adjustments in my pace and direction to determine the owner of those eyes—an ordinary-looking man in a brown sack suit and fedora who resembled every other businessman in the capital that day. He was following me.
This gave me the willies. Searching my room was fair play, but I did not appreciate the trustees setting a bloodhound on my trail. I ducked into a lingerie shop, left by a rear door, and continued my stroll in peace. But I was not surprised that when I returned to the hotel a couple hours later, he was there waiting for me, leaning against a lamppost across from the entrance. For all I knew, he intended to follow me to San Francisco, perhaps to Oregon. That I would not tolerate.
I reminded myself that I was trying to appear trustworthy, not arouse anyone’s suspicions. I would have to lose Brown Fedora in a subtle, natural manner. Returning to the privacy of my room, I had my hot bath and ordered up a lovely dinner. After the sun had set, I packed my valise. At the front desk, I found the promised train ticket—a first-class reservation on tomorrow’s 1:10 to San Francisco. Making sure Brown Fedora was still out front, I left the hotel by a side entrance and walked the distance to the train station under cover of darkness, my valise in hand.
A glance at the departures board told me there were no trains to San Francisco tonight.
“Good evening,” I said to the ticket clerk. “I’d like to exchange this ticket for an earlier train. And make it second class, please.”
I left with a reserved seat on tomorrow’s 9:35 A.M. and a couple of bucks’ refund—enough to pay for a room at one of the cheap hotels that cluster around every train station in America. I crossed the street, checked into the nearest one, and fell asleep.
The following morning I spent my last few coins on a cup of coffee, a cold roll, and a copy of the morning Sacramento Union to read on the trip. It wasn’t until the train had left the station that I looked at the front page. My original hotel, the Grande Hotel, had caught fire last night. They were still counting the bodies.
10
I arrived at the Southern Pacific station in San Francisco where I found a line of taxis waiting outside the Third Street entrance. I knew the city from having performed in several of its theaters as a child with my mother. I remembered it as a brash town that wore its gaudy glamour on the surface like greasepaint on an actor’s face. Mother and I had not stepped far beyond the theater district, so the San Francisco I was about to experience—the tame residential portion—was entirely new to me.
Fog had not yet drawn its curtain over the city as we drove through the privileged neighborhood of Pacific Heights. Its streets were lined with mansions built to outdo their predecessors on Nob Hill in size and luxury. I gaped at the exuberant architecture, the widow’s walks, turrets, bulging bay windows, French chateaux, columned porticos, and fanciful Victorian gingerbread, some of which I recognized from Oliver’s picture books.
“Here we are, miss,” said the driver as he stopped the car. He carried my valise to the door and waited for the maid to fetch my fare.
My grandmother Beckett’s modest house reminded me that it was the Carr side of Jessie’s family that had been blessed with money, not the Becketts. A plain, older Victorian home squashed between overweening upstarts, my grandmother’s house sat back from the curb, a proud survivor of the horrendous San Francisco earthquake of 1906 and a remnant of a less ostentatious era. I remembered Oliver saying that the old lady was all that stood between it and the wrecking ball.
As Oliver had instructed, I called her Grandmother. She was as he had described, cold and inscrutable. I didn’t mind a bit. The very idea of having a grandmother intrigued me. I thought she was fascinating.
She gave me a searching look before presenting her cheek to kiss. It was dry and powdery and smelled of
This gave me the willies. Searching my room was fair play, but I did not appreciate the trustees setting a bloodhound on my trail. I ducked into a lingerie shop, left by a rear door, and continued my stroll in peace. But I was not surprised that when I returned to the hotel a couple hours later, he was there waiting for me, leaning against a lamppost across from the entrance. For all I knew, he intended to follow me to San Francisco, perhaps to Oregon. That I would not tolerate.
I reminded myself that I was trying to appear trustworthy, not arouse anyone’s suspicions. I would have to lose Brown Fedora in a subtle, natural manner. Returning to the privacy of my room, I had my hot bath and ordered up a lovely dinner. After the sun had set, I packed my valise. At the front desk, I found the promised train ticket—a first-class reservation on tomorrow’s 1:10 to San Francisco. Making sure Brown Fedora was still out front, I left the hotel by a side entrance and walked the distance to the train station under cover of darkness, my valise in hand.
A glance at the departures board told me there were no trains to San Francisco tonight.
“Good evening,” I said to the ticket clerk. “I’d like to exchange this ticket for an earlier train. And make it second class, please.”
I left with a reserved seat on tomorrow’s 9:35 A.M. and a couple of bucks’ refund—enough to pay for a room at one of the cheap hotels that cluster around every train station in America. I crossed the street, checked into the nearest one, and fell asleep.
The following morning I spent my last few coins on a cup of coffee, a cold roll, and a copy of the morning Sacramento Union to read on the trip. It wasn’t until the train had left the station that I looked at the front page. My original hotel, the Grande Hotel, had caught fire last night. They were still counting the bodies.
10
I arrived at the Southern Pacific station in San Francisco where I found a line of taxis waiting outside the Third Street entrance. I knew the city from having performed in several of its theaters as a child with my mother. I remembered it as a brash town that wore its gaudy glamour on the surface like greasepaint on an actor’s face. Mother and I had not stepped far beyond the theater district, so the San Francisco I was about to experience—the tame residential portion—was entirely new to me.
Fog had not yet drawn its curtain over the city as we drove through the privileged neighborhood of Pacific Heights. Its streets were lined with mansions built to outdo their predecessors on Nob Hill in size and luxury. I gaped at the exuberant architecture, the widow’s walks, turrets, bulging bay windows, French chateaux, columned porticos, and fanciful Victorian gingerbread, some of which I recognized from Oliver’s picture books.
“Here we are, miss,” said the driver as he stopped the car. He carried my valise to the door and waited for the maid to fetch my fare.
My grandmother Beckett’s modest house reminded me that it was the Carr side of Jessie’s family that had been blessed with money, not the Becketts. A plain, older Victorian home squashed between overweening upstarts, my grandmother’s house sat back from the curb, a proud survivor of the horrendous San Francisco earthquake of 1906 and a remnant of a less ostentatious era. I remembered Oliver saying that the old lady was all that stood between it and the wrecking ball.
As Oliver had instructed, I called her Grandmother. She was as he had described, cold and inscrutable. I didn’t mind a bit. The very idea of having a grandmother intrigued me. I thought she was fascinating.
She gave me a searching look before presenting her cheek to kiss. It was dry and powdery and smelled of
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