Gift of the Golden Mountain (29 page)

     "Aha," I said.

     "Aha?" she repeated. "What does 'aha' mean?"

     "It means I wondered when you'd get around to following up. The first time you asked was weeks ago, and then you asked Kit."

     "She was evasive."

     "Yes she was. What does that suggest to you?"

     May looked at me and shook her head, "You fox, you," she said, "you picked up on it and found out, didn't you?"

     "I plead nolo contendere," I said. "Anyway, you are going to have to press Kit for an answer. I may be an archivist but I'm no snitch."

     "Just tell me this much," she said, "all you have to do is nod your head if I get it right."

     "No telling, no nodding, no nothing. Talk to Kit."

     "Listen, Auntie, please . . ."

     "Don't give me the 'Auntie' treatment, May, you aren't going to get a thing out of me on this subject."

     "Just tell me this, will Kit go to the wedding?"

     I threw up my hands and said, "You are impossible, girl. No she won't go to the wedding, she has to be in New York that weekend. But she's going to offer to give them a big lovely reception at Wildwood after the wedding trip. Now that's all I'm going to tell you, period."

I phoned Kit to warn that May was on her way, loaded for bear. Kit was waiting, two very dry martinis in place on the bar.

     "This is a dry martini subject?" May asked, sipping hers.

     "I'm afraid it's still my drug of choice," Kit said. "But you want to know about Philip Ward and me."

     "Faith called ahead," May pouted.

     "Faith is our guardian angel, didn't you know? But there isn't all that much to tell. I met Philip Ward here in San Francisco near the end of the war. He was . . . in transit, in a way . . . trying to figure out if he wanted to go back to Columbia to teach or if he would try for Berkeley. He finally decided he'd do better at Columbia."

     "You've skipped something, I think."

     Kit smiled. "Yes. There was a short, rather intense episode. I . . .
was rather attracted to him at the time. During that period in my life I was rather attracted to a number of young men. I emphasize
young
."

     "Philip isn't that much younger than you. What? Six or seven years?"

     "It wasn't just age, and Philip wasn't the only man I had an affair with. There, I've said it: affair. It's always been such a compromising word. I have to keep reminding myself that your generation doesn't react to it so hysterically as mine did."

     "So you were a 'loose lady'?" May teased.

     "Don't make fun. It wasn't funny," Kit told her, then took the edge off by raising her martini glass. "Want another?"

     May waved her off. "You said 'age' wasn't the only thing— between you and Philip. What else?"

     Kit sighed and moved to the window. The sun was casting long shadows on the city below. "Philip was very ambitious. He had a plan, and I realized that I didn't fit into the plan. He needed someone more . . . malleable. Remember, by the time I met Philip I had been on my own for almost twenty years, and I liked it. Besides, I had a lot of obligations. But the point is, my fling with Philip was just that: a fling. History. It never really had a chance of being anything more, not for either of us. It seems fairly obvious that Philip has not mentioned anything about this to Karin, and frankly I would prefer she didn't know. I like Karin so very much, and I think it might cause her to feel differently about me."

     May nodded, then asked: "Was I one of your obligations? It must have been that time before Dad came back, when you were taking care of me—"

     "I never thought of you as an obligation," Kit cut in, "and you mustn't think that. Remember, your grandmother was still living then, and Sara. And Faith and Emilie. If anything, you were in danger of being suffocated with love and attention. There were plenty of 'mothers' for you, my dear."

     "Except my own."

     Kit started to pour another drink, but stopped.

     She looked at her watch. "It's five-thirty. When did you say you had to meet Sam and Karin?"

     "Six. Sam's cooking dinner for us, which means spaghetti. I suppose I'd better be going, but I still need to talk to you."

     "That's just what I was thinking. Can you get away this weekend? I'm going down to the ranch—to do some riding, just to get away and into the mountains."

     "I'd love to see the ranch again," May said.

"Why is it that Karin is always early and you are always late?" Sam asked May. "My spaghetti sauce is probably ruined."

     "Your spaghetti sauce is indestructible," May answered, moving a pile of books and papers from the end of Sam's table so she could set it.

     Karin was breaking vermicelli into a pot of boiling water, her face turned away from the rising steam. Sam leaned against the far wall, watching them through a camera.

     "This is nice," he said, "the two of you, steam rising all around, nice." The doorbell broke his concentration.

     Standing in the doorway was a couple in their twenties, May guessed, maybe younger—it was hard to tell under the long hair and hats they wore. The girl had on a long skirt and a tunic that disguised her thinness. The boy had long, thin blonde hair and for some reason made May think of a chimneysweep.

     "We need a place to crash, man," he said to Sam. Sam looked at him for a few moments, then asked: "Do I know you?"

     "Yeah," he answered, "Don't you remember? You took some pictures of us the other day. You said if we ever needed a place we could come on over. You gave us your address."

     The girl thrust a piece of paper at Sam, as if to offer proof.

     "Oh yeah, sure, I remember now. You were in the loft with Star
and Wanderer. What're your names again?"

     "James," he said. "This is Michelle."

     "James, Michelle, come on in. We're having spaghetti. Are you hungry?"

     Each carried two shopping bags filled with their possessions, including, May noted, a high school letter sweater. "Spaghetti with meat?" James asked. "We don't eat meat. But a bath would be good."

     "Be my guest," Sam said, showing the way. Michelle followed James into the bathroom, and they closed the door behind them.

     May looked at Karin, both looked at Sam. He grinned, shrugged, and all three had to stifle their laughter. They heard the water turn on. "You know what they say," May couldn't resist: "Cleanliness is next . . ." Karin burst out laughing, May and Sam joined her.

     When they caught their breath, May asked, "What made you give them your address?"

     "I thought they would be good subjects . . .
The Saturday Evening Post
is supposed to be doing a big story on the hippies, especially the drug scene. So I thought if I did some really strong pictures I might land the assignment."

     "So are you going to take pictures of James and Michelle?" Karin wanted to know.

     "Maybe. If it works out."

     "Stoned?"

     Sam frowned. "If they are, and if they don't mind."

     "How can they know what they mind if they're stoned?"

     "I'll ask them when they aren't stoned."

     "Where's Philip?" May asked, to change the subject.

     Karin took awhile to answer. "He had an Academic Senate meeting . . . something about the Ethnic Studies program."

     "At least he's one of the good guys," Sam put in.

     "Just exactly who are the 'good guys'?" Karin challenged.

     "Hell, don't ask me. I thought I was one of them until a bunch of long hairs rousted me at the last demonstration—because I was shooting for
Time
magazine. One asshole put spit on his thumb and rubbed it into my lens. Now I tell them I'm with the underground press."

     "You never were 'one of them,'" Karin said.

     "What do you mean?" Sam asked, on guard.

     "I mean, you never got involved with the issues—you were never committed to building a People's Park, were you? Or to the Free Speech Movement? Or even to ending the Vietnam War."

     "I think I was about as involved with People's Park and the Free Speech Movement as you were, Karin. But you're wrong about the war. I think it's stupid and anyone who would get sucked into fighting is either incredibly stupid or incredibly naive . . . or just maybe unlucky. But I'll tell you this, and you can think what you like, I hope it doesn't end before I can get over and photograph it."

     "So what you believe in is photography," Karin pursued.

     "That and sex, drugs, and rock and roll," he came back, trying to regain his balance.

     May decided to help him. "Don't even try to figure Sam, K, he moves too fast, you know that."

     "Sometimes I don't like the way he moves at all," Karin said, rising from the table so fast a stainless bowl clattered to the floor, spilling spaghetti. Nobody moved to pick it up. In the silence, they could hear the splashing from the bathroom.

     Sam ignored it. "I don't know what's going on with you, Karin," he finally said, his jaw set. "You've been bitching at me all night, for no good reason that I can see. Is it the wrong time of month or something? Or is this what marriage is going to do to you?"

     Karin stared at him and, to everyone's amazement, burst into tears.

May knew Karin's bedtime ritual: She would pull on a flannel nightgown, wash her face, and then rub it with a clean, lemon-smelling creme. She would do a few situps, brush her hair and plump her pillows and prepare to read for an hour or so, however long it took
to make her sleepy. May listened, and when she knew Karin was in bed knocked on her door.

     "Time to talk, luv," she said with what she hoped passed for a cockney accent.

     Karin grinned. "Sam was right. I was being bitchy. I don't know why."

     "Don't you?"

     "Well . . . yes . . . at least I have an idea . . ."

     "Tell me."

     May settled in at the foot of the bed, while Karin sat up straight, clasped her hands together, and began to talk.

     "It's so odd, May. I went over to the house this morning and let myself in. It's the housekeeper's day off and no one was there. It was the first time I'd been in the house alone, and it was just very . . ." the words came out slowly . . . "lovely. Peaceful. I felt so content, so calm. For a long time I just stood there and looked and loved the way it made me feel. Safe. I guess that was part of it, peaceful and safe and substantial, sort of. The way Philip makes me feel.

     "Everything was in perfect order, except that Thea had left a pink sweater hanging on the back of the chair next to the phone. I can't tell you why, but it seemed almost heartbreakingly sweet to me— that crumpled little sweater. Then I went upstairs, into the master bedroom. Philip had asked me to pick up a package for him—but the package turned out to be a present for me. One of those big brown and white I. Magnin boxes was in the middle of the bed, and he'd left a note." She paused, sighed, attempted a smile.

     "I guess I expected some sort of designer dress, something like that. But it was a pair of grey wool slacks, a matching cashmere sweater, and a paisley Liberty silk scarf."