The Point of Vanishing, Maryka Biaggio [top inspirational books TXT] 📗

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