Hers the Kingdom (73 page)

     
April 13, 1914:
Aboard the ocean liner
Northstar
en route to Honolulu. Tomorrow we dock. The skies are blue overhead, the ocean vast and calm, quite unlike what I feel inside. I try to imagine how it will be when I see him again.

     Porter and Kit are wildly excited. They look beautiful in their tropical whites, tall and slim ten-year-olds on their first trip to the
South Seas. Porter is an avid reader of Mr. Jack London, he often reads aloud to us from his writings.

     Sara is with us. Willa had planned to come, but at the last moment had to stay behind when the county board of supervisors granted her a chance to appear before them to plead her case against condemning land through which to run a road all the way up the coast. If she is not successful, she will have to start yet another round of costly legal appeals. Joseph has a perpetual frown when the subject arises.

     Sara has just gone to join the twins on the promenade deck. She says I am impossible to be with, and she is right. I can't seem to keep still. Every particle within me is in motion, some going in tiny circles and others bumping into each other. I want it to be tomorrow. I want this sea to end, and the islands to come into sight, and I want to see Soong.

     Sara has given me the most beautiful traveling suit of Italian linen, white with elaborate cut work and hand embroidery. It is fashioned so as to minimize my deformity. With it I shall wear my straw hat with the Chinese silk band. I shall be beautiful.

     What nonsense! I'm acting like a moonstruck girl, instead of a woman of forty-three years. I am not beautiful, but it makes no difference. None at all. I only hope Soong finds me not too changed.

     
April 15, 1914, Waikiki Beach, Oahu:
I know about Paradise now. I will write it as it happened.

     As we docked we were greeted by a procession of dark-skinned natives of these islands who lifted flower boughs over our heads. It was the most gracious welcome any of us have ever had, and it made all of us wonder what was to come. We have not been disappointed. We are to stay in a cottage on the beach, a cozy place open to the sounds of the sea. It is a different ocean here—green in color at times, at times an iridescent blue. The beaches are sparkling white; the sounds and the movement are languid. It is as if we have entered a new and beautiful world which moves at a gentler tempo. It is sweet, just to listen to the wind in the palm fronds.

     No more than an hour had passed when a Chinese appeared at our doorway and said something in French. Sara translated. If it was convenient, he said, he would return in one hour to take us to a house where "the tall one who is your friend" awaits.

     He did as he promised, returning with an open, horse-drawn carriage in which we made our way through the narrow streets of Honolulu, into the Chinese quarter. We turned down a street so narrow there was room only for our carriage. I was wondering whatever we would do if we met another vehicle coming the other way, when suddenly we stopped. I saw nothing but high walls on one side, and what appeared to be a vacant warehouse on the other. Nonetheless, the man motioned us out of the carriage and we did as we were told. I had not noticed a small gate in the high wall. This he opened, and we followed him through it.

     Magically, it seemed, we were in a beautiful garden, alive with the exotic blooms of the islands—red and white hibiscus and orchids, and the sweet-smelling plumeria.

     He was standing at the far end of this garden: Soong.

     Porter was striding toward him, Kit trailing behind.

     "Wing Soong," Porter said excitedly, "it really is you!"

     I saw the father look at his son. I saw his eyes shining with love and pride. And then Soong's eyes found mine, and the world was whole again.

     Sara, beside me, was weeping. I turned to her, embraced her, and kissed her on one cheek, then the other. "It is all right now," I told her, feeling the calm permeate, "everything is right now."

     Soong said to Kit, "What is it, little one? Why are you shy with your old friend?"

     And Kit answered, timidly, "Excuse me. It's just that you seem . . . different."

     A great pride welled in me then, because it was true. Soong, tall and stately in his simple gray cotton uniform, was clearly a man of substance, an important person. Wing Soong had not changed, only the way the world considered him had.

     And then we were alone in the garden, Soong and I, and I was where in my dreams I had longed to be—in his arms, touching his face, feeling the weight of his mouth on mine.

     We are to have one week together. It is arranged. My body hungers for him. I understand something now that I did not know before. When our bodies join, in that instant when we are most totally one, his body answers mine and we are reaffirmed. It is, I know now, different from the kind of understanding known by a man and a woman who spend the whole of their lives together, sharing a bed each night. When our bodies join, we understand that which is beyond words. Our bodies say what is true. That life is, at best, an exquisite blending. That good is possible. When our bodies are together, I know this without reservation. I understand that truth that cannot be explained.

     We will lie together today, and tomorrow, and then again for all of one holy week, one week when we are whole. And it will be enough.

July 5, 1915, San Francisco:
The twins and I are spending part of our summer vacation with Sara in her new
petit palais
on California Street, almost directly across from Phineas Emory's old mansion, the one that was destroyed in the great 1906 earthquake and fire. Sara brought an architect from New York to design her little mansion, now the talk of the town, with its wonderful french doors, etched glass, and graceful ironwork. It looks out onto a marvelous little park. Not only will we go to the theater while we are here, but we will also see Sara's new showing of paintings at the gallery in the City of Paris.

     Porter has embarked on a series of mail-order self-improvement courses. He rises at five each morning and does such a thumping set of exercises that he literally rocks the house. Later, we must all serve as his audience as he orates in the manner of a chautauqua
Bible-circuit lecturer.

     "One thing about Porter," Sara said with remarkably good humor, "when he has a passion, it is a first-rate passion."

     Our visit has been marred for me by something that Sara has told me. Confessed is a better word to use, in truth. It has caused me concern.

     "Some weeks ago," she began awkwardly, "Connor McCord paid me a visit. He is building an estate south of the city—a great manor house and gardens—which he calls Wildwood. He asked me to select the paintings and tapestries that are to hang there. He asked, too, that I include a number of my own works.

     "We went together to the gallery where I store my larger oil paintings, and began in a relaxed way to look through them. To be truthful, I didn't pay much attention when Connor strayed to another set of paintings. He began looking through them, and all of a sudden he called out to me. He had come upon . . ."

     ". . . the portrait of Rose," I finished for her.

     Sara nodded, solemnly.

     "I tried to turn him away from it, but he wouldn't be turned. He just couldn't stop staring at the portrait."

     "Who is she?" Connor asked. "Is her name Rose?"

     Sara said yes. Only that, but something about the way she said it made Connor look up and study her face.

     "Why do you keep it here, packed away?" he wanted to know.

     "Because it is a flagrant copy of my teacher's style," Sara said forcefully, "it is embarrassing, and I won't have it seen, for that reason."

     Connor carefully put the portrait back, walked a few steps to the window, and painstakingly began to take the wrappers from a cigar. He concentrated on this task for several minutes, never once looking at Sara. She waited, feeling a rising sense of panic.

     "I want it," Connor finally said.

     "It's not for sale," Sara told him.

     "Why not?"

     "I told you, my professional reputation is at stake."

     She had to make him believe her.

     "If you let me have it, I won't show it. I'll hang it in my bedchambers. This bonny lassie will be all mine, then, and I needn't worry about sharing her with the world."

     "Those words impaled me," Sara explained, her eyes huge and dark. "He said, 'this bonny lassie,'. . . Lena, she
was
his . . . I didn't know what to do. I told him I could not sell it, but that he might keep it for a time, if he promised me it would never be shown."

     "And what did he say?" I asked.

     "He said that it would be in his bedroom. And when I said I didn't know who might occupy his bed besides himself, he said no one, at least not that particular chamber. He said I had his word."

     "And you take his word?" I asked.

     "Yes I do," she answered. "I'm sorry, but you have to know this—I have reason to trust Connor."

     I bit my lip and nodded. I did not ask her reason. It was not that I objected to his seeing the portrait. It was more that it seemed, somehow, dangerous to raise those old, painful memories. I wanted to forget them. Rose was dead, Owen was dead. It was done with, that time. There was something disturbing about the idea of Connor sleeping with the image of Rose there . . . that portrait that so caught her charm, her magic.

     The portrait I still could not bring myself to look at.

     
January 10, 1916:
We had intended to spend yesterday at the ranch, but returned home early when Porter managed to anger Willa thoroughly by suggesting that she has no right at all to refuse the settlers the right to cross the ranch. I must admit that Porter can be exasperating, but Willa entirely lost her temper.

     "He is only twelve years old," I tried to remind her.

     "He talks as self-righteously as a twenty-year-old," she shot back.

     "He's only a boy, Willa," I tried again, then—my ire aroused—added, "and I am wondering why it is that you can't allow any of us to disagree with you? Must we all think you are right all of the time?"

     She blinked and for a moment it seemed as if the starch had gone out of her. Then she straightened and said, "Sometimes I get the feeling you are all against me. I have to fight every day to keep this ranch . . . every day of my life."

     "You're not a hawk, Willa," I snapped. I haven't the vaguest notion why I said that.

     
July 24, 1916, San Francisco:
I must record this while it is fresh in my mind, though I am shaking still with fear, thinking how close we came to disaster.

     We are visiting with Sara, and of course nothing would do but that we attend the Preparedness Day parade on Saturday. Porter has announced his opposition to our entering the war in Europe, as have the labor leaders. They don't believe that Americans should fight in Europe for a war created, according to Porter, by the merchant and capitalist classes. I find myself in the peculiar position of trying to keep abreast of the news in order to be able to argue reasonably with my twelve-year-old son. The irony of this does not escape me.

     Sara agreed that we should go to the parade. She thought it might also be enjoyable to go to the reception in the city offices afterward, and meet Mayor Rolph and Governor Johnson, who will ride in the parade. Philip has arranged invitations, having worked closely with the governor for many years. We decided to find ourselves a suitable place from which to view the parade, and settled on Market Street near the Embarcadero.

     I've always loved a parade, though I must admit to feeling a bit ashamed at enjoying one that was in support of our entering the war. We placed ourselves close to the curb. The crowd was jolly enough as we waited for the parade to pass our way. Then I noticed a group of men carrying placards, and a rough cry came up from them.

     It all happened so quickly.

     One moment we were standing about, waiting. Then there was an awful noise—then smoke and the smell of cordite . . . and such awful screams and cries . . . terrible cries.

     I stood there, stunned, pulling Kit close. Her face was white, her eyes filled with fear. Everybody started running this way and that, shouting and crying. The crowd surged, pressed in on us . . . Then someone near to us lifted me off the ground. I looked. I could not believe . . .

     The children, Sara, and I were pulled into an alleyway where we were quickly pushed into a touring car. The driver was instructed to get us out quickly.

     "Who was that?" Kit whispered.

     "A friend," Sara said.

     "Connor McCord," I heard myself say. "His name is Connor McCord."

     "Connor McCord," Kit repeated, as if to remember.

     Then I looked at my son, who sat staring out of the window—his hands splayed against the glass, as if to understand what it was that had happened to us in those few chaotic, awful moments.