Hers the Kingdom (75 page)

     "Resort is what I believe Mother has in mind for the Malibu," Porter said caustically.

     "Porter!" I warned him. I pulled my horse up short of the encampment and Kit stopped with me, but Porter pushed on. We watched him, tall and lean and sure of himself, dismount and walk into the group of men. He seemed to be talking easily and then, suddenly, he wheeled, jumped onto his horse and returned to us in a state of agitation.

     "Auntie, come quickly," he ordered, and I did as he said.

     Porter lifted me from my saddle and all but carried me to a
small cluster of men. Two were standing by another, who was sitting on a log, staring at the ground. He raised his eyes as the three of us approached. I fell against Porter.

     "Dear God in heaven," I heard myself saying.

     It was Thad.

THAD HAD MADE his way home again, home to the Malibu. He did not seem to know who he was, or even where he was, but he had come back to the beaches and mountains he loved. He did not recognize us, not even Willa. After one short, heart-breaking sob she pulled herself erect and said, "He's home, that is all that matters now." It was a refrain she would repeat in the days and weeks to come, days of turmoil and weeks of despair.

     Slowly, very slowly, the facts of Thad's long odyssey began to emerge. He had volunteered for service in the AEF, American Expeditionary Force, and he had been through the dark and brutal battles of Chateau-Thierry and Belleau Wood and the Meuse-Argonne offensive. He had been gassed; his mind was a haze, his lungs weakened. In the end, when it was over at last, he had drifted with the others, the men who had fought and come home to nothing. Some of the men—those who had known him before the gas weakened his lungs and the horror, his mind—knew that he had once lived in California, by the sea. Even then, they said, he seldom spoke of his past. Now he scarcely spoke at all.

     The summer of fun and relaxation the twins had planned was no longer possible. Willa was preoccupied with Thad. We could see how tightly she was coiled and the tension affected us all. And yet, her concern had some unexpected effects. Porter, for the first time, was able to feel sympathy for Willa and he became more tolerant. And Kit—Kit in those terrible months amazed me. She moved to her mother's side, she saw what she could do and did it. She offered encouragement when it was needed, and was quiet when that was best. She never backed away, never shirked an unpleasant task. Kit grew up in those months, and I was proud of her.

     In the fall Porter went off to Washington. He asked Kit to go with him, but she wouldn't. By then she had taken over some business tasks in order to relieve Willa, who had thrown all of her energies into seeking medical help for Thad. Kit was patient and tender with her older brother. Willa thought Thad favored Kit, though I couldn't see that he favored anyone or anything. He seemed in a trance, willing to do whatever anyone told him to do. He accepted us as he had accepted his soldier friends. When they left, he registered no surprise, no emotion at all.

     For the first time in years, Willa had reason to leave the Malibu. She went off to New York and Europe to consult with psychiatrists. I urged Kit to go with her, feeling it would do her good to get away, but Willa wanted her to stay behind with Thad.

     Occasionally Kit had friends out from town, or she would go in for the weekend, to a party or a dance. But as the months passed she accepted fewer invitations. She became more and more involved with the Land Company, she seemed to be drawn into the ranch. I began to fear that she was becoming isolated.

     A year passed, then another. Willa's energies remained focused on Thad's well-being. She was convinced his mind could be cured, even if his body could not be. And Kit was becoming indispensable to her. Except in looks, they were more alike than I had thought. It was good to see them together, to see how close they had become.
But it was worrisome, too, because Kit's life was just beginning while Willa, at fifty-seven, had seen as much of the world as she cared to see. I tried to talk to Willa about Kit, but she could not see why I was worried. Kit was in good spirits, she pointed out, she seemed happy and busy. Could it be, Willa implied ever so carefully, that I was a bit jealous that Kit
was
content on the ranch?

     I had asked myself the same question. I had also asked Sara and Porter, now in his second year at Berkeley. They felt my alarm was justified, and convinced me that we should act to get Kit away from the ranch for a time.

     Late in the spring of 1922 I talked Kit into going north with me, to San Francisco, for several weeks. Sara had arranged for Kit to meet several young women who were involved in various enterprises. We thought that if we could just show Kit what else was available, she would at least take a close look at the path her life was taking.

     The best of plans can go awry, and ours did. Two days before we were to leave for San Francisco I received a letter from Wing Soong. He was to be in Canton, in the south of China, for the summer months. Canton was close to the Portuguese treaty port of Macao. If I could travel there, it would be an excellent opportunity for us to be together. He would not wish me to make the trip alone, he said. Sara had often expressed a desire to see the Orient, to study its art. If this was an appropriate time, he would be overjoyed to see both of us. I said nothing to Kit, but waited until we arrived in San Francisco so that I could speak to Sara first.

     Sara took no time at all to make up her mind. "I can book passage and we can be away in four days' time," she said, her eyes sparkling.

     "But what about Kit?" I moaned.

     "Kit will keep," Sara answered tartly, "in fact, leaving her here on her own may be the best idea of all. She has too many of us hovering over her. Let's let her breathe. And Porter's here, after all."

     So we left. It would be many months before I learned all that happened that fateful summer of 1922.

"What does Aunt Lena say?" Porter asked, in an attempt to draw her out.

     Kit walked to the window and pulled open the drape so she could look out onto the greenery of the Flood mansion across the way. A fine, white fog made the bushes glow a garish shade of green. She pulled Sara's dressing gown close around her.

     "Oh, Auntie . . . well, she is careful. You know how easily she treads where Mother is concerned. But I think she'll be glad if I decide to get out."

     "You've got to get out," Porter cut in, "the ranch is no place for you now. Mother's obsessed with Thad, and he's one of the walking dead. . ."

     "Porter!" Kit reprimanded him by the urgency of her tone.

     Porter only shrugged. "They're all over, you know. I was at one of the Old Soldiers' Homes a few weeks ago, and the men—they've lost parts of their bodies or they've been gassed, like Thad, and something is missing in their minds."

     "The awful part," Kit said softly, "is that sometimes he looks just like the Thad I remember. I'll come upon him, he'll be working in the barn or fishing and I forget until I look into his eyes and . . . nothing is there." She was silent for a time, then she continued. "Mother talks to him as if nothing has happened. She uses this very reasonable tone, and when he doesn't answer she just keeps on talking as if he had. I can hardly stand to be around her when Thad is in the room. I know what she is trying to do but. . ."

     "What
is
she trying to do?" Porter wanted to know.

     "One of the doctors she searched out in Austria—the psychiatrists—told her to continue to treat him as if he were normal, to try constantly to draw him out."

     Porter grimaced derisively. "Thad is burned out."

     "I feel that, too," Kit told him, still looking across the street, "and in spite of the fact that it annoys me—the way she talks to him—I almost admire her for her hope. And yet, I can't but wonder if it wouldn't be more realistic to accept what he is . . ."

     "Thad's an empty shell," Porter put in. "Maybe she thinks that someone else will come live in it, like a hermit crab . . ."

     Kit turned back to him, put her hand on his arm for an instant before she curled up on the chair opposite.

     "I heard from Philip a few days ago, just after Sara and Auntie decided to go to Macao," Porter said. "I wrote him that you would be here for a short while, and I expect he'll come to see you."

     "He's in Sacramento now?"

     Porter nodded. "But he will have an office here in San Francisco, too, now that he's moved up to the Supreme Court. I'm glad for that—he needs something after Mother kicked him out."

     "She did not kick him out," Kit sighed.

     "He thinks she did."

     "Well, I was there and it wasn't like that. I don't even know if anything was said . . . it just became clear that there wasn't going to be room in her life for Philip." She hesitated, as she always did when she felt pulled between Porter and her mother. "She felt that she would have to break with Philip soon anyway, that the age difference between them was becoming more . . . difficult for her."

     "That was her excuse," he said.

     "You think so?" Kit asked.

     "I think she has her hawks and the Malibu and Thad. And Philip has the habit of cutting through to the truth of things . . . and Mother, more and more, doesn't want to see what is, only what she wants . . ."

     "Maybe," Kit said quickly, determined to stay away from this particular conversation. "I'll be happy to see Philip. It will give me something to look forward to, now that Sara and Auntie are off for who knows how long . . ."

     "From my last letter from Soong, I'd be willing to bet he will be in Canton for weeks, months maybe. You may be here alone for quite a while. I could move over, if it bothers you—being alone in this house."

     Kit shook her head. "That's silly. You've got your place in Berkeley, and you have trouble making it to class in time as it is. I'm not in the least worried about being here alone. And the Weatherlees are here, after all."

     "The faithful servants, yes," Porter murmured, but he was grinning too. "The saving grace is they don't seem to think they're servants. At times I think they run Sara."

     "When she left, Mrs. Weatherlee promised she'd look after me, 'like her own mum.'" Kit grimaced.

     Porter looked at the clock and stood, rubbing his eye with a fist that was ink-stained.

     She touched his hand. "You're grimy," she said.

     "Too little sleep and too much writing," he answered. "I can't afford to loll around until noon, as you've just done. If I hurry I'll only be an hour late for my meeting."

     Kit laughed at him fondly; he seemed incapable of being on time, anywhere.

     "Perhaps I should go to college, if for no other reason than to see that you manage to get to your classes."

     Porter frowned. "You don't want to go to college, Kit . . . you're only considering it as an acceptable way to leave the Malibu. Why do you feel you need an excuse?"

     She tucked her arm in his, and walked him to the door. "I don't, really. In some ways I'm happy there. It's just that Mother, well . . . She seems so locked in . . . Sometimes I feel I'm one of the last links for her . . ." She paused, then said, cautiously, "Mother wants me to learn about the business."

     He had opened the door, but now he closed it again. He looked at her carefully, as if to read her mind.

     "Does that interest you?" he asked.

     "I think it does, Porter . . . I mean, it seems logical that I should prepare myself. You won't, and Thad can't, and Wen . . ."

     "Wen is a jackass," Porter said.

     "Yes, so maybe I should be the capitalist of this generation."

     Porter looped his arm around her and gave her a hug. "Lord," he said, "my twin."

     She looked up at him, anxiously at first, then she relaxed. "You don't mind? I wasn't sure . . ."

     "Be sure," he said, "I'm sure of you. Just don't go back to the Malibu until we can figure out something to occupy you."

     "Go to your meeting," she laughed, pretending to push him out the door.

     As he ran down the steps and onto the street he called back, "Tell Mother you have to stay to help me get organized . . . that'll satisfy her."

     A cable car came rumbling past and he loped after it, jumping on just as it began the descent down California Street hill. He waved his cap at her, and she stood smiling, still wrapped in Sara's old dressing gown.

     She was about to step back inside when she noticed a large green Pierce-Arrow stop in front of the mansion. A man emerged from the back seat, said something to the driver, and was at the door before he noticed Kit.

     "I'm sorry," he said, taken aback. "Is Miss Hunt in?"

     The fog was blowing in gusts. "Come in, please," she smiled politely. She did not want to stand on the street to explain.

     He stood only inside the vestibule, his hand still on the door handle. "I have a luncheon appointment with Miss Hunt . . ." he began, formally.