Hers the Kingdom (36 page)

If Willa were more silent than she had been, she was, at the same time, more available. She listened, seemingly engrossed, to Wen's long, convoluted explanations of how the cowboys broke the three
new mustangs Ignacio had brought back with him. She brought Owen's collections into the parlor and sat with him for long hours, organizing butterfly specimens and native wildflowers, making notations at his direction, cataloging his growing library of rare books, overseeing the building of cabinets to house his Californian artifacts. She read to Thad, drew pictures for him; she took care of the collie's sore foot; she even put her cool hand on my brow when I complained of feeling warm. And they were acts of contrition, all of them. I could not but wonder how long she must serve as a penitent.

     The end of summer approached. The heat did not abate. Everything seemed to move slowly, the very air was heavy. I found Willa sitting on a low stool on the verandah, facing Thad, who was perched on a chair, so that they were eye to eye. She was helping him smooth a wrinkle in his stocking which had caused him some discomfort, and the two were absorbed in the task.

     "Willa," I said, determined to be heard, "Owen is feeling so much better today and it is so stifling here—why don't you take Princess for a ride along the ocean?"

     Not looking up, continuing to work on the stocking, she said, "No. No, I won't do that."

     "Willa," I began to argue, but she stopped me.

     "I have been thinking that Princess should get out, Lena. Do you suppose you could do that for me? Take her out for at least some short rides?"

     Thad, annoyed by my distraction, began tugging on his mother's arm.

     "Yes, Thad," Willa said, turning to him, "how is that? Does it still hurt?"

     "All right," I answered, defeated. It was, of course, part of the penance. But I did as she asked, and never had I been so happy that Willa had, almost fifteen years before when we were girls on the farm, insisted that I could ride if I but set my mind to it.

     In my journal for that long, hot summer the only light,
happy times I recorded were my accounts of those long rambles on horseback. They provided my only relief from the building tensions. I rode Princess regularly. She had missed the long rides with her mistress and she nuzzled me as if to say, "I'll show you just how much fun this can be." She was an exceptional animal, filled with good spirits yet gentle. She knew the ranch better than I did. The few times I missed a turn and managed to lose my bearings, Princess brought us home.

Willa came awake, not certain why, aware only that something was changed. She was alone in the bed. She realized she had moved to the position in the center that she had become accustomed to in the long months in which she had slept alone. It was a comfortable feeling; she moved away from it as soon as she understood that it was comforting.

     In the early light she saw Owen's form moving about the room. It came to her then: This was the morning Wen was to leave for school. Owen would take him to Redlands. She forced herself to sit up; a wave of nausea sent her reeling back onto the pillow. She groaned.

     "Ah, you're awake," Owen said, not looking round but lighting a lamp so that he could see to dress.

     "Umm," she answered, keeping her lips pressed tight.

     "Stay in bed," he said, "You needn't get up—I'll send Wen to you to say goodbye." He was not being solicitous and she was glad. He was anxious to be on his way and did not want the leavetaking to be protracted.

     She thought: I must get up. I must. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, but the floor would not be still, the room seemed to lurch at her. She could not get up, she knew. With her hand she felt for the ironstone chamberpot they kept under the bed. It was cool to the touch; she left her hand trailing, touching
the cool pottery, and watched Owen dress. He was humming to himself, concentrating on the detail of his dress. When he finished he turned to her, his hands spread on the bed's brass railing.

     "You remember I am to stay over for a few days in town," he said in a businesslike tone, "I'll see the doctor, and take care of some other details, but mostly I'll rest up so the trip doesn't impede my convalescence."

     "Yes of course," she said, and tried to smile. Her stomach was churning.

     "I'll send the boy up when he's had his breakfast," he said in leaving, "don't keep him too long."

     He did not bend to kiss her. He slept in her bed and he entered her body, but he did not touch her at other times, and she did not complain. Never again would she make demands of Owen. She would deny the body that had betrayed her.

     She waited until he pulled the door closed. Then she reached for the chamberpot, leaned far over the side of the bed, and retched. When her stomach was emptied, when there was no more, she lay back on the pillows, too tired to move. She rested for a few moments, breathing deeply. Then she forced herself to sit up, and to carry the sour-smelling vessel away from her bed. Bracing herself against the wall, she splashed her face with cold water, then she rinsed her mouth, spitting the water into the basin. She could not seem to rid herself of the bitter taste; it was with her, part of her always.

     She did not want Wen to smell the awful odor that was clinging to her. She raised the window and breathed the clean air. Suddenly she was swaying, she felt faint and cold. She made her way, holding to the furniture, and sank into the bed and into a brutal half-sleep in which she dreamed that Connor was riding off with Wen, was taking him away. She was trying to scream, but when she opened her mouth no sound came out and she was helpless.

We ate in silence that morning, Wen and Owen and I, until finally Owen said, "Go tell your mother goodbye, and make sure you smile."

     Wen left dutifully.

     "Is Willa ill?" I asked when Wen had gone.

     "Ill? No, she's fine," he answered, "I think she didn't sleep well, that's all." He ate methodically, I noticed, speaking between spoons of porridge. I buttered a biscuit for a long while, knowing I could not eat it.

     "Lena," Owen said in a tone which suggested duty, "I know that you are worried about Wen, but I promise you that in six months he'll come home for the holidays and be only too glad to return to his school and the friends he will make there."

     I wanted to say, "How can you be so sure?" I wanted to say, "Is that what you want, Owen?" But I said nothing at all.

     I watched the two of them drive off in the carriage, the tall, gaunt man and the small boy. I watched until they turned the far corner and were out of sight. When I came back into the house I knew that something was missing, and that it would always be so.

     Trinidad was in the kitchen, her apron over her head, weeping copiously.
Dear Trinidad
, I thought. I had no idea Wen's departure would affect her so. Now that I thought about it, she had been upset of late. "Has Ignacio had his breakfast?" I asked, more to distract her than anything else. "No, no," she said, between wet gulps, "he is gone early."

     "Gone?" I repeated.

     "To Santa Monica," she replied, "To Los Angeles." I remembered then, that Owen had sent his
mayordomo
to ship the stock. Ordinarily, Ignacio would not have been sent on such an errand— but Owen had insisted he go, for reasons I did not understand.

In the weeks since his return from the East, Owen's health had made amazing gains. The open air and the sun and the sea did, as
he had said they would, wonders. Each day his color improved, he moved more easily, his form seemed to fill out and his spirits to lift. By contrast, Willa grew ever paler.

     She was lethargic and wan. It was as if her energy was being transmitted to him, as if she were being drained.

     Owen returned from Redlands looking better, even, than when he had left. At midmorning a few days later, Trinidad and I were in the kitchen discussing the provisions we would need from town when Willa came in, still in her wrapper, her feet bare.

     "Sit down," I said, "let me get you some tea." She did as I said, slumping in a chair at the table.

     "Are you ill, Willa?" I asked, and when she didn't answer I repeated the question.

     Willa looked at me as if I had been speaking in tongues. "No," she finally answered, "no, I'm not ill, not really."

     "Then if you are well," I said with considerable sarcasm, "don't you think it time you got back to your work on the raptors? There are at least four letters that need answering. And Princess, too—you should think about taking Princess for her outings. She has been very patient with me, but. . ."

     Willa sipped her tea, and I thought she had not heard me. She closed her eyes against the steamy vapor that lifted from the hot liquid.

     But she had heard. "I think not, Lena," she said, in a tone that told me it was final. Before I could give her an argument she rose, saying, "You are right—I am getting lazy, staying in bed so long. I'd best get dressed."

     She left me looking after her, puzzled.

     Trinidad giggled.

     I was annoyed. "What do you find so amusing?" I wanted to know.

     
"La Señora,"
she replied, cupping her hand under her belly,
"tiene nene."

     She took my breath away. I reached to steady myself and fell against the wood stove, burning my hand.

     
"Aie,"
Trinidad cried in alarm. She sat me down and began to rub lard on the nasty welt that rose on my hand. I didn't feel the pain of the burn, not then. I was too shaken by the revelation.
Willa was going to have a baby.

     Working over my hand like some mother hen, Trinidad chattered ceaselessly. "Maybe now they get baby girl," she said. "Maybe me, too," she added, patting her belly to let me know that she was, once again, with child. I knew that she was thinking how lucky it was that she would be able to suckle Willa's baby, along with her own. I had the sudden urge to hit her, to pound on her great baby-making body, on those great breasts that would pour out their bounty in streams.

Willa was dressing, still, when I knocked on the door. She was pulling on her petticoats. Her body was swelling, I could see that.