“Oh, Lord.” Her mother plopped down on the sofa and patted the space beside her.
Barbara sat down. “By not responding to my letter, he shows what he’s thinking. He can’t justify his conduct. And after what I wrote, he knows it.”
With a sigh, her mother closed her eyes and snapped them open. “Yes, he’s in his own world.”
“Does he intend to strand us?” Since her father had taken up residence in New York, Barbara saw her mother in a new light, like an accomplice on a secret mission. Except her mother hadn’t devised any strategy to convince her father to come home. That’s why Barbara had written to him, though she wished her mother would do something—other than moping around the house all day long.
“It seems he has.”
“But I need him. He’s my inspiration.”
“Everything you wrote came from you, Bar. You’re the one who created Eepersip. And your father wasn’t along on your square-rigger adventure.”
“I rely on him so much. To steer me and cheer me on.”
“I know you do.”
“He was supposed to come with me to my newspaper interview.”
“He still might decide to join you.”
“I don’t want him to.”
Her mother slumped against the sofa back. “He’s been wretched to you.”
“I told him everything I could think of in my letter. At least what I could think of to make him come to his senses. And he still insists on staying with that Whipple.”
“I know it’s not the same, but I’ll go to the interview with you.” Her mother reached out and smoothed a hand over her back.
Her mother’s touch annoyed more than anything else, like the slobber of a hapless dog. No, having Mother along wouldn’t be the same. Maybe her father would show up. Celebrating her new book’s success might just remind him of all the terrific times they’d shared and bring him back to his senses.
✭
On the morning of the interview, Barbara fancied up in a plaid skirt, cream-beige sweater, and navy-blue poncho. She wrapped her Voyage of the Norman D manuscript in brown paper and secured it with string.
Spring was Barbara’s favorite season, and she usually delighted in the trees leafing out and daffodils poking up. But as she and her mother walked the five blocks to the trolley stop, she hurried past yards of elms, oaks, and the occasional magnolia, altogether preoccupied with her worries. The sharp scent of daphne even chafed as if to intensify her misery.
They came to the trolley stop, and her mother asked, “Are you excited?”
“Not really.” Barbara didn’t know what to expect. Was it possible her father had taken the early morning train up? Might he surprise her?
They boarded the trolley for the downtown offices of the New Haven Register. Her mother started droning on about how excited Barbara had been those weeks before her high-seas adventure. “And I can’t help thinking of that radio interview last fall. You managed it with such aplomb—quick with your answers, so charming and droll.”
“That seems like another time.”
“Just remember: This is an auspicious opportunity—a chance to get the word out about your new book and encourage sales.”
“That sounds so crass, Mother.”
“If the sales are strong, we can set some money aside for your college.”
“What? You want to send me away, too?”
Her mother frowned and tucked her chin. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Barbara gazed out the window. Their trolley trundled down a street lined with sturdy oaks and house after house of happy families.
Her mother nudged her. “There’s something you really ought to know, Barbara.”
She glanced sideways at her mother.
“If your father quits sending his Knopf cheques, we’ll need something else to live on.”
Barbara hadn’t thought about that. She’d heard her parents argue about money, but what bothered her most was how churlish they sounded. “He wouldn’t dare, would he?”
“I don’t see how he can send them indefinitely. He needs money to live on himself.” Her mother patted her knee. “But don’t worry about that. Just do your best today.”
✭
The reporter, Edward Stark, looked pretty much like his name, shaved smooth as glass and dressed in a white shirt, black trousers, and a broad-striped black and gray tie. He led the way past dingy-beige walls decorated with framed front pages: from 1925, “Quake Rocks New England”; and from 1926, “Valentino Loses Fight With Death After Valiant Battle.”
As Stark pointed the way to his desk near the rear windows, Barbara glanced around the bullpen-like room. Her father was nowhere in sight.
They walked by a man on the telephone hunched over his roll-top desk. He turned away and continued talking in hushed tones. The two reporters at desks lining the opposite wall looked up, nodded in her direction, and returned to their typing. The worn pine floors creaked beneath her feet, and scents of cigarettes, burned coffee, and carbon paper mingled with the dustiness of a room shut up all winter.
Stark invited Barbara to sit in the chair opposite him, and her mother took the seat beside her. The clatter of typewriter keys bounced off the walls, and Barbara took comfort in the sounds—they reminded her of her father working in his study. He still might show up, here or at home, and apologize for his wrongs. Surely, he wouldn’t ignore her much longer.
Stark held his pen over a pad and leaned toward Barbara. “Tell me, Miss Follett, how is it that a girl of thirteen became interested in sailing on a square-rigger?”
Barbara concentrated on Mr. Stark. Anything she said today could end up in the print story for everyone to see. This was her chance to make her father proud—and sorry he was missing this fresh success. “Well, I’m desperately interested in pirates. I’ve read widely on all things piratical—starting with Treasure Island—and acquainted myself with the most famous pirates, like Blackbeard and Davy Jones. I wanted to write some pirate tales myself. And I realized it would be quite
