Hers the Kingdom (31 page)

     It was a peaceful afternoon. With Wen busy on the far side of the garden, Soong worked in silence for a long time. Then he said, "Allow me to point out to you that the opium trade flourishes not only in my homeland, but in yours, too. You must have known, when you visited the opium palace in San Francisco, that it is not within the law. But here, as in China, the selling of opium is a ready way for men to make a quick fortune—it is true in Los Angeles, as well." He paused, looked at me, noted that Wen was out of earshot and said, "The smuggling of opium, in fact, is done right here on the ranch. One of the common places for boats to drop caches is at a cove near Point Dume."

     I looked at him in disbelief. "Do you know what you are saying?" I asked, but even as I said it I knew it was true. "But how?" I wanted to know, "And who? And however do you know this?"

     Now Soong was looking at me with amusement. "I do not know who. How is somewhat obvious: The trader makes arrangements well in advance for someone to be at the cove at a certain time. The smuggler waits, pays for the opium in gold, delivers it to those in Los Angeles' Chinatown for a large profit. As to how I know—it is common knowledge, if one listens, watches. People tell me things. I do not denounce those who take the opium pipe. It helps some of the elders to dream of the old country, the old ways. It helps them to live this life, in a land where they are generally hated and scorned. It makes their existence bearable, perhaps . . . the old men we cannot denounce, they have little else to live for." It was a long speech for Soong. I wanted to say something, to answer him, but I feared breaking the silence, lest I break the new confidence that was between us. Soong trusted me . . . he trusted
me.

     After a time I said, "Do you suppose Owen knows about the smugglers?"

     "I'm sure he does," Soong answered, "just as I am sure he disapproves. I'm afraid there is little he can do to stop it. People
drift in and out of the ranch and are never seen . . . just as Mrs. Reade roams wide in the hills and canyons."

     His face did not change expression, his hands continued to work. It could have been a passing reference, but it wasn't. He knew. Wing Soong knew, but he—like me—would say nothing. I was certain of it. Soong was a sharer of secrets.

We resumed the pattern of our lives as if nothing had changed. Each morning I was at my desk when I heard Connor rap at the doorway of the front parlor. I heard my sister call him to come in, and I heard the soft urgency of their voices and the undercurrent of familiarity. Their intimacy was so obvious that I became nervous when anyone saw them together. And yet, no one seemed to notice. Finally I realized that Connor and Willa were, indeed, being circumspect. They took no chances. I never saw them touch. While, in my absence, Willa had allowed the household staff to become lax, Connor had done no such thing in the running of the ranch. It sometimes seemed as if he didn't sleep. He was up and about before anyone else, he seemed to know everything that was happening with the men and the animals. Everything about the barns was in good order. There could be no complaint about Connor's work. If he disappeared for a time each afternoon, during the lull when most of the men took a siesta, he left nothing undone.

The month of May came to an end. June arrived, bright and clear, perfect summer weather, the ocean calm and the waves high. Willa left early one morning packing a lunch and her notebooks in her saddlebags. She planned to be gone all day, she said.

     Thad insisted on riding one of the Shetland ponies, so I took him to the barn.

     "Hey, Ned," I called to the Lattimore boy, "Connor promised to saddle up Bessie for Thad, here."

     "Sure did," Ned drawled in his slow Kentucky way, "asked me to take care of it for him—he had to go north up Trancos way to check on the herd."

     They would be together, then. It was easy enough to imagine them on such a day, riding along the top of the mesa at Point Dume, their horses in the deep grasses that blew, high above the ocean.

     It was a day that Willa would remember, and share—though the sharing would be a long time coming.

     Connor found the herd and made a careful count. "They're all here, I'm glad for that," he told her.

     "Were you worried about rustlers?" Willa wanted to know. "Did you believe Jose Lopez, then?"

     "I wasn't sure," Connor answered. "There has been some bad business going on, and drifters have been seen lately heading north. But whatever they were up to, they didn't disturb the herd."

     Willa was looking at him with an amused smile.

     "Is that why you wore your gun?" she asked.

     He grinned. "I always wear my gun, girl, you just haven't noticed."

     "Oh, I always notice what you wear," she laughed, standing in her stirrups and leaning far out of her saddle to put her face to his. She could not be with him and not want to touch him. She had never felt such a need before, ever. It was as if she were complete when he was holding her, stroking her neck and her back, caressing . . . his voice soft and lyrical, all the old accents of his childhood ringing in her ears—the private voice, the voice no one else heard from him.

     They lay on the grass that day and they talked. All the long afternoon they spoke of the past and of the present; they never touched on the future. They were living a life apart, only the two of them in a world of woods and sand, with the expanse of the sky and the ocean before them, limitless, mocking their limitations. They knew it would end; knowing, Willa chose to forget.

     As they lay looking up at the sky, listening to the sounds of the sea below, Willa asked, "Were you reared in a Catholic home, then?" as if she had been speaking of religion.

     "To be sure," Connor had answered, "to mass every Sabbath, and confession every morning. Good Catholics, for certain."

     "You believe in mortal sin, then?" she went on.

     "Aye, of course, that," he answered, eyes mocking.

     "If we've committed a mortal sin, do you believe your soul will be deprived of divine grace?"

     Connor began to laugh; he put his arms around her and rolled over and over until her hair was tangled with bits of grass. "My darling Willa," he finally whispered, "you are divine grace, this is heaven."

     He made love to her, then, slowly, with great care. Sea birds circled above them, calling. Finally he lay back, and she raised herself on one arm to look at him.

     "Whenever I need to remember what happiness is, I will remember this day, now," she said.

     He reached to wind a strand of her hair on his finger. "You said 'remember'—are we but making memories?"

     Willa looked away. She was not ready to talk about the end, not yet.

     On the return trip they stopped at Paradise Cove. Willa rode ahead, rode all the way to the secluded beach, where she tethered her horse and began, without looking back, to undress. Connor watched. She walked into the water and began to swim, not thinking of where she was going, moving with that hard, strong stroke. After a time he must have started to worry because, when finally she did look back, she saw him swimming toward her.

     She went to meet him. For a sustained time they swam toward each other, one as strong as the other, two figures coming together in the ocean. They met. She held hard to him, body against body. She grasped him hard about the waist and they sank beneath the surface. If she held him with enough strength, she thought, she
could feel his pain and he could feel hers. They surfaced, gasped for breath, turned and moved then, side by side, toward the shore. They pulled themselves out of the water and sank on a grassy ledge to lie motionless.

     Perhaps they slept in the late afternoon sun. Then she was on top of him, her knees dug into his sides, taking him with a determined violence. It took all of his strength to hold her, to meet her. When she was through, when she was spent, he comforted her—not feeling yet the pain from the long scratches she had made in his back, the tears her teeth had made in his shoulder.

On the first weekend in June, at my continued urging, Willa agreed that we could invite Charles and Sara, Arcadia and her Joseph to the ranch. We had yet to meet Joseph, having declined several invitations to come into Santa Monica for that purpose. I knew why Willa was loath to leave or to have guests. I also knew that we must.

     Wen and Thad, grateful for a break in the summer monotony, waited on the verandah to announce the arrival. We could see them in Charles' new closed brougham as they crossed the beach road, see the driver put the whip to the team as they turned toward the ranch. It was not until they drew up by the fountain—turned on for the occasion of their arrival—that I saw the fifth passenger. Charles helped Helen Emory out of the coach. She smiled, it seemed to me then, in triumph.

     Without Joseph Brennan, that day would have been a disaster. A big, bluff young fellow with red cheeks and a good nature, it was impossible not to like him.

     "You are right, Arcadia," Willa said, all the while looking at Joseph. "He
is
perfect for you." At which Joseph began to sputter and fluster, until Arcadia patted his arm and told him not to mind, that Willa could be counted on to be bold.

     "I do think that Western women are
different
from Eastern women," Joseph rallied. "Fascinating, simply fascinating."

     "Of course we are," Helen said in that insinuating voice of hers. "Western women are singular, Mr. Brennan. That is why we came West, actually, don't you think so, Willa?"

     "Of course," Willa answered, flinging her arms in the old way, "
Ultima thule!
To the farthest point! That was my motto as a girl."

     "And have you found what you wanted in the Golden State?" Charles asked.

     Willa considered him for a moment; then she said, "Yes I have, Charles. I most certainly have."

     She was being utterly honest. I thought of Owen, and I wanted to cry.

     We picnicked on the beach that day for the first time since my return from San Francisco. Charles seldom strayed from Helen's side. She sat under a parasol, careful to keep the sun from her ruddy complexion. Sara and Arcadia and Joseph romped with the boys at the edge of the water, helping them build a long slide in which to send tumbling a turtle they had found. Willa moved among our guests, chatting with each in turn, but it was, I could tell, an effort.

     We stayed until the sun sent long shadows on the beach. As we were gathering our umbrellas and beach chairs, a lone horseman appeared on the beach road, making his way to the ranch. I had but to glance at Willa to know it was Connor, and I could see by her face that she was not going to let him pass. I wanted to stop her, to warn her, but I could not think of a way.

     My mind flashed to another time, to words that had been said:
Mama had married the hired hand.
Willa could not let him pass, could not have him dismissed. She would not do that to Connor, even when she knew that it was dangerous to do anything else.

     "Mr. McCord," she shouted, waving to him. The late day's sun set a glow about him, as he walked his horse slowly toward us. I could tell he was wary. I cursed myself for not having insisted we leave earlier, as Connor must have thought we would.