(EIGHT)

Hamilton Forline, M.D.

A Trust in Crisis

1

  The tiny wedding chapel on South Figueroa in Los Angeles smelled too much of cloying white gardenias, reminding Harry of oppressive Sunday mornings in the Calvary Presbyterian Church in Oakland when he was a child.  Emily was with him now, resting in a hideous purple-plush ottoman.  Dr. and Mrs. Welwood Murray rode up from Palm Springs to stand as witnesses.  An over­weight schoolmarm in black satin and ruffled bodice played doleful melodies on a small organ behind the flushed minister.

  Harry wondered why the minister smiled so much.  The expression seemed painted on, hypocritical, as if he must smile in his sleep—even when he was angry.  Like this wedding ceremony—hypocritical.  A month ago, after the family partition, Harry had taken Louise to San Bernardino for a quiet marriage before a Justice of the Peace; then on the Southern Pacific all the way up the coast to San Francisco—a room at the Palace, no less!  Never in her life had Louise experienced such luxury.

  Why had she insisted on a public ceremony?  Because of his mother, for the McCallum name.  And property.  Louise had her pride.

  “I’m no better than a prostitute,” she told him as soon as they were back in Palm Springs, “a servant!  If you won’t declare me openly, introduce me to your mother, your sisters, how can I feel like your wife, take my place as I ought!”

  She threatened to leave him if he didn’t marry her publicly.

  “One of my sister’s in Chicago,” he snapped at her, “the other’s in boarding school in Los Angeles.  They aren’t the least concerned with my personal life.”

  “You don’t know that.  Anyway, your mother’s in Los Angeles.  She’s going to find out about us sooner or later and when she does, how do you think I’ll feel, sneaking behind her back when all the time I’m your wife?”

  He couldn’t answer that one.  He should never have married her at all; and certainly he shouldn’t have let her talk him into this public ceremony, but it was the best he could do.  His mother was here as witness, and even the Murrays, Palm Springs most prominent citizens, out of only a dozen or so year-round inhabitants, it’s true.  Still, how could Louise complain?  How else could he prove to her he wasn’t ashamed to have her as his wife?

  He was grateful that at least the afternoon was cool.  There’d been an unexpected April shower with thunder and lightning freshening the sultry air.  Not much of a downpour, but bringing some comfort.

  He left the grinning minister, told the Murrays he was going to step outside and grasped his mother’s gray-gloved hand on the way.  South Figueroa was deserted; he paid little attention to an occasional carriage clattering along the damp road, an ice-wagon making deliveries, water dripping from the tail gate, noisy kids chasing after it hoping to snitch any small chunks of ice they get their hands on..

  No sign of Louise.  What was taking her so long?  She was supposed to meet him at the chapel at two o’clock; already it was past two-thirty.

  Murray’s hand gripped his shoulder.  “Where is the young Lassie?” he asked.  “Lost her way, perhaps?”  Murray’s eyes sparkled.  Harry was certain he knew about the secret marriage and enjoyed sharing a confidence.

  Harry turned to him, straining to smile.  “I don’t know, Dr. Murray.  A friend of hers was supposed to bring her over from downtown.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “I don’t know.  Someone she had to see, she said—had an appointment with him this morning on Spring Street.”

  “H-m-m-m.  That’s where all the shyster lawyers hang their hats.”

  Harry choked back sudden fear.

  “Well, Harry, no sense standin’ around out here like the jilted bride­groom.  Come on inside and jaw with your mother.  She’s worried about you.”

  “She’s always worried about me.”

  As they turned to go a black-suited figure sitting straight as the clapboard of a buck wagon rode up, quickly dismounted and hitched his horse.  He stumbled toward Harry awkwardly, came up the steps and held out a long and narrow folded paper.  It looked like a subpoena.

  “Harry Freeman McCallum?” the stiff, scrawny man rasped.

  “Yes. . . .”

  “Don’t take that!” Murray said.

  “Sorry, but it’s his,” the man said, clapping the paper into Harry’s open palm.

  “What is it?”

  “Divorce proceedings.”

  “What?”

  “From Louise McCallum, your wife, naming you as defendant.”  He turned on his heels, swinging back to the street.

  Harry was too stunned to follow him.  He wanted to knock him down.  As for Murray, all he could do was growl an indistinguishable curse.

  Louise claimed community property asking for half of everything Harry owned.  The worst part of it would be explaining a divorce to his mother.  What had he done to provoke Louise?  They might have had children—a family.  A bad influence, it must have been—some devious lawyer advising her that Palm Springs would never amount to more than a pile of sand and cactus so she’d better get what she could before Harry lost it all to his creditors.

  Harry’s property in Palm Springs amounted to very little, except for the Syndicate property, and he couldn’t sell it or give it away because it was undivided.  He’d already borrowed heavily against his Water company stock.  He couldn’t use his mother’s power of attorney to borrow against the Ranch, the only land worth anything.  And no matter what, “Johnnie’s Ranch” must be protected from creditors.

  Within a month, Louise agreed to a settlement out of court, ordering Harry to pay her five hundred dollars “for expenses” and half of all his property.  On October 13, 1898, he sold his 40 acres in Section 19.  It brought him only forty dollars!  Fortunately the court ruled Harry’s inten­tions had been honorable since he intended to marry Louise in public; thus she couldn’t claim a right to community property since she’d refused the public ceremony.  But where was rest of the five hundred dollars to come from?

  As if finding cash would settle anything for him—least of all, any hope for a decent existence!  Now would come long nights with only the scratch of jackrabbits to fill in the awesome loneliness.

2

  Harry appealed to May.  He knew she understood he couldn’t use Emily’s Power of Attorney to raise money because this could threaten title to the ranch.  May didn’t hesitate.  Not only would she and Dr. Forline sign their joint Power of Attorney to Harry regarding their interests in Palm Springs, they agreed to come out to California to lend moral support.  And so, in December, Harry received the following document and subsequently was able to satisfy Louise’s demands for settlement by selling some of May’s land in Section 19:

This 23rd day of November, A.D. 1898, Cook County, Illinois.

Know all men by these Presents.

That we, May McCallum Forline and Henry Hamilton Forline, husband and wife of the City of Chicago . . . have made, constituted and appointed . . . Harry F. McCallum of Palm Springs . . . our true and lawful attorney, for us, or either of us, and in our names . . . to sell, assign, transfer, set over and deliver to any person or corporation whomsoever, all our . . . interest in or title to a one-sixth or whatever other interest we or either of us may have in or to Four Thousand Shares, or any other number of amount of the capital stock in that certain corporation known as the “Palm Valley Water Company” of Riverside County California, and . . . further giving and granting unto the said Harry F. McCallum . . .  full power and authority for us . . . to grant, bargain sell, convey deed, quit-claim, assign or transfer or lease to any person or corporation whatsoever, any and all real interest in or title to in the State of California . . . with full power of substitution and revocation, hereby ratifying and confirming all that our said attorney shall do or cause to be done by virtue hereof . . .

 May and Hamilton did not sign the Power of Attorney to wash their hands of Palm Springs.  This is verified by their moving one year later to Los Angeles, and spending time in Palm Springs with Harry.

  Harry couldn’t ask Pearl to get involved.  She was only 19 years old.  Her 40 acres in Section 19, equal to May’s title, would not be jeopardized.  First of all, she was still a minor and Harry, his mother, and May considered it their absolute respon­sibility to take care of Pearl—in the short-term, or until Pearl reached matur­ity and was able to look after herself.  Or until she married, and that seemed years away.  They reasoned it was vital to keep Pearl out of any loan transactions.  It might be necessary some day to hide ownership by transferring title of property into her name to protect the ranch.

NEXT - Harry's Journal - February 8, 1899 - omitted in Katherine Ainsworth's "McCallum Saga."  And never brought into litigation for a Constructive Trust, 1967-1969