Gift of the Golden Mountain (31 page)

     The car stopped, and the mechanical rattle of its engine ceased. May stood, but Kit remained seated against her rock, too dismayed to move.

     A blond woman wearing a lavender linen dress and matching oversized sunglasses got out and picked her way toward them, stepping carefully through the rough grass in high-heeled sandals.

     "What are you doing here?" the woman demanded.

     When Kit didn't answer May said, "We're having a picnic."

     The woman looked at the horses with disapproval. "This is private property," she told them, hand on hip, "and we have a lot of trouble up here with fire, so I'd suggest you be on your way out— and next time take the no trespassing signs seriously."

     May waited for Kit to tell her, but Kit seemed unable to speak. "We have permission to ride here," May said. "The owner is an old friend."

     "Is that right?" the woman came back, looking both of them over suspiciously, not impressed with Kit's worn riding clothes or May's jeans and T-shirt.

     "Yes that's right," May answered, allowing some steel into her voice. "I'm sure the owner would appreciate your concern for fire hazard. If you'll give me your name, I'll be sure to tell her."

     The woman's tone changed. "Damned right I'm concerned. Damned hippies come out here, set up their teepees and smoke their damned fool dopeheads off. Going to burn us all out one of these days. I'm Evie Shurz—my husband's granddad owned all this land to the north here." She waved her hand vaguely. "We're selling off lots. I'm Evie's Realty, down in town. I didn't catch your names."

     Still Kit said nothing.

     "This is my aunt, Mrs. McCord," May spoke up, "and I'm May Reade."

     There was a long, thick pause. Evie Shurz looked at them through her lavender glasses, as if there was something she had meant to remember. Then, tossing her blond head as if to shake off some troublesome buzzing insect, she raised her hand in a gesture of dismissal. "Like I said," she threw back at them, "there's fire hazard up here."

     The hollow clacking of the Mercedes engine echoed over the hills, and when the silence returned and wrapped around them, May said:

     "She had no idea who you are."

     Kit only sighed and said: "It will never be the same again—not when you can get here by car."

     May looked at her. "I don't know whether to laugh or cry. But I'll tell you what I do know. Someday I'm going to bring my children up here and I'm going to tell them about the day you and I came, and about the blond bombshell real estate agent who
wanted to know what we thought we were doing up here, and how you wouldn't tell her you owned a big chunk of the damned place. And then, just before we leave, I'm going to get a big tear in my eye and sigh and say to them, 'But it'll never be the same again . . .'"

     Kit's face softened into a smile. "I didn't know you were planning to have children," she said. And May answered, "Of course I am, and as soon as we can get them on horses we are going to bring them here. With hardboiled eggs and homemade tortillas. I've just decided. You and me and little Porter and little Kit. I've already named my children, so you see how serious I am! All you have to do is promise never to sell the ranch or this piece of land."

     "I promise," Kit said, wiping at the tears she could not keep from welling. "But first things first. Now it's time to begin plotting the China Project."

THE FORECASTERS LIED. They told us that the worst was over, they lulled us into a false complacency, we were not prepared for the storm that was to break over us in those first days of May, 1970.

     On May 1 we learned that combat troops of the U.S. First Air Cavalry and B-52 bombers had invaded Cambodia in an attack ordered by President Richard Nixon "to wipe out the headquarters for the entire Communist operation in South Vietnam."

     The newspapers reported 6,500 U.S. troops searching for the secret headquarters they were never to find. It was, I suppose, macabre, but I began to clip news reports of the war and paste them into the
Reader's Digest Great World Atlas.
I clipped a wire photo of a group of young Cambodian women tied together in an open field, suspected Viet Cong collaborators the caption said. Their faces were filled with terror, their bodies bowed. I had pinned this photo to my wall, but found that I could not bear to come upon it so often, so I pasted it in the atlas, over a conic projection of Southeast Asia, covering the southern half of
Cambodia. A country visited long ago in that time of my life now relegated to dreams, a country that lies on my memory like the softest gauze, stirred on a summer's night. Once I could close my eyes and conjure up the young girls dressed in their flowing gowns, tittering as they made their way down the streets of Phnom Penh. Now all I could see was the faces of the girls in the clipping: tormented, terrorized.

On May 2 Karin and Philip were married in the walled garden of Philip's house. Only family and the closest of friends attended. Dan and Thea were there, and May and Marge and Hank Fromberg—Hank's rumpled corduroy suit in rather nice counterpoint to Philip's sartorial splendor. Karin was radiant in an old-fashioned dress of ecru lace with a high collar; Philip was spilling over with high spirits. The ceremony had been timed for the sun, when the bank of deep red rhododendrons against which the couple stood to repeat their vows was in full light. Philip's plans were, as always, both precise and elegant. Although the forecast had been for possible showers, the sun shone brightly and on schedule, dazzling Karin's blond hair. There was just the right amount of ritual, nicely balanced by intimacy. Thea held Karin's hand throughout the simple ceremony performed by a retired justice of the state supreme court, an old friend of Philip's. A string quartet played "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring," Sam took photographs, and I cried as quietly as I could, glad for this small, happy reprieve in that tormented time.

     The vows were said, the couple embraced and then, in an instant of silence, a mockingbird warbled out one clear lyrical phrase. We looked up to where it perched in the birch, the new green leaves draped gracefully over the garden, and Marge whispered: "That is too beautiful not to be prophetic." Thea threw herself into Philip's arms and Karin turned to Dan and asked, "Would I embarrass you
terribly if I hugged you?" The boy wrapped his arms around her awkwardly, and for a small, tender moment buried his head in her hair.

     May put her arms around Karin and they rocked back and forth for a while before she kissed her on both cheeks, then May hugged Philip hard and said something to him that caused him to lower his head and answer her solemnly.

     I watched May. She busied herself passing champagne; her smile was, I thought, just a little too quick, her attention a bit splintered.

     "Come talk to me," I said as soon as I had a chance. She sat and took my hand and held on to it tightly, as if to quiet some turmoil within. Tilting my head close to hers, I asked if she could tell me what was troubling her.

     Her eyes grew too bright, and she smiled to stave off the tears. "It's just," she began, and had to stop to take a deep breath before starting over in a calmer voice. "I'm going to miss K of course," she said, "we've been so busy these past weeks, with plans for the wedding and all—I suppose it's just hit me that she won't be coming back to the house." Her voice began to quiver.

     I patted her hand and said, "But that's not all, is it?"

     Now tears filled her eyes and she turned away to struggle with them. I tightened my grip on her hand. We were too small a group, it would not do for the others to see May cry. "Are you thinking about Hayes?" I began, to help her.

     She nodded. "Karin and Philip . . . everything just seems so clear, what they want . . . and in a way so easy . . . but for me, for Hayes . . ." She sighed and took a deep breath. "For us everything is so complicated, absolutely nothing is clear, and I'm not sure it ever will be. I think it's going to be impossible to sort it all out, too much depends on things we seem to have no control over . . . it's just such an ungodly mess . . ." Suddenly she looked at me frantically. "Please . . . don't think . . . I'm terribly happy for Karin, I would not have wanted anything to be different . . ."

     Sam's approach caused her to break off her sentence. I patted her hand so she would know I understood. "I'm bringing the two of you some wedding cake," Sam said, grinning. "Aren't you supposed to take it home and sleep on it or something, so you are the next one up to bat?"

     I laughed. "You two can sleep on it if you wish, but I've been out of the ballgame a long time so I plan to eat mine right now."

     By four-thirty the newlyweds were on their way to Carmel, leaving the rest of us to sip champagne and face the empty evening.

     "Want to keep me company?" I asked May.

     Sam answered for her. "Don't worry, Faith," he said, "I'll take care of her."

The house was as May and Karin had left it that morning, an empty shoe box on the dining room floor, mounds of tissue paper scattered in their rush to get off to the wedding. Sam picked up the shoe box and stood holding it; after a time he put it down again and said he was going to the cottage to change.

     May sank into the sofa where Karin always sat. A spool of green thread and a bone china thimble had been left on the table. She put the thimble on her finger and studied the tiny violets painted on it.

     She squinted against the last of the day's sunlight, but she could not find the energy to get up to close the shades. A strange lethargy had overtaken her. She had sipped two glasses of champagne, but had eaten nothing so her stomach felt hollow and echoing. Still, the effort it would take to go to the refrigerator was more than she could manage.

     Sam returned, sat next to her, rolled the film out of his cameras, marked it for the lab. "I'm going to drop this in the city, want
to ride along?" he asked.

     "I don't feel like the city," she said petulantly, "I feel like being alone somewhere in the middle of nothing. On the flank of Mauna Loa, preferably. Or in a desert. Anywhere away from here."

     Sam looked at her abstractedly, he was figuring logistics. "Okay," he said, all action, "let's throw our sleeping bags in the truck, we can drive through the city to drop off the film to be developed and keep right on going over the Golden Gate and out to Point Reyes. There's nothing out there—I mean nothing. Just windswept beach and sand and ocean. I've got camping gear in the back, ready to go. What do you say?"

     She looked at him, bit her lip, shrugged. She did not think she could move. "I'm hungry."

     "We'll eat on the way. At Giovanni's. I'll pay, you can deduct it from what I owe you." He grinned to show he was teasing.

     "Okay, sure," she finally said, making the effort to unfold herself and stand. Her leg had gone to sleep and she grimaced. "Why not?"