Hers the Kingdom (72 page)

     Ours was a lively house. Visitors came and went so that the guest rooms seemed always to be occupied. Kit collected friends as easily as Porter collected stamps and marbles and bits of string,
not to mention subscriptions to magazines I scarcely knew existed. Porter got on well with his classmates. He might even have been popular had it interested him. Since it didn't, Kit remained his only close friend. There were times when I worried that his course of action limited hers. It was not a major worry, however, since Kit seemed perfectly happy in the company of the boy she believed to be her twin. They gave me little enough to worry about, the two of them—and unbounded pleasure. Riffling through the pages of my journal, I remember all the good times. It was a happy time for them as well.

     
February 6, 1913:
Kit came from school today glowing with pride. Her marine zoology exhibit has taken first honors in the All City Science Exposition. The notation on the prize said: "Seldom do we see such sophisticated scholarship in the fourth form."

     "My teacher asked if I had help from my family," Kit told me, "I said my brother Thad used to teach me about sea life, but that he left."

     Porter, who had been listening, quickly put in, "Did you say he ran away?"

     Kit shook her head. Her eyes were so wide, so questioning, that suddenly it became clear to me how sadly confusing Thad's disappearance has been to them. With a wrench, I remembered Thad's confession about Rose, how he had thought that he might be responsible for her death. Could either Kit or Porter be thinking such thoughts about Thad's leaving? I sat them both down and tried to explain. I know they are too young to understand, but I had to try. There is so much we cannot know about the minds of children.

     
March 23, 1918: The United States vs. Willa Kerr Reade
was decided today. Willa claimed a victory over the federal government. The court dismissed the complaint—which was that by putting up gates and fences on the Malibu she was in violation of acts of Congress for "enclosing public lands." It was that old notion of "implied right of way" rearing its head again. The court found, and
I quote, that the gates and fences were a "reasonable and proper and appropriate" way of protecting her land from encroachment.

     Willa, of course, is ecstatic. Privately, Joseph is not. I am sure that he felt a defeat this time would force Willa to come to terms with the settlers. And it's not only the settlers that want free passage into the Malibu. The county is proceeding to improve the road between Santa Monica and the eastern boundary of the ranch. Once that road is finished the townsfolk are going to clamor to get inside. They seem to feel that the Malibu beaches are more beautiful than anything to the south. By making it a mystery, Willa has succeeded in whetting the public appetite for access to the Malibu's natural beauty.

     I went to the courthouse with Arcadia and Willa. We saw Jacob Shurz there. I must wonder at the tenacity of the man. From the looks of him, he could have chewed us all up and spit us out. He is, I think, every bit as stubborn as Willa.

     The twins joined us at the Plaza for a victory luncheon. I made sure Porter sat at the far end of the table, away from Willa. His questions only irritate her. I wish he didn't insist on so many details. Joseph, bless him, knows just how to deal with Porter. Willa does not.

     
April 14, 1913:
Sleepless nights, with no good reason. The back pains, yes . . . but they have always been there. I waken at three each night, the loneliest hour of all. I waken and lie there and miss Soong. Last night he was so close I wanted to reach for him. That is when the idea that I could never see him again assaults me. I don't want to think it.

     To ease the fear I attempted to write Soong. "We mark the twins' growth on the doorframe of the passageway by the pantry. Porter has added two full inches since you left. You asked that I write you about their schoolwork. Kit's marks are evenly excellent. Porter's, as you might expect, tend to the extremes. Whatever he feels is of interest he does well in. If he feels a subject has no value, he ignores it. I had thought he would not be
in the least interested in the physical culture program at school, but once again our son surprised me. He is running on the relay team and plays field hockey. And of course, he does these things well. . ."

     I stopped writing. For some reason I could not fathom, it seemed certain to me that Soong would not read the words I had set to paper and I could not go on.

     
June 23, 1913:
This letter arrived yesterday from Soong, it was dated April 14. "My Lena," he began, "I must write to you today because I am having a difficult time imagining myself with you on the Malibu. This world—the sights, the smells, even the way people speak to each other, is so different from what we knew together that at times I must shake myself to know that you exist. You and Porter and Kit, my loved ones, in a house in Los Angeles. I must tell myself over and over again that it is a real place, that you breathe and talk and sing and laugh.

     "It is warm now, and I am glad. The winter was long and cold and I thought it would never end. I long for you . . . you must feel it. At times I am overcome with such a need that I reach out for you. You must know. The work I do here tries my patience. There are times when I despair, and it is always at that lowest moment that I meet someone who renews my hope.

     "Such is the case with my young friend Sung Chiao-jen. He is wonderfully bright and witty and totally dedicated. He is able as well, which makes him unique among Sun Yat-sen's followers, who tend to be either adventurers or idealists. Sung is able as so many others are not to rise above the old ways, the personal ambitions. He makes me believe that it is possible, after all.
It
being the transformation of a country, and the introduction of the Anglo-Saxon notion of personal freedom, of individualism. "In China, loyalty has always been given a monarch, a person. People are poor and ignorant and the task of educating them is enormous. Yet it must be done, if we are to create a republic. My friend Sung says it is possible. Watching him in action one can almost believe. He has
molded a new party which promises to be the vehicle we need. It is called the Kuomintang.

     "Those of us who follow Sun have been educated outside of China, the majority in Japan. (Sun and I are among the few who have experience in the Western world—he in Hawaii and Europe.) Sun toys with a few socialistic ideas, most notably Henry George's land reform—but he is by no means a Marxist.

     "Sometimes I go with him when he speaks, and I must work not to smile when he shouts out to a gathering of peasants, 'I am a coolie and the son of a coolie. I was born with the poor and I am still poor. My sympathies have always been with the struggling mass.' It is very good rhetoric, even if it is not accurate. Sun comes from the peasant class, that is true enough, but his father became a village elder and Sun himself has been educated as a surgeon. I only wish he had been trained as an administrator or even a soldier. The revolution was, in retrospect, comparatively easy. The hard part is upon us now. The coalition that gave us victory was united, I fear, only in its opposition to the Manchus. Now we must try to create a government. The difficult times begin. I will write as often as I can."

     His letters ended, always, with endearments that I would read over and over again, basking in the warmth they created in me.

     
August 18, 1913:
Yesterday I received, from Homer Lea himself, this hurried note from Soong. "Darling Lena," he began, "forgive the haste, but I must go into hiding and I am not at all sure when I will be able to get another message to you. My channels to the outside world are closing.

     "Events demand that I write, and I cannot go into a long explanation, not now. Suffice it to say that for the past weeks I have worked closely with my friend Sung Chiao-jen to create a viable National People's Party, which we call the Kuomin-tang. Sung did his work well; too well. He has been assassinated on order of the new provisional president, the head of the New Army, who has taken Sun's place. We run for our lives now. Intrigues
abound. Know that I love you. It is the only certain thing in my life."

     
August 25, 1913:
Invariably, I wake each morning at three and lie thinking of Soong. Where is he? What is he doing? Above all, is he safe? Willa has sent Trinidad to stay with us while she goes East in yet another attempt to find Thad. Lost sons, lost lovers. No. If Soong is alive he is not lost to me, not in the way I fear Thad is lost. It is so awful, the not knowing.

     
September 22, 1913:
I rented a car and a driver and took the children to the Arcade station to meet Willa. Her journey has ended in disappointment once more. The news she did bring was cruel. One of the investigators put on Thad's trail had discovered that Pablo was killed in a knife fight in Oaxaca four months ago. Willa must tell Trinidad. She looked so worn and despondent that I pleaded with her to stay with us for a day at least. She cannot. Trinidad must know. We did not speak of Thad, or of Soong. Talking does not ease the empty ache.

     On the ride, Kit sat close to her mother and held her hand. She is a thoughtful child, seeming always to sense how others feel. My thoughts were with another child. In my mind's eye I could see Pablo on the day of the great fire, weeping because he could not save his friend's pet.

     
December 22, 1913, the Malibu:
We have come to the ranch to spend the holidays. Sara, Joseph, and Arcadia will arrive on Wednesday for Christmas Eve. Aleja, we have discovered, has a talent for decorating and she has transformed the house into a wonderland, with pine boughs and red berries and baskets of oranges and nuts everywhere. We are to have a tree-trimming party tonight for the children, which includes two of Trinidad's grandchildren. Her tribe increases, and gives her comfort.

     Philip is here. He seems so much a part of the household now. Willa tells me that Governor Johnson has asked Philip to accept an appointment to the bench. Philip a judge! He is considering it, Willa says. She is determined that he should take it. Philip teases her that it is only so he may then use his influence to seal off the
Malibu. Trinidad told me that she heard Philip say to Willa that he would take the judgeship if she would marry him.

     Willa has been tracking two peregrine falcons. She has stalked for thirty days, running, going off on horseback each morning. Often she tethers her horse and follows the falcons on foot.

     I have never seen her so intensely involved with raptors as she is now. On the day of our arrival she came in, trailing cold air and with bits of leaves tangled in her hair, in a state of high excitement. The tiercel had allowed her to watch him—in the open—from a distance of no more than thirty yards.

     Breathless, she recounted the adventure: "He had just taken a gull and was perched in a tree on the edge of a pasture, ripping the bird apart and glaring at me. I just stood still, absolutely still, and stared back. Those eyes! They are great, monstrous things. Then it happened—he flew at me and hovered over me as if to attack . . . I thought the sound of my heart beating would frighten him off. But I didn't move, I didn't even raise my arm to protect myself. I just stood there staring into those great, globular, fiendish eyes—Lord, I know now why the prey turns its head to the hawk before it snaps the necks . . . you can't resist those eyes . . ."

     Porter, mesmerized by the account, said, "And did he attack?"

     Willa laughed, and the color in her cheeks seemed to glow. "No. But he flew to me twice more after that, and he gave me a very good looking over. He is curious about me. He wonders what I am."

     "Maybe he thinks you are a hawk," Porter suggested.

     "Maybe he does," Willa agreed. "At least, part hawk."

     Kit put in, "Would you rather be the hawk or the prey?"

     Willa did not hesitate. "The hawk, of course. Even though it is harder to be a hawk. They must kill to live . . . if they don't, they soon become too weak to hunt. And they can never really rest—even when they sleep, they must be aware of the movement about them, the shifting patterns of the light. Everything."

     "I think I'd rather be a bunny, or a field mouse," Kit answered, "they can live on greens, and never grow hungry."

     "But bunnies can't soar, darling," Willa answered. "Think how it must feel to glide high in the sky . . ."

     "Before you turn into a hawk woman," Philip interrupted in his lazy, joking way, "I think I might point out the possibility that your falcon is using you quite efficiently. Isn't it likely that, earthbound as you are, you are flushing prey for him?"

     Willa gave Philip a haughty smile, at the same time rumpling Kit's hair affectionately. "Come on, little field mousie," she said to her daughter, "come keep me company while I take a hot bath."

     
February 2, 1914:
Last evening at a quarter past seven Homer Lea appeared at the kitchen door of the townhouse, frightening our cook, Manuela, out of her wits. She sent several pans clattering to the floor, which brought me to investigate.

     "Homer," I said, genuinely delighted, "I thought you were in China." Before he could speak, I saw the letter he was carrying and I knew it was from Soong.

     "I am safe," my dearest wrote, "in Saigon, where the French government suffers our presence, for now. In mid-April I must be in Hawaii. If it is possible, I would be happy beyond words if you could meet me there, and happier still if the children were able to come, too. Trust Homer or his agent with your reply. I pray, my love, that you are well, that the children grow and are strong, and that you will find a way to come to me."

     I suppose I was laughing and crying at the same time, for Homer and Manuela were beaming at me and clapping their hands together silently. All I could think to do was to clap my hands together, too.
God in Heaven
, I said,
Thank You.