summer and shredded it to pieces, calling her a bookworm and telling her to go outside. (This was a library book, by the way, and we had to pay for it.)

Another thing contributing to the problem is that you find it natural to kiss her on the mouth, but Veblen is not used to that. She gives and receives affection here at home, but we don’t kiss children on the mouth here. She finds it unpleasant and feels pressure when you insist on it.

Further, the doctor and I both feel that having her sleep outside in your camper to foster independence is not the answer. She feels isolated and punished and she is a young girl. This must never happen again.

We also feel it is not proper for her to go with you when you collect money, as she has heard you yelling at people and finds it frightening. It is also against my wishes that you ask Veblen to work while she’s staying with you, selling those cards door-to-door. She informed me of this only recently and reluctantly, and I was quite shocked. It is not safe for a child to go door-to-door selling things, even prayer cards. It is also hypocritical because she knows as well as I do that you are not religious.

Further, Veblen told us that you frequently ask a man in a brown suit whose name she does not even know to watch her on days you work, and she feels uncomfortable with him. He has given her a wallet and a few other gifts and I don’t think this is appropriate, whoever this man in the brown suit is. Who is this man?

Last but not least, Veblen loves to swim and dive. But please do not take her to the high dive at the Plunge anymore and throw her from the diving board.

Please be more relaxed with her and try to avoid judging her. She’s interested in her family history and Norwegian customs — why don’t you tell her more about that? As you know, she is a lovely, intelligent, and affectionate girl. If you can’t curb your temper around a ten-year-old girl, then you shouldn’t see her until you can.

Sincerely,

Melanie

Rudgear got so mad when he received this letter that he called up and shouted at Melanie and that was it. Veblen was never sent to see him again. For the time being Veblen was hugely relieved, but also couldn’t help wondering why he didn’t try to make up somehow. Well, he just wasn’t strong enough, is what she figured out in time. It wasn’t until Veblen moved to Palo Alto years later that she wrote to him and reestablished contact, without her mother in the middle of it.

• • •

IN THOSE CHILDHOOD DAYS, Veblen had several methods for calming her nerves, such as riding her bike as fast as possible, holding her breath under water as long as possible, climbing trees as high as possible, and typing as fast as possible. One thing she typed a lot was this:

MAYBE YES

MAYBE NO

MAYBE YES

MAYBE NO

Really, really fast. As if weighing all options.

She began typing the lyrics to songs, to remembered conversations, whatever sprang to her fingertips. She typed with the satisfaction of a pianist on a grand in Carnegie Hall. She knew her fingers by the words they commanded. Her hands had lives of their own, her servants, her ten-horse team pulling her dray.

When she typed she felt great freedom, like a wild mustang galloping across the plains.

Later, learning Norwegian with Mr. Bix Dahlstrom in the care facility, the whole world would magically disappear, leaving them alone in an enormous cavern that they could wander through nearly forever, always finding new chambers to explore. When you entered the cavern of another language, you could leave certain people behind, for they had no interest in following you in. You could, by way of translation, emerge from the cavern and share your adventures with them. You didn’t have to be an intellectual in a black beret smoking clove cigarettes to be a translator, not at all. You could become one in your blue flannel pajamas, your face smeared with Clearasil.

You did.