Hers the Kingdom (15 page)

     "Land was being bought and sold, it was barbarous," she went on. "Now those 'towns'—which never developed beyond the beginnings of a hotel and markings for where the homes would be—are being reclaimed by the sand. I cringe to think of all the hopes smothered out there . . ."

     "That's over now," Owen put in, "we can begin to grow in a respectable way." Lapsing into the voice of a travel director, he went on, "Fifteen years ago Los Angeles had a population of no more than eight thousand. Today it is fifty thousand. And there are six newspapers and twenty churches."

     "And more saloons than churches," Willa put in. Nodding in a southerly direction, she said, "Over there is the infamous Calle de los Negros—what the Yankees call Nigger Alley—the center of gambling and all manner of vice, including opium dens and Chinese
dames de plaisir
."

     "You will make Lena think the West is wicked," Owen chided.

     "When do I get to see my nephew?" I asked. "I had hoped he would be at the station."

     A look flickered between them. "I won't bring him into Los Angeles," Willa said quickly, "who knows what awful disease he might get—this city is filled with illness."

     "Yes, of course," I muttered, feeling as if I had made a blunder.

     "Trinidad—our nurse—was nettled that she couldn't come to the station, but had to stay and mind little Wen," Owen explained. "I am not sure that Trinidad will cook for us tonight, she is so angry with Willa."

     "I am not troubled by Trinidad's bad temper," Willa retorted. "You should not have told her she could come with us, then she would have no reason to be disappointed."

     "You're right," Owen laughed, at the same time seeing someone
on the street he recognized. An instant later he called for the driver to stop, having decided to go speak to the man. He left us sitting together, glad to have a moment alone.

     "I am so proud of you," Willa said. When I asked why she was proud, she answered, "That you had the courage to make that long journey alone."

     I said: "I told myself that it might be the only risk I would ever be offered."

     "I'm glad you're one of us, then," she said.

     "Us?" I asked.

     "The risk-takers of the world," she smiled back at me, and I felt myself swell inside, knowing that I had pleased her.

     Before Owen returned, Willa had jumped down from her seat, bounded over to an orange tree growing in a yard, and plucked a fruit from it. "Your very first California orange," she said, as she began to peel it.

     We rolled on, west on Sunset Boulevard toward the ocean, eating the sweet-smelling fruit, which combined with the warm dust, the ripe smell of the horses, and the sunshine to create in me a wonderful feeling of having arrived, of having come home. I felt drowsy and happy and saturated with all of it.

     "So tell me what you think of our new home place?" Owen asked. "Is it as you thought it would be?"

     "No," I answered honestly, "I don't suppose I could have imagined all of this. It isn't the Wild West or the frontier, not that I expected it. There are so many things I could never in my wildest dreams have imagined . . . the sun, and the palms, and . . ."

     Owen, pleased, turned his attention away.

     "It is beautiful, at least where we live now," Willa said. "But I am disgusted with the falsehoods the railroads have spread, in order to entice people—poor people, many of them—to come and settle the land. 'Come to California and wear diamonds,' they say, 'the beautiful land of the Sunset Sea.' They come by the thousands, packed into what they call Zulu trains, whole families. They come
expecting life to be easier here, all sunshine and oranges. And they are disappointed."

     "I almost believe," Owen said, "that people who are stupid enough to believe that you can get something for nothing deserve what they get."

     "Gullible," Willa corrected him, "they are not stupid, but gullible. Or naive. Or simple-minded dreamers who are tired, and want something better, and they need to believe."

     "Believe what?" Owen asked. "That life is better here? It is better, for anyone who knows how to take care of himself."

     Willa didn't say anything for a while, then she said, "When the big bubble burst last year, you could drive out of town—and find those lonely new developments sitting all desolate, the sand blown up over places where people thought their houses would be built. Somebody took those folks' money."

     "Charles did his share of profit-taking, as a matter of fact," Owen said.

     "Sara's cousin?" I asked.

     "That's right," Willa answered, frowning.

There were twenty-seven rooms in the house on Seaside Avenue. It was thoroughly Victorian, with gables and cupolas and turrets abounding. The double parlors were filled with the ponderous furniture that had been in the old Reade home in Boston. Willa cared little about household decorations. In large part, Owen had directed both the building of the house and its furnishing, taking care to pay attention to the smallest details. On my first day in Santa Monica I remember Willa and I looking at it, from the front walkway. She said, "The only thing different is the palm trees."

     "Different?" I asked.

     "From the old Reade house," she answered.

     "But you said the Reade place was gloomy, that Owen was unhappy there," I reminded her.

     "True," Willa shrugged. "I suppose Owen is doing it over to get it right this time."

     I looked at her for an instant, and decided against asking more. "You don't like the house?" I said instead.

     "Oh, it doesn't really bother me," she replied, as if it did not. "I suppose I think it too fussy, too cluttered. I do prefer the Spanish adobe style—it is such a nice, simple way of building, and it makes sense for this warm climate. In the heat of the day, the interiors of those adobes are so cool. But I suppose a Spanish house wouldn't fit very well on this street," she said, waving at the big houses being built all along the street. "So long as it makes Owen happy, it is fine with me. Anyway," she added jauntily, "you can't say we don't fit."

     "No, you certainly cannot say that," I chuckled. What Owen's house lacked in simplicity, it made up in sheer size. It was, without a doubt, the most impressive house on Seaside Avenue.

     "There are exactly ninety-nine steps down the bluff to the shore," Owen said, bursting in on us. He waved his long arm toward the sea which stretched, endless blue, to the west. "Tomorrow, when you have had a good night's rest, I intend to take you down those steps so that you can take off your little shoes and wade in the great Pacific ocean. That will be your baptism!"

     "We'll all wade," Willa laughed, "even little Wennie. We can dip his tiny little feet in the ocean too."

     "Let us go have an audience with the heir apparent," Owen declared, one arm around each of our waists, guiding us into his home and the life he had created, so quickly, on the edge of the country.

"Tell me," I asked Willa as we waited for Owen to return with the child, "how is it to be a mother?"

     "Oh," she said, casually, "I can't say that I feel any different. I saw Mama through so many of her birthings, I've been around babies for so much of my life—as you have. I don't think I have ever had any fancy notions about motherhood. I've walked too many colicky babes not to know how lucky I am with Wennie—he is a sweet child, he sleeps well, he is healthy and good-tempered, much like Servia, I think."

     "May you have all such babies," I said.

     "Not for a time," she answered, "not for a good long time."

     At that moment a scowling, dark-skinned young woman marched into the room, carrying young Owen. The child's father bounced along behind her as if trying to take hold of the baby, but he was ignored. I wanted to laugh (Owen, behind the dark woman's back, already was), but I held it in check.

     "Why didn't you dress him in the smock my sister crocheted for him, as I told you to?" Willa asked the woman.

     A torrent of Spanish was loosed in the room. I understood not a word, except that the woman had terrible grievances. All the while, Owen was grinning amiably, as if this were in the normal course of events.

     "Stop it, Trinidad," Willa said, exasperated, but the Spanish kept pouring out torrentially.

     Turning to me, my sister had said in a very loud voice, "The poor soul can't understand a word of English, in spite of all my efforts to teach her. It is too bad that I can't introduce you."

     "What? What? What you say?" came burbling out of the woman in scarcely contained anger. "I know, I know."

     "Lena, I'm sorry," Willa said, mocking the woman still, pretending to ignore her, "I was wrong. It seems that Trinidad does understand some little bit of English." She turned to the woman, who was clasping the baby to her ample bosom. "This is my sister, Lena, Trinidad. Will you let her hold the baby, please?"

     The "please" seemed to work. Trinidad turned to me, her face suddenly wreathed in smiles, clearly to let me know her anger was directed at Willa alone.

     
"Buena, buena,"
she said, turning the baby over to me. "I am for pleased to see nice sister," she added in triumph.

     "And I to meet you," I said, in what proved to be a very small voice. I wasn't sure what to think about Trinidad.

     "She has memorized that speech for you," Willa chortled. The woman scowled at Willa once more, then left abruptly.

     "She is wonderful," Willa told me, "you will like her. It is just that when she is disappointed, she carries on. And for some reason," here she looked at Owen in mock disgust, "Owen promised her she could take the baby and go with us today."

     Owen, all this while, had been concentrating on the baby, cooing and making soft sounds, putting his finger in the baby's tiny hand. "Look at that, Willa," he said, "Wen and his auntie. That is a nice picture, isn't it?"

     At that moment I swayed. Willa and Owen reached out to me at the same instant, and Owen quickly retrieved the child, who gurgled happily and spat up on his father.

     "Did Trinidad tell you to do that?" Owen said to the baby. "I'll just bet she did, to punish me." He didn't mind a bit, it seemed, though Willa went for a cloth to dab off his spoiled suit.

     "Come, sit next to us, Lena," Owen said. "You must be very tired after so long a trip. I know they exhaust me."

     "He is a beautiful baby," I said to Owen, and he answered, as if speaking for the child, "Oh, yes I am, Auntie, my Papa's pride. And my Mama is very, very happy that you have come to live with us and keep us company while Papa is away."

     Putting my finger in the baby's hand, I said, "Tell your Papa that I am grateful . . ."

     "Psht," Owen interrupted, "it is Papa who is grateful. Now he won't have to worry about Mama when he is away."

     I would remember those words; Owen did want me to make my home with them, being convinced that I would relieve Willa's loneliness. He thought my presence would free him. I settled into the rhythm of the household more quickly than I could have
imagined possible. Weeks passed, Baby Wen grew, smiled, burbled happily in his bed. Trinidad was married to the silent Ignacio, who tended our horses, and set about establishing her own family. A girl child, Aleja, would be born to them before the first year of their marriage was out.

     The Pacific Ocean mesmerized me. I could not seem to look at it long enough and I could not imagine how I had lived so long without it. Porter Farm and the prairie dimmed by comparison and the weeks grew into months and the pattern of our lives took form. The ebb and flow of that life was tuned to Owen's comings and goings; he was gone for weeks at a time. I often wished that Owen could witness the transformation that would come over Willa as his carriage pulled away from the house, taking him on yet another business trip. He never saw how desolate she looked after his departure, he did not know how short-tempered and restless she could become. She rode, she studied her bird books, she tried to involve herself in all her old interests, but now they were no more than distractions, ways to pass the time until his return. I was, in turn, amazed, angry, sad, and finally, deeply troubled by it.