My book will be the grandest adventure I can imagine, with a mighty sea storm, a shipwreck that only two survive—might they bear some resemblance to thou and thine? —and a tropical island full of nature’s bounty. Contemplating the glossy chrysalis of it leaves me aglow with dreamy anticipation.
Have you ever experienced the kind of storm that might bludgeon a sturdy galleon into submission? I have seen three big blows, but never were my two goliath steamers or trusty schooner at any risk of sinking—though I dared the seas to try these ships. For wouldn’t it be terrifically thrilling to battle a brutal squall and set off in a lifeboat with only salvaged food and water? To sail the unbroken, sun-soaked sea and catch flying fish bare-handed? To drift at night under a blanket of stars? And then, just when thirst and hunger threaten to overcome, to glimpse an island on the horizon? An uninhabited isle with a thick forest at its heart, fruit-bearing trees and sandy beaches ringing it, and colorful fish darting about its reef-laden waters.
There, I’ve given away my vision of Lost Island. Doesn’t it strike you as a wonderfully exotic tale? And I’m uniquely prepared to write this adventure, with a girl at its heart, for I want to show that such grand perils are not only for males. I have all my knowledge of ships and tropical islands and the plants and fruits found in those places. But don’t ask how it will end. That remains to be discovered.
I close until another day and look forward to your next fortifying letter.
Your struggling but sturdy mate,
Barbara
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
BARBARA AT FIFTEEN
Pasadena, November 1929
Barbara doubted her private reunion with her mother would be as civil as the public one. No, she was likely in for a seismic chastening.
At the Port of Los Angeles, there’d been warm welcome-home greetings and hugs all around. During the drive to the Russells’ home, her mother told them—her, Alice, and Alice’s husband—about her “too short stay” in Honolulu. She’d rented a bungalow near Bishop Museum, an airy place with a lovely view of the island’s moss-green mountains. And she’d researched Pacific island cultures at the museum, the most essential thing she could do there. But, sadly, she’d not had time to compose a single sentence of the book.
The affability continued over a dinner of fried chicken and coleslaw. But Barbara sensed from her mother’s stern, fleeting glances that the forced comity would soon crumble. After dinner, her mother insisted Barbara accompany her on a “walk around the neighborhood on this temperate evening.” She apparently didn’t trust herself to hold their discussion inside the walls of the Russells’ home.
Her mother kept mum until they’d put a half-block between them and the house. “I hardly know where to start, Barbara.”
“I had no intention of interrupting your trip. I honestly didn’t.” Twilight had tipped to chilly darkness, and Barbara shivered from the cold. She could only hope her mother would keep the chiding short.
“What in the world were you thinking—taking to the rails like a hard-luck hobo? Worrying the Russells to distraction?”
“I only intended to find work and live on my own. You know I’m perfectly capable.”
“My God, the Schultzes must’ve thought I’d foisted an errant delinquent on them.”
“Dr. Schultz started all the fuss. I told him I could take care of myself, and I did get a message to you.”
Her mother huffed. “A dishonest one—saying you were going to Oregon.”
“I can manage quite well on my own, despite how everyone’s treating me. I was on the verge of taking a job at Dodge Publishing.”
Her mother hurried along, stridently swinging her arms. “Do you have any idea how this looks? How dare you create the impression I deserted you like a cast-off child?”
Barbara wanted to shoot back: I’m not a child of any sort, and I wish you’d quit treating me like one.
But Ethan had told her she must keep her head and honor her mother’s wishes. She glanced to the side, through the window of a house with its sitting-room lights blazing, at a man crimping a newspaper into place. In the not-far-off future, she’d share a private, happy life with Ethan. He’d promised to wait patiently for her and urged her to do the same.
Her mother gripped her arm, stopped, and twisted her around. “You’ll answer me when I speak to you.”
Her mother’s face loomed inches from hers. Barbara said the only thing that would satisfy. “Yes, Mother.”
“If you so much as think about running off again, you’ll be put on a leash so short you’ll regret ever crossing me.”
Barbara nodded.
“I expect your full cooperation from here on out. And no more of this nonsense.” She sunk her fingers into Barbara’s arm. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Her mother released her grip and motioned her to turn back with her. “When I think of the times I’ve saved you from yourself: finding a chaperone for your Norman D trip; preventing you from setting off in an outrigger and keeping you from harm at that scandalous party in Tahiti.”
“Don’t worry. You’ve made it altogether clear that I’m not my own person.” Still, she followed that statement with a solitary qualification—at least not yet.
“Must you always be tempted by adventure?”
Barbara knew she must pretend she’d be compliant. “If I am, I promise to discuss it with you first.”
“Honestly, next, you’ll be asking to join Byrd’s South Pole expedition.”
Once I turn 18, she thought, I’ll join any damn expedition I please.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
HELEN
Los Angeles, November 1929
By the time Helen returned from Hawaii, Wilson and Margaret had set up house in Los Angeles. Wilson wasted no time insisting Helen meet him to resolve “the legal side of things.” She hated doing battle with him. He had no compunction about twisting the truth, and when riled, he always went on the offensive and attacked with abandon.
She steeled herself for his salvos as Alice’s husband, Bert, drove her to her attorney’s office. The afternoon’s piercing sun warmed the car’s interior. She dug her handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed her brow. The ride took them through the heart of the banking district. Along the way, she spied three banks with “Temporarily Closed” signs—as if she needed to be reminded of the run on banks and her sorry finances.
Her attorney escorted her to a fourth-floor meeting room that looked out on the city’s jagged horizon of buildings. They waited there for Wilson and his attorney. Wilson had tracked down one of his old Harvard chums, Willard Clark, who’d practiced law in Los Angeles since 1914. Those Harvard men certainly stuck together. And this one was geographically removed enough to be completely ignorant of Wilson’s reprehensible conduct, which, of course, Wilson was not likely to disclose.
Bert, a lawyer himself, had secured a good divorce attorney for her. James Shepherd was a no-nonsense fellow whose advanced age and deliberate manner reminded Helen of her father’s kind forbearance. She couldn’t imagine facing Wilson without him.
The four of them gathered around the room’s sleek teakwood table, and Shepherd started the meeting. “After conferring with our clients, Mr. Clark and I agree there are two issues we should discuss today: how to decide Barbara’s custody arrangements and the state of divorce negotiations. Shall we begin with Barbara?”
Wilson braced his hands on the chair arms. “Yes, well, as you know, I’ve invited Barbara to live with Margaret and me.”
Shepherd turned to Helen. “Is this something you’d consent to?”
“No. I refused to expose her to their affair when we were in New Haven, and I don’t see any reason to allow it here.”
Wilson leaned in to speak, but his attorney waved him off. “Barbara is fifteen years old. It’s reasonable that she have some say in the matter.”
Helen leveled her gaze at Clark. “My attorney and I agree we do not want Barbara subjected to suc
h an arrangement.”
Wilson scooted forward in his chair. “You mean my so-called immoral arrangement?”
“Yes,” Helen said, “that’s precisely what I mean.”
Wilson glared at her. “I’ve asked you repeatedly to divorce me on your terms or not stand in the way of me divorcing you. Your obstructionism only perpetuates the situation.”
Shepherd showed his palms. “Let’s restrict ourselves to the custody question for now. Technically, Barbara is still a minor, and it’s indisputable that Mr. Follett deserted the family in March of 1928 and had little contact with his daughter over the ensuing year and a half.”
Wilson leaned back into his chair. “That was an awfully trying period, and I understand it was especially hard on Barbara. The fact is, I can give her a home now—a permanent one.”
The insinuation in Wilson’s offer did not escape Helen. “You know nothing of what our life has been like all this time. Or of the agonies you’ve visited on Barbara.”
“Look, you’re the one who ran off to Hawaii and left her without any parent,” Wilson said.
“I was in Hawaii researching a book—for the simple reason that I must support our daughters, as you have failed to do.”
Wilson scrunched up a cheek in that superior way of his. “You don’t have much room to point a finger here. You planned to be absent for months. You only returned when I showed up. I’m perfectly comfortable taking Barbara in and providing her with a stable home, which you have failed to do.”
“And how can you support her now when you haven’t for the past year and a half?”
“I’m under contract for a series of articles with Atlantic Monthly.”
Shepherd waved a hand at Wilson. “Mr. Follett, the question here is what is best for Barbara. And my client and I agree it is inadvisable to allow her to live in an adulterous household.”
That should have put him in his place, but no, he shook his fist at her. “You, Helen, are the volatile and capricious one, whisking Barbara off on an uncertain journey and corrupting her with distorted depictions of the marriage. Sailing off to Honolulu proves you’re an unsuitable parent.”
“Why, you hateful man.” She could’ve slapped his face.
“Please, let’s take a break here,” said Shepherd.
Helen retreated with her attorney for a private conference. Shepherd explained it was the role of attorneys to manage such rancor; he assured her he’d not allow it to happen again. As for the business at hand, he recommended they let Barbara decide who she’d live with. This did not please Helen. She told him she feared Barbara, who’d not hidden her rebellious disdain for her, might choose her father out of spite. After all, Barbara didn’t always exercise the best judgment. Shepherd explained that the courts often advise that children of Barbara’s age have the right to choose. And if Barbara decided to reside with Wilson, she might discover that life with her father and a woman a mere six years older than herself didn’t suit her.
Helen reluctantly bowed to his recommendation, and the four of them reconvened and agreed: Barbara was old enough to know her mind. Neither parent would want to force her to reside with them against her will. Ergo, Barbara should be the one to make the decision, at least until the court entertained divorce and official custody arrangements.
That settled, the discussion turned to divorce negotiations.
After several minutes of upsetting banter about the possible grounds for divorce, Wilson’s attorney turned to Helen. “Mrs. Follett, do you, in principle, consent to divorce?”
She paused. What principle was involved here, she couldn’t say. She only knew that the possibility of divorce rattled her. She’d lost all respect for Wilson; she’d been his goat for too long. But she loved him. Imperfect as he was, she’d planned to spend her life with him. She’d dreamt of success, perhaps even fame, as his writing collaborator. He was the father of her children, and she wanted to make the family whole again. But she hated him for what he’d done to her and the girls. She wanted to hurt him. Why should he walk away from his family and run off with another woman without suffering any consequences? She couldn’t think how to respond to Clark’s question. She asked for a private conference with her attorney.
Shepherd explained the reality to her: She couldn’t ward off divorce indefinitely. Wilson had it in his power to force the matter. In all likelihood, his frequent moves had prevented him from establishing residence in any one state. But once he did, he could divorce her without much difficulty.
Helen told him she hoped to soon return to her other daughter in New Haven, whom Wilson had also neglected, despite his proximity to her. Would it matter if they resided in different states? No, he said, Wilson could divorce her from afar.
“Be that as it may,” she said, “I’m not prepared to capitulate at this point; I’ll face that eventuality when and if it comes. At present, I’m worried about the matter of finances.”
She explained that Wilson had borrowed $600 to get himself and that woman to Los Angeles, which meant he’d provide no help to his family as long as he was repaying the loan. Yes, Shepherd said, that’s a serious matter. Together they worked out a response that acknowledged her mixed emotions and bought some time. Upon rejoining the discussion, she announced: “I fail to see what benefit will accrue to me from divorcing a man who is unemployed, in debt, and has no prospect for a permanent source of income.”
All Wilson could say was, “I’ll certainly agree to any reasonable terms of support.”
“How can you possibly claim you can support anybody other than yourself and Miss Whipple? When you’ve done nothing but that since deserting your family?”
“You bear some responsibility for ruining my chances of employment.”
Helen asked, “Exactly how did I do that?”
“By speaking to Alfred Knopf and spreading invidious gossip about me.”
This, she thought, takes the biscuit. “You’re the one flaunting your affair with a woman half your age.”
“You’re the one who dragged Margaret into the sweep of your gossip-mongering. She has done nothing to you.”
“True, you’ve withdrawn your love and support from this family well enough on your own.”
“Then we might as well move forward with the divorce. We can go to Nevada. They have no residence requirement.”
She tilted her head back and tapped her fingertips on the table. “So, that’s why you cadged money to travel across the whole country.”
“I came here for Barbara. But I’ve made no secret of my wish for a divorce.”
She stiffened her spine and gathered her composure. “I believe it’s in my best interest to wait until you’ve obtained reliable employment.”
“I said I’ll sign the house over to you. Right now, if you wish. Isn’t that enough for you?”
“I had a home before you left, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t have one now. What you consider generosity doesn’t move me.”
Wilson snorted. “I have no intention whatsoever of returning to the marriage. Dragging this out does no one any good.”
Shepherd stepped in. “I believe my client has made her position clear. It appears that we can go no further without some change in Mr. Follett’s employment status.”
That led to another round of private conferences. When they gathered to close the meeting, Wilson’s attorney declared, “My client understands and accepts Mrs. Follett’s position. However, he’s intent on procuring a divorce. Therefore, he will not sign the New Haven house over to Mrs. Follett unless and until she consents to divorce.”
She was speechless. What a cad—threatening to deny Barbara, Sabra, and her their one bastion of security.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
BARBARA AT FIFTEEN
Pasadena, December 1929
Barbara greeted her father at the front door of the Russells’ home. “Where’s Margaret?”
“She’s gone to look at an apartment.” Her father hesitated on the doorstep. “How’d y
ou like to take a walk? It’s a lovely day.”
“Okay, I’ll grab my jacket.”
These visits had gone on nearly three weeks, but they still rattled her. Her father, though five-ten, didn’t seem as imposing as she’d remembered. Then again, she’d shot up to five-six, so of course, he’d appear less lofty. But he struck her as different in other ways, too. His hairline had receded by an inch, his face seemed narrower, and his gait more halting—not at all like that of the vigorous, long-striding man she’d trailed behind on mountain hikes. He wasn’t merely older but more used up, like a couch that’d lost some of its stuffing.
A part of her felt sad for him, but mostly she was still angry at him—for those ever-lengthening absences and his abrupt break from the family. And all because of Margaret Whipple, whom her father now expected her to embrace like a long-lost friend. But she cringed every time Margaret fawned over her father. It disgusted her.
Today, for the first time in nearly two years, she had him all to herself. It reminded her of childhood times—like when they built a pen for salamanders at the lake or, on wintry days, nestled side by side on the sofa over a Dickens novel. Every Saturday for years, it’d been just the two of them. But that was ages ago, and so much had happened. Now, this nostalgia unnerved her. The longing it renewed, with all its impossibility and absurdity, stirred up repugnance, like shame piled on top of seasickness.
As they strolled along, she tried to focus on things more immediate and pleasing—the neighborhood’s midday calm, the cawing and darting of a murder of crows, and the stucco-pink houses along the way.
Their conversation lighted on southern California: how enlivening it was, in the middle of winter, to feel the sun warming your back; its modernity, with the latest-model cars whizzing up and down highways; and the quaintness of people planting palm trees and cacti in their yards.
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