Keeping Secrets (9 page)

When he was gone I rested on the door. My heart was beating wildly and my hands were icy. How long would the first five thousand abate him, and where would I go for the rest?

There was no opening for me now. Emory considered my past a closed case and even if some part of it cropped up again he might be understanding. But I was sure he knew nothing about my involvement with Mark, and if he found out it would be the one thing that would turn his love for me to hate. Neither would I surreptitiously take Emory's money to pay what Mark was demanding.

There was also the good possibility that once I'd paid off Mark he would turn greedy and blackmail me for more. I had never even thought of that until now. If that were to happen …

The print of his hand was still like a flame against my face. I wished more than ever I had believed in Emory and his feelings for me twenty years ago faithfully enough to have stayed in Childers all these years, awaiting the day he'd come back for me.

10

Within two weeks I had obtained my savings from Colorado and forwarded it to a New Orleans address Mark gave me. I soon received a letter that he'd gotten the money, but, as I expected, the letter contained an underlying threat about the future installments.

The savings, begun long ago, had originally been intended to go toward paying Mark off. But in the meantime Emory had proposed marriage. I saw his proposal as my one chance for the good life I wanted so badly, and so I fooled myself into thinking Mark would never find me. So much time had passed, and now not one new name, but two … surely that was ample protection.

At least the five thousand had been sufficient to appease him so far. I felt almost safe again as weeks passed without word from Mark. And as Emory's affairs in Mexico continued to mount, I managed to shove the question of where I might next look for money to the back of my mind, although it resided there like a haunting specter.

The provisional presidency of Mexico was denied Barrista and handed to someone else, with the stipulation that regular elections would be held in the fall. Emory scoffed and said, “Carranza is still the strongest man down there and it looks now like he'll get recognition by our government, if he just hangs on long enough.

“When that happens you can say good-bye to free elections and look for more bloody strife than ever before because Pancho Villa will never stop fighting Carranza, and the rest of the country will be divided into as many rebel bands as there are bandidos able to gather a few troops.”

By early August, Emory's predictions were proving true, and I was discussing this with Woody one morning over the fence as he tended his flowers. “It seems trouble is breaking out everywhere,” he said, mopping his brow. “And I must say the incident that has brought Europe to the brink of war is a lot less reasonable than the problems causing trouble in Mexico. Over there the monarchs have nothing to do but sit around thinking of new territories to take over, more jewels for their crowns, and they only need a little nudging to fight. Ah … now it's begun, I'm afraid the whole of Europe will fall in line like dominoes.”

“Maybe you should see about getting Johnny to come here to school for a while. I heard that one of the neighbor girls is coming home from school in Switzerland. Her family came home a month early from their ranch in the hill country to pack up and go to Europe for her.”

“Oh, Johnny would never come. He'd stay and fight, if it came to that.” Then the old man wiped his brow and folded his hands over the handle of the garden hoe. “I only pray it doesn't.”

He looked somehow a little older as he stood there, tall and weathered as a tree which has withstood many a season of hard frosts, to face one more spring of rejuvenation. “I'm going to an art exhibit at Carnegie Library this afternoon—a mixture of local and international artists' work—why don't you come along?”

“I'd like that.”

“Then we'll have tea. I've just received a new tin of tea biscuits from a niece in Glasgow … she thinks of me once in a while.”

It occurred to me as I walked away how alone Woody was, with only his terrier Scoop for company and a woman from the Irish Flats who came by to tidy up the house twice a week. I ought to invite him for dinner one evening, I thought, but then I couldn't quite see him seated across the table from Emory.

Nathan was just finishing the summerhouse, on which he had spent many an evening sawing lumber and driving nails. Less ornate and lacy than the one I'd seen nearby, it was hexagonal, with open sides and six latticework columns under a peaked roof. The crowning touch was an onion-shaped finial for the rooftop.

Raised off the ground by three steps, the summerhouse was breezily inviting, and large enough to hold a small table and eight wicker stools, which I had bought and arranged for delivery before the final coat of paint had been applied.

Nathan was undeniably proud of his work, and I was delighted. It added so much to the looks of the yard, I thought, yet when I mentioned this to Emory he was noncommittal. He'd had a few drinks too many that evening, and wasn't inclined toward pleasantries anyway. I shouldn't have persisted, but I did. “When Katherine Brooks saw it, she offered to pay him twenty-five dollars just for the labor to build her one similar to it.”

“Who the hell is she?”

“A neighbor over on Turner Street.”

“Oh, one of your coffee-time chums?” he asked with a sneer.

“Not a chum exactly.…”

“Well Nathan doesn't have time to go around building summerhouses for people.”

“Forgive me, your most highest, I didn't realize it would put you off so badly.”

“Hell, I bought the lumber, the nails, and the paint.”

“I'll be only so glad to reimburse—”

He laughed. “With what, my dear?”

I could have turned the whiskey bottle over on his head for that remark. Thankfully, the sound of Nathan coming through the back door made me pause, and I kept my temper. Once I'd heard Nathan's door close and lock, I continued, more softly, “I don't mean to start an argument over this … I just believe it wouldn't be too difficult for you to show a little more kindness to Nathan now and then. You're lucky to have him in your employ. With his variety of talents, I'm surprised he stays with you … I mean, bookkeeping is such tedium.”

“Don't worry. Nathan isn't going anywhere.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He paused. “Because I own his son-of-a-bitching soul.”

“My God, what a thing to say,” I told him, bringing a hand to my chest.

“I've got to go out.”

“Seems you do an awful lot of that lately.”

“It beats staying home.”

I stood there a few moments after he walked out, scarcely believing how easily we'd gotten into a quarrel. Then I ran out the back door and caught his arm just as he reached the garage. “Emory, why are you angry with me?”

“Who said I was?”

I shook my head. “Could we talk for just a few minutes?”

“What's so important? I have an appointment.”

“With whom, about what?”

“None of your business. Anything else?”

“I suppose not. Shall I wait up?”

“Don't bother. I'll be late.”

I lay awake far into the night, thinking how simple the message Emory was relaying to me, yet still unwilling to accept it. We'd been married less than a year and for most of that time I had been so sure I was making him as happy as any woman could. Certainly he found me a responsive bed partner—the ingredient most basic in a good marriage from a man's point of view—and I had made every effort to be more than was normally expected in a wife. I studied the Mexican news like a dedicated student pores over his textbooks, not only because I was directly concerned with Emory's welfare, but also because I wanted to be able to talk with him intelligently about the subject of most importance to him. I took special care in the way I conducted myself, in the way I selected my clothes, so that he'd be proud of me. I kept our home clean and presentable, and never complained of having a boarder though at times I felt Nathan's presence put an extra strain on our relationship, especially during Emory's nasty moods. Nor did I pry into their association with each other, even while it was a source of great puzzlement to me. Owning Nathan's soul … what could he have possibly meant by that remark

It seemed to me I did everything within my power to please him. Yet it wasn't enough, obviously. While I was lying on my side of our bed, he was undoubtedly lying beside Aegina Barrista. It was so simple, yet so impossible to fathom. Maybe he'd lived the life of a bachelor so long, he was uncomfortable with the responsibility of a wife, and those less constricting ties along the way now begged to be picked up again.…

I tossed and turned, wondered and speculated, until finally it occurred to me I was letting the whole thing get out of hand … jumping to conclusions. That was a comforting prospect, and upon it I finally dozed off, too humb to have come close to shedding a tear.

The following morning I awoke to the jovial sound of Emory singing in the bathtub. “Good morning, my dear,” he said as I walked in, his cigar hanging precariously in the corner of his open mouth. I stared at him sleepily for a few moments. Finally he said, “You're supposed to demand to know where I was all night.”

“You said that was none of my business.”

“Oh … so I did. Well, I'll tell you anyway. I tied one on with a business friend in the Menger Bar. That place hasn't rocked like it did last night since Teddy Roosevelt hit town with his Rough Riders.”

I turned and reached for a cake of soap, so he couldn't see the look of relief on my face. I could usually tell when Emory was being honest. Then I pulled the cigar from his mouth and threw it into an ash can.

“What are you doing?”

“Move over. I feel like a bath, too.”

He watched quietly as I let the gown fall slowly around my feet; then, leaning forward to toss it aside, I looked him in the eye.

“Get in here. Damned if you aren't like a bad habit,” he said with a devilish grin.

Before leaving for his office that morning, he apologized for his remarks about the summerhouse and said, “That was liquor talking. You can have anything we can afford, and someday I hope to be able to give you much more.”

I felt ashamed of myself for entertaining the suspicions of the previous night. “Let's have dinner out tonight, just the two of us,” I suggested.

He hesitated then said, “I … uh … can't tonight. I have another appointment.”

I nodded with a casualness I didn't feel.

11

In early October, Emory went to Mexico for a planning session with Barrista. Thankfully, this was a short trip—he was away only a couple of weeks—and I was kept busy much of that time gathering and shelling pecans from the tree in our dooryard.

We received several party invitations, which I held aside for his return. Emory took a jaded view of most social functions, and knew few people in the neighborhood, so I was reluctant to commit us on my own. Besides, is would have been fine with me could we have gone away somewhere together for the coming holiday season. I didn't mind having Nathan live in our house all that much, and was many times grateful for his presence, but I never felt we had complete privacy. The house was old, the limestone walls thick. You could not hear what was being said in the next room unless the doors were open. Yet I often found myself guarding my conversation when Nathan was at home, as though he were crouching somewhere, listening.…

Emory looked among the engraved cards hurriedly, and said, “Let's not go to any of them. Parties don't matter to me.” But then he picked them up again and said, “No, maybe we ought to attend a few, especially this one at the Casino Club.”

“You changed your mind awfully fast.”

“I have to feel out some people about money to finance the revolution. If I've got to socialize, at least I can do it with a purpose.”

He was eager to tell me of the plans drawn up in Mexico, and even before changing from his traveling clothes he filled a whiskey glass and sat down. As he talked it was easy to see Barrista had the long-range ideas for the good of the country; Emory provided the short-term means for putting them into operation. Barrista had named his manifesto Plan de Pacifica Reforma—plan of peaceful reform. I asked Emory how and when the operation would begin, my pulse pumping a little faster as I uttered the words.

“Early next year I'm going down quietly and take a little tour, covering five or six Mexican states and paying a visit to each of the Barrista brothers and a few trusted friends. I'll be gone a few months, probably.”

My heart fell as I thought of the dangers, with railroads operating only here and there, and half of them blown up by revolutionaries.

When I voiced this to Emory he said, “I'll be on horseback mostly,” which did not make me feel any better.

“Why can't Barrista do that?” I asked.

“If a man like Barrista were seen riding horseback from one end of the country to the other, it would look a mite suspicious. I can do it easily, and besides, I want to meet the people we're enlisting and get a feel for them.” He paused. “I have my doubts about his brother Carlos, especially. He's a little too ambitious and competitive to suit me.… Maybe I'm just measuring him by my own experience—Barrista seems to think he can be trusted—but family ties don't mean a hell of a lot to me.”

“What then?” I asked quickly.

“We're going to try and create a national spirit by circulating Barrista's plan around the country, and make sure it is told to those who can't read.”

“Won't that give him away?”

“No,” he said, with a smile of satisfaction. “Barrista is going to be known as Apostol de Reforma—Apostle of Reform—only no one will know who the Apostle is until the end. At first we'll be dealing only with education as to his proposals. Later—probably around the end of 1916 because it will take time to get people to talking and understand what is going on—will come the call to arms, and hopefully a very short decisive battle coming from three corners toward the capital.”