Authors: Shirley Streshinsky
"And his daughter? Is she a revolutionary?"
Porter put his hands behind his head and tilted back in his chair. "No," he answered, "neither, really, is the father. As I said—he is enamored with the
idea
of democracy. The practice is something else. But the daughter—Liao Ch'ing-Ling . . ." He caressed the name.
"Yes, tell me about her," I put in.
"I managed to arrange an interview with her father, through a French journalist who had a friendly intellectual relationship with him. The father seemed to enjoy talking to me, probing for information about the United States, what is happening there. On the third visit I mentioned his daughter, that I had seen her. At first he looked shocked. Then he called her in and introduced us. You could tell he felt he was being extremely audacious, allowing me to speak to his daughter."
"What is she like?" I wanted to know.
"She was educated in Hawaii," he answered, "which is how she came to know English. Her English is so much better than her father's, in fact, that we were able to have rather private conversations, even when others were around."
"Yes," I prodded him to go on.
He smiled, remembering. "She is intelligent . . . extremely so. She is well-read, in English as well as Chinese and French. She is thoughtful, in the philosophical sense. In a classical sense . . . The family—her father, I mean—thinks himself to be progressive. I consider them to be traditional."
"Did you have time alone with her?" I asked.
"Alone? Oh, we would be in a room for a few minutes sometimes, that was all. When I suggested we meet somewhere,
outside of the villa, she told me it would be impossible. She is not the kind of daughter who would defy her father. Traditional, as I said."
"But you care for her?"
He looked at me without smiling, and I knew he was answering the question for himself as much as for me.
"Yes," he said, "I do."
"Have you ever felt this way before—about another woman?" I asked.
He only shook his head. "Never," he said, biting his lower lip. "But I couldn't stay in China. I've work in San Francisco that needs to be finished. And it is work that Ch'ing-Ling can't understand, it simply does not fit into her life. Even if I stayed on, Soong's work is against their beliefs, too. Her father is not a communist, and that would be a problem for us. I talked to Soong about her . . . he told me not to say that I knew him, that it would do neither of us any good."
I shivered and Porter brought me a shawl. I did not tell him that my chill was not from the cold. I thought, once again, how wise Soong had been, not to want Porter to know about his heritage.
"Will you see her again?" I asked.
"If she will see me," he answered, with such a note of misery in his voice that I had to restrain myself from touching him.
"I see," I said. But I didn't.
January 1, 1930
the Malibu
I BREAK HABIT the first day of the new decade. Today is Wednesday. Without fail, for the forty-five years, I have been scribbling in these day books, I have made my entries on each Monday of the week.
So be it. Everything is subject to change, even old fools who try to compose a new coda . . . something to explain what has happened to bring us to this.
I am not alone in my confusion. The world outlook, at the beginning of this new decade, is precarious, at best. No other decade in memory has opened on such a disconsolate note. Porter, who has reason to know, says the working man is suffering, he says things are bad and that they are going to get worse. He does not believe that President Hoover's policies can do anything but plunge us more deeply into depression.
Perhaps my outlook is colored by Kit's grief, and my own, at Connor's death. Kit is here, on the ranch. She will stay, she
says, until she feels she can tolerate the idea of a future without Connor.
She and Willa take long walks on the beach. They talk. They touch.
Willa was thirty-nine when Owen died. Kit is a widow at twenty-five. My heart aches for her.
"You are so young," people will tell her, as if that should be some comfort, "your whole life is before you."
Kit said to Willa, "I wish just once I could answer honestly. I would say, 'I don't know what is ahead, all I know is that one of the best parts of my life is gone.' . . . I miss him, I don't want to forget, not any of it." She went on to say, "Sometimes I feel as if he is standing behind me, that if I reach back, he will touch my hand . . . he is so close to me at times . . ."
Willa looked at her. The sun was an hour from setting, and they were perched on an old log that had been washed up by the tide. "After your father died," Willa began, deliberately, "there were problems . . . with Wen, and Lena was very ill and of course I was with child . . . with children, I should say . . . Sometimes it seemed as if it was all more than I could manage. My mind would get crowded and I would feel as if everything inside of me were in motion . . . I suppose I thought I was losing my mind. For a time I couldn't sleep, and then all I wanted to do was sleep. I could hardly force myself out of bed in the morning." She paused and glanced at Kit, who was listening and nodding agreement. "Well . . ." she went on, "twice when it was almost unbearable . . . Owen appeared. I mean, he would be standing at the foot of the bed, looking at me. He never said anything, he only . . . looked. It wasn't a dream, Kit. I've never told anyone about it, because I thought . . . well, what could they think? But I am certain that he was there."
Kit took her mother's hand. "I know. I do." After a time she went on, "The hard part is getting up in the morning. Sometimes the only way I can manage it is to think of what Connor would say to me . . . but at times, the emptiness of the bed . . ."
They spent long hours together, and it was good to see them so. I could not help thinking it ironic that Connor should have brought them together not as mother and daughter, but as wives, as widows . . . as women.
February 17, 1930:
We went into town on Thursday last. I joined Cadie for a long chat—I had yet to tell her about my trip to Shanghai, so much has happened since our return. And Kit and Willa had to meet with Joseph on business matters.
About mid-afternoon Willa joined us, but without Kit, explaining that Joseph wanted a chance to talk to her.
Joseph moves more slowly now, having suffered a fall last year that left one leg stiff. He walks with a cane, which is not entirely easy, given his bulk. Kit told me about the session later that same day. He eased himself into a chair, breathing noisily.
"Forgive me, Kitten," he said, calling her by the old, affectionate name, "I'm a nosy old man, you know that." He wheezed and shuffled some papers before he began, carefully. "I've heard some disturbing rumors . . . to the effect that Connor suffered heavy losses in the market crash and that . . ."
She interrupted to make it easier for him, "Joseph, yes—I know about the rumors and that is all that they are. I suppose the fact that Connor died—the circumstances—so soon after the market crash would make it inevitable that someone would say it was suicide. But it wasn't."
She opened her bag and took out a packet of cigarettes and a silver lighter. She had started to smoke again.
"Connor had a weakened heart . . . he had had two small attacks and several 'events,' as the doctors called them. He had been warned against continuing the morning swims, but he wouldn't stop. He decided he did not want to change the way he— we—lived. I've thought about it quite a lot, and I've decided that he may have wanted it this way. Just, to go off for his morning swim, having kissed me goodbye . . . I think if he had to leave, that was how he would have wanted it to be."
Joseph leaned forward and patted her hand. "I didn't mean to upset you, Kitten."
She smiled at him. "I know that, Joseph. As for business, well, Connor saw the stock market convulsion coming. We talked about it and I remember distinctly—it was a year ago last June—the day Giannini stock fell by one hundred twenty points on both the New York and the San Francisco exchanges. Connor said, 'If a strong outfit like Giannini can take that much of a drubbing, just think what's in store for the rest of the market.' So, very quietly, he got out. We have a good man in San Francisco who is marking a conservative course, as Connor directed. I know what's going on, I keep close touch. Connor taught me, and he left me a very rich lady."
"That's good, darling," Joseph said with obvious relief, "very good. I've always admired Connor, or maybe I should say, since I've come to know him—now more than ever. An uncommon man, your husband."
Kit bit her lip. It was too easy to cry, these days.
"I must say," Joseph went on, "it's very similar, isn't it, to the state of affairs when your father died? He left your mother one of the richest women in the country. She was not, at that time, as knowledgeable in business matters as you are now."
"But she learned quickly . . . Reade women are nothing if not quick," Kit quipped.
Joseph paused. "Of course, good business decisions are not always in concert with other considerations. Your mother has spent a million dollars a year on legal fees alone—that has been going on for a good many years, as you know. She is not in as good a position now as she was twenty-five years ago, even though the companies have, in themselves, done well."
"How bad is it?" Kit asked.
"The business outlook is not good for anyone these days . . . let's hope that is a temporary state of affairs. Frankly, I don't believe for a moment that President Hoover is the man to handle it . . . but
then, you know I was an Al Smith rooter all along and I'm sure you don't want me to rattle on about politics."
Kit smiled affectionately. "You haven't told me how bad it is, Joseph."
"Willa thinks Charlie Rich's schemes are going to make everything right again. I think they will bring in some fast cash, which will only prolong the problem. You have to realize—your mother has used all the cash we could generate to pay for her legal battles. And she got almost nothing from the government in recompense for the right of way, the land they condemned. The big winners have been the lawyers."
"But that's over now, isn't it?"
"I don't know," Joseph grinned, "she's still suing the local farm machinery dealer. And she has to defend herself against the suit Wen has pending to take control of the company out of her hands."
"Another suit?" Kit was surprised.
"This time he has a chance to succeed. Feelings against Willa, after all the road battles, run high in these parts. That should not have anything to do with it, but in reality—it may."
"Is there anything I can do?" Kit asked.
"I was hoping you would ask," Joseph answered. "The answer is yes, a very big yes. I wish I didn't have to ask it, but I believe there is no other way now. I would like to move to reorganize. Some new bankruptcy laws are coming out of Washington, designed to help faltering businesses, and I think they might be the means to survival for the Reade Land Company. But a reorganization would mean changes, and one change that I feel must be made is to replace Willa as president. I would like to see you take over that position."
For a moment, she only stared at him. Then she said, "Bankruptcy . . . is it that drastic?"
"Yes it is, and I haven't been able to make Willa understand. If we are going to save the ranch, it means taking harsh measures."
"But why must I . . . I can't see why Mother must be replaced."
Joseph looked grim. "To satisfy Wen. And to satisfy me, and the examiners."
"What are the alternatives?" Kit asked.
"There are none, Kitten. I'm sorry."
"What will you do if I say no?" she asked.
Joseph shook his head. "Willa will have to find someone to replace me, then."
"Joseph!" Kit gasped, "You can't mean it?"
"I have to mean it, dear," he said, "there's no time . . . and I don't know how many more years I've got left in me. I want to save the ranch, but I'll need your help."
March 10, 1930:
The road graders are moving and the "Riviera," as we call it, is taking shape on a mesa overlooking the ocean. All electrical lines will be buried, so as not to mar the landscape. Building is scheduled to begin three months from now, as soon as all the "improvements" are in. There is a dredge in the cove, preparing a harbor. Willa had had to borrow to get this work done, but it will be repaid by the homeowners. Some lots are selling for as much as twenty thousand dollars. In this day and age! Don't tell me there isn't money around.
Kit says that the ranch has a potential sales value of one hundred million, if we can hold onto it long enough for land values to rise. For once, Wen and Willa are in agreement—the ranch should, under no circumstances, be sold.
Kit took over Willa's position on the Reade Land Company board with surprisingly little stir. Willa said only, "Wen wanted to relieve me of that burden once, but he was totally unprepared and—if the truth be known—unqualified. It's nice to be able to turn it over to someone better qualified than I am." I believe Joseph had something to do with making Willa feel she was being relieved to concentrate on the Riviera. Or at least, Joseph and Willa have agreed to play out that charade, for which I am thankful. I do not believe that Willa knows of Joseph's resolve to leave the company if she did not step down, and it is best that she does not.
Wen has been convinced that an effort is being made to put the companies on a firm footing, and recoup losses so as to protect his inheritance. He has dropped his suit, removing that annoyance. Wonder of wonders, he has even invited Kit to his home. It is the first invitation any of our family has received. We have seen Wen's girls a few times, always in strained circumstances. I have always regretted that and so has Willa. But each time we made some gesture, we were rebuffed.