(FIVE)

The Adobe
First McCallum home in Palm Springs

3

  As the Limited squealed beneath the long, wooden sheds of the depot, Emily was relieved to see Harry looking almost civilized standing on the platform spruced like a young college student, his shock of black hair slicked back—stiff, high white detached collar, dark suit and string tie.  His large ears, mark of a McCallum, reminded her immediately of John Guthrie, but no time for dwelling on that now.  They exchanged greetings and a perfunctory hug.  A horse drawn cab was waiting.

  Escorting her into a suite of rooms at the St. Charles, he closed the door.  She thanked him for reserving the suite and said she’d better freshen up since they still had time to get to Rosedale for the services and burial.  It was good to be in Southern California again, in the City of Angels, to feel and breathe the stinging warmth of February air, even though a smoky pall hung over the tall buildings.  You could hardly see the Sierra Madres or the Santa Monicas in the west because of the dry haze.  Still, the atmosphere was pleasant enough, if not as invigor­­a­ting as it might’ve been after a February rain.

  Harry studied her when she returned freshened and began to busy herself in the large, over-furnished room—unpacking, making tidy piles of underclothing in the drawers of the mahogany chest—linen, bits of colored and white cloth—women’s things.  She worked with some difficulty because of her gnarled hands.  The arthritis had indeed worsened.  He could see her grimace from pain.  Otherwise she looked well; color was good, though her large, dark eyes were saddened; her tense mouth turned down at the corners.

  Harry’s respect for his mother was a detached kind of reverence.  They’d never been close.  In the Eighties when he was in his teens, Johnnie and Wallace got most of her attention, but Harry hadn’t resented it.  He loved his brothers—espe­cially Johnnie—as much, if not more, than his sisters did.  Still, he wished that his mother had shown more affection toward him.  Right now, he wanted to hold her and comfort her.  How grief stricken she must be.  He remem­bered life in Oakland when she and John Guthrie were inseparable—most of the time.

  To Harry, Emily was a woman of mystery.  She never talked about the past much—never those three years in Jackson, the rough and ready mining town in Amador County before John Guthrie came along, and—as Harry liked to romanti­cize when he was a kid—“rescued” her from a fate worse than death.  An unmarried woman in gold mining days was easy prey for n’er-do-wells and rascals of every description.  As he exploded into adolescence and made discoveries for himself about what went on between men and women, he made up fantasies about his mother running away from Jackson to bawdy San Francisco; becoming a dance hall girl on the Gold Coast, where John Guthrie met her and saved her from a life of sin.

  It was strange his mother married a man so much older than her twenty years, particularly at a time when men outnumbered women ten-to-one.  But if his mother had been a “fallen woman,” it’s unlikely his father would’ve married her at all.  At thirty-six, he was too much in public life in 1862 to risk it.  Had his mother been that kind of woman, she certainly changed radically; so had a number of matriarchs on Nob Hill.  Emily’s reputation of high-toned respectability in San Francisco seemed to dispel any rumors of her origins.  He also knew her slow acceptance into the gaudy Nob Hill group was occasioned by her devotion to the home, the church, and the quiet life of the Oakland suburb—not because of a lurid past.

  Emily turned away from the dresser, speaking softly.  “Well, Harry,” she said, “I’m ready to go to John Guthrie. . . .”

  Later that night Emily picked her way through a steak and potato supper at the St. Charles.  Relaxed conversation was difficult for them.  In the suite, they sat quietly for awhile.  “Harry,” Emily said finally, “I think we should forget about Palm Springs—”

  “What?”  Her firm voice startled him.  He sat upright.

  “Leave it.  Palm Springs.  Sell the land and get out, for whatever it’s worth.”

  “No, Mother—” He leaned toward her, afraid his cough might return, searching for the right thing to say.  This was life and death for him.  “Does May feel that way?”

  “We’ve never discussed it.  What kind of life is it for you, Harry?  What future can you possibly hope for down there?  It killed your father.”

  Harry stiffened.  He hadn’t expected a fight with his mother—a fight for his life.  What could he do if he lost his responsibilities in Palm Springs?  Nothing—he’d have nothing.  Louise would bolt—he’d find himself utterly alone—and where would he live?

  “Have you been well, Harry?  I notice your cough is almost gone.  Remember what Palm Springs did for your brothers, Harry. . . .”  She broke off, trying to stifle a cry.  “And then, Wally—”

  “Wally didn’t care a hoot about Palm Springs.”

  “Harry—”

  “No, now listen to me!  We can’t give up.  Father wouldn’t have wanted us to.”

  “What good is it?  What can possibly be done?  I don’t want to lose you too, Harry.”

  “This drought isn’t gonna last forever.  It’s got to end sometime.  We can’t just chuck it all—everything father built up for us.  And my health’s okay.  C’mon, Mother, get hold of yourself.  I’ll manage.  And anyway the land’s not worth much now—we’d sell off at a terrible loss.  Now’s no time to sell.  I’m not sure anyone’s interested in buying our land.”

  “Your father was dead set against holding land for profit.  It you can’t make use of it, he used to say, get rid of it.”

  “We are gonna use it.  I got all kinds of plans.”  Agitated, he pulled himself up and walked away to the window, staring out at the city.  “You gotta have more faith in me.”

  “I do have faith in you, Harry.  I know how diligent you’ve been, and how difficult, staying with your father all these years in Palm Springs.  And I realize the sacrifice—”

  “I only did it—only did what I wanted,” he mumbled.

  “What?”

  “I only did it because I wanted!” he shouted, turning around.

  “Yes, I suppose you did,” she said quietly, surprised by his sudden show of temper.

  “I don’t think father ever thought he was going to die.  Thought he’d live forever.”

   “Yes.”

  “Look, Mother, we still got the ranch, and we are going to make use of it.  Maybe not today, or this year or the next, but some day.  I don’t plan to make a profit on it—now or ever.  It’s ours—the family’s.  When I spoke of selling land, I didn’t mean the ranch.  Not an inch of that’s ever going to go—not while there’s a decent breath left in my body—not while there’s a McCallum alive.  That’s a promise.”

  “You are determined, you’ve convinced me of that.  I suppose that’s enough for me.  I have confidence you will—”  Her voice trailed off.

  “You must be worn out, Mother.  Better get some rest.  I’ll sleep out here, if you like, but I gotta get back to the springs tomorrow, or the next day for sure.”

  “I’d like to go with you.”

  “Okay.”  He smiled.  “You’re gonna have to unpack all those drawers again.  Let’s get an early train.  I’ve finished all my business in town.”

  “What business, Harry?  Are you making loans?”

  “Not yet.  Not exactly.  But our credit’s still good, thank God for that.”

  “You never found John Guthrie’s last will and testament?”

  “No.  I told you, he thought he’d live forever.  And besides, why should he make a will?  He wanted everything to go to all of us—to the family.  What need of a will?”

  “But won’t it tie your hands?”

  “I don’t think there’ll be any trouble.  The court will make a distribution according to State Law—half to you and the remainder to us—something like that.  We can work out the details later.  First I gotta make an inventory.  Shouldn’t take long.”

  “How long?”

  “Maybe a week or so.”

  “Won’t May have to come out?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s going to have another child.”

  “Yeah?  Hey, that’s good news.”

  “Don’t say ‘hey’, Harry.  Hay is for horses—sorry, must think you’re still a child.”

  He sat next to her, taking her hand.  “Maybe we can handle things by mail or something.”

  “And you’re determined to hang on in Palm Springs, Harry?”

  “Yes, Mother, I am.  It’s all I’ve got.”

  “Well, then . . . ”  She rose unsteadily, smoothing the folds of her taffeta skirt.  Harry came to her.  She held his arms, staring into him, speaking softly, a slight tremor in her voice.  “So, we keep on going for your father.  As a girl I was taught death cannot destroy the soul of a man, or a woman.  I still believe   it, Harry.  John Guthrie’s left us, that’s all.  It’s up to us to carry on.”