Sacred Ground (41 page)

“The story goes that at first few people had taken her seriously, since she was only a woman and Navarro
was
still on the scene. But one year the winter rains were coming and the señora warned everyone that there was going to be a terrible flood. She even had her workers digging drainage ditches on the downslope of the property. Other rancheros didn’t listen to her, so when sure enough the plain flooded and crops were destroyed, Rancho Paloma was spared because of the runoff canals. After that, they started listening to her. When she cut back on cattle production and introduced citrus groves and vineyards on the property, the other rancheros said she was crazy. But look what’s happening on the other ranches. The cattle are all dying and the owners are being forced to sell their land. Not Angela Navarro. Some say she’s the richest woman in California.

“I remember seeing her for the first time, when I came out here in forty-six. I was coming up the Old Road when I saw her. Magnificent, she was. Oh, I’d seen horsewomen back in New York, but Angela Navarro rode like a man. No sidesaddle for her. And wearing a man’s broad-brimmed black hat, like the Mexican cowboys wear. They say she had ridden her property every day inspecting the orange and lemon orchards, rows of grapevines, avocado groves, until she became a fixture of the landscape. Was forced to switch to a carriage when age finally caught up with her.”

He pulled out his pocket watch and clicked it open. Supposedly all the old
Californio
families were coming to the party, plus wealthy Anglo newcomers. Treating her like royalty. As if she were a queen. He laughed at his private joke. Angela Navarro, Queen of the Angels!

“Besides running the rancho,” he continued out loud although the photographer was clearly more interested in his chemicals, which was okay with Ryder since his soliloquy was by way of preparing the article he was going to write, “she also channeled her energies into good works and demonstrations of civic pride. Yes sir, Navarro’s widow has been a real force in this town. It’s because of her that wooden sidewalks got put in so that ladies could walk down the street without trailing their dresses in mud or dust. She helped fund the Catholic Sisters of Charity in 1856, which established an orphanage for children of all denominations. She also helped fund the first hospital, and twice a year on Christmas and Easter she distributes food and clothing to widows and orphans. When the city’s first board of education was established in 1853 by the city council, Angela Navarro was one of the original members, and when Public School Number One was built on the corner of Spring Street, it was Angela who insisted that the school be open to girls as well as boys. So just remember, mister, that you aren’t going to be taking a picture of just any ordinary person.”

“I’m ready,” the photographer finally said.

* * *

Angela’s nine children had produced over thirty grandchildren, from whom had sprung great-grandchildren too numerous to count. Not all had survived, just as not all her own children were still alive. Carlotta had died long ago in Mexico, but Angelique and her American husband, Seth Hopkins, who had struck gold in the north and came down to start citrus orchards, were here, along with their children. Yet despite this large family whom Angela had come to regard privately as her “little tribe,” she still acutely missed Marina.

Perhaps that was the missing piece in her mind. Marina.

The photographer seated Angela in a big ornately carved chair that resembled a throne, and surrounded her with sons and daughters, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. She wore a somber black dress with white lace collar and cuffs, and a small white lace veil pinned to her white hair. There was much arranging and rearranging of the participants, as the photographer tried to get the whole family into one shot. But children squirmed and babies cried and men cursed the heat, so the taking of the pictures was quickly becoming an ordeal. Only Harvey Ryder seemed to be enjoying it as he sat back in the shade, eating an orange and keeping his eye on the plump rear end of one of the Indian women.

In the midst of all the commotion and complaining and changing seats and removing hats and putting hats on and telling the photographer what would be best, Angela suddenly stiffened. Ryder, his instincts honed over the years, immediately saw it and was on his feet. The strangest look had come into the old lady’s eyes.

No one noticed at first that Angela had risen to her feet. But when she started to walk away from the gathering, and the photographer said, “Excuse me, ma’am, we need you in this,” Angelique immediately went after her.

“Grandmamá? Are you all right?”

Angela came to a standstill at the edge of the garden where a low stone wall separated the house from the farm buildings. Her eyes, encased in folds of skin and surrounded by wrinkles, but still sharp and bright, were fixed on the lane that led from the Old Road.

The others came to join her as they all expressed their worry, insisting that Grandmother sit down, wondering if they should call a doctor, fussing and fretting while Angela stood stock-still and watched the lane.

Presently everyone fell silent, and on the wind they could faintly hear the sound of horses’ hooves, the creaking of wagon wheels. Before they could even see who it was, Angela’s lips lifted in a smile, and she whispered one word: “Marina.”

And in the next moment, as the crowd stood spellbound, they saw the wagons and the people on them, and the piles of luggage, signs of travelers from a great distance. On the seat in the first wagon, a one-armed man with white-gold hair and a white beard, and next to him a handsome middle-aged woman wearing an out-of-date gown and bonnet. In the second wagon, a younger man with a woman at his side, two children between them. And in the third wagon, a teenage boy holding the reins.

“¡Dios mio!”
declared one of Angela’s sons, a man in his sixties who bore a resemblance to Navarro in looks only, not in temperament. “Mamá!” he cried. “It is Marina! She has come home!”

The company ran to greet the visitors, swarming upon the wagons like a village welcoming soldiers back from a war. Angelique stayed behind with Angela, at the garden wall, watching the scene through tear-filled eyes. Hooking her arm through her grandmother’s, she felt the older woman tremble with excitement and saw tears sparkle on Angela’s withered cheeks. “It is indeed Auntie Marina,” Angelique said in amazement.

It was a jubilant procession that accompanied the wagons to the hacienda, with the adults cheering and children happily running about. Only a handful of them remembered Marina, but they had all heard stories about her. Her sudden appearance was like the appearance of a saintly apparition. Everyone, including the flustered photographer and the cynical reporter, sensed the magic of the day.

Finally, the wagons pulled up to the stone wall, and Marina stayed for a moment on the seat, looking down at her mother. Then, with the help of her brothers, she climbed down and went into her mother’s arms as if they had said farewell only yesterday, instead of thirty-six years ago.

* * *

The ghosts were back. Whispering, teasing, reminding her of things long ago. Angela saw through the open shutters the position of the moon: it was nearly the midnight hour.

She lay wide-awake in the four-poster bed where she had given birth to her children, and she thought what a full day it had been. The food, the music, and the dancing. All her friends who had come, the old Spanish
rancheros
, the Mexican craftsmen, the Anglo newcomers. Even dignitaries such as Cristóbal Aguilar, the mayor of Los Angeles, and a message of birthday congratulations via telegraph from the governor in Sacramento. And Marina coming home! A satisfying day for any woman. But even so, there was still the empty spot in her mind, the one she had woken with the previous dawn.

In this dark and silent hour when her thoughts were clear, she began to realize that it was not so much something she had forgotten as something she must do. But what?

Angela got out of bed and into her slippers. She smiled at all her birthday gifts. Her two most prized were the pink Aztec figurine from Angelique and watercolors Daniel had painted in China. When she had declared what a tragedy for him to lose an arm to a bandit’s bullet, Daniel had said, “Praise the Lord it wasn’t my painting arm!”

Drawing a shawl around her shoulders, she slipped the jade statuette into her pocket, thinking that she would be needing the luck of an ancient goddess with her tonight, then she took a candle and walked down the dark and silent colonnade, past closed doors where people slept, until she came to a room at the end.

This was her private study, with its massive iron chandelier, heavy furniture, bookshelves to the ceiling, and a fireplace so big a person could stand inside it. On the desk were stacks of letters waiting to be answered, people asking for money, for advice, for the opportunity to do business with her. As Angela’s eyesight was no longer what it used to be and her trembling hands could no longer write legibly, she employed a secretary to help her. But she never missed a day without sitting at this desk and going through the books, the accounts, the receipts and bills.

This had once been Navarro’s seat of power, where he had received important visitors and dispensed favors like a king, or meted out punishments like a despot, where he had reprimanded his children and upbraided his workers, and signed contracts and agreements involving great amounts of money, and traded in goods both legal and illegal. He had helped his friends and destroyed his enemies in this room. He had once even received the Governor of California here and had had the arrogance to remain seated when the man entered. Navarro had sat upon this magnificent thronelike chair and worked his balance of good and evil, and in all the years he ruled here he never once allowed Angela across the threshold.

She recalled now the night she had visited Navarro as he lay in bed recovering from the stab wound. Although he had lived, he had lost a lot of blood, and a subsequent infection had rendered him bedridden for weeks. In that time, Angela had taken over the temporary running of the rancho, as was the local custom which allowed for wives to act as
rancheras
during a husband’s absence. She had gone to his bedside and looked down at him as he had lain helpless, and she had said: “This land is mine. I do not care what you do after this, but you will never run Rancho Paloma again. And if you ever touch me or one of my children again, I shall stab you until you are dead.” When he had finally recovered and had gone into his study to resume his work, he had found her behind the desk, going over the ledgers. Their eyes had met in a brief, silent challenge. Then Navarro had turned and quietly left. He never entered the study again.

She now unlocked a drawer and took out an oilskin bag, tucking it under her arm. Then she left and padded silently along the colonnade until she reached the bedchamber where Marina and Daniel Goodside slumbered.

As she tapped lightly on the door, knowing that middle-aged women slept lightly and middle-aged men slept like the dead, Angela marveled again at her daughter’s story. The first ten years she was married, Marina had stayed home in Boston to give birth to four children. Then Daniel was called to the ministry and they had joined a mission to China. They went, babies and all, and there they spread the word of God for twenty-five years. Marina had explained that when she thought it was safe to write home, that she decided Navarro was so old that he was no longer a threat, she had tried to get letters out, but it was difficult. Many Chinese did not trust foreigners. One letter that Marina saw personally aboard a ship went down with the ship in a storm.

And then, just a year ago, Daniel’s term of service had come to an end and he was retired from the mission. They sailed first to Hawaii, where Marina began again to send a letter, but decided after a first effort that it was better to just come instead. She hadn’t had much hope that her mother was still alive or that the Navarros were even still here. But… to arrive on her mother’s birthday!

Angela took this as a sign. It was all meant to be. Just as Marina was now meant to accompany her on a final journey.

When Marina opened the door, Angela said, “Get dressed. You must come with me.”

“Where?”

“We will need a carriage.”

“But Mother, it is late.”

“The night is warm.”

“Can it not wait till morning?”

She said, “Daughter, the past is a very insistent voice inside me tonight.” And she added, “We must take Angelique as well.”

* * *

Angelique, forty-two years old and plump from seven pregnancies, had taken the time to slip into a wide, cumbersome crinoline which left almost no room in the carriage for the other two women. But Marina, at fifty-four, was thin from years of hard work and sacrifice, and she wore a simple dress that was twenty-five years out-of-date, and Angela was small and frail. There was just enough room.

Her daughter and granddaughter protested as they were helped up into the carriage by Angela’s loyal coachman. He had been driving her around the rancho for fifteen years, and he asked no questions now, roused from sleep in the middle of the night, to take his mistress on an urgent errand. And yet they did not refuse to go, for both Marina and Angelique knew that if they did not agree to go, Angela would make this journey on her own.

“Let us at least have Seth and Daniel accompany us.”

But Angela shook her head. This was woman’s quest. Let the men sleep.

When they reached the Old Road and the driver turned eastward, Marina said in alarm, “But Mother, it is dangerous to go into the town at night!”

“We will come to no harm.”

“How can you know?”

When she didn’t respond, Marina exchanged a fearful look with her niece. Then they both sought comfort in the sight of their driver, a large burly man wearing a long sheathed sword, with both a knife and a pistol tucked into his belt.

They rode through the countryside in silence and when they passed a familiar oak grove, Angelique explained to her aunt that the Quiñones rancho no longer existed. Pablo, who was to have married Marina thirty-six years ago, had recently sold the land to an American named Crenshaw.