(FOURTEEN)

May

May and Hamilton

3

  In May and Hamilton’s time, long before Palm Springs was transformed into a movie-star wonder­land, there was a brooding silence beneath John Guthrie’s mountain.  Before glamour and ballyhoo and frenetic Hollywood children escaped into the solitude of the desert in the 1930s—before they dug their chlorinated pools and hid themselves behind high, concrete walls; before Main Avenue became Palm Canyon Drive choked with Model-A Fords and Packard motorcars and wild teenagers on spring break and the gray men of the 1950s restructured the town and its environs into golf courses for public relations festivals and profited from lease of Indian lands to build garish hotels for peripatetic Easterners (ironi­cally, predominantly from Chicago) to flounder their winters away; and heteroclite roosts of hippies littered the trails beneath Tahquitz Falls in the 1960s, ripped at the ash trees and graffitied the rocks—the persuasive stillness beneath the mountain weighted the eardrums  with such inten­sity, you could almost believe you’d lost your hearing.

  Today, men of science and education, and some not so smart, will explain the pressure of silence is caused when the traveler descends twenty-five hundred feet out of San Gorgonio Pass.  At times, some claimed, the silence was broken by  rolls of thunder tumbling out of the canyons, not easy to explain, so the scientists said it was distant thunder, even if no rain came with it.  How could one give credence to demons or an ancient Cahuilla chieftain who cursed the valley when the white man came?  Johnnie McCallum died because his feet got wet sleeping under an orange tree while he watered the orchards; Wallace from influenza in Chicago at his sister’s home; Harry, for the same reason and in the same place, both far from the valley.  John Guthrie from heart failure  not because he was “cursed,” but more likely from over-exertion on a hot, dry day in February.  A ghoul from the mountain?  Not likely.

  May’s fourth child, Marjorie, was born on May 20, 1905 in the Good Samaritan Hospital in Los Angeles.  The family rented a large, frame house a few blocks from the ocean in Santa Monica, about fifteen miles from downtown Los Angeles—ninety or so miles from Palm Springs.  The protracted, ten-year drought seemed to have ended with the winter rains of 1904-05.  It had lasted longer than any other drought in a hundred years.  After Marjorie was born, the family moved to Redlands, near the mountains—San Bernardino to the north, the San Gorgonio mountain range to the east.  The railroad ran well east out of San Bernardino, tracking south, allowing Redlands to develop as a tranquil town with a character of ranchero days—red tiled roofs and white stucco walls.  Now the family was closer to Palm Springs, forty miles down through San Gorgonio pass.

  May sold what was left of her land in Section 19.  Fortunately Barker Brothers, a large furniture store in Los Angeles, accepted payment to furnish their new home in Redlands by taking title to a portion of the land.  What remained was sold to the Masons.  On paper, at least, May now had no ownership or interest in Palm Springs land, except, significantly, that property which had passed to her with Harry’s death and would pass to her through her mother’s estate.

  In addition to the advantage of being closer to the desert, Redlands was good for Hamilton’s professional life.  Not only could he continue his work with the Mission Indians in Palm Springs, but he was assigned as lecturer at Redlands Hos­pital’s training school for nurses.  It had been two years since he’d had a chance to teach.  He became a member of the University Club of Redlands and Secretary-Treasurer of the Physicians Club.

  The house on Walnut Street, a mile or so south up the hill from the central village, was an imaginative structure, ornate and Gothic with a purposeful lack of unity and distinguished by double-towers with feathered shingles, a huge, covered porch with a Chinese railing and supported by pillars formed with delicate spindle work.  Lining the street were box alder and pepper trees, and a few purple blossoming jacarandas.  For the children, the house and shaded back yard was a magical place full of mysteries and secluded hideaways.

  Jack was getting a little old, he thought, to be romping with his younger sisters, and would take to his room in the western wing beneath the pointed gable to read tales of high adventure by Joseph Conrad.  He didn’t quite fathom the psychological complexities of Conrad’s heroes but felt a deep kinship for their cleverness and noble sacrifices.  Trying to figure out these strange characters on his own, he didn’t share his discoveries with mother or father.

  May had given up expecting relief from Katherine in managing her baby sister Marjorie.  Four-and-a-half year old Jane was not problem.  Perhaps May was too severe with the nine-year-old Katherine, but if she didn’t exact discipline from her, what would become of the child?  Already she was making it clear she was her own boss, satisfied to mind when she felt like it, thank you.  Jane was an enigma—a dreamer, it appeared to May, sometimes sitting for hours at the kitchen table, her large, blue eyes staring into space, watching May prepare dinner, or keenly following any person who might come into the room.  May had discovered long before this, she couldn’t prod the child.  Poke at little Jane or become too insistent with her, and she withdrew.  But she seldom cried.  Marjorie was unpredictable—screaming for atten­tion or gurgling joyously.

  Emily and Pearl continued to live with them; Pearl’s trips to Palm Springs, now frequent, as she hoped to reclaim the land and extract some income from it.  She and their mother couldn’t depend on May and Hamilton forever!  At the time, Pearl knew nothing about water rights, legal or illegal stream diversion, nor the significance of the Preston stipulation in 1888 which had allowed her father’s Palm Valley Water Company use of the Whitewater ditch he’d constructed, even though it passed through the Indian reservation.

  Pearl burst into the kitchen after one of these excursions, shouting, “The Indians and their attorneys will ruin us!”  A startled May turned from the stove and said quietly, “Calm down, Pearl.  What is the matter?”  “A lot you care,” Pearl shot back, not bothering to explain further, rushing out and leaving May wondering.  But May had determined to forget about Palm Springs.  They would do everything they could to help Pearl and their mother, but Pearl was on her own.  They couldn’t very well live in the desert.  If anything was to come from their legacy in Palm Springs, it was up to Pearl.

4

  Hamilton immersed himself in work at Redlands Hospital.  Sometimes his trips to Palm Springs stretched out to days-on-end and May found herself alone with her mother and children—isolated into a shrinking world; longing for Chicago and the splendid cultural life there.  Why had they ever left?  For Pearl.  Everything was for Pearl and Palm Springs.  When Hamilton was at home, he played with the children and beguiled them with stories and candy-drops; occasionally banging out tunes on the piano—“My Old Kentucky Home” and “Carry Me Back to Ole Virginny.”  Some evenings, however, he shut himself up in his study writing reports or “keeping up,” he said.

  At first, May considered a growing estrangement with Hamilton simply resulting from the natural evolution of marriage.  They continued to sleep together and it was comforting that Hamilton never spoke harshly to her—nor to anyone.  They continued to share a physical relationship, although less frequently, and with less affection.

  Emily watched silently over May and the children.  She helped when she could but kept her mouth shut—about Palm Springs, and Pearl.  Certain observations prompted her to conclude that Hamilton’s long absences and Pearl’s increasing obsession with Palm Springs were having a debilitating affect on May.

  In 1907 Hamilton’s parents moved to California; his father establishing a pharmaceutical practice in Tustin, a small town in orange grove country close to Santa Ana south of Los Angeles, and thirty miles from Redlands down through Riverside and the canyons.  Visits between the two families were infrequent.  Even when they did get together, May found little opportunity to confide in her in-laws, to unburden her secret fears and longings, not that given the chance she would have.  Who was there to confide in?  Pearl was more terse than ever—tight-lipped and opinion­ated.  Emily seldom volunteered a confidence, and Hamilton was gone most of the time.

  It was the silence between them that upset her.  It was as if she were surrounded by strangers.  It hadn’t been this way when they first returned to California.  After Marjorie was born, she and Hamilton took long walks in Santa Monica, wandering in the cool evenings along the palisades to watch the sun set in the ocean.  The sting of salt air and the sound of surf reminded her of Johnnie and how he loved the sea—how he’d been close to the sea at the Hotel Coronado when he died.  Once she had mentioned this to Hamilton.  There was no response, but he placed his arm around her, kissing her warmly, and she felt secure again.

  They moved to Redlands for one reason only—to be close to Palm Springs.  In the beginning, Redlands held a promise of continued happiness.  May awoke in the mornings plagued with a mixture of remembering and a touch of optimism.  Nights alone without Hamilton meant sleepless nights but she refused Hamilton’s offer of sedatives or medication which might give her relief.  She was determined to face her fears without help.  Discipline! Discipline was everything! and never would she allow her distress to affect her love for the children.  Certainly she was strong enough to conquer haunted dreams and loneliness.

  Jack and Katherine attended the same grammar school; Jane, just starting kindergarten.  Each morning dawned new and fresh and work to be done—getting a warm breakfast into the children, walking them to school down shaded streets in bright sunshine.  She could touch the trees.  She could breathe clean air, shake her head into blue sky and hope again.  Her whole life was ahead of her.  Why should she doubt her right to happiness?  She had everything to live for!

  Home again, she would find her semi-invalid mother sitting quietly in the parlor, watching over Marjorie who most likely was in a bluster, scampering about the room.  To see the child in itself was a comfort, and didn’t Marjorie always run to her mother, follow her to the kitchen to get underfoot?  Life with the children engulfed her.  How could she malinger over the silence with the clatter of pots and pans—cries of laughter?

  Shortly after noon, she picked up Jane and walked her home.  After a nap, Jane settled in the kitchen and watched her mother get supper.  Then, before twilight set in, May, Emily and the children had their dinner together around the dining table.  And then, inevitable nightfall; the children tucked into bed, Emily asleep in the parlor; waiting for Hamilton.  Silence pervaded the rooms.  Elation which had filled her with hope at dawn, faded with darkness.

  Hamilton was concerned and trying to spend more time at home, she kept telling herself.  Hadn’t they been married for over ten years now?  And wasn’t she the mother of his four children?  Passion and romance couldn’t last forever.  And wasn’t he immersed in his responsibilities as a physician?  She hadn’t married an iceman; she’d married a distinguished doctor.  She tried not to trouble Hamilton with her moods and growing uneasiness and the feeling she was failing him—failing herself.

  Two more years passed.  On January first, 1908, May reached thirty-nine years of age.  In another year she’d be forty.  Hamilton attempted to appease her whenever he could—to show her that he still loved her.  An evening in February after an abortive attempt to make love to her, he rolled out of bed and said, “This is painful for me, May, and frustrating.”  He reached for his robe to cover himself, turning back to her, sitting on the bench in front of the vanity mirror.  “I thought you’d be happy here, May.  You’ve been close to Palm Springs, and Redlands is a beautiful town for the children—good schools.  What else can you ask for?”

  “I’m alone so much of the time.”

  “I can’t help that—you have the children.”

  “The children are in bed by sundown.  Jack’s locked in  his room, mother’s asleep.”

  “You need some kind of activity, May—something to fill in the hours.”

  “You wish me take up knitting?  Joint the Women’s Club?”

  “There’s not enough social climate here.  In Los Angeles at least, we could go to the theatre or vaudeville now and then.  I think your trouble is that you feel shut up here—cut off.”

  “Do you know I’ve read every book in your library?”  She moved with difficulty out of bed, pulling her night gown across her breasts, standing quietly a moment.  She laughed softly.  “Next thing you know, I’ll be reading your medical books.”

  “They’d bore you to tears.”

  She threaded her fingers through her loosened hair.  “I’m not getting any younger, Hamilton.”

  He came to her, reaching out for her, drawing her close.  “You’re my beauty, May, always have been.  I’ll simply have to devote more time to the home—cut short my work at the hospital.”

  “I don’t want you to do that.”

  “We should never have moved to this quiet town.  Maybe we should’ve stayed in Chicago, or Los Angeles.”

  She broke away from him, moving to the window, pulling the drapes aside and looking out into the dark night.  “We had to come back to California—for your health,” she said.  “You couldn’t take those long hard winters.”  She turned back to him.  He was sitting on the bed, looking up at her.  “And of course—”

  “Yes,” Hamilton said, “Palm Springs.  Pearl’s not much of a comfort, is she?”

  “She’s seldom here.  Mother says Pearl’s been looking into land titles, did you know?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Mother tells me she’s spent several days in Riverside recently at some title company.”

  “You should ask her why—find out what she’s up to.”

  “Mother says it has something to do with Johnnie’s Ranch—some mistake in the deed she made to Pearl in Chicago—Harry’s Hillside House, I think.  So Mother has to quit claim the ranch to Pearl all over again.”

  “There’s no danger in your losing the ranch, is there?”

  “No, I don’t think so.  But Mother says Pearl may be trying to get title to other property which was not included in our 1898 partitions to Mother.  It’s all quite complicated.”

  “Try not to worry about it, May.  I’m sure Pearl’s intentions are good.”

  She bent down and kissed him, her hair falling across his shoulders.  He drew her next to him on the bed.  “We should try to get some sleep,” he said.

  Hamilton didn’t sleep.  He lay awake in her arms for almost an hour, not sure any of his unhappy wife’s problems had been solved.  She’d never really for­gotten, never let go of the things which haunted her—the failure of her ambitions for an operatic career before their marriage; had never forgotten the loss of her three brothers—her father, the wasted years all of them had given to John Guthrie’s “dream.”  And all for nothing—for a pile of sand.  How could he possibly extricate May from these things?

  And now Pearl.  What indeed was she up to?  Was she engaged in a comprehensive title search of all McCallum holdings in Palm Springs?  Was she trying to exclude May from her rightful inheritance?  Who knows, the “pile of sand” might develop into something of value one day.

  On February 17, 1908, Emily quit-claimed a corrected description of the McCallum Ranch property o Pearl.  A few days later when May returned home from walking Jane to school, Emily called to her from Hamilton’s study.  She was standing with some difficulty next to the roll top desk.  “I think we’d better have a talk about Palm Springs,” she said.

  “Certainly, Mother.  Where’s Marjorie?”

  “Taking a nap.”

  “So early?  How did you manage?”

  “We played extra hard this morning,” Emily said, smiling, “and I promised her a special treat at lunchtime.”

  “Well, what is it?  Palm Springs is not my favorite subject.”

  “Sit down,” Emily said.

  “What’s happened now?” May asked, taking a chair in front of the desk.  Emily settled next to her and placed a hand on a sheet of typewritten paper.  “Read this,” she said.

  May took the sheet from her mother and glanced through it quickly.  “It’s a deed to the McCallum Ranch—to Pearl—a quit-claim deed.  Doesn’t she already have title to the ranch—in 1901 in Chicago after Harry died?”

  “This is a correction to exclude Hillside House from the deed.  Harry sold this property before he came to Chicago.”

  “Yes, I know.  I understand.”

  “On top of this, she’s asked me to write a Will.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  “She wants me to assign all of my interests in Palm Springs over to  her, and to include all of Harry’s land as well.”

  “I didn’t think Harry had any more land—except the Syndicate property.”

  “Well, yes, he does.  Pearl ran across some deeds that were never recorded.”

  “But Mother, you can’t give Harry’s land to Pearl.  It belongs to all of us.”

  “I know that!” Emily snapped.  “I know Harry’s land is not mine to give, and I have no intention of giving it to Pearl.  When I pass on—”

  “Please, Mother, let’s not—”

  “When the time comes.  I’m not going to live forever and I plan to do just as your father did, let the courts divide my estate between you and your children and Pearl.  I explained this to Pearl—that she must recognize the trust we’ve placed in her—in each other.  We had quite an argument.  But I’m grateful for it.  I haven’t felt so alive in years, not since your father was living.  I threatened not to give her this deed at all, then what could she do?  I insisted she reassign the ranch to me so I could pass it on through my estate to both of you.  She refused.  But a change came over her.  She’s quite an actress.  Suddenly she was all vanilla ice cream.  She assured me she would keep the ranch in trust and that if she were to reassign the ranch to me now, the entire matter of Harry’s creditors would crop up again and we might lose every­thing.”

  May got up and stood for a moment, looking away.

  “And another thing,” Emily said.  “Pearl bought a new padlock to your father’s trunk in the Adobe.  She’s been going over all of your father’s old deeds, as if she’s rediscovered the Mother Lode.”

  May stared down at her mother and with a heavy sigh, again turned away.  There was nothing more to say—nothing more to be done.  She would have to live with it, if she could.

  Emily watched her as she walked out of the room.  It seemed as if May were sleep walking.  She had   to lean against the door frame to steady herself.