“No one, rich or poor, will ever marry me.” That must have been the only genuinely clairvoyant statement I ever made.
“You’re sure you want … you know about sex?”
“Maisie and Rebecca told me what men do.”
“No, Mei-li, it won’t be like that, I promise you.” We kissed and fondled each other, no more, for many nights as I gradually got used to the intimacy which women were at that time taught to fear. It was at least two weeks before we had full intercourse, and Norman took care that I would not become pregnant.
Erika knew what was going on, had given tacit permission. She once said, much later, that Norman made me “more manageable.” This only shows again how much more clever she is than I. I began 1913 with my first taste of alcohol and my first lover, and I made the mistake of considering these evidence of adulthood and independence.
I took Norman’s advice, experimenting with the invention of “controls” who conversed with my clients. I would babble some nonsense or a few phrases from a foreign language. Then, as sitters asked who was speaking, I would gradually invent an entity, like drawing a picture, improvising. At first the entity was vague, but gradually, in repeated appearances, I would think of details to sketch in, making the image more co11_1plex or discarding it if it did not develop well. Of the dozens of controls I invented in those early, attempts, I had three favorites: Theophola, a priestess from the temple of Aphrodite in ancient Greece; Jeb, a black slave who was killed leading an uprising in 1820; Benjamin, a weaver who died in the twelfth century massacre of the Jews of York.
I liked doing the men best because, especially in the identity of Jeb, I discarded all the feminine delicacy expected of a girl. As Jeb I sprinkled my southern dialect with French and German phrases which the illiterate slave had learned from two masters. With Benjamin, there was the challenge of reciting some Hebrew phrases and speaking what I hoped would be accepted as old English, a fractured Chaucerian prose which was a challenge and great fun. Theophola spoke English with a few incantations in ancient Greek. She was dramatic in a different way—no shrinking, modest woman. She was a priestess with holy authority, haughty bearing, and a frank sexuality appropriate to a votary of the goddess of love. The men at my sittings were frozen with fascination when I became Theophola. Erika used to laugh and say they all had erections.
It truly was an exciting game, with all the fun of being someone else, someone who spoke and acted in ways forbidden to a girl. Otherwise I answered the same old questions about dead relatives, past lives, and present hopes. As usual the clients led me to giving them the answer they wanted to hear, and after receiving the answer, they enhanced its effect by their exaggerated report of what I had done. They would say, “Jeb knew all about the gold watch my mother gave me,” when actually ‘Jeb’ had mentioned a ‘gift’ and they had supplied the details with, “Oh, yes, you mean the watch!” When I did automatic writing, they insisted that they recognized the script of a dead friend, and when I saw visions during trance, someone often cried out that, just for a second, she too had glimpsed a spirit.
Meanwhile Norman had written a piece for The Examiner that was printed just after he went back to Washington. It was a careful, good-humored description of a girl who seemed to possess some unusual powers which she reluctantly demonstrated for select people, by appointment only, refusing any money, chaperoned by her father and two half-sisters, who were trying in vain to protect her from the growing interest in her powers. Since the newspapers had always ridiculed mediums, Norman maintained a skeptical, amused tone, but he did note the “absence of tappings and tippings that characterize the all-too-familiar displays of the occult.” He gave no address, only the post office box that he insisted we rent. Also omitted was a photo of me, in case we might be seen together and connections made. between our friendship and his “objective” report. In an impulse of mischief he added that when anyone attempted to photograph me, “something seems to happen to the film.” This created a legend which I fostered by refusing, in later years, to allow my photograph to be taken.
During the six months before his return, my clientele slowly grew again, and, as he predicted, was more prosperous, better educated, yet still gullible. These people would have seen through the old tricks we used to do in the dark, but they were inordinately impressed when I gushed a few phrases of Greek or Hebrew or cursed like an outraged black prince in chains. Occasionally someone would begin to ask searching, informed questions of one of my controls, like, “How would you compare the recitation of kadesh in your day with present Jewish practice,” and at that point Benjamin would begin to fade, replaced by the seductive Theophola. Usually I enjoyed the battle of wits and, one way or another, I won it. My main advantage was that no one believed a young, unschooled girl capable of collecting information and performing as I did. Still, no one offered me the gifts Norman said would come, except the faithful Robertsons, who invited our whole family to spend a week at their summer house near Santa Rosa, a huge mansion on acres of vineyards. In the seven years since the earthquake, Mr. Robertson, a building contractor, had become quite rich. We accepted their invitation, but Father spent far too much time at the winery barrels, and Erika caught a terrible case of poison oak.
During that weekend with the Robertsons I did three sittings, and we saw the advantage of working in the homes of clients. I no longer needed any special apparatus. Besides, it was best not to have our new clientele encounter my father, as they sometimes did, staggering about the house. Furthermore, said Erika, how was I to meet that rich husband if I didn’t get into the homes where he lived or visited? So I went to the town house of the Robertsons where, I told them, I could pick up more vibrations, more spiritual presence among Ned’s belongings, a sad collection of toys and clothing plucked from the fire. The Robertsons recommended me to others. Soon I was making frequent trips to Pacific Heights, where the rich had built after the quake. I rode in their carriages and occasionally in a motor car. Erika came with me, of course. In one house she bumped into a man who turned pale at the sight of her. “Don’t worry,” she told me. “He certainly isn’t going to tell anyone when or how he knew me.”
One of these clients gave me a ruby ring. Another had a long blue cape made for me. “You shouldn’t be running around in just silk pajamas in our climate.” But the ring had to be worn when I saw these clients, so it could not be sold for cash. I was grateful for the cape which felt cosy in the summer fog.
Norman returned in July and seemed impressed by the progress we had made. He quieted Erika’s complaints by giving her more money. While he was in town, we took the weekends off, taking the ferry to Oakland or to Sausalito, then hiring a carriage and riding into the country with picnic food. Sometimes we hired a motor car and drove down the peninsula, again laden with food, for it might be hard for either of us to be served in a rural restaurant. In the City we could not go to fashionable places together because Norman might be recognized, and news would travel home fast on the black society grapevine. In the country we were more likely to encounter prejudice. Finally we found a solution (probably suggested by Erika) in a brothel at Half Moon Bay, a stark, gray hotel standing alone between the ocean and the artichoke fields, where we could spend a day on the beach, a night in a quiet room, and where we ate delicious food cooked by the madam “for my girls,” knowing that, for a price, she would be discreet. But within the month Norman had to go back to Washington.
Suddenly the owner of our flats told Erika we would have to leave, having long overstayed the time of our agreement. I could never be sure, but I think our abrupt eviction had something to do with the man who had recognized Erika in one of the mansions where I was now a regular visitor. The owner seemed willing to let Sophie keep her flower shop for a reasonable rent, but I could not see any way that all four of us could crowd into the tiny rooms in the back of the shop.
The Robertsons came to our rescue, inviting me to come to live with them. I refused. Erika pretended to agree with me, saying that I was too young to live apart from my family. The Robertsons insisted that they meant Erika should come too; there were two rooms and a bath in the west wing of their house, simple but adequate, they hoped, until we found something better. “Please be our guests for as long as you like. It is the only way we can repay you for the comfort you have given us. You needn’t eat with us every day. One