Barbara kept up her application routine on Tuesday and Wednesday. She’d yet to receive a single reply and decided to economize by eating only inexpensive food from markets.
A letter arrived from Ethan Wednesday. He congratulated her on her move and wished he could join her, but the Vigilant was soon setting sail. In fact, by the time she received his letter, he’d be en route to Vancouver, Canada. He told her how to write him there and ended sweetly with, “Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but knowing you are near only makes the absence harder to bear, for I wish more than words can say that I could be with you.”
On Thursday, she deviated from her routine. She visited each of the offices she’d applied to, following up on her applications. Dodge Publishing said they’d intended to call her that day and invite her for an interview and typing test. Could she return the next morning at ten? Most certainly, she said.
That evening, feeling quite certain a job was in the offing, she treated herself to a colorful crab salad at Tadich Grill. She sat at the counter beside a dapper, gray-haired gentleman. He was a bank teller at Wells Fargo. She told him she was looking for work as a stenographer at a publishing house or newspaper, and he advised her to broaden her search and apply at banks, too. She thanked him for the advice, but she couldn’t imagine anything duller than fussing over numbers and money all day long. She required the richness of words—precise words and obscure words and words that married like tongues and grooves.
Back in her room, Barbara surveyed the scene from her window. She loved her sixth-floor view of O’Farrell, and she’d made it a nightly ritual to watch the city lights flick on as dusk washed over the buildings and hills. While she took in the view, a police car drove up to the hotel’s entrance. No, she thought, I don’t warrant the police’s attention. Still, anxiety pricked at her as two policemen exited the car, exchanged words with the doorman, and barged into the hotel. Was it possible they were coming for her? No, it seemed unlikely. Still, she grabbed her suitcase from the closet, scooped her clothes out of the dresser drawers, and threw them in the suitcase. She lifted her typewriter off the desk and dropped it in its case. If they were after her, she’d best not waste time gathering her bathroom things or checking the other drawers. She flung her window open and eased her suitcase and typewriter onto the fire escape.
This is all quite silly, she thought: No one knows I’m at this hotel, not even Ethan. Nevertheless, she walked to the door and pressed her ear against it. The elevator dinged. Heavy footsteps beat down the hall. She dashed to the window and scooted out onto the fire escape.
“Miss Follett?” A man’s voice called at her door. Hard rapping sounded. “Barbara Follett?”
Grabbing her belongings, she bolted down the fire escape. As she reached the third-floor level, she heard a voice above. “She’s on the outside stairs.”
Hang it all; they’d spotted her. She sped up, but her unwieldy load kept her from breaking into a run. Down she fled, onto the street. She headed for the nearest corner. If only she could round it before they made their way down. Perhaps she could duck into an alley or hail a taxi. But to go where? Ah, to the National Woman’s Party office; surely, they’d shelter her. She made it to the corner and veered around it. No cabs in sight. She hastened ahead, carried, despite the weight of her suitcase and typewriter, by the adrenaline coursing through her.
“Wait,” a man’s voice yelled.
She stopped and jerked around.
A policeman ran up to her. “Are you Barbara Follett?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
BARBARA AT FIFTEEN
San Francisco to Los Angeles, September 1929
The police packed her off to the North Precinct station and deposited her in a chilly room that smelled like chalky plaster and sweaty clothes. She sat there fuming for a full hour before an officer escorted her to a cement-walled office.
A spindly woman in a baggy blue dress invited her to take a seat at a narrow metal table. “Hello, Barbara, I’m Miss Culhaney. I’ll see you safely home to Los Angeles.”
Barbara crossed her arms and looked down on Miss Culhaney, who sat with one leg twisted around the other, like a vine clenching a pole.
Barbara said, “Los Angeles is not my home.”
“I know you’re from Connecticut, dear, but you’re under California jurisdiction here.” Miss Culhaney lifted a pitcher over a glass. “Would you like some water?”
Barbara ignored the overture. My God, she thought, you’re offering water when it’s freedom I need? Not that you or anybody here would comprehend, much less respect that.
After insisting she sit, Miss Culhaney assailed her with questions: Had she any identification; did her parents know her whereabouts; had she ever run away before; how did she get to San Francisco; who was this Ethan Anderson who’d written her? Barbara dispensed only the curtest of answers. What gave this interloper the right to pry into her private affairs?
Once Miss Culhaney finished her snooping, the police drove Barbara to the city’s Youth Home. She was locked in a dreary room with chipped-up cement walls and bars on the window. Good God, Barbara thought, they’re treating me like a common criminal. I’d be better off if I’d robbed Wells Fargo and made a sure get-away.
The next morning, she was ordered to pack all her belongings, including the items the police had retrieved from her hotel room, which they’d obviously rifled through. During the train ride to Los Angeles, Miss Culhaney kept an eye on her every move—even visits to the washroom.
They arrived at the Los Angeles station a little after ten that night. Miss Culhaney procured a taxi to take them to the Girls Detention Home, and a female attendant put her in a raunchy room with a narrow cot, toilet, and stained sink. The whole train trip, she’d refused to say much more to Miss Culhaney than “Yes, I’m hungry” or “No, I don’t want to stroll the compartments,” nor did she intend to pour out her heart to anybody in this dungeon.
A bell buzzed at 6:15 a.m., and a cheery—for what godforsaken reason Barbara couldn’t imagine—Mrs. Morrison unlocked her room and told her that breakfast was at seven and she could shower in the shared bathroom if she wished. Barbara was in no mood to meet her prison mates, so she stayed in bed for a half-hour, then dressed and joined four sulky girls over a breakfast of oranges and lumpy oatmeal. Afterward, as Barbara had anticipated, Matron Morrison escorted her to an office for the interrogation.
A slump-shouldered Mr. Luke introduced himself, tucked his purple tie inside his suit jacket, and leaned across his desk toward her. The jerky way he moved his head and arms put her in mind of a puppet.
“Barbara, I’ve spent some time talking to Dr. Schultz. It’s fair to say he’s upset and puzzled by your conduct.”
Ah, just as Barbara suspected, Dr. Schultz had set the police after her. “He needn’t be. I left him a note.”
“I’ve also telephoned your father to let him know you’re in custody. Dr. Schultz is attempting to get word to your mother in Honolulu.”
“My parents know I’m capable of taking care of myself. What Dr. Schultz thinks is immaterial.”
“I’m afraid it’s not, Barbara. You’re a minor, and you were under his care. You cannot go off on your own.”
“That has been made abundantly clear.”
“You intended to find work?”
“Isn’t that what people do to support themselves?”
“Yes, but you’re not of working age.”
Barbara sat up straight and clenched her hands over her knees. “I learned to type when I was four. I’ve published two books and sailed halfway around the world. I’ve lived my whole life among highly accomplished and cultured people. Your silly laws make no provision for that, do they?”
“I’m sorry. They don’t.”
“Nor, I’m quite certain, will you make an exception.”
Luke pursed his lips and sighed. “Your guardian, Dr. Schultz, is willing to take you back if you agree not to run off again. Will you agree to that?”
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Barbara slumped in her chair. “I refuse to go back there.”
Poor put-upon Mr. Luke rubbed his brow. “Were they unkind to you?”
She turned away from him and stared at the anemic-yellow walls. Such indignity and humiliation. God, she hated this pawned-off life of hers. And the parents who’d done the pawning.
“Barbara, if there was a problem at the Schultzes, I don’t want you going back there either. But you must tell me.”
“No, they were not unkind.”
Luke planted his forearms on the table. “May I ask why you ran off?”
“I did not ‘run off.’ I simply decided to live another kind of life.”
“Why San Francisco?”
“I loathe Los Angeles.”
“There’s not much I can do about that, Barbara.”
She fastened her gaze on his sad-dog eyes. “I’m not asking you to do anything at all.”
“You’re my responsibility, Barbara, until we can make arrangements for you to stay with a responsible party. Do you understand that?”
Honestly, she thought, if he says my name in that unctuous way one more time, I’ll scream. “I take issue with that, Mr. Luke. I really do, Mr. Luke.”
“I’m sorry, but that is the simple reality. I’m prepared to do whatever I can to resolve this matter to your and your parents’ satisfaction.”
“What did my father say?”
“I think it’s best if you hear it from him. He wants to speak with you.”
“Oh my, after not writing to me for ages, he wants to talk to me. Congratulations on accomplishing what I couldn’t.”
“I know your parents are separated, and I understand that’s painful, but I’m sure he cares about you.”
Barbara saw no reason to carry on about family matters with a meddling stranger. She crossed her arms, dropped her head, and stared at him out of the tops of her eyes.
“I’ve arranged a telephone appointment with your father today. You can take the call in a private room.”
“How generous of you,” Barbara said.
“Is there anything you’d like to talk to me about before your call, Barbara?”
“No, Mr. Luke, there isn’t.”
✭
At 2:50 p.m. Mrs. Morrison led her to a bland box of a room with a pocked-wood table, clunky office chair, and black telephone.
Well, well, now Daddy wants to talk to me. Like it’s any old day. Like he assumes I’d love nothing more than a chat with my dear old daddy.
Barbara studied the white-faced industrial clock on the wall; its ticks reverberated like a dripping faucet. As the hour turned to three, the minute hand clicked straight up. Her heart thumped.
When the telephone rang, Barbara watched it rattle in its cradle three times, picked it up, and slowly drew it to her ear. “Hello.”
She heard the operator say, “Connecting you to your party,” and then a click.
“Hello? Barbara?”
“Yes, hello.” How long had it been since she’d heard his voice? Gosh, almost a year and a half.
“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry after all this time that we’re speaking under these circumstances.”
“It does make me wonder why you’re even bothering.”
“You sound different. Older. God, I’ve missed you.”
She clucked at the dryness of her mouth. “I am fifteen. Before long, I’ll be sixteen.”
“I’m sorry it’s been so long. But you weren’t exactly easy to get in touch with.”
The hair on her arms bristled. “I wasn’t easy to get in touch with? You could’ve called any time last summer. And you hardly ever wrote while I was away.”
“I don’t expect you to understand, and I’m not asking you to. But I hope you can believe I care very much about you and what’s happening with you.”
“You have a highly unorthodox way of showing it.”
“Let’s leave that aside for now. How are you?”
Barbara closed her eyes. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t even want to talk to her father. She snapped her eyes open. “You’ll have to excuse me if I find it difficult to ignore your actions, or lack thereof.”
“What were you doing in San Francisco?”
“Egad. Everybody wants to know what I did in San Francisco. Did you imagine I’d joined the circus? Or landed in an opium den?”
“Frankly, I’m concerned you were planning to run off with that sailor friend of yours.”
“You mean Ethan? You could call him by his name.”
“What in the world are you doing with a sailor?”
“What in the world are you doing with a twenty-year-old?”
“I’ll ask you not to be disrespectful, Barbara. Margaret is a wonderful person. I know you’re very angry about all this, but you mustn’t take it out on her.”
Barbara swiped her tongue over her dry lips. “Yes, of course, you’re the one I should take it out on.”
“Look, I’d like to have a reasonable conversation with you. I’d like to know how you’re doing and what’s going on in your life.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Were you going to run away with this, Ethan?”
“Don’t you think that’s a rather personal question given the distance between us?”
“No, I’m still your father. I know you love sailing, but the worst thing you could do is get swept away by a banal sailor who doesn’t understand the first thing about your potential.”
“I would say he understands me very well. And he’s not banal. He has a big heart and appreciates the poetic side of life. He’s quite learned and, I might add, highly dependable.”
Barbara could hear her father dragging on a cigarette and expelling a deep draft.
“Barbara, you’re young. Be reasonable. You must use your head, not just your heart, in these matters.”
“Did you use your head when you abandoned Mother, me, and Sabra? How can you possibly tell me to use my head after what you’ve done? When Mother’s been worrying all this time about how to pay for food and housing?”
“And where’s your mother now? Now that you need her?”
Barbara shook her head, trying to clear her outrage. “At least she’s given me money to live on.”
“Look, we have to talk about what you’re to do now.”
“Now you care about what I’m to do?”
“Yes, in fact, I do. Surely you don’t want to stay in detention indefinitely. And have your name smeared all over the papers. Do you know you were in the Times yesterday? ‘Girl novelist in custody in San Francisco.’”
“Maybe you should order them to release me so I can get on with my life. Privately.”
“You’re a minor. Some arrangement needs to be made.”
“After you told me all my life I could do whatever I wanted, now you decide to treat me like a child? That’s rather ludicrous, don’t you think?”
“I’m coming out there. So I can see you and get this situation under control. And make some decision about where you’re to live.”
“I’ll make my own decisions, thank you very much.” She slammed the receiver onto its cradle.
CHAPTER THIRTY
BARBARA AT FIFTEEN
Pasadena, October 1929
October 16, 1929
Dear Shipmate,
This confinement grates to the bone. There I was, with freedom in my reach, and the police descended on me as if I were some murdering menace. Now my flighty (and dare I say, hypocritical) parents insist I need a guardian to watch over me. Since I refuse to live under the Schultz regime, I’ve been committed to the Russells’ care. I rely on you to hold a steady course for us. Please assure me I can soon claim my freedom and set out on the sea of my dreams. Meantime, like a hearty sailor, I shall buck up and brave the headwinds.
My father is now on a train hurtling across the country, and Mother, too, will soon return. For a string of weeks, I was utterly parentless, and now I must endure both
of them swooping down on me at once. I didn’t invite my father. And I would certainly prefer Helen not abandon her Honolulu mission. But my father says he wants to take up where Mother left off and show me he is and always has been a loving parent to me. (It should be great sport watching him manage that!) And once Helen heard of his plan, she insisted on returning to protect me from his “unsavory influence and rash interference.” Imagine both parents arguing over me when all I want is to be done with them and venture out on my own. Fie on this fickle universe.
I’ve learned Alice’s age. She’s forty-eight, twelve years older than Mother. She’s a great friend to me—more understanding than a mother and as sympathetic as an aunt. Have I told you she’s published some lovely little stories? That’s how our families became acquainted, though I won’t credit a certain parent who supposedly steered her career forward. (That parent has done nothing to advance mine lately, but then I wouldn’t ask this of someone I have no respect for.)
The most meaningful part of my hidebound life is editing Alice’s stories. It’s flattering, being entrusted with the work of an older writer. But each time I take it up, I scold myself for my own stalled work.
You see, my new novel is a whirling nebula of the mind, a sprawling thing waiting to find form. It’ll be, like The House Without Windows, an adventure of the highest order and, like The Voyage of the Norman D, a seafaring exploit. But it’ll also be altogether new, for I refuse to write the same book over and over. (That precious lick of wisdom comes compliments of the shamed and unnamed one, who is supposedly working on his magnum opus. I find I have the most cutting desire to show him up as a writer—without the tiniest bit of assistance from him. It doesn’t matter if he approves of the topic. I no longer require his praise.)
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