For almost my entire life, September meant a time of beginnings. A new school year brings great hope of achieving academic dreams, but over the last six years, September has meant nothing. Days stretch into months which linger endlessly before becoming years. I miss the challenge of classes and the discussions with school mates. This September marks the biggest change my life has yet experienced.
I sit on Fannie’s stiff Victorian love seat, leaning against the uncomfortable carved armrest with my slippered feet tucked under me. This way I can look out on Third Street, newly paved past our house. Horse-drawn carriages still outnumber automobiles, but I see Mr. Holmes’ Stanley Steamer chug by. Papa has a keen interest in the. automobile, but now might never get the opportunity to own one. He lies near death in his bedroom upstairs, and I sit here full of guilty hope.
Since leaving Stanford six years ago, I have put on a good face and reluctantly become part of Fannie’s social world, to her delight and my dismay. I share this term of exile from my dreams with Edith and we console each other. Meanwhile, Ed comes and goes on a schedule known only to himself with not a care in the world. Paul attends the new high school on Washington Square in town, and Waldo grows paler by the day, so frail I fancy I can see through his translucent skin. Fannie hovers over him, and he hasn’t the strength to protest.
The only positive aspect of the social whirl has been meeting Lillian Palmer. The Palmers attend Trinity Episcopal Church with us. One Sunday last year, at a church social event, my gaze met Lil’s. Instantly it seemed as though our hearts and souls locked with an audible click. Now we are inseparable. Her company would make today more bearable.
For the last five weeks, Papa’s severe stomach trouble has hushed the conversations, quickened the footsteps, and elevated the concern of all who dwell here. Long past the point where the doctor claimed he should get better or surely die, the household waits as hope slips away.
Edith comes into the room. I look up. Our eyes meet for a moment before she quietly says, “He’s gone.”
And just like that, I am released. All the angst of the last few years exits my body with an audible whoosh, and my shoulders slump. My father, the strongest icon in my life, is gone.
Edith joins me on the love seat, sitting properly. “Fannie is with him. Waldo has gone to lie down. Will you go up?”
I gaze out the window, where the world continues normally. When San Jose learns that my father has died, the Freemasons will come, the mayor will come, the board of the San Jose Water Works will come. Fannie will hold court as the grieving widow. Edith and I will manage the food and drink. “Of course,” I answer her. “Tell the servants, will you?”
She nods, but we both realize our two servants probably knew before we did. I rise, my skirts rustling as they fall into place around my ankles. Slowly I head upstairs to my duty. Each step brings a memory, the left leg happy ones, the right leg sad ones.
My earliest memories recall happy times with Ed, my sisters, my laughing Papa and Mama in Nevada City. Since Mama’s death and Fannie entering our lives, the happy memories don’t include Papa so much.
My most recent recollections are more about Fannie. She tried, under my father’s watchful eye, to direct my life into proper channels. I dutifully joined the San Jose Woman’s Club where we are working to save the Santa Cruz redwoods. I endure callers each afternoon and suitors in the evening. Through all of it I have been going through the motions, tamping my passions deep within me.
Now they have been released.
The shades pulled down over the window dim Papa’s bedroom. The heavily carved bed dominates the room, but Fannie’s lacy curtains and bedspread give evidence of her decorating influence. The bed seems empty, my father has shrunk so. Fannie sits hunched over beside the bed. She, too, seems smaller. I put my hand on her shoulder, and she reaches up to cover it with her own.
The man in the bed seems serene, not the terror who has dominated my adult life, nor the beloved Papa of my youth. He is a stranger, deceased at seventy-four years of age, and my heart is numb.
Hours later, the expected mourners fill our home with flowers and condolences. Paul comes home from school and goes immediately to his departed father’s side. At sixteen, Papa’s youngest son holds vigil at his side. Edith and I greet neighbors and notables alike, and Fannie sits in the drawing room, an embroidered handkerchief held to her eyes. Waldo sits near her and holds her hand. Edith sends a telegram to Henry and Nina, who will be here tomorrow. Faces blur before me as I nod to each visitor, thanking them for coming and agreeing yes, our family has suffered a terrible loss.
Lil arrives with her parents, the brightest spot in my day. I hug her warmly and greet her parents, who love me as their own. They move on to speak to Fannie, and I pull Lil aside.
“I am so sorry, Em,” she says, clasping my hand tightly in hers. Her black hair pulled back in its usual bun makes her nose jut severely from her face.
“I know, Lil, but I have mixed feelings.” I look into her eyes and see understanding blossom there.
Lil, too, has dreams. Maybe what drew me to her is her role in a career long dominated by men. Currently a journalist for the San Jose Mercury News, she longs to work in copper, of all things. I tease that her dreams are as crazy as mine. She responds that we will be crazy together.
“I can apply to school now,” I say, trying the words aloud for the first time.
“Before your father is even buried?” she chastises me.
Flustered, I stammer, “I will have to wait an appropriate amount of time, but yes, that is the plan.”
“Oh, Em, I am happy for you, and so sad that this is what it took for you to pursue your dream.”
I smile in relief, then ask, “And what of your dream, Lil?”
“I can be a journalist anywhere and learn about copper where I need to.” Her eyes light with excitement that I know reflects in my own. Such a time seems far away, but for once it seems achievable. We whisper like little girls, talking over each other as our dreams take wing together.
Before long, however, reality breaks in. Lil’s parents are ready to depart, and Edith comes to find us. She doesn’t even scold me for disappearing. I fold grief back into my face and give Lil a secret smile as she leaves.
When the well-meaning mourners have all left, the mortuary next door comes to take charge of my father’s body. As they leave, the owner has the nerve to ask Fannie if she will now sell the house. They would like to demolish it and build a parking lot. Fannie almost faints with offense. They wisely interpret that as a no.
Any discussion of applying to the drafting school is equally inappropriate. I bite my tongue and wait.
The next day Henry and Nina arrive with Eva, now ten and the light of my life. Unable to process the severity of her grandfather’s death, she mingles sober behavior with laughter and dancing through the house. I adore her. She reads avidly, and I share some of my own childhood books with her. I find spending time with Eva easier than being with grieving adults. Many years have been spent putting off my life, and I am eager to get past death and live.
The next few days bustle with reporters wanting stories of the life of San Jose Water Works’ first president, with funeral plans, with cards and plants and food arriving from friends, and with the stress of too much family living under the same roof. Ed must be feeling the same way I am as he announces plans to find his own living arrangements. He is currently employed, and as we are now thirty-two years old, my twin must make his own way. Fannie seems relieved.
We bury my father on a clear September day cool with impending autumn. Oak Hill Memorial Park provides a tranquil setting for the well-attended funeral and eternal rest of the Williams family patriarch.
The same day, I send off my application for admission to the California School for Mechanical Arts in San Francisco. My hand trembles as I drop the letter in the mail.
Lil and I spend most afternoons together, deep in plans both practical and silly. I will need a place to live in San Francisco, of course, but it will not be one I design. Not yet, anyway.
When the letter comes from the school, Fannie sees it before I do. She holds the letter as if it was poisonous.
“What is this?” she asks. If she has half a brain, she knows the answer.
“Hopefully my acceptance for next term.”
“You applied without checking with me first?” She mimics the very picture of an outraged parent.
“You are not my mother. My father has left me enough money to pay for the schooling I want. You have no say at all.” I try to be firm without sounding belligerent.
She deflates before my eyes. “I have tried to be a good mother to you.”
“I had a good mother. I never needed another.” Now I am just being mean, and I am instantly contrite. This woman achieved her life’s dream of a home and family. I cannot disparage her for that dream any more than she should disabuse me of mine. “I’m sorry, Fannie. I know you have done your best. It’s just that I have wanted this for so long.”
She hands me the letter, her eyes brimming with tears.
I open it and scan the contents. A buzzing sound surrounds me, cutting me off from all reality. Nothing exists but the words on the page, We regret to inform you…
Now what will I do?
I slump onto the bench in the hallway, and the letter flutters to the floor. I lift a shaking hand to my eyes as Fannie retrieves the letter, reads it, and gasps. “Oh, I am so sorry, Emily.”
“I was so sure…” I begin. “I must call Lil.”
Leaving Fannie in the hallway, I enter Papa’s study. The bookcases loom, lending a solid air to the room. The empty leather chair near the fireplace looks odd. Imagining my father sitting there with the evening paper reassures me. The telephone hangs on the wall near the door. Most of my acquaintances installed this device in the hallway or kitchen. Fannie had no interest in it, so Papa put it here. I pick up the receiver and turn the crank. When the operator comes on, I ask her to ring Lillian Palmer. Years ago, Papa worked tirelessly to bring the telephone to San Jose. He loved progress. My hand tightens on the receiver.
“Your party is on the line,” the operator says in a sing-song voice.
“Thank you. Lil?”
“Em, hello! Did the mail come?”
For a moment I can’t speak. If I had been accepted, how could I leave Lil in San Jose? “I didn’t get in.”
“Oh, Em.” But I detect a note of relief in her voice.
I laugh, pleased that she wants me to stay in San Jose. By the time I ring off, Lil has encouraged me to reapply for the fall term of 1901. In the new century, surely women will be able to secure a place in a mechanical arts school.
I enter the parlor, humming softly. Edith sits stiffly on one of Fannie’s old sofas from Vermont. It came overland during the Gold Rush along with some other hideously heavy pieces. I prefer the airier carvings and gilt of modern pieces.
“You seem happy?” Edith frowns, looking puzzled.
I laugh. “No, I am not exactly happy, dear sister. I am hopeful for the future, however. I will try again next year. In the meantime, I go on as I have been.”
Edith nods. “Fannie has invited the sons of an investment banker to dinner tomorrow evening. They are newly arrived in San Jose and need the respectability of marriage.”
Not even this can dampen my spirits. Lil and I have a future, and it does not include husbands. “We can handle them, Edith.” I smile widely, but she does not. I wonder if she intends to marry. She has never stated a desire for a forbidden career, nor does she pine for a husband. “Are you considering these bankers?”
She looks startled, her eyes wide. “No. I have no desire to marry. Nina’s mother-in-law has the right of it. Marriage strips a woman of everything she is. She has to give up her very self in order to become what her husband wants her to be. I don’t want that.”
I muse over her words, seeing passion I didn’t know existed within Edith. “Ellen VanValkenburgh is an amazing woman,” I admit, “but she has been married twice. She has three children. Won’t you miss not having children?”
“That’s what society has taught, isn’t it? That a woman’s life is not complete without children? I see them as more work, more stripping of what is essentially me. Now if I could find an enlightened man who would be my partner in all things, I might reconsider.”
“A partner in all things? If that were the foundation for marriage, Lil and I would marry!”
She laughs at me, shaking her head. “I am happy you have found your soul mate,” she teases. “I suppose I will have to be nice to these bankers. Now we’d better find Fannie. She no doubt has our afternoon planned.”
The dinner with the Thomas brothers, Thomas and Terrence, almost entertains me. But really, Thomas Thomas? It would only be worse if one of my brothers were William Williams! Edith and I, the very picture of gracious unmarried daughters, welcome these young men to San Jose and nod encouragingly as they effuse about high finance in our fine city.
Edith sits at her usual place at the foot of the table, and she has pressed Waldo to sit at Papa’s place. Twenty-five years old and still pale as milk, Waldo walks with a cane as if every step is agony. Fannie celebrates each day of his frail health as a miracle. Waldo does his best to engage our guests in conversation, but his life has been spent fighting illness, not learning how to operate in the world of finance.
Emily and I sit beside each other, facing the brothers across the table. Curly dark hair on their heads and beards gives them the illusion of bears, and I can hardly wait to tell Lil I have supped with ursus. Thomas quite animatedly speaks with hands flying. “I tell you, San Jose has the potential to be the gem of Western finance!” Terrence ducks a waving hand and takes a bite of Fannie’s excellent roast. “San Francisco will be hampered by the influx of foreigners! San Jose, run by good solid Americans, can easily triumph!”
“Fascinating,” Fannie murmurs. “Would you like another slice of meat?” She offers the tray to Terrence, who helps himself to two more thick slices of roast while still chewing his last.
Talk of finance makes me twist my napkin in my lap, stifle a yawn, and tap my feet. I cannot resist turning the talk to architecture. “So Mr. Thomas, as part of this financial superiority, do you see San Jose leading California in architecture, also? I mean, the Queen Anne detailing of Victorian homes is quite beautiful, but it really doesn’t take into consideration the ample light available in our fair climate. Something simpler, maybe a single story, to allow for light and air to circulate within the home, might be appropriate. Do you agree?”
The light fades from his eyes as I’m sure mine did the minute he began talking finance. “Um, er, sure,” he stammers.
Next to me, Edith raises her napkin to her lips. I am sure she smiles behind it. The serving girl brings in the dessert, and I silently congratulate myself on a tiny conversational victory.
Terrence fixes intelligent eyes on me. Pointing with his empty fork, he says, “You know, a California woman currently studies architecture in Paris, at the Beaux-Arts school. Do you know of Julia Morgan?”
I stare at him. I realize an odd amount of time has passed, and I hasten to say, “The Beaux-Arts has never accepted women.”
“They have now, miss, a California girl, schooled at the university in Berkeley. When she returns, we hope she will consider settling in San Jose. We might be willing to fund such innovative work.” Terrence resumes eating.
I pick at my own meal, my thoughts lost in dreams. I will have to write to Julia Morgan, or enroll at Berkeley. I can hardly wait to call Lil. Edith apparently wishes these men to think her a mute, for she nods and smiles like an imbecile and says nothing. Fannie maintains conversation through the apple pie and coffee. Her glares show her disapproval over my attempt at conversation. She must be too afraid of what I might say in rebuttal to reprove me openly.
When finally the banker brothers depart, Fannie stalks off to her sitting room without a word to us. I could have told her it would be no use, but she must parade eligible men before us like confections, hoping one will tempt us. I don’t know whether she does so because she wishes us gone from her home, or whether she truly believes marriage will make us happy.
I sit beside the front window and gaze into the night. Although still relatively early, the streets are empty. The new electric streetlights give a harsher light than the old gas ones did, but they illuminate the streets better than that folly of a light tower downtown, modeled on one in Paris where Julia Morgan is studying to be an architect.
I wonder about studying in beautiful Paris. It must be somewhat easier, as a woman studying a man’s subject, to overcome obstacles with family around you. Even if they don’t agree with you, family supports you. The most disappointing stepdaughter always triumphs over a neighbor in one’s affections. I know Fannie won’t ever understand my desire to design homes, but she won’t forbid it.
Dreaming has filled too many of my days in recent years. I go upstairs to my bedroom. There I have a small correspondence desk. I search through the drawers until I find a letter from a family friend studying at Berkeley. Copying the address onto a new sheet of stationery, I pen a letter to the engineering department, addressing it merely to ‘Julia Morgan’s mentor.’
The following day, I drop my letter into the post and forget about it since some male student will probably throw it away. I am pleasantly surprised by a response scant weeks later.
Fannie brings me the letter, a cloud on her face. “You’ve now applied to Berkeley without even telling me?”
“No, no,” I hasten to assure her. “I want to attend the mechanical arts school in San Francisco, as you know.” I take the letter from her. “Thank you for bringing this to me.”
I take the letter upstairs to my room and slide the opener into the envelope eagerly. It is a short note, written on university stationary in an elegant hand.
Dear Miss Williams,
I am Bernard Maybeck, on the engineering faculty at the University of California, Berkeley. I am also an architect, and Julia Morgan was one of my students. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself to answer your letter. I applaud your interest in architecture and encourage you to keep trying for the schooling you need. California needs more architects with a vision to the future, and I believe women will be a big part of that future. I wish you the best of luck, and if you wish to continue correspondence, I would be delighted to hear from you again.
Sincerely,
Bernard Maybeck
A warm glow begins in the hand that holds the letter and spreads to my heart and very soul. A professional architect, a professor of engineering, encourages me in my dream. I know I have firmly stated that I want to be an architect, but for the first time it truly feels possible.
Emily Williams and her niece, Eva VanValkenburgh (12 years old in this picture)