Hers the Kingdom (74 page)

     The morning papers tell a terrible tale. Ten died and forty were injured by a bomb blast. A suitcase filled with explosives was leaned against a building at Steuart Street, only a short half block from where we stood. It was, according to the police, the work of extreme radical revolutionists. Arrests would be made shortly, they said. Several revolutionists with experience in explosives are known to be in the city at the present time.

     Porter reads the papers from cover to cover, trying still to understand. He says little, and that troubles me. Until now, Porter has been happy to talk at length about his newly discovered political theories.

     When I asked Sara what Connor had been doing, she admitted that he cautioned against our going to the parade, saying that there was a good chance there would be violence. She had not believed him, she said. She was wrong and Connor was right. She
supposed he had appointed himself as our protector. Perhaps he feels obligated to Sara, for all the help she has given him. Whatever the reason, I must admit that I am grateful to Connor for his help. I shiver to think what would have happened to us had he not been there.

     At the same time, I have suggested to the twins that we not disturb Willa by telling her about our adventure.

     
October 7, 1918:
I passed by the library today and glanced in, to see Kit sitting on the Persian carpet in a pool of October sunlight. I thought: How lovely she is becoming. Her child's body is budding. She is fourteen now, slim and delicate. Her eyes are a smoky hazel, and wonderfully direct. She is not nearly so tall as her mother, but she has the same slim body, the narrow hips, the way of moving that is a study in grace. The boys have already begun to take notice. Wen, who always had an eye for attractive women, told her she was going to be the belle of the ball. Kit looked at him with her wide, direct eyes and replied, "Why should I want to be?" As usual, poor Wen didn't know what to make of her response.

     
January 13, 1919:
The
Los Angeles Times
tells us that a forty-million-dollar state road bond issue has been passed and, it says, this ushers in a grand new era in road building unseen in two thousand years. (A bit of hyperbole, perhaps. Just a bit.) The
Times
is ecstatic—as, I suppose, is Mr. Henry Ford. The
Times
also tells us that the southern counties have coordinated their own road-building programs, and that Route 60 is to follow the shoreline through three counties. It is to be concrete, twenty feet wide, and six inches thick.

     Imagine a concrete roadway all the way up the coast! Imagine it, however, without Willa's twenty-two miles of shoreline. She will have nothing to do with it, nothing at all. Says she won't have a concrete slab slice through her land. James Irvine of the Irvine Ranch—one of the last of the great land grant ranches still intact, along with the Malibu—has up and donated the right of way through his property. Of course, this has made him
something of a hero to the local folks, not to mention the highway commission. Willa says he's a fool. Joseph says he's shrewd, since he has managed to route the road where he wants it. I agree with Joseph, but it doesn't do to let Willa know. She glares you down as if you've put in with the Devil.

     Ah, Willa. We have taken to calling her What Next Willa. What is next has thrown us all for the proverbial loop. She has engaged an architect to create what she calls "The Big House." She is going to build a mansion on Peregrino Hill; it is, she says, her first order of business. The word "mansion" is right. The plan is to have some fifty rooms, not to mention a ballroom large enough to accommodate the Philharmonic.

     Last weekend, with Porter at the wheel of his new roadster, we drove out to the ranch, and I was amazed to find Charlie Rich there. Charlie was the agent who procured the Malibu for Owen almost thirty years ago. He has not aged well, but is fat and bald and laughs too much. His fortunes have fluctuated, though never his grandiose plans. He is trying to interest Willa in a money-making scheme to lease some beach property to rich people. Owen used to say his ambitions outstripped his talents, but when I mentioned that to Willa she said she was quite sure Owen had said no such thing, that my memory was faulty. That sent me on an hours-long search through my journals—and there it was, big as day: "Charlie Rich is a funny little man. Owen says he is one of those men who want a great deal more than their capabilities will provide, and that someday it will get him in trouble."

     I said nothing of this to Willa. She does not like to be proved wrong.

     Business has been good. The Reade companies are making money faster than Willa can spend it—
only just
, Joseph says. Wen sputters and fumes and keeps after us all to "do something" before she sends everyone to the poorhouse.

     Wen has taken to dropping by the townhouse with some regularity. His wife came once. As Porter said afterwards, "The
lady does not approve of our laissez-faire household." I suppose she didn't, for she has never come back nor have we been invited to her home. I am glad for that small favor, for I'm sure I couldn't talk the twins into going.

     Porter, that cheeky lad, takes uncommonly perverse pleasure in Wen's visits. Happily, Wen seems not to notice Porter's tongue-in-cheek sallies. For example, after a few pleasantries Wen will settle down in the big chair and say, "Mother has taken leave of her senses, I do believe."

     Porter then puts in, sotto voce, "Spending money faster than we can make it."

     To which Wen, solemnly nodding, says out loud, "Spending money faster than we can make it."

     Then Kit, primed by her brother, chirps up, all perky innocence: "Then we can make it, the nerve."

     And Wen hasn't the good sense to know he's being joshed, poor thing. Still, I encourage his visits . . . I suppose I cling to the hope that, deep down, something remains of the boy I used to know.

     I have asked Wen several times if he won't bring his two little girls to the townhouse for a visit: Caroline is five already and Lucy, just three. I suppose their mother won't have it—more's the pity!

     
April 28, 1919:
I am so angry I could scream. I am livid. I am beside myself. At Abby, Wen's thoroughly despicable, simpering, depressing wife. And at myself, oh, yes. At myself for not having had the presence of mind to excoriate her for having had the unmitigated gall to say what she said about Kit.

     Oh, I am so mad! Why couldn't I think how to answer her? If she had called Willa instead of me—oh, my, then the fur would have flown. Willa would not have been such a simple fool as I was. "Thank you for calling," I said. Like some silly old fool. Even thank you"!

     I hate to talk on that infernal telephone. It makes me nervous. And Abby had never called before so it came as a shock to hear that whining little voice. How did she put it? She said she had
something of "a delicate nature" to tell me, that she was sure I would want to know what people were saying about Kit.

     "What people?" I had asked.

     And the mealy-mouthed gossip answered, "People who know that Katharine Reade is my husband's sister, and who know we would be concerned about the family name."

     The family name! I should have told her to ask Wen about honor and the family name. Why didn't I? Why did I even listen to her when she told me that Kit had been seen in places where "nice girls don't go," when she said it was "common knowledge that Kit smokes and drinks." And that she drives about town in a roadster, going "quite fast actually." Then she had lowered her voice, and said something about Kit's being seen in a parked car with an "older man."

     I put the telephone receiver down and sat there in the front hall, shaking with fury. Porter walked in and, concerned, all but lifted me across the hall and made me lie down on the sofa. My anger spilled over then, and I blurted it all out. I could hardly keep my voice steady.

     The worried look on Porter's face dissolved into relieved laughter. He took both of my hands in his and squeezed them, as if to make me pay attention. "She's right," he said, "Kit's a regular desperado. She does pretty much what she wants to do, you know that. She doesn't do it to shock anybody. Why shouldn't she go into beer halls now and then? I think she even has a beer sometimes. You know she smokes, and you know she's been seeing Joe Ainsworth, who goes to USC. He's maybe twenty. I guess that makes him an 'older man.' It's just that Kit is straight, and honest. And that bothers people. But you know all of that, so why are you so angry?"

     I bit my lip and wondered myself. "I don't want people to talk about her that way. It hurts," I answered, childishly.

     Porter
would
tell Kit, of course. And Kit was more concerned about my distress than anything Abby had said.

     "I've heard it before," she told me, tucking her hand in mine the way she did. "The war is over, Auntie. Things are different now. A lot of the old ways don't work anymore. It's time for a change."

     "Do you mind the gossip?" I asked.

     She lit a cigarette and sat, holding it, thinking.

     "When Betty Woodson told me that her parents had asked her not to see me anymore, I minded. We had been friends, I thought. She said she didn't want to obey, but she did. That's what I minded—that she gave in so easily."

     "You wouldn't have," I said. "It must have hurt."

     She smiled and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. I couldn't think of anything else to say. The only thing I was sure of was that the next time Wen dropped by and deposited himself in my drawing room, he was going to be treated to a well-rehearsed diatribe. I would say everything to him that I should have told his wretched wife. His ears would burn.

     
June 9, 1919:
The Senior Class Prophecy was published today, along with the Class of 1919's yearbook. According to the prophecy, in the year 1939 "Porter Reade was elected the youngest president in the history of the country at the age of thirty-five, while his twin sister, Katharine Reade, the First Lady of the American stage, gave a command performance before the bachelor king of England, which set tongues wagging on two continents."

     After shrugging the prophecies off as "not terribly original" Porter could not resist adding that his first action as chief executive would be to issue a full pardon to Tom Mooney and Warren Billings, who continue to languish in San Quentin prison for the Preparedness Day Bombing in 1916, in spite of massive evidence to prove their innocence. I do believe that whole episode has done more than anything else to form Porter's political persuasion. He can scarcely speak to Willa anymore. Porter refuses to go to the Malibu, and Kit goes only occasionally, and only to see her mother.

     
June 16, 1919:
The twins graduated last week, some months short of their sixteenth birthdays. It has been a busy time, what with examinations and then a full week of graduation celebrations.

     About the only decision we have made is that we will spend the summer on the ranch. I am determined that Porter should mend fences with Willa. He does not know it, but I have spoken to Willa and she has agreed. The twins—even I think of them as that!—want time to ride and swim and explore after their long siege with studies.

     It seems strange to speak of "siege" in terms of studies, when these were also the war years. Strange, and yet the war was far removed from our coast. Porter kept a large map of Europe in his room, on which he plotted the major battles with colored pins. Still, except for items in the newspapers listing casualties and an occasional parade, the war has seemed distant. I am almost ashamed to admit that, for the family, the major effect has been economic. Owen's investments—oil and gas and the mines—were stimulated by the war, and have flourished. The last time we were at the ranch, Willa was decrying some new taxes, and Porter managed to raise her ire by pointing out what he chose to call the "war profits" the Reade Land Company had reaped.

     After the summer, I am not sure what will happen. Willa and I have encouraged the twins to wait a year before entering college. Porter plans to go to the University of California at Berkeley rather than Stanford. Kit isn't sure if she wants to go on to school.

     Now that the war is, at long last, over, we'll be able to go to Europe again, though not for a time. Porter would like to visit Washington to observe the government. It would be good to see Sally again. But for now, only the Malibu . . . sand and sun and relaxation. I feel as if I am coming home again. Perhaps I will move back. Willa would like it, and there is no reason not to if Kit and Porter are away.

     
June 23, 1919:
I feel I should begin this with a prayer.
Lord Have Mercy, is all I can think to say. I am not a religious woman, but at times the old phrases are comforting. Here is what happened: Several days after our return to the ranch, one of Willa's
vaqueros
rode up to tell her that soldiers had made camp on the beach, that they said they planned to stay. Willa threw up her hands.

     "I knew it," she said, "squatters! All those stories circulating again about the illegality of old land grants . . . how many times do we have to prove we own this land? Now I've got war veterans gathering like locusts . . ."

     "It's terribly sad . . ." Kit began, but Willa cut her off.

     "Of course it's sad, Kit. There are all sorts of sad people all over the country. Should I gather them all in? Should I empty the mental hospitals and the old people's homes and give each of them a slice of the ranch?"

     Porter entered at the moment and I knew if he said anything at all we were in for it, so I quickly marshaled the two of them to go with me to, as I put it, reconnoiter the situation. I felt sure it was the only thing that would deflect Porter.

     From a distance, we could see the men in the familiar drab uniforms clustered on the beach. The fires they had lit seemed out of a dream, but we could smell the food they were cooking.

     "I suppose they have nowhere else to go, no homes or families," I said. "Coming here must be a last resort."