Barbara actually enjoyed taking it all in and mulling over inventive ways to apply the concepts to her writing. A few questions did occur to her, but she thought she ought to give her classmates a chance to raise their hands, although none did. Instead, she wrote down her questions, thinking she’d discuss them out of class with Mr. Clemson or research them on her own. The library likely had racks of books on literary criticism, and she’d no doubt find many she hadn’t yet read.
“For Thursday’s class, please read Chekhov’s ‘Gooseberries.’ Dismissed for today.”
Barbara hadn’t read that Chekhov story, which she considered fortuitous. She could apply the instructor’s particular way of looking at a story and see what it yielded.
The other students rose and streamed into the hall. Barbara gathered up her notebook and reader and ambled to the front of the classroom.
“Mr. Clemson,” she said.
He stood over his desk, gathering his notes. “Yes, Miss Follett.”
“I want to apologize for not raising my hand. My mother schooled me at home, so all this is new to me.”
“Think nothing of it. I hope you’ll enjoy the class.” He bent down, picked up his briefcase, and plopped it on the desk.
“I’m already enjoying it. You see, I’m a writer myself, and I simply love to read and talk about literature.”
He stiffened and slowly turned to her. “Barbara Follett. You’re that Barbara Follett?”
Barbara couldn’t stifle her smile. “If you mean the author of The House Without Windows and The Voyage of the Norman D, yes, I am she.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Follett.” He offered his hand, and she shook it. “And it will be a pleasure having you in class.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now, I’m sorry, but I must dash to my next class. If you’ll excuse me.”
He grabbed his briefcase and rushed off. Barbara would have liked to walk with him, but maybe it would be better to wait and talk to him before their next class, when he wasn’t rushed.
✭
On the third day of college, as Barbara explored her new neighborhood, she lost track of time. She arrived at her English class just as everyone was settling in and slid into her seat next to Rachel. She turned to say hello to her, but Rachel swiveled toward the student on her other side and muttered a few words that Barbara couldn’t discern.
“Good morning, class,” the teacher said. “We’re discussing ‘Gooseberries’ today. On page 95.”
Everyone opened their readers and shuffled to attention. Barbara imitated their studious demeanor and sat up straight, fixing her gaze on Clemson.
“Tell me, what did you make of the title? I mean, before you read the story.”
Barbara raised her hand.
“Yes, Miss Follett.”
“I thought of nature and its bounty. Of someone gathering berries, possibly to share. Then I considered more far-fetched possibilities, such as a child getting lost and subsisting on the berries. Also, I thought of the qualities of gooseberries, which are typically sweet, but sometimes tart. Of course, once I read the story, I saw it all quite differently. I believe . . .”
Clemson flashed his palm at her. “Hold it there, please. Let’s go through this systematically. Someone else, your initial thoughts.”
Everyone sat quite still, many of them studying their opened readers as if trying to make themselves invisible.
Clemson glanced at a paper, apparently his seating chart, then looked down the first row and said, “Mr. Greenberg. What did you think about the title?”
The boy three seats over hunched a shoulder. “Uh, well, I . . . It seemed an odd title for a story. The name of a berry. I couldn’t imagine why a berry could be important.”
“That’s fine,” said Clemson, though Barbara couldn’t imagine why. He turned to another student. “Miss Davidson. Your thoughts?”
“Berries are small and sweet,” Miss Davidson said, reading from her notes. Looking up at Clemson, she added, “It made me think of what you said about short stories being little gems.”
“Very good. Remember, the idea is to simply reflect on the title and allow yourself to explore the possibilities. Don’t censor your ideas. Remind yourself it’s only an exercise in considering potential meanings. We’ll go into this a bit more with our next story, so do keep it in mind.”
Barbara bit her bottom lip and studied the notes she’d taken on “Gooseberries.” Maybe the other students hadn’t read much literature, and Clemson was trying to ease them into it.
“Next, let’s talk about what’s happening in this story. What do you have to say about action, the crucial moment, and resolution?”
Barbara raised her hand. Clemson turned to the side as if to pretend he hadn’t seen her, but she knew he had. He studied his seating chart and called on Mr. Phelps, who said there wasn’t much happening, really, just a storm, people bathing, someone telling a story, and then everyone going to bed.
Clemson called on a few other students, but he didn’t get much more out of them. He said, “This is a story within a story, isn’t it, class?”
Everyone nodded.
“Let’s talk about the story Ivan tells.” He scanned his chart, even though Barbara had raised her hand. “Mr. Patterson, will you summarize Ivan’s story for us?”
And so it went the rest of the class. Barbara quit raising her hand. Why grovel for a chance to deepen the discussion when Clemson showed no interest in doing that very thing? Instead, she let him do the groveling, which he did—by trying varied strategies to draw out the other students, who distinctly disdained being drawn out.
Finally, he gave a little lecture on the story, concluding with, “There are many interpretations of this story. Some say Chekhov intended it as a comment on Dostoevsky’s focus on the extremes of humanity, but I believe the interpretation most relevant to us bears on the meaning of happiness and how each person must decide this for himself. Does that make sense, class?”
Disgust welled up in Barbara as she watched her classmates nod. They acted like a bunch of scolded children agreeing to behave better. What a shallow drill this whole class period had been.
Barbara made no attempt to talk to Clemson after class. Why give him another chance to ignore her? He wasn’t the sort of teacher she could admire, anyway.
There was one other student who had impressed her, though, the long-faced Mr. Paddock. He’d spoken intelligently on the concept of metaphor. She waited until he gathered his books and then followed him out into the hall. He joined a small circle of students. As she approached, a young woman in the circle glanced at her, abruptly turned toward the door, and said, “Let’s go to the commons.”
The group trailed off. They’d snubbed her. Why would they do that? She’d hoped to discuss the story with Mr. Paddock, just as she and her father used to do. Well, she’d talk with Ethan about it. She could count on him.
She had two hours until her afternoon class, Introduction to American Government, which bored her to distraction. She’d only signed up because her mother insisted on it: “This topic has gotten short shrift from me. You really ought to know something about politics and civic matters.”
As Barbara trudged across the bald expanse of the campus, a sluggish dread settled on her. She just couldn’t get excited about the branches of government, Hoover and Smith’s battle for the presidency, or the constitutionality of the 1929 Reapportionment Act. Nor was she likely to learn much from Clemson or the library’s scant collection of literary criticism. And advanced algebra turned her brain obsidian.
She spent the next two hours at the library absently scanning the fiction shelves, sitting at the window watching small groups of students wander past, and reading the next short story assignment, “Kew Gardens,” which only depressed her all the more.
There wasn’t a single thing going well for her. Her father had turned into a ludicrous farce of a man. She missed Ethan terribly. College was proving altogether noxi
ous to her spirit. Her mother had run off on her private adventure. And Dr. Schultz ruled his household like a general: breakfast at seven sharp; dinner at six, with everyone reporting on their day (and not leaving a morsel on their plate); the radio news broadcast and reading time until nine; then children (including her!) off to bed. Nothing about it suited Barbara. It suffocated her, for she intended to live the free, unfettered life of an explorer and writer. That was her particular happiness.
No, this wasn’t working. And Ethan was so far away. She must escape this dry-gulch existence and its stifling rules. Instead of going to her government class, she found her way to the train station and bought a ticket for the 5:40 a.m. train to San Francisco.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
BARBARA AT FIFTEEN
Pasadena to San Francisco, September 1929
Buzzing with excitement, Barbara dashed off a letter to Ethan: College had proved disappointing and Los Angeles nothing short of poisonous. Striking out on her own was the perfect antidote. San Francisco wasn’t terribly far from Hoquiam. Could he hop on the train and visit her there? She’d be seeking a job at a newspaper or publishing house. Since that could take a while, she’d be completely free for a spell. Even once she started working, she’d have some time to herself, and it’d be heaven to celebrate her newfound independence with her secret sharer. Would he please respond via general delivery in San Francisco as soon as possible?
She packed and tiptoed out of the Schultz home at four in the morning, leaving a note on her dresser.
September 13, 1929
Dear Mrs. and Dr. Schultz,
Thank you for the great kindness of allowing me to stay with you and your family.
Unfortunately, college and I are not suited to each other. I’m off to find work and live on my own. You needn’t worry. I’m quite capable of managing by myself, and I shall write Mother very soon.
With appreciation,
Barbara
They wouldn’t discover the note for a good two hours, which would give her plenty of time to slip away unnoticed. She wound her way along the dark streets of Pasadena, giddy with anticipation. Ah, sweet deliverance—finally, she was free, truly her own person. The train departed on schedule, and, once safely on her way, she dropped off into a contented snooze. It was a long trip, and she finished off her apple and cheese sandwich well before noon. All afternoon she resisted the urge to spend her money in the diner, but two hours out of San Francisco, hunger got the better of her.
She headed for the train’s dining car, and there she spotted three happy-go-lucky women with Irene Castle hairdos. One wore a trim, silky skirt, another a smartly tailored tweed outfit, and the third a drop-waist dress. Barbara felt distinctly out of fashion in her floral cotton dress, but she couldn’t resist the cheery threesome.
Their conversation lulled as she stopped beside their table and asked, “May I join you?”
The woman in the silky skirt, whose makeup showed off sparkly hazel eyes, patted the seat beside her. “Why, certainly, dear.”
“I’m Katherine,” Barbara said, scooting onto the seat. She’d decided to travel incognito as Katherine Andrews, just in case somebody tried to track her down.
The women all introduced themselves. The pretty one seated beside her was Gladys; Dolores, the bouncy one in the drop-waist dress, sat across from her; and Phyllis, willowy and downright distinguished in her tweed suit, took up the seat kitty-corner. They’d been visiting a friend in San Jose and were returning to San Francisco.
Phyllis tilted her head in a show of concern. “Where are you from, Katherine?”
Barbara knew her accent gave her away as an Easterner, but she thought it best to avoid any such mention. “Most recently, San Diego. I’m on my way to San Francisco to find work.”
Gladys planted her fingers on her jaw. “Are you on your own?”
“Yes, but that’s nothing for me. I love an adventure.”
“But you can’t be older than sixteen,” said Gladys.
“Fifteen. And a half, to be exact.”
Phyllis asked, “And what do your parents think of this adventure?”
“Oh, they expect nothing less than pluck and self-reliance from me.”
They all chuckled, and Dolores flapped a hand at her. “You’re a brave one, aren’t you?”
Barbara pushed her bottom lip out, considering this remark. “It only qualifies as bravery if there’s something to be afraid of, and, well, I’m not in the least apprehensive. Only excited.”
Phyllis held up a finger and bounced it. “Believe me, Katherine, it is brave for someone as young as you—and a female to boot—to take on a big city.”
“I’m going to find work as a stenographer and hunt down an apartment.”
“That could be a problem,” said Phyllis. “By state law, you can’t work until you’re sixteen. Besides, your education should come first.”
“Well, I’m eligible for college. And since my age doesn’t reflect that, I suppose I’ll have to take an age that does.”
Dolores chuckled. “Like I always say, don’t let trivialities trip you up.”
The waiter came and took their order. Barbara selected the least expensive item on the menu, a ham sandwich.
Phyllis asked her, “What exactly is your plan?”
“First, I’ll find a respectable but modestly priced hotel. Can you recommend a place?”
That set the threesome off on a chirpy discussion of the blemishes and benefits of various San Francisco hotels. Barbara sat back and took it all in. She enjoyed these women—they were so amiable and breezy, so chummy and helpful, altogether modern and corking. They warned her work might be hard to find for someone without much experience. But Barbara assured them she was an excellent typist and a regular crackerjack at vocabulary and grammar. Well, Gladys said, with the stock market roaring away, you might as well join the confidence craze. And what, Barbara inquired, did they do?
At that, they all laughed.
“Do you ask?” Dolores giggled. “As little as possible, other than attend parties. Except for Phyllis here.”
Phyllis tsked and rolled her eyes. “Those two are flappers by vocation. But me, I work for the National Woman’s Party.”
“What does the Woman’s Party do?” asked Barbara.
“For one thing, we helped secure women’s suffrage, so you can vote when you’re of age. And if we manage to get the Equal Rights Amendment ratified, you won’t have to face discrimination in employment.” Phyllis gave her head a saucy toss. “Just a few little matters like that.”
“But I believe that females can do anything they put their minds to,” said Barbara.
Gladys glanced sidelong at Dolores.
“Watch out, Katherine,” said Dolores. “You’re about to get the lecture.”
“We most certainly can,” said Phyllis. “Only sometimes we’re not allowed to. You see, men make all the rules, and they like to keep it that way.”
“You mean about divorce and such?”
“Exactly, my dear,” Phyllis said. “They much prefer we remain under their thumb.”
Barbara nodded, mulling this over. Her mother had complained the house was in her father’s name, and it’d be an uphill battle wresting it from him. But wasn’t it a woman who had overpowered him—so much so that he’d abandoned the daughter he loved? Hadn’t her father told her she could be whatever she wanted to be, laws be damned? Why, she’d climbed mountains and published books and traveled the world. And now she was off to seek work. But her mother had also claimed that women were up against unjust laws and obstacles. “Do you believe men’s laws hinder females?”
“Precisely,” said Phyllis, relaxing against her seat.
Gladys raised her eyebrows and tucked her chin. “You got off easier than we usually do!”
That sent them all into giggles, after which the conversation turned to advice about applying for work, understanding the lay of the city, and learning the trolley and key system.
✭
Barbara took a modest room at the Spaulding, a compact brick hotel on O’Farrell near Union Square. By the time she got the bearings of her neighborhood, purchased two newspapers and a map, and savored a bowl of chowder with a hunk of butter-slathered bread, the city had turned twinkly with lights. Friday night, she thought, bracing her hands on the window ledge in her room and contemplating the rolling city. Such sweetness—freedom and anonymity. And nothing to do all Saturday and Sunday but explore the harbor, hike up and down the hilly streets, and peruse employment advertisements.
By Monday morning, Barbara had typed application letters for five office positions. Not wanting to waste the days it would take for letters to shuffle back and forth, she mapped out the route to the offices and delivered her applications in person. At each place, she made a point of handing her letter to someone who knew about the advertised post, explaining she’d be glad to take a typing test on the spot if they wished. But all declined, saying they’d be in touch with her. She wrote out the telephone number of her hotel for them and said she was eager to start work and prove herself a dedicated employee. She explained that, at seventeen, she didn’t have much formal work experience. But she’d been typing since she was a young child and had done a good deal of writing and transcription work. If they gave her a chance, she assured them, they’d realize her value in short order.
She grabbed Monday morning editions of two more newspapers from her hotel lobby and headed to her room to review the job ads. But the thought of her mother, whose ship would land in Honolulu in a matter of days, nagged at her. More likely than not, Dr. Schultz had panicked and sounded the alarm. A telegram would be the speediest way to reassure everyone that all was well. Certainly, it would be better for her mother to learn of her situation from her—and not Dr. Schultz. She inquired at the hotel desk about the whereabouts of a Western Union office and sent a dispatch to her friend Alice Russell: INFORM MOTHER AND DR. SHULTZ TRAVELING TO WORK IN OREGON STOP DOING FINE. Since they’d see that the telegram came from San Francisco, she thought it advisable to throw them off the trail by claiming she was Oregon bound.
The Point of Vanishing Page 15