Feet Of Clay
I sat on the stiff seat-cushion by the window, enjoying the rhythmic movement of the train, the sound of the wheels on the tracks, and the rural landscape rushing by. It was late winter in the year 1940. I was fifteen years old. I didn’t know where the train was taking me. “A boarding school in New Hampshire” could mean anything. I told my mother that I wanted to leave the strict girls’ school near our apartment in Pittsburgh, PA. She said the public school in our district had a bad reputation. So here I was, enroute to some unknown place in New Hampshire, a small girl with jet-black hair and dark eyes. Those eyes had already seen a lot.
This boarding school had been recommended by a friend of the family, a Lutheran minister whose son was already enrolled there. His son, Barton had been a classmate of mine at Falk School since fourth grade; though never a close friend. Barton had agreed to escort me to the boarding school, but I spent most of the trip alone.
If I had come to that school for a weekend, to visit a friend, I might have enjoyed it. The small rambling buildings, surrounded by old trees, the footpaths and encircling hills formed an attractive setting. The school was located in open country, reminiscent of parts of Pennsylvania. During my stay there the bleakness of winter gave way to the slow advent of a New England spring. But coming there as a stranger who knew only one person, I found the school cold and unfriendly. The term had begun in September, when new friendships were made and in this school I soon learned that friendships were not of the ordinary kind. Many of the children came from broken homes, and most of them missed their parents.
As the first lonely weeks dragged on, an endless round of classes, meals, and sleep, I had lots of time to think of home. I remembered Falk School where I first met Barton and his girl friend, Enid, who became my friend. I remembered how he was in those days, not very different in appearance from now. In seventh and eighth grades he was tall and well built. He moved with an easy grace. He had straight blond hair, which he combed back with his hand. His high forehead, even features and clear blue eyes were further proof of his Scandinavian ancestry. When Mr. Kelley read funny stories to the class, Barton snuggled into his chair, hugging himself with delight. He spoke well and smiled easily. In fact, he and Enid were the undisputed class leaders in 7th and 8th grades.
Barton was idolized by many younger students. He often had a flock of them tagging after him when he walked down the hall, after hitting a home-run. Enid was also blond, slim and athletic. She was the pitcher in girls’ softball matches, and always won the spelling bee. In eighth grade Barton gave her a gift for her birthday, a Swiss watch. Everyone was impressed. But there were things I didn’t know about him at that time. Well-adjusted as he seemed, Barton had outgrown his 8th grade classmates emotionally and intellectually. He was bored by the free and easy atmosphere of Falk School.
As I sat on my bed, looking out of the window in the girls’ dormitory in New Hampshire, I remembered that other school in Pittsburgh. From the first day I felt at home there and thrived in the atmosphere as freedom. Remembering all the good times and friends at that school made me forget for a moment the loneliness of this one. I remembered being driven to school by my mother on rainy days in our wine-red Plymouth convertible, though I usually walked. As we approached the school, we often passed Barton and his father, striding up Allequipa Street; two tall, blond Vikings, bare-headed, even in winter. Reverend Erikson served the largest and wealthiest church in that area, a Lutheran Church. “What a nice family the Erikson’s are!” said my mother. “It isn’t every father who walks his son to school is it?” I replied, as they waved to us.
Barton’s mother was also remarkable in her own way. She was one of those few mothers who was always available for field-trips and cooking lessons. When Barton had a party in his home, she made us children feel at home.
There was also a fat, flaxen-haired daughter. As I thought about the Erikson’s and those long-ago days in Pittsburgh, I realized that I knew very little about Barton and his family. At Sweet Briar Boarding School I had few opportunities to increase my knowledge. Barton went his own way. He seemed to be the “father” of one of those so-called “families.” The “mother” was a matronly young woman, living in my dorm. Their “daughter” who also lived there was called Lola, a pretty, precocious fourteen year-old. Having seen Barton and Lola together once or twice, I suspected an “incestuous” bond between them. I had no concrete evidence. Just intuition. I was too shy to ask questions. I did, however make Lola’s acquaintance. I liked her. She was the only person in that house who was friendly toward me. Although almost the same age, I was an innocent adolescent, while Lola was already a woman. In her sultry voice she liked to sing a Beatrice Lillie song, which was often played on the house gramophone:
“Weary of it all, this getting and giving,
This life that I’m living in Hell….”
I often watched Lola, reclining in her black lace panties and bra, her hair up in curlers. She painted her fingernails and toenails bright red. She flicked the ashes from a cigarette inserted in an ivory holder. She played with her rings and bracelets. Or sprayed herself with French perfume. Once she said to me, “Mother sent us up here to get rid of us.” She was referring to her sister, who was also at that boarding school.
I liked Lola, but also envied her, especially her shapely figure. I had gained ten pounds during my first lonely months there. When Lola dressed up, she dressed like any good-looking woman who wants to attract men. Spike heels, silk stockings, skin-tight dresses and sweaters, which revealed her small, firm breasts. She called attention to those breasts by means of tight brasseires, which held them unusually high. Once we went together to the nearest city, on a shopping spree. I bought an Easter bonnet, crowned with artificial daisies. Lola bought a vampish picture-hat, suitable for a divorcee in her thirties.
The spring semester was already coming to an end. The boarding school grounds were green and fragrant. The muddy country roads had dried up and wild flowers filled the fields. Spring fever was epidemic; neither teachers nor students showed up for classes. One activity had galvanized the whole community: the annual Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. It was to be “Patience” and everyone pitched in. Only I and a few others didn’t care enough to offer our services. Week after week preparations escalated, handmade scenery and costumes, then endless rehearsals. Everyone who was not on stage bought a ticket. Many people came from nearby towns, parents and friends of the performers. The annual Gilbert and Sullivan operetta was a tradition in those parts. Every ticket was sold. The proceeds were kept in a strong-box in the Principal’s office, destined as always for the Infantile Paralysis Foundation.
On the day of Dress Rehearsal, one day before the opening, the school was in a state of pandemonium. Students and teachers were scurrying about, finishing last minute preparations for the show. Classes were suspended. Rollicking Gilbert and Sullivan tunes were heard everywhere, bursting out of windows and floating down the footpaths. Suddenly on that warm May morning the excitement was broken by the loud peeling of the school bell. I had never heard that bell before. It made me think of Doomsday. As everyone was hurrying to the main auditorium, I hurried along with them. The bell kept clanging urgently.
In the auditorium everyone sat at attention, waiting for the Principal to speak. In a solemn voice he proclaimed that a dreadful thing had happened. I felt goose pimples down my spine, and held my breath. “All the work you have put into this operetta during the past few months has been undermined by one person. He has stolen the money. The money which was earmarked, as you know, for the Infantile Paralysis Foundation.” The Principal announced the name of the culprit: “Barton Erikson.” He and Lola had both disappeared.
I sat stunned, unbelieving. As the auditorium emptied, I remained seated, trying to reconcile this shattering information with my image of Barton. I recalled a vague rumor that he had been involved with “a fast crowd” at the high school, which had a bad reputation. Had he been in trouble before? Did he have too much to live up to as the minister’s son? To sort out all these thoughts buzzing in my head, I wrote a long letter to my mother, describing the whole event. I don’t know what became of Barton and Lola.
I am now 95 years old, a retired artist and faculty wife, mother and grandmother. But I have never forgotten the shock of that revelation. I learned that things are often not what they seem to be, an outstanding youth may turn out to have “feet of clay.”