Confessions of Madame Psyche. Dorothy Bryant

to Haight Street, well established in full-time mediumship, I had to agree with Erika that. we were lucky to have the income from Sophie’s flower shop. That had come to be the one thing we could agree upon, for I had begun to rebel.

      For five years I had been leading a life rather like that of a child performer, a musician or an actress. Every day there were long sessions of study and practice. I also had household chores to do, including the ongoing repair of the upstairs flat and the maintenance of appliances for the seance room, all those hidden panels and springs which required constant cleaning and oiling to keep them working smoothly. Every evening I held a sitting or attended one. My own sittings bored me only slightly less than the ones of other mediums.

      Unlike a child musician or actress, I was not allowed the company of fellow performers. Even if I had wanted to associate with mediums—few of whom were less than twenty years older than I—it would have been unwise to do so. Mediums were always being accused of collusion in fakery. Most of them met only at annual conventions that we were too poor to attend, even if we had wanted to. Erika would not let me associate with any of the children on the block, certainly not letting any of them into the house where they might poke around and discover some of the 91terations we had made. Our neighbors, in any case, had warned their children to stay away from the “little half-breed witch.” The people nearest my age were Maisie and Rebecca, both about twenty. Apart from the seances, of course, I could not have contact with a pair of “actresses.” Nor could a young girl freely roam the streets of the City alone. I went nowhere without Erika, and our few walks always took us to the public library for more study.

      My expectation of living a larger, richer life in the City was cruelly disappointed. The opposite was true. I had lost the freedom of Hunters Point and gained only a crowded isolation, like a prisoner in solitary confinement among thousands.

      At sixteen, I began to have screaming rages, throwing things, not as a pretended poltergeist but openly. I sometimes refused to sit at seances, forcing Erika to turn people away with the excuse that I was sick. I began to run away, but never very far, because I had no money, not even carfare. Besides, I found Erika’s warnings to be true; an unaccompanied girl was immediately accosted by men. I considered going with them, just to spite Erika, but I had heard enough about the realities of street work (neither Maisie nor Rebecca would stoop to that) to stop short of taking revenge on her that way. Sometimes I sat in furious immobility during the whole hour’s sitting, while Erika frantically produced phenomena whose effect was ruined by my bad temper.

      Once or twice Erika and I had physical battles, she slapping me away from her as I screamed, kicked, bit, scratched, and pulled out handfuls of her hair—while Sophie stood crying and biting her fist and Father shook his head, shaken briefly out of his alcoholic daze. After these battles, I would calm down, contrite, ashamed, and Erika would reason with me. I was an artist, she said, who had to work very hard for a very long time before the reward came. If I stopped now, I would end up scrubbing floors. Being of mixed race, I could not’even hope for a job as a shop girl, which was bad enough if I only knew. She was devoting her whole life to developing my career. My unruly behavior could ruin years of work. The costumes and camera were all paid for now, and soon there would be more money.

      She offered a compromise. No more attending seances on weekends. “We’ll take trips to the country.” She actually did take me on the train several times to the Santa Cruz mountains, where we walked among the redwoods and picnicked. The great trees astonished me into temporary calm. I breathed their quiet for a few hours and believed in patience and tranquility.

      But as soon as we were back in the City, I was furious and restless again. Once I managed to get to a phone and called Miss Harrington at the Butchertown Library. She listened to my ravings, then begged me to come to see her. But I never did.

      One foggy Friday night a man appeared at the door and paid his dollar just like any person curious to see the half-breed girl medium. One look at Erika’s face told me he was not just any person. Surprise and delight lit her face for only a second before being suppressed. He wore a mischievous grin as he nodded politely, also pretending they were strangers.

      I was struck by how handsome he was. He was about thirty, tall and well built, dressed in an elegantly simple gray suit that made the other men at the seance look like rumpled salesmen. His skin was golden, slightly darker than mine, his facial features regular, his nose straight but thin. His thick black hair was definitely African, as were his full lips, and his voice was that richly deep bass some Negro men have, but without any trace of southern Negro accent. He is mixed, like me, I thought. The Robertsons were there, and I pantomimed a scene of dancing with Ned, but all the time I was dancing for the handsome, dark man who watched intently, then asked Ned’s parents how old he was when he died.

      “Passed over,” corrected Erika.

      “Yes, of course, ma’am,” he said, and one more brief look passed between them, a look I already resented.

      When the sitting was over, he hung back; waiting for the others to leave. As soon as Sophie shut the front door on the last person, Erika threw herself into his arms, and they danced around the room, laughing and mimicking the little dance I had done during the seance with the spirit of Ned. But after a final twirl, he wheeled around and made a deep bow to me. I blushed, hot, confused, pleased, as he introduced himself, “Norman Luther Duclar.”

      “Let’s go upstairs and talk,” said Erika. We gathered at the oil cloth-covered round oak table in the kitchen of the upper flat. Sophie served hot chocolate and cookies, while Erika and Norman talked.

      “Is this the first time you’ve been back since the quake?”

      “Oh, no, I was in and out during the first year, covering reconstruction. Then a war in South America. Then Alaska. I thought you were dead. That’s what Mrs. Close said. I checked every place I could think of, and no one had seen or heard of you, so I believed her.”

      “I was out at Hunters Point.”

      Norman nodded, looked at Sophie, then at me. “With the family.”

      “And you went back up to Seattle?”

      Norman nodded.

      “Did you marry Miss Black Society?” she asked. Erika was looking down into her cup so that I could not read her expression.

      “I did indeed.”

      “So you must be father of two or three little …”

      “No,” interrupted Norman. “No children yet.”

      “Actually,” said Erika, “I did spread a rumor that Miss Violet died in the quake. She is dead. I’m Mrs. Newland.”

      “Is there a Mr. Newland?”

      Erika shook her head. “Mine is the perfect marriage. A respect able title without a man, he and all records consumed in the fire.” They both burst into laughter. “How did you find me?”

      “You must be joking. How could I not find you? Sooner or later I’d have ended up here. Your sister is becoming quite well known—the mysterious oriental Psyche. That’s not your real name, is it?” he asked me.

      “No, her name’s May,” Erika answered.

      “Mei-li,” I corrected her.

      “Mei-li,” he repeated, nodding at me. He continued to look at me as he went on talking. “Then I ran into Jessica-she’s dancing at the new Gold Slipper-and she told me your new name and your new venture.”

      “Jessie never could keep her mouth shut.”

      “Oh, she was very discreet, as everyone else has been. Otherwise I would certainly have heard of your new identity before. Anyway I decided to surprise you.”

      “And you certainly did.” They laughed again. “You’ll stay here, of course.”

      During the next two months Norman Duclar stayed with us while he worked on a book about city hall corruption, of which there was plenty in San Francisco at the time, various politicians having ended up in prison in the political quake