City of Secrets (28 page)

—Oliver Wendell Holmes, from the formal opinion of the U.S. Supreme Court in the case of
Buck v. Bell
(1927), legalizing compulsory sterilization.

 

Twenty-four

He said nothing at first, grin gone, eyes grim and staring straight ahead. He jerked the radio knob, and the afternoon news roundup blared over the speakers, H. V. Kaltenborn speculating on how long France could last.

They reached the toll plaza and drove onto the Golden Gate.

Rick said: “Wanna get one thing straight, Miranda. I'm here because you're good copy. And that's the only reason.”

She nodded and looked out the window toward Alcatraz.

“Best way is to take 37 and some farm roads northeast to 29. Mostly paved, or at least oiled. And 12's too goddamn steep out of Santa Rosa. It might be easier to go through Oakland and Vallejo, but you said you wanted 101.”

“Thanks, Rick.”

He grunted, both hands on the steering wheel of the DeSoto, eyes on the road.

*   *   *

Rick kept the DeSoto at the 45 mph speed limit, coasting down the grade toward Sausalito. Afternoon sun was bright and hot, no fog in Marin. Undulating bluffs stretched on either side of the highway, yellow gold with summer grass, small birds diving for flies and crickets.

Gold in these hills all right, farmland, ranchland, divided by decrepit wooden fences and tall stands of ancient eucalyptus, planted when ranchos ruled the West and Vallejo traveled on horseback, lowing of cattle in the parched dry dirt, music of mandolins drifting from the adobe.

Brown-and-black herds whisked flies and ambled toward the widespread shade of live oaks, gnarled from drought, only shelter from the relentless sun. Weathered barns rested in hillside cracks, small windmills pumping precious water in troughs, farmwives wiping hands on an old soiled apron, calling the field-workers home.

Miranda felt the warmth on her face from the open window, closed her eyes. No vaqueros, their day, their land, no longer. No song, no guitar, no clink of spurs on wooden floors. Only the missions remained and the memory of their names.

Wild grass rippled by the side of the road, drowning the noise of the car motor. San Quentin stretched toward the mainland, pink like a shell, like a delicate blush, never seen by the men who stayed locked inside. Lights of the city always just out of reach.

They climbed again and dropped into San Rafael, cafés and motor inns lining the road, raucous laughter of men off work filling the bars and roadhouses, car horns and jukes playing “One O'Clock Jump,” smell of tortillas and beans from a Mexican place drifting through the open window.

Little towns, little California towns. Fishermen and lumbermen and ranchers, skinny men in overalls climbing ladders in fruit orchards, families of five or six picking fruit, peaches and plums, living in one-room shacks or canvas tents pitched close by the railroad. Take them to the next town, look for work, any kind of work.

California gold, no Oklahoma dust, golden state, full of promise. Foreman stares at the woman's breasts, nipples outlined under the thin cotton print, youngest pressed against her legs. Lick of the lips, maybe got some day work for ya, honey, then the husband walks up. Clears his throat, waves his hand. Depression here, too, folks, move on to the valley. Move on south.

Turned off 101 to 37 east, crossed the Petaluma River. Barge passing underneath them, eggs and butter to market, heading for San Pablo Bay.

Wetlands stretched on either side of the river, reeds and marshes spotted white and gray, egrets and heron. Summertime hot, blue sky, no clouds, only blots of black, inked by factories, eastern shores. Men with dirty faces and oily clothes, home to tired wives and children dressed in parochial school clothes, altar boys still learning catechism.

Northeast to an oiled road, wrapped around foothills green with grapes. Old wines, old vines, planted by the first Italians, Tuscan hills no match for California. Waiting for fall, for the purple sweet juice to run from the press. Prayers spoken, candles lit, barrels stained like blood. Prohibition drove some of them away, but most of them stayed, tied to the earth, deeper blood of the vine.

Railroad again, old coal burner, group of little boys with sticks walking beside the tracks, grasshoppers jumping just out of their grasp. Chickens squawking from a small house by the road, old Rhode Island Red rooster sounding the supper call, men and boys still in the fields, baling the hay, crows and red-winged blackbirds darting in and out of the yellowed stalks.

The land and the road opened, and Napa Valley stretched out to the bay. Cows, sheep, and grapes, ranches and orchards, mines in the mountains east, geysers in the ground north. They turned off on 29, heading north.

Car rumbled past lush land, Napa State Hospital, 1,900 acres and a 250-acre farm, three thousand people declared mentally unfit for anyone's company but their own. They passed the city of Napa, vineyards and tanning factories, then Yountville and Oakville and Rutherford, prune and peach, olive and fig groves. More wineries and orchards, old cellars of St. Helena, and finally, the top of Napa Valley. Sun was setting, yellow orange light slanting long shadows on the small, narrow road.

Little town of geysers and sanitariums and healing water, nestled tight against the orchards and grapes, shadowed by the mountains, fed by tourists and health seekers, can you help me, Doctor, can the waters cure me, make me live longer, make me younger, prettier, bring me back my husband, my boyfriend, my wife. My life.

Calistoga.

And Nance's Sanitarium.

*   *   *

Rick pulled off a side road by the old pioneer cemetery. Turned to face her, fedora pushed back on his forehead, face softer in the sunset.

“So both of the women were sterilized and one had an abortion. And you think it happened here, and that it somehow ties in with why they were murdered.”

She watched a dragonfly flit across the gravel road. “It ties in somewhere.”

He shook his head and lit a Lucky, striking the match on his thumb. Rolled the window down a crack.

“Christ, Miranda—sure, abortion's illegal, but sterilization isn't. Even compulsory sterilization. And it doesn't just happen.”

She shifted around in the seat and met his eyes.

“Something happened here, Rick. At least the start of something. Rural California's not exactly known for the United We Stand campaign.”

Miranda took a breath. Looked out at the green, placid meadow across the road, orange in the failing light.

“A bunch of upright Sonoma County citizens almost killed a Jewish farmer in '35. Lynched, beat, tarred, and feathered. They were acquitted.”

Her nails were digging into her palms, and she slowly unclenched them. “Sol Nitzman's crime was being a Jew. And supporting the migrant apple pickers … on strike for thirty-five cents an hour.”

Rick studied her for a minute. Waved smoke toward the window, shook his head again.

“Still a hell of a lot to pin on a couple of postcards.”

“If I'm wrong, I'm wrong. I'll pay for your hotel. You'll be able to scare up some kind of story.”

Rick sighed. “Yeah. I always do. So are we posing as a married couple, or what?”

“Unmarried. And I'm pregnant.”

He turned toward her, sweat dotting his forehead from the heat. “You're gonna hint around for an abortionist, aren't you? Goddamn it, Miranda…”

“You drove me here. You're the helpful type. We've been going out for a year.” She laid her hand over his. “We'll say there's bad blood on my side of the family, if you want. You check into another hotel, I'll stay at Nance's.”

The reporter squeezed her fingers without looking at her, opened his palm. Took a long puff on the Lucky.

Said heavily: “All right. Anything else? And how long are we here?”

“Tonight and tomorrow. Gotta get back before Memorial Day.”

“For reasons related?”

Miranda sighed. “Who the hell knows, Rick. I'm chasing one shadow at a time. But that reminds me—I'm Jewish. So keep your story straight.”

“You want us both to be?”

“No. You sound too much like County Cork. Like I said, you're just the loyal, helpful type.” She gave him a smile, unrolled two Life Savers, and popped them in her mouth. “Easy acting.”

Rick snorted, shoved the hat brim down over his eyes, and pulled the DeSoto back on the road to Lincoln Avenue and downtown Calistoga.

*   *   *

He parked in front of Nance's and walked into the office with her, hat in his hands. Clerk behind the counter was about twenty-five, blond, and obviously a fan of Ginger Rogers, judging from the way she'd drawn the fake mole on her cheek. She stood up, gave Rick the eye before moving on to Miranda. Tried to sound like Ginger putting on a refined voice but only managed to sound like a blond hick trying to sound like Ginger Rogers.

“May I help you?”

“I'd like a room, please. Oh, and the full treatment—waters, mud bath—and if you have a consultant on duty, I'd—”

The phone rang. The blonde held up her hand as though she were stopping traffic. “Just a minute, please.”

Miranda and Rick glanced at each other, then around the room.
St. Helena Star
on a chair, some brochures on the Fair, the Petrified Forest, and the geyser over on Tubbs Lane. A small rack on the counter held medicinal pamphlets that looked left over from the days of corsets and Lydia Pinkham, and next to them a stack of the same familiar postcard. Miranda took one of everything. The room was small, painted white with red trim, and just clean enough, like a no-frills motor inn with business guaranteed.

The clerk hung up, eyes darting at Rick again. Miranda was getting annoyed. “As I was saying, Miss…”

“Yes, Madame. You'd like a room, full treatment. We close the plunging pool at nine
P.M.
” She glanced at her wristwatch. “That leaves you a little over an hour. I can send someone over to talk to you about the baths and the kinds of corrective massages we offer.” She looked Miranda up and down critically. “Posture bothering you, Madame?”

Miranda's voice was short. “No. How much do I owe you?”

The blonde raised her eyebrows, looked back and forth between them. “Isn't the gentleman staying with you?”

Rick spoke for the first time. “I'm, er—I don't want all the baths and such. Is there a regular hotel in town?”

The clerk gave him what she thought was a knowing smile. “Sure, mister—the Mount View is right down the street, past the old depot. Can't miss it.” She added archly, “Place downstairs is good for a drink and dancing—it's called Johnny's.”

“Thanks.” Rick threw a glance to Miranda. “Miri, I'll wait outside for you.”

She nodded, still staring at the blonde, whose eyes followed Rick out the door. The counter girl sighed a little, then rummaged in the back.

“You're in cabin four.” She held out a key to Miranda. “Just go out the door, turn left, and turn left again. There's a row behind this main building. That'll be four dollars, tonight and tomorrow, everything included. You can tip the attendants extra.”

“Thank you,” Miranda said dryly. “Isn't there a register I'm supposed to sign?”

“Oh, yeah. Here you go.” The blonde lifted last month's
Photoplay
off the cover of a large registration book.

Miranda opened the book. “Do you have a pen?” The blonde stretched her lips flat and poked around on the desk. Miranda turned to the front page. Goddamn it—only went back to last August.

The clerk held out a green fountain pen, and Miranda signed her name. She hesitated, then spelled it “Korbe.” Looked up at the clerk. “Could you send someone by my cabin in about twenty minutes?”

Ginger shrugged. “Sure. I'll find someone who can show you the ropes. Cora ain't here, but Gracie's around.” She opened the
Photoplay,
indicating the conversation was over.

Miranda walked outside, blinking her eyes to adjust to the dark. Rick was leaning against the car door, illuminated by the neon sign advertising Nance's.

She beckoned him with her head, and he followed her to cabin four, situated in the back of the complex next to a large cement building, probably for the mud baths. The door swung open easily, and they found themselves in a small, dark room with a hot plate and a radio, along with the standard dresser, chair, and bed. A landscape of an old mill hung above the bed, which gave an alarming creak when she sat on it.

Miranda took out her wallet and thrust some money at Rick, speaking in a whisper. “For expenses. Just save me the receipts.”

He pocketed the money, mouth turned downward. “You want me to stay at that Mount View place?”

She nodded. “Yeah. And I want you to pump that blonde for information. See if you can get her to give you a look at the register for April '39—this one starts in August. I don't think Pandora or Annie had anything to hide when they came up here—they'd have used their real names.”

“What do you want with the blonde?”

Miranda leaned back on the bed, smiling, bracing herself on both arms until her left started to burn. She sat up. “Use your charms, Rick. Find out whatever you can about who works here. Especially doctors, nurses—any medical personnel. She's willing to come across, and not just with information.”

The reporter grinned. “Maybe she likes my baby blue eyes.”

“Be careful.”

“That's my line.”

“Ginger Rogers is supposed to send someone named Gracie to come see me soon, and I'll go from there. You figure a way to get that register, ask her out to that club she mentioned.”

“Johnny's.”

“Yeah.” Miranda tilted her wrist until she could read her watch in the dim light. “It's almost time. Meet me here around one and fill me in. If you can tear yourself away from the blonde, that is.”