Keeping Secrets (18 page)

“I know you will lose a lot down there, but you can make it back,” I said. “We could move from here, sell this house and buy something smaller. I wouldn't mind, truly. Think how uncomplicated it would be, Emory, to be rid of this mess. We could be happy again, and within a few years—”

“No!” he all but shouted. “Don't ask that of me. I've worked too hard to give up now.”

“But sometimes giving up is the only thing left to do. Then, you can start over again.”

“I can't do this again, can't build what I've built again. It's too late, can't you see? Are you ever going to come out of that cocoon and face what is happening?”

“No, I don't understand what you mean. It seems all too clear to me. It is a business venture that didn't work out. Maybe being shut out of it, I can see it more easily than you.”

“I wish it were that simple.”

“Maybe if you could just get your mind off it—we could go away for a week or so—”

“Damn it, keep your nose out of it.”

“You don't have to shout. It seems that's all you do lately, when and if you speak at all.”

He took a deep breath, as one does in dealing with a petulant child. “I know. Look, if we give Carranza enough rope he will hang himself, you will see. We've gone too far now to turn back.”

“But if Barrista is not enough of a man to stick it through—”

“I will make up what he lacks.”

“It seems to me you've been doing that for a long time.”

“You don't even know a small percentage of it.”

I stroked his shoulder. “I would if you'd tell me. I feel like a person who walked in on episode three of a motion picture. You can tell me, Emory. You can tell me anything.”

“No, there is a great deal I hope you will never have to know.”

The curious note of finality in his voice stayed with me through the night and part of the next day, and I was so preoccupied with concern for him and for us that my hand was lying on top of a small envelope in my postal box before I realized it was there.

“I done a stretch in jail down here, but I'm out now and flat broke. Hoping you can do something about that in the very near future. Perhaps you need someone to help you out. I could send a man around to collect the dough.”

Dizzy with anger and frustration, I stalked across the lobby and out the door, nearly barging into another postal customer. All the way down the steps I tore at the letter, again and again, until at the bottom I regained my composure, looked around, then crammed the pieces into my handbag.

At home I opened my jewel case, which contained only one item of value. I picked up the emerald ring that had been Emory's wedding gift to me and turned it over in my hand. I had never even considered giving this ring up because of its great sentimental value to me. The date of my arrival here was still clearly readable inside. I wore the ring to every social function we attended, and Emory would notice its absence immediately if I left it off. He was very proud of the ring and always pleased when someone complimented its beauty. With the one large emerald stone, surrounded by two tiers of diamonds, it was a handsome ornament which had even drawn a comment of envy from Lyla Stuttgart.

Although it was as dear to me as my wedding band, I had no choice now but to sell it. Should Emory find out, it would draw me into an even bigger lie than the fib I had prepared for the missing opals. This time I would simply have to say the ring had been stolen. Oh God, if the Mexican quagmire seemed endless it was nothing compared to this, I thought, then remembered something Emory had told me long ago of the revolutionary martyr of 1910, Francisco Madero. “Madero was rich like Barrista when he started,” he had said, “but by the time he finished he'd lost his fortune, had all his properties confiscated, and even had to hock his wife's jewels. And for all that he wound up with nothing, not even his life.”

One afternoon shortly after, Lyla came by as I sat above the river. I had not seen her lately, hadn't even seen Woody except to exchange a word or two over the fence about where Johnny's outfit was going next.

Lyla patted the ground to be sure it was dry, then sat down beside me among the vines.

“How can you sit by the river so much, and do nothing? I simply can't just look at the water—what a bore—I have to be fishing or something.”

When I didn't answer she continued, “You keep to yourself too much lately. Why don't you come along to the railroad station with my ladies' club tomorrow and take food for the boys coming through on their way to the border? Chicken-salad sandwiches and lemonade—I have to make up six loaves and eight gallons of the lemonade. You could get me out of half the work.”

“I knew there must be some reason you wanted me along.”

“Don't be so touchy. What's wrong with you, anyhow?”

“Nothing. Maybe the summer heat taxes my strength.”

“Isn't it the truth? As soon as I get this obligation off my neck, I'm taking off for the hills. It'll be nice when this idiotic European war is over so we can plan another summer abroad. I'm getting sick of the hills, but it's the only place to go right now.

“Anyway, why don't you go along? The boys are coming from all over the country, and from what I hear they all have two things in common—they're afraid of Texas rattlesnakes—I've never even seen one!—and they're hungry. They've cleaned out the restaurants and fruit stands already.”

“All right. Maybe getting busy will do me good.”

Next morning I carried a loaded basket down to Lyla's house, where we'd be picked up by some other lady in an automobile. On the way I glanced at Woody's cottage and wondered what he was up to. I would have stopped, but was already running a little late. Scoop, out in the dooryard, scampered up to the fence. I reached over and patted his head. “It's awfully hot for you to be out this morning, old boy. I'm surprised you're not on the back porch catching the breeze.” I glanced up at the windows, then walked on.

There are many things that will stay in my mind about that day.

The train station was hot and dusty, noisy with engines starting up and roaring off, or screeching to a halt. A good many Red Cross volunteers were trooping around among the soldiers, as the city had been named a distribution point for them also.

We served the sandwiches and lemonade, and the iced-down watermelons some other organization had provided, from tables set up lengthwise close to the tracks, and I met many men—some young, and some surprisingly older fellows who'd interrupted important careers in the professions of medicine and law to answer the muster into active duty. I could not help thinking of Nathan. Surely these men were leaving work equally important with his, yet they seemed to do so cheerfully; or maybe they put on smiling faces for the benefit of all the ladies who stood around wiping perspiration from their own foreheads and necks, dipping out punch and wearing looks of cheerful reassurance as they backhanded impudent flies. It occurred to me a stint in active service might be just the needed dose of medicine to stave up Nathan's confidence in his own manhood … maybe I ought to suggest it to him … but then, something told me not.

I saw a young Mexican woman down the line, sitting with her legs crossed on the pavement. She had a huge box of Mexican candy in front of her, which a group of seven or eight youngsters were distributing to the soldiers. On second glance I noticed she was selling it, rather than giving it away, but then the boys were eager enough to pay for it, and the children would return and prance around, some of them taking in hand thick locks of the woman's waist-long black hair and twining it around her head maypole-fashion. I was about to draw Lyla's attention to her, when I realized Lyla had disappeared. I found her sitting back near the depot on a chair, looking pale, so I went to see if she was all right.

“It's this killing heat, and the smell of that chicken salad,” she said. “It's quite overpowering. I'll be glad when it's time to go.”

“I don't think it will be long. We're about cleaned out of sandwiches already. I could call a taxi for you, though.”

“No, I'll wait.” She shifted sideways in the chair, as though in hopes of avoiding the smell of the food. It seemed to me the body odor of returning troops was far worse than the chicken salad, but I didn't mention this to Lyla.

On the way home in the crowded little Electric auto, I thought of one young soldier who'd muttered bitterly under his breath at being called to duty in Mexico, and how red his face became when he realized I'd overheard his private feelings. Didn't we all put up a wonderful, courageous front. Hardly any man would have risked tainting his honor by saying, “Look, it's all right for anyone who wants to go down and play cowboys and Indians with Pancho Villa, but if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not risk my life over it.”

It occurred to me then that even Nathan had less to say lately about his fears of being called to duty, though I was sure his feelings had not changed. Perhaps Emory's remarks were not the only ones putting pressure on Nathan.…

The lady driving made a point of stopping by Lyla's house first, though she seemed completely recovered by then. I wondered whether her little sickness was indeed a good trick to save her from standing in the heat.

I couldn't wait to get out of the car myself, and as soon as I got inside the house I changed clothes and sat down with a glass of iced tea. I considered moving to the summerhouse, then looked at the clock. Three-fifteen. I was amazed at the hour. We'd passed by Woody's house just a few minutes before, and I had seen Scoop outside, snoozing on the porch. I took another sip of tea and thought, he should have been out for his walk. Well, maybe Woody had other plans today … yet.…

Silly, worrying over a thing like that.

However, where would Woody be? There were no art exhibits that I knew of, and concert season was long since over. In fact, this time of year there was scarcely anything going on.…

At three-thirty I gave up fighting off the feeling of uneasiness that was coming over me. Within two minutes I was inside Woody's gate, holding Scoop in one arm, knocking on the door.

“Come in.” It was Woody's voice, low and even, as usual. I felt relieved as I opened the door, but even as Scoop hopped out of my arms into the darkened room and scurried to his master's feet, I knew.

Woody sat in his wingback chair, still clad in robe and house slippers. On the table next to him was a Western Union envelope, its contents nearby with the impersonal square letters of its message marching across. Woody was very still, with one hand clutching Johnny's picture, and the other covering his forehead. I knelt in front of him, groping for words, and, thinking of none, finally reached hesitantly and closed my hand over his.

“There was no reason to bother about the Somme,” he said, almost inaudibly. “After the Marne, there was no reason at all. I was so glad Johnny was attached to Rawlinson's Fourth there. It was a good place to be. They were all young recruits, wet behind the ears, you know. Must have thought they were poised above the splendor of victory. The Germans laid them out across the fields by the thousands.”

My teeth were clenched. All I could do was grip his hand as he continued, “Some general, for whom youngsters are only numbers on a sheet of paper, decided there must be a battle; perhaps it would gain us a few feet of ground, he thought, and we won't lose but a small percentage of our troops. A percentage.”

“Woody, let me make you some tea.”

“Yes, that would be nice, Mrs. Cabot.”

“Are you hungry? You should have something in your system, even a piece of fruit or a tea biscuit.”

“No, just the tea, strong and hot.”

I went about his kitchen, so long familiar to me, as though in a fog. I knew where to reach for the tin of tea and where to find the matches to light the stubborn burner on his little stove. I fixed a dish of food for Scoop, who ate as though he had not been fed for a long time, and put fruit and tea biscuits on a tray for Woody, hoping I could change his mind and get him to eat, and hoping more that all of these rituals would give me words to say that would substitute for my inability to comfort him.

Scoop followed me back and lay down at Woody's feet, his head between his front paws, his eyes wide, ears perked with curiosity. As Woody took the scalding tea he said, “You're very kind, Mrs. Cabot.”

“I only wish there was more that I could do. I feel so … so helpless, and so sorry.”

“I know … don't worry. There are no words anyone can say that are of help just now. I'm an old man, you know. I've seen a lot in my lifetime. I've been sitting here awhile, thinking of that. When I lost Elizabeth I thought I would not be able to go on, though I did. I never expected to lose Johnny.”

“Why don't you come home with me for a little while? Let me look after you. We have plenty of room and I think Emory is going off to Mexico again in a day or so. When you get your strength up, maybe it will be easier to accept—maybe not—but at least you won't have to do it alone.”

“No, I appreciate it but I don't want to go anywhere. It's kind of you to try to think of ways to help me, but I don't think you can.”

I sat back with a sigh. “All right. But I'll come by to check on you every day, and any time you want to talk to me, just pick up the telephone. I wish I could make you know how terribly sorry I am.…”

“I know that, Mrs. Cabot, I know.…”

It was almost five o'clock when I walked home, my steps as heavy as though my feet were bound in chains. I saw Lyla's cousin Gregory Brandon, all spruced up in his straw hat and Palm Beach suit, with a daisy in his pocket. He alighted from a car three houses down from ours where the young Elissa Franck would be awaiting him. It seemed a short time ago that I'd first met Elissa's mother at a coffee klatch, and she'd told me Elissa despaired of ever having a suitor because Beauregard Street was so short and difficult to find. Yet, close by all the while had been Gregory. Lyla had snorted at the match, and said, “Oh God, another Arnold and Lyla story. It's like an abyss in this neighborhood.”