Keeping Secrets (15 page)

“I rather imagine we'd side with the Allies, but I've been in this country long enough to side with any common, ordinary people who want only to live and hold on to what they've got, regardless of whose flag rises above them.” He paused. “By the way, I'm not acquainted with anyone else who takes the matter of the war in Europe so seriously—or at least, so it appears. Why do you?”

“Oh, I just try to impress you with my knowledge of world affairs, Woody,” I said, and smiled.

“When I was a teacher, you would have been just the kind of student I would have encouraged and taken pride in. I'd forgotten that feeling I used to get every few years, when I'd find a youngster, not only bright but also eager to learn … the lump in my throat as I watched him—or her—graduate. Ah, it has been such a long time, yes, I had quite forgotten.…”

“You compliment me more than you will ever know,” I told him.

17

By early October of 1915 the sheer stubbornness of First Chief Carranza paid off, and he won his hard-fought battle for recognition. To clench the deal, a few days ahead he made magnanimous guarantees for amnesty to his political enemies, freedom of religion, and protection of foreigners and their properties, none of which Emory trusted him to honor. And apparently few people in Mexico believed in him either because he no sooner issued his statement than new revolutions began breaking out, one of the largest headed by Pancho Villa.

Emory immediately threw his clothes into a suitcase, headed for Mexico, afraid Barrista might want to back out. “But he says things are settling down now, the Plan is getting well known,” I argued. “Maybe by the time the next election rolls around—”

“Once Carranza gets a grip on Mexico, he isn't about to let an election stand in his way.”

I just shook my head. I couldn't blame Barrista for his willingness to compromise at this point. As Emory buckled his suitcase I marveled as I had many times over how hard it was to separate Emory's idealistic side from his selfish one. I could not ever pin him down on how much he did for himself alone as opposed to how much it meant to him to see Barrista save Mexico. There was one thing that became more and more evident, however, and I told him:

“You're the iron in Barrista's soul.”

It proved to be a most prophetic statement over the next year.

Emory had more than one reason for going to Mexico at that time. Ralph Jones was in need of money and a number of supplies that only Emory could get to him. He needed to have a look at the properties working and confer with Ralph on preparing to get others started. Now that the transportation situation had eased up in some places, he wanted to get machinery moved in where possible. He also had to get some idea of money needed for repairs to damage and replacement for looting suffered in some of the mines over the past few months. When he told me of this, I was reminded of what a small concept I had of the turmoil he was enduring daily, how many loose ends were dangling in his financial empire. Surely he was pouring more money down into those mines than their natural wealth could yield up for a long time to come. Of course I could only speculate on this because he confided so little in me. I received information like a yard dog receives table scraps.

With Emory gone for what he expected to be at least a month, time soon hung about like moss on an ancient tree. I decided to buy two season tickets to the San Antonio Philharmonic concerts—I'd put it off earlier because I thought Emory would be in town—and coaxed Woody into going to the evening performances. To his protests that he did not see well at night, I countered, “Nathan will drive us to Beethoven Hall, and you certainly don't have to be able to see to appreciate the music.”

A few days after Emory left, I went down to pick up the tickets, and made a side trip by the post office on my way home. So many months had gone past without further threats from Mark that I was becoming convinced I'd heard the last from him. Yet I didn't know for certain so I had no choice but to continue my little side trips, and I was always nervous about being seen. While the postal station was blocks from Emory's office, I always found myself hurrying along, looking both ways in case Nathan might be afield running an errand, or Emory himself might pop up. I had a couple of excuses made up for going there should I be found out—I was picking up a package for Woody, or buying some postage stamps. Thankfully I never had to use my made-to-order escape tactics, because as far as I know I was never discovered.

On this particular afternoon I mounted the steps with my usual caution and circled the postal lobby with my eyes before checking the box. It was empty. I strolled away, thinking maybe Mark had really found himself a “rich lady” who could at least temporarily keep him busy. Yet, surely there were sections of New Orleans that could be dangerous, even for a man like Mark.

One late November day, Woody came to my door around noontime and invited me for a stroll. This departure from his regimented three o'clock walk with Scoop was so unusual that I took off my apron and followed him without question.

Soon he said, hoarsely, “I have a letter from Johnny. He has decided to enlist after all.”

“Oh, no …”

“They're having quite a bit of trouble over there you know, with Lord Derby's efforts at getting up enough force, although he has raised thousands and thousands of volunteers. Asquith's conscription bill is being fought tooth and nail in the House of Commons … it's a very bad situation.”

“Well, I'm sure—”

“It's a matter of pride in Britain, you know,” he interrupted, raising his shoulders and setting his jaw. “Johnny wouldn't be called a shirker, no sir, not he, even if it means sacrificing his studies for a while. I only wish it would be over soon.”

I didn't know what to say. I walked along, looking at the ground. In a few moments he continued, “It's such a horrible thing, all those young lads … doesn't matter whose side they're on … so many down in the trenches in the cold and the rain, with no food, bullets whizzing by and shrapnel showering—”

“Woody, maybe you oughtn't to speculate on—”

“Have you read Stephen Crane's
The Red Badge of Courage?”

“No.”

“When the novel was first published I used my own money to get enough copies so that my students could read it. It is about war, about the fact the common soldier can't even tell which way he is going and whether he is making progress … he is lost in an abyss of destruction and death all round … and none of it makes sense to him, you see?”

Then he stopped and turned toward me. “It is a novel of the War Between the States, but it is more than that—a universal story of war and its criminal waste.… Mrs. Cabot, do you ever go to church?”

“No.”

“Neither do I, anymore, but I still pray. Will you pray, too, for Johnny?”

18

Emory returned in mid-December with the good news that Barrista was willing to go on, but unfortunately the trip had taken a strike at his health. A few days before Christmas he became ill—he was in such excruciating pain in his limbs, especially his legs, and running such high temperatures that we were afraid he'd contracted dengue fever while in Mexico. That and typhus were on the spread down there and growing worse. Nursing him, I found myself wondering over and over why anyone in his right mind would want to have anything to do with Mexico. I wished the whole matter of Barrista's rise to power could be discovered to be a very bad, delirious dream from which I would soon awaken, and Emory could be involved only in land in the San Antonio area, just as I'd believed at first. Now, with the worry of Mark apparently behind me, I would be well settled with Emory into the life I'd so looked forward to when we were married almost two years ago.…

The doctor diagnosed Emory to be suffering from a case of mild influenza, brought on, he surmised, by exhaustion. The prospect of a week of his recuperation in bed was one which I did not particularly relish, because he was already bored and restless. On the way out, the doctor told me privately, “I've recommended a week, but I'll figure in about three days he'll bust out of there like an angry bull.”

Within forty-eight hours I was marveling at how well the doctor was able to calculate Emory's behavior, and wondering if doctors in general had the special gift of knowing just what to expect of a patient. I squared my shoulders and prepared for the worst. Although I tried to avoid upsetting him, there were many conversations between us that began innocently enough, yet wound up with him turning away or looking sullen, or growing so irritated that I'd leave the room for fear of setting him off in a rage. One such began with my remarks about Colorado having passed statewide prohibition.

“I read in the newspaper they had ‘bargain days' shortly before the law took effect, and there were between two and three million dollars spent on liquor during the sale. Can't you just imagine the same thing happening in Texas? With all the saloons in San Antonio alone probably twice that much money would change hands the first day,” I said, laughing. I stopped and looked at Emory, who didn't seem so amused.

I was about to shift the subject—I'd become fairly apt at that—when he said thoughtfully, “Do you ever feel that everything is changing, and nothing will ever be the same again? It's like being caught in quicksand without a rope or a tree in sight, or anything else to catch hold of, and feeling yourself going under.…”

“What does that have to do with—surely we won't get prohibition here.”

“Why not? Nearly half the country has it now, and anyway, if not that it's something else. Wilson is campaigning for a national defense plan, and he'll wind up paying for most of it by jacking up income tax. It used to be free country, you know, but more and more the bastards we vote into office are telling us how to run our lives. Can't you feel it coming, faster and faster?”

“You look tired. Maybe I ought to leave so you can take a nap.”

“Take a nap,” he repeated snidely. “It'll all go away then, like a bad stomach ache. They can all go to hell, do you hear?”

“You don't have to get nasty. It's nearly dinnertime. I'll go down and fix you a tray.”

“Don't bother. I'm not hungry. I want to be alone.”

I needed a breath of fresh air, and could have used a dose of the river's quieting effect on my nerves. Yet the breeze off the water had a bite to it this time of year. I put on a coat and sat on the front-porch steps, arms wrapped around my knees. Soon two mockingbirds arrived simultaneously at a parcel of food halfway down the walk. They moved away and circled around, then lit into it again, bouncing the tidbit into the air and engaging in a good sparring session that sent a few feathers aflight before both birds realized the prize had been lost in the conquest for it. After a while they flew off in separate directions.

I sat there until it began to grow dark, and I saw the lights of Emory's Cole Six nose down the street and turn into the drive. Nathan had equipped it with new tires that day. I heard the motor stop and the door open and close, and thought again how right Emory had been to insist Nathan live with us. He took great care of everything that was Emory's—including his automobile. He kept it in perfect running condition all the time and spent hours waxing it and polishing the trim. In fact I had kidded him once that when he wasn't busy shining his own shoes—a task which consumed much of his spare time—he was shining Emory's car.

He'd seen me as he passed, and walked around to wish me good evening and ask about Emory. “A little testy,” I said. “The doctor was here today. Uncanny how well he predicts Emory's moods. Wish I had the same talent.”

“You're not alone,” he said, and sat down. “Where I grew up there was a doctor like that. The mill kept him on to take care of injuries and look after the families of the employees. He did everything from dispensing medicine to delivering babies. Doc Barnes knew everybody, and everybody liked him.

“I knew him before my mother married Sam, because he came down to the depot once in a while for a shoeshine. After they got married and she took sick, I'd go down to Doc's office and pick up her medicine. I think he felt bad there wasn't much he could do for her.”

“I guess he stayed pretty busy, with so many injuries at the mill.”

“Yes, he did at that.… I remember going by his office one day, just as they were bringing in a head-end dogger who'd gotten his leg sliced by a saw blade. He was out cold, whiter than that summerhouse over there. I thought he was dead. But when Doc Barnes hit his leg with iodine, he shot up like he was resurrected from the grave.”

“My heavens, he doesn't sound like a very gentle man.”

“Oh, he was, nothing wrong with Doc. He was kind to my mother, and honest about the fact he couldn't help her any. He didn't have much besides epsom salts, castor oil, quinine, and calomel. What happened wasn't his fault.…”

Just then Emory bellowed my name from his sickbed.

“Well, speaking of illness, I think I hear my patient calling,” I said. I'd left the front door slightly ajar, and walked in to find Emory, already halfway down the stairs, demanding to know where his dinner was.

I sometimes wonder whether the melancholy moods Emory suffered during his illness when he wasn't vacillating toward the other extreme, cursing and yelling, were not harbingers of things to come. Soon after he was up and around again, we were in for another blow.

One day in mid-January of 1916, a train chugged peacefully along a track fifty miles outside of Chihuahua City. Its main cargo included mining supplies for ASARCO mines, and a large sum of money sent by one mining concern to the suffering natives in the Chihuahua mining country. Also aboard were a group of mining men.

Along the route, the train was halted by a group of Villista forces, who emptied it of its American passengers—eighteen or so men—stripped them of their clothing, lined them up like feed sacks against the railroad cars, and opened fire on them. One man managed to escape from the impromptu execution, and fled across the sharp cactus and stones of the god-forsaken desert terrain back to Chihuahua City, where he arrived badly injured and bleeding profusely. By a stroke of kind fate, he was met by a group of friendly Mexicans who cared for him.