Hers the Kingdom (30 page)

I returned in the early afternoon, riding up the beach in full sun, squinting as the light glittered on the ocean and glared under my hatbrim. It had been more than two weeks since my departure, and never had I been more excited about a homecoming. The past weeks had been the most adventurous of my life, and I could scarcely wait to spill it all out, to regale Willa and Connor with stories of Sara and her artistic friends cavorting all over wicked San Francisco with me in tow. I urged my horse to a trot, feeling the jarring to my spine but too excited to give in to the pain. I had a small packet of letters with me, including two from Owen, which I had picked up in Santa Monica, and my saddlebags were filled with presents. I had even managed to find several Chinese-language newspapers for Wing Soong, the cause of one of my adventures in Chinatown.

     The dogs set up their usual barking when I reached the gatehouse. "Hush, you silly thing," I laughed at the St. Bernard, "are you blind? Can't you see it's me?" The noise was enough to alert the household, but no one came to meet me. Strange, I thought. Somehow I had expected Willa to forego hawking on the day of my return. I chided myself. After all, I had been gone but a short time, I should not expect anyone to make a fuss over my return.

     One of the Mexican boys was making a desultory attempt at watering the roses. I called to him to take my horse. The house seemed empty. I paused in the parlor and noticed the remnant of a magnolia blossom in a vase. Most of the creamy white leaves had turned brown and were lying, scattered, on the table top.

     "Hello," I called. No one answered.

     As I moved through the hallway I noticed a small stool turned upside down. Putting down my satchel, I walked into the room to right the stool and tried to think what was changed.

     In the kitchen—Trinidad's pride and always spotless—a stream of ants formed a double line on the floor, swarming over bits of food that had been dropped and left.

     "Espiritu!" I called, "Rosa! Luz!"

     Rosa appeared in the doorway, a coarse girl in a dirty apron. The sight of her infuriated me.

     "Look at this kitchen," I lashed out, "Trinidad would send you away for this.
No me gusta! No me gusta!
" I could not seem to put my fury into Spanish. The girl only stood there, the large toe of one foot making circles in the dusty floor. "Get busy," I all but screamed, "clean this place,
pronto
."

     "Ah, Señorita . . ." she began to protest and I cut her short. "Now," I said. "
Comprende?
Now."

     The others were hanging back, waiting for my wrath to descend on them, too, and I obliged them. At the same time, I was beginning to understand. I had taken them by surprise, they did not know I was to return today. I wondered if Willa had forgotten.

     I found Thad sitting in a pile of dusty clay, the girl who cared for him not far away, plopped, like a large lump of paste, in the shade of a tree. She did not move, even when she saw me.

     "Auntie," Thad screamed, his dirty little face all smiles. He threw his arms around me and hugged me. I bent to hug him back with mixed feelings, my delight at seeing him balanced by my chagrin at his appearance. His hair smelled sour, his clothes were
encrusted with dried dirt as if he had wet his pants and they had not been changed.

     "Get up," I hissed at the girl, with enough malevolence to put real alarm in her face. "Take this child to the bath house and clean him. Then I want to speak to you." She could tell that she was not going to like what I had to say. I bent to touch Thad's cheek, smiling so he would know my anger was not for him. "Sweet potato," I said to him, "I have presents for you—and you'll get them just as soon as I see a pretty, clean face smiling at me."

     I found Wen in the garden with Wing Soong. The sight of them, bending over the vegetables, made me feel calmer.

     "How good that you are returned safely," Wing Soong said, smiling at Wen, who was, by then, hugging me hard about the waist, his eyes closed tight.

     Stroking the boy's hair I answered, "It's good to be back, but I fear . . ." I didn't finish the sentence, realizing that I didn't know what it was that I did fear. Instead, I changed directions. "Oh, but I've brought you something from San Francisco," I said. "I found several Chinese-language papers and if the translator answered my questions correctly, there should be news of your homeland in them. Later, not now, I will tell you how I happened to get the papers." I knew Soong would be pleased at my efforts but I had not expected the extent of his pleasure.

     "How very, very kind of you," he said, not once but twice. "I cannot say how grateful I am that you would make such an effort on my account." He seemed not to be able to thank me enough, and I began to feel awkward.

     "It is little enough for the kindness you show Wen. Since his papa forbade him to play with other boys, he has been lonely . . . I can see I needn't have worried, about Wen at least."

     He gave me a quick, searching look, then returned to his methodical weeding, his long, smooth fingers pulling each errant weed by the root with artistic care.

     "When is Mr. Reade expected to return, if I may ask?"' he said.

     "I'm not sure," I answered, "I have two letters from him but I suppose my sister is out hawking, so we won't know anything until she returns."

     "Mama's always hawking," Wen interrupted. "She has been out every day even on the Sabbath."

     "Oh, Wennie," I told him, "you exaggerate."

     But Wen did not exaggerate; Willa had been away, that was evident. Something had changed. When I saw Willa and Connor together that night, at supper, I knew what it was. The balance was gone. They tried very hard not to make it seem so, they wanted to hear all about my trip, they listened attentively to all I had to say. Yet they were watching me, too. Waiting and watching, to see what I would do. All of the excitement I had felt at coming home was gone. I had not wanted this to happen, and the dread was settling heavy in my chest. (Could I have stopped it? Had I stayed at home, would we still be three, and safe?)

     "Sara surprised me completely," I heard myself chatter, "she has the most remarkable circle of friends, as it happens. They call themselves artists and it may be that they are—certainly they can afford to be. But from what I can see, much of their time and energy is spent in quite outlandish pursuits."

     "Tell us!" Willa pleaded, her eyes shining. I wanted to scream "Don't, don't do this, Willa, don't. It's dangerous, don't you see that?"

     Instead I said, "I'll give you one example. Sara's friend Lily— Lily Coit—would seem to be a perfectly proper young woman who has the odd habit of chasing fires. There is one fire company in the city that has, well, adopted her—they gave her a fireman's hat and a coat and she spends a lot of her time just following them to fires. Can you imagine? Anyway, when I mentioned to Lily that I wanted to collect some Chinese-language newspapers to bring back to our gardener—did you know that he is very interested in the political situation in China?—well, Lily says there is nothing to do but make a raid on Chinatown. A raid!
Sara told me later that Lily dresses up like a man, hat and all, and parades around at night. It's quite a scandal, I guess. At any rate, we did get a group together, with three men along for protection, and saw what Lily assured me was 'the inner life' of Chinatown. It was amazing."

     "Our Sara is a surprise," Willa laughed. "How perfectly wonderful."

     "Well, perhaps not
wonderful
," Connor surprised us by saying, "but you are back, safe and sound, so all is well."

     "Do I detect a bit of disapproval?" Willa chided him.

     "Only a bit," Connor said, smiling at me, "only a very little bit. Chinatowns can be rough places."

     "Yes," I answered quickly, "I'm sure you are right. It was a foolish thing to do. I know Owen would not have approved of my being part of the group—it was not only dangerous but . . ."

     "Sinful?" Willa said, and the word echoed throughout the room.

     "I suppose," I answered as if tired of the subject. "I'm afraid that the long trip has suddenly exhausted me. I really am quite tired, would you excuse me?" Connor began to rise and I said no, don't get up, finish your dinner, do. I had to leave.

     In perhaps half an hour, Willa rapped at my door as I knew she would. I had been lying there, waiting, dreading her knock.

     "Are you terribly tired, dear?" she asked, her face full of concern, soft and loving, and I thought I could not bear to see it.

     "Very," I answered, making my voice as small and weak as I could.

     She took my hand and held it. "I should like to talk to you," she began, her voice asking me to be with her, "it's about Connor . . ."

     "Willa, please . . ." I felt myself go cold. I could not let her say what she wanted to say. "I am sorry, but I cannot, please . . ." I told her.

     For the first time in our lives together I turned away from my sister, I refused her.

     She left, closing the door without another word. A feeling of desolation seeped into me. I had never felt so alone.

Years were to pass before Willa spoke to me of that summer. We were separate during those months by choice—my choice. I saw what was happening and, powerless to stop it, tried to pretend I did not know. Instead, I took over the running of the house and the care of the children. I did Trinidad's job and much of Willa's and mine, too, and kept everyone so busy they had scant time to wonder about anything. The servants were accustomed to Willa's hawking expeditions. Perhaps they thought she was lonely for her husband. I don't know what they thought.

     Word came one day that Ignacio and Trinidad would be delayed for many weeks more, they could not be sure that they would return before the end of summer.
The end of summer.
Wen would leave then, Ignacio and Trinidad would return. I dreaded the end of summer and what it would bring.

     Owen wrote each week. His letters were filled with the minutia of his days, of business dealings and meetings with old friends and new. He had stopped by Washington to see Theodore Roosevelt, he wrote in one letter, "TR has become quite a politician since our student days. We shared experiences of our sickly youth, our love of the West, and our happy family lives." Owen returned from England early in May, but he had work that had to be done in Massachusetts. He would be back, he promised, in good time for Sara and Charles' wedding the end of June.

     With Wing Soong's help, Wen was happily occupied that summer. The child knew he was to leave the ranch. At first he had asked me, over and over again, to explain why there would be no school on the ranch, why he must be sent away, why he could no longer play with the Californio children. I tried to be patient, I tried not to let him know my own sorrow.

     "Do you want me to go?" he would ask, and while I wanted to tell him "No, no, never!" I did not. It might drive a wedge between the boy and his father, and I would not do that. Wen needed Owen.

     The child seemed always to keep me in sight. Every now and again he would creep into my bed before daybreak. I knew I should not allow it—he was getting to be a big boy, and Owen would not have approved—but I did not make him leave. There were times that summer when both Wen and Thad climbed into my bed in the early hours of the morning. I made room for them both, the stolid, solemn older boy and the fragile, intense younger one.

     We worked with Wing Soong in the family garden, Wen and I, and Soong shared the news from China with me. In his quiet, thorough way he told me of the concessions his country had given to England, to France, and to Germany. I was astonished at the depth of his knowledge, at his grasp of history, even while I felt his point of view to be prejudiced. He was full of scorn for the Western nations, for Great Britain particularly. I could not help but wonder what part his British father played in his feelings, but I dared not ask. Whatever the reason, Soong feels that Western influence has been a disaster for his mother country. Curious, whenever Soong speaks of China, it is as if he is speaking of a person, some much-loved person.

     One afternoon as he and Wen were devising a trap to catch the moles that had been ravaging our vegetables, I found myself telling Soong about my excursion into Chinatown in San Francisco with Sara's friends. "We went into the most peculiar place," I said, "an opium den, with Celestials—older men, mostly—lying about. The room was filled with this very sweet-smelling odor—why do the Chinese smoke the evil stuff?"

     "Why?" he repeated. "Because it makes their lives tolerable, perhaps. Why? Because the British and the Indian traders—and the Yankees, too—introduced it, long ago, into China and the selling of opium proved too lucrative a trade to abandon. No matter the emperor banned it. Opium put the Chinese to sleep, made them pliable, kept them in thrall to the Western nations."

     "I do not believe that," I said bluntly. "We would never be party to such an evil deed."