“We can stay at Ethan’s house.”
“I cannot and will not accept hospitality from him.”
“But he wants us to stay.”
“It’s not proper, Barbara.”
“I’m old enough to know what makes me happy. You and Daddy always said I’m ahead of my years.”
“Honestly, Barbara. Ethan’s ten years older than you. And fifteen is too young for a serious relationship.”
“What do ten years matter when two people are in love?”
“If you care deeply for each other, time apart won’t alter that.” But Helen hoped that time apart would spur Barbara to forget this romance. These dalliances of hers were ridiculous, even preposterous—first that vulgar encounter in Tahiti and now this infatuation with a common sailor. The best strategy was to whisk her away as quickly as possible. And find something to distract her, preferably a new writing project. Or maybe college.
Barbara thumped her stiffened arms against the air. “Why do you insist on taking me away from him? He’s trustworthy and honorable. You said so yourself.”
“You need to know a few things, young lady.” She thrust her papers aside. “Your father moved again. It took Gordon three weeks to track him down and get him to pay the house taxes. But that’s as much as we’ve had from him. We’ve been living off the rent and my articles, and we’re down to the dregs.”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
God, Barbara could be exasperating. “I have to support us now. All three of us.”
“But we’ve made do on very little money all along. Why shouldn’t we continue?”
“Because we could manage on pennies a day on the islands, but nothing’s cheap in the States. And I have to send money for Sabra.”
Barbara lifted her brow in pleading. “We can figure something out, Mother. I know we can.”
“If you’d been helping with the book all along, we might be in better shape right now. Instead, I have to worry about making good on that advance.”
“But I have copies of some of my letters. I’ll help now, I promise.”
“It’s a little late for that.”
“Please, Mother, I’m begging you. Ethan means the world to me.”
“I refuse to listen to any more of your incessant badgering. We’re going to Pasadena, and that’s the end of it.”
Barbara turned and stomped out of the cabin.
Fine, let her run to Ethan. Honestly, just fifteen, and she thinks she knows what love is. Barbara’s new philosophy—that she ought to be able to do whatever she wanted—irked to no end. She was as self-indulgent as her father. Damn him and his devil-may-care ways.
Keeping Barbara under control had turned into such a struggle. She was simply running out of the patience—and energy—for it. What if she and Barbara had some time apart? It might be good for both of them. For one thing, she needed solitude to write this book. If she could deliver on it, it’d give them some respite from their dire financial circumstances. And she’d like nothing more than to get her book out before Wilson published his novel. Perhaps she should try to find a temporary guardian for Barbara, someone with a firm enough hand to manage her and her rebellious ways.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
BARBARA AT FIFTEEN
Pasadena, June–August 1929
In late June, a bus deposited Barbara and her mother in Pasadena, where the Russell family lived. Her mother introduced the Russells as old family friends, but Barbara didn’t remember meeting them. They were a congenial foursome—Alice, Bert, and their daughters Phoebe and Elisabeth—and she did enjoy their company.
But it was Ethan who occupied her thoughts. They’d exchanged a volley of letters, though her last three had gone unanswered while the Vigilant sailed from Seattle to Anchorage. Then, in early August, one of his neatly addressed envelopes showed up, and before she’d stepped back onto the front porch, she’d ripped it open.
July 23, 1929
Dear Barbara,
We arrived late morning on a fine sunny day in Anchorage. The flowers are abundant and in full bloom under Alaska’s long stretches of daylight.
Once the stevedores began unloading our shipment of dry goods, I took myself off to scout city streets and hear local tidings. The people here rail at the requirement that the territory buy and sell its wares through Washington state. They consider it extortion. I can see their point, but this is a land of plenty, and I suppose the U.S. government can’t resist its bounty. And the people themselves voted against statehood, so they oughtn’t complain too loudly.
I’ve collected your last three letters, and since we’ll stop here a few days, I can answer each of them. But I’ll take my time, and read them one by one, for I love to savor your words and mull over your questions.
As for your first letter . . .
Yes, I finished my third reading of Lord Jim, and I’ve marked even more passages in my battered copy. But knowing Jim’s fate all along made for sad reading. He tries so hard to bring honor on himself. I believe he’s a sincere and compassionate man, undone by one unthinking and impulsive act. But is Conrad fair to Jim? Such a terrible test he puts him to, a crisis that forces a life and death decision on him. Or is Conrad using Jim to show how darkness can undo the most honorable of men? Then Jim is a victim, and I can’t blame him for his fate. I’m left questioning my sense of honor and duty. What if I’d been in Jim’s position? I can only hope that integrity would guide me, for it is a virtue I hold high. Do you agree? I’d love to hear your thoughts on honor and fate.
I’m glad the Russell family is good company and that you’ve found a friend in Alice. I don’t know why you’re surprised at being more drawn to the mother than the daughters. You’re not of your age. I saw that from the beginning. Your questioning mind and broad knowledge are not the ways of a youngster but of an older person who has read and experienced much. You can’t compare your years to those of anybody else, for you’ve lived more deeply than anyone I’ve ever known. It is one of the many things I cherish about you.
I’ll close for now and take a walk along the docks and admire the profusion of blooms while thinking of you. I sorely need teaching in the names of flowers and plants, and you’re just the one for that.
I’ve read your second letter . . .
Captain says we’ll sail earlier than expected, for the stevedores are making good progress loading our cargo of canned salmon. These Alaska settlers are hearty stock. Complain though they do, they know how to put their shoulders into their work.
I’m sorry the news from your father is not good. Though it was as you feared, remember that Joseph Conrad himself said: “No man ever understands quite his own artful dodges to escape from the grim shadow of self-knowledge.” These words can’t be much consolation, but perhaps they can explain something of your father’s blundering ways.
I wonder, can you find any comfort in this quote from Lord Jim? “Our common fate . . . for where is the man—I mean a real sentient man—who does not remember vaguely having been deserted in the fullness of possession by someone or something more precious than life?” Don’t let the pain and desertion he has visited on you weigh you down. Yes, you’ve suffered from it, but perhaps you will soon find and keep the precious friend you deserve. Dare I hope to prove myself such a one?
It must be heartbreaking for your mother. Please give her my sympathy. She’s a good mother to you. You mustn’t speak ill of her. How many mothers would have undertaken the journey you and she had? And we wouldn’t have met otherwise.
Though I’m sorry for the pain caused by your father’s abandonment, I admit I’m glad you won’t rush back to the East Coast, for you’ll remain a mere sea voyage away. Much as I’d like to throw over my responsibilities so that I can be with you, I’m forcing patience on myself, knowing that we must wait for the right time to be together again.
You’re planning a new book, a book that I’m the inspiration for? Already I’m anxious to read the chapters.
; And last, your third letter . . .
I write in haste now for Captain tells us we’ll shove off this afternoon, and I must hurry to post this letter. Perhaps some brute of a steamer will carry it to you faster than our graceful schooner could.
I share your excitement about college, and I hope it’ll come to pass. I always fancied it something I’d enjoy. But my seafaring life makes me a nomad, and I’ve contented myself with studying on my own. And having you to discuss Conrad and Melville with is all the classroom I could ever need.
Visiting here has got me interested in the territory of Alaska, and I bought a book about its history. Do you know that Russia sold Alaska to the United States in 1867, partly to keep the territory out of British hands? They called it Seward’s Folly then. Too bad Mr. Seward didn’t outlive the joke because everybody stopped laughing when gold was discovered. The territory is still an explorer’s delight, and I find myself intrigued by its expanse. I have this dream, wild as it may be, of us settling in Alaska, buying a fishing boat, and living off the sea’s bounty. You must tell me if it’s a dream you could share.
So, my reading will take me away from Conrad to history on the southward sail. Only I’ve ordered The Voyage of the Norman D and hope it will await me upon my return.
For I remain,
Your faithful shipmate,
Ethan
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
BARBARA AT FIFTEEN
Pasadena, September 1929
A knock sounded at the door of her attic bedroom in the Russell’s house. Before she could respond, her mother burst in. “Bar, Millicent Brown is going to help us out. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Barbara put aside the story she’d been reading, Conrad’s “The Secret Sharer,” and sat up on the bed. She’d darkened her room to keep out the afternoon’s mounting heat. Her bedside lamp cast a mere puddle of light around her pillow.
“It’s like a cave in here.” Her mother flicked on the bare overhead bulb.
Barbara flinched at the brightness and blinked at her mother. “Help us how?”
“With money to get me to Honolulu. So I can do research at Bishop Museum and start the book.”
Honolulu. The very place they’d discovered the majestic Vigilant. The beginning of that momentous month communing with Ethan on the sparkling Pacific. Perhaps the Vigilant would sail to Honolulu sometime soon. “When do we leave?”
“Oh, you’re staying here.” Her mother smiled in that cocksure way of hers. “Dr. Schultz says he can get you enrolled in Pasadena Junior College. It’s not the best college, but it’ll pave your way to a respectable university.”
Barbara took in a quick breath. College. Yes, she did want to go, but not now. What she most wanted was to be with Ethan. A rendezvous would be much more likely in Honolulu than Pasadena. “I’d rather go with you.”
Her mother strode to the bed, plunked down on it, and patted Barbara’s knee. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this for you.”
“I could start college in Honolulu,” she said. “Or here when we come back.”
“There’s not enough money for both of us to go.” Her mother flapped a hand at her. “And I need to concentrate on the book.”
It was just like her mother, springing one of her made-carefully-as-a-match-house plans on her like this. “You’re leaving me here by myself?”
“Of course not.” Her mother exhaled a noisy breath. “Dr. and Mrs. Schultz said they’ll take you in. The college is within walking distance of their house.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Four months. Or longer if I can get a position at Bishop Museum.”
“If you take me to Honolulu, I’ll help with the book.”
“It’s out of the question. Mrs. Brown will only fund travel for one.”
So, her mother had made up her mind. She shook off her disappointment: The prospect of being on her own did intrigue. Her mother would be far away. She’d be free of her domineering reach. “But I’ll need some money. You can’t leave me penniless.”
“You’ll have an allowance. But Mrs. Brown will only allot one two-month payment at a time. You’ll need to make it last.”
Egad, on her own for the first time! Such things she could do: come and go as she pleased; get a roaring start on her new novel, and invite Ethan to visit. They could hike California’s lofty foothills, roam its picturesque seashore, and talk for hours—without her mother watching her every move.
✭
Her first classroom ever. The first teacher, other than her mother. Her first day of college. Sure, she was nervous, but she’d write Ethan about it. That way, she could imagine he was right beside her the whole time.
Her mother had explained she’d be more advanced than her fellow students, so she mustn’t let them hold her back. She should push herself to master her lessons and then take matters in hand and learn even more than was required. This, her mother said, would be the start of her brilliant university career.
Barbara stood near a sprawling one-story building studying a map of campus. Ah, there it was, the Collegiate Classroom Building. Glancing at her schedule, she noted the room number for her English 36 class and set off on the sidewalk, bisecting a treeless lawn.
A few minutes before ten o’clock, she strode into a room with a clunky oak desk at the head of the class, a blackboard covering the width of the stark room, and slanting wooden desks arranged in strict rows, about forty of them. The teacher—at least she presumed he was the teacher, for he stood in front chatting with a girl in the first row—wore neatly creased blue pants, a white cotton shirt, and a blue tie with wide grey stripes. But no suit jacket. She wondered why a teacher, even one as young as this one, would dress so casually.
Many of the students bent toward each other, nodding and chatting. She spotted an empty seat next to a girl who sat primly poised over her desk.
Barbara headed down the aisle toward her. “Hi, I’m Barbara.”
The skinny brunette looked up at her with the hint of a smile. “Hello, I’m Rachel.”
Barbara slid into her seat. “This is my first class here. What about you?”
“I’m a freshman, too. I was in beginning algebra last hour.”
“I signed up for advanced algebra,” Barbara said. “But math’s not my favorite subject.”
“Good morning, class,” the instructor boomed, slapping a pile of papers on the desks of each person in the front row. “I’m handing out the syllabus. We’ll start by reviewing it.”
After Barbara’s brisk walk to campus, light perspiration beaded her brow. She faced the windows on the west side of the room. A lethargic current pushed through them; she could almost smell the grass withering under the day’s unbending heat. The girl in front of her handed her the stack of syllabi. She grabbed one and passed the others back, smiling at the pimple-faced boy behind her.
“Everybody got one?” The teacher scanned the back row and pointed at a gawky fellow. “You, there, hand the extras to your left. Now, so I don’t have to refer to you as ‘you, there,’ I’m handing out a seating chart. Put your name on your seat. You’ll keep that seat throughout the class. And, by the way, I’m Mr. Clemson.”
Barbara looked around at her classmates, who listened attentively to the teacher. Most of them were young men, but they seemed scrawny and downright boyish compared to Ethan and his shipmates. And the girls, if Rachel was any indication, were as docile as daisies.
“As you can see,” said the instructor, pacing the front of the class, “we’ll start today with a lecture on how to read for meaning. Then every class, we’ll take up a different short story. You’ll want to stay current with the assignments to appreciate the lecture content. I’ll expect three essays from you—the dates are on the schedule—and there’ll be essay tests at midpoint and end of class. Are there any questions before we get started?”
Barbara spoke up. “May we choose the subject of our essays, and will we read any novels?”
Clemson
swung around to face her. “No, I’ll assign the essay topics. And we’ll study only short stories in this class. And your name, Miss?”
“Barbara Follett.”
“Yes, Miss Follett, please raise your hand when you wish to speak. It helps give everybody a turn.”
“Yes, sir.”
A few students in front of her turned around to look at her. She scanned their vacant gazes and shrugged, thinking, raising one’s hand is a rather silly rule, but I guess I’ll play along.
“Any other questions, class?”
Only a shuffling of feet could be heard.
“Well, then, on to ‘How to read a short story.’”
Barbara opened her notebook and rolled her pen between her fingers.
“The first thing you want to do is examine the title,” he said. “Ask yourself what the story might be about, then keep this in mind as you read. Short stories are little gems of literature, and authors must think carefully about their titles. About every word they use, in fact. You can rest assured the title was carefully chosen to suggest some meaning or make a particular statement.”
Most certainly, Barbara mused. Hadn’t she chosen titles for all her stories and books? Turned the possibilities over in her mind? Discussed the options with her father?
“Next, read it through in one sitting, just to enjoy it. Absorb the story, immerse yourself in it. If any thoughts come to you about how the title might relate to what you’re reading, jot them down and forge on, but don’t worry if nothing comes right away. You’ll first want to experience the story.”
Barbara made a few notes on the page she’d labeled “English 36, September 10”: 1. Notice the title and consider its possible levels of meaning. 2. Immerse in the story, maybe even producing alternate titles along the way.
For the next forty minutes, he lectured. He explained how to dissect a plot—by examining the story's action, finding the turning point or crucial moment, and considering how the action resolves. He urged the class to note the characters and their relationships with each other. How does the author use time and place? Do any words or images recur? What might they mean? He wrote a list of terms on the blackboard—character, conflict, imagery, metaphor, structure, theme, tone—and provided definitions, explaining he’d come back to these terms often and everyone should employ them in their essays. He circled back to the importance of the title and discussed it in relation to the concept of theme. Now and then, he paused for questions.
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