Calico Palace (51 page)

“I think I’ll like working there,” said Pocket. “I like being with people.”

Marny smiled in agreement. Pocket had a natural inborn sympathy for people. She suspected that before the end of winter Pocket would have heard a thousand tales of why men had come to California—unhappy marriages, domineering fathers, sheriffs’ warrants just behind them, heartbreak and disillusion and just plain foolishness. Other men would talk and he would listen, and they would be better for having talked to him.

“I think it’s a perfect job for you,” she said. After a moment’s thought she added, “Welcome to San Francisco, boys. Ning is right. We may not be a big city yet, but we sure are on our way.”

T
HE MEN WANTED TO
see Kendra too, and as there was no rain the next morning Marny walked with them up the hill. They passed the library of which Pocket was now part owner, and paused to watch a group of workmen putting a new sign over the door. “Gilmore and Brent, Proprietors.”

As she read the second name Marny felt a twinge of strangeness. She knew Pocket was rightly called Sylvester Brent, but she never thought of him by any such name. “It doesn’t sound like you, Pocket,” she said.

“It is me, though,” he returned. “It’s the name of my account at Hiram’s bank. Everybody calls me Pocket, but they don’t want checks signed that way.”

They laughed, and walked on up the hill. Kendra, well now and downstairs, was glad to see them. She was even more glad when Hiram and Pocket told her they were going to stay in town. She invited all three of them to come here for Christmas dinner.

Hiram and Pocket whistled with joy, but to Kendra’s surprise, Marny shook her head.

“Why not?” Kendra exclaimed, and both men echoed, “Why not?”

“Darlings,” Marny answered, “you should know, the children of delight
work
on the days when other people play. Holidays are our biggest days at the Calico Palace.”

“But Marny,” Pocket protested, “aren’t you going to have any Christmas at all?”

Marny shrugged good-naturedly. “I didn’t last year.”

Kendra felt a pang of conscience. She recalled the Christmas dinner she had given last year for Mr. and Mrs. Chase and Mr. Fenway and the army lieutenants. She had not thought of Marny. She had suggested the dinner only to avoid going to the Christmas ball at the Comet House where she had once danced with Ted. How much had happened since then! And as she had said to Marny, how much a baby made up for! Aloud she said,

“All right, we don’t have to have Christmas dinner on Christmas Day. We’ll have it on a day when Marny can be with us. How’s that?” she asked Pocket and Hiram.

By all means, they said. Christmas came on a Tuesday this year. They decided to have the dinner on Sunday, the day before Christmas Eve, because the store would be closed that day and Loren would be free. Marny said she would take the whole day off. “And let’s hope,” she exclaimed, “that it doesn’t rain!”

They all joined in her hope. Kendra said she would have dinner at two o’clock, so they could leave before the dark blotted out the town. San Francisco had no street lights. Except in the glare of the plaza, people out after dark had to carry lanterns, and even at that the streets were perilous, from mudholes, rats, and robbers.

They happily waved goodby, promising to see each other again in a day or two. But they did not, for that evening the rain began again.

For eight days the rain came down. The wind tore savagely around the hills, knocking down houses, ripping tents from the ropes that held them, raising great waves in the bay and sending helpless vessels smashing against their neighbors. The mud rolled down the hills in such torrents that Kendra wondered if she could have her Christmas party at all.

But at last, in the week before Christmas, to the joy of everybody in town the rain stopped. The weather was still gray and cold, but at least they did not have to look out at that dreary downpour. A man could put on rubber boots and go outdoors and slog around, and this was better than staying inside the bug-ridden flophouses, listening to the stranded vessels groaning like ghosts in pain.

In spite of the mud and fog and swarming rats there was a happy spirit abroad. The bands around the plaza played what they imagined was Christmas music. Boys tramped up and down the firmer streets selling evergreens cut from trees across the bay. The storekeepers decked their windows with pretty trifles for presents. At one corner of the plaza a literary beggar set up a pole, with a sign on which he had printed his own version of an old holiday rhyme:

Christmas is coming but my poke’s not fat,

Please drop a pinch of gold here in my hat,

If you haven’t got a pinch, a speck goes far,

If you haven’t got a speck, you can sweep up Marny’s bar.

On Saturday, the day before he was to come to dinner, Hiram appeared at Kendra’s front door with an armful of evergreens and a roll of red ribbon, saying he had come to decorate the house. He and Kendra hung sprigs at the windows and tied one to the baby’s crib. Hiram said Pocket had gone to the plaza to watch—and hear—an auction of town lots. Pocket liked auctions.

“Pocket,” said Kendra, as she tied a red bow on some fir sprays, to be hung on the front door, “likes everything. I think Pocket is one of the happiest people I ever knew.”

“He deserves it,” said Hiram. “Pocket doesn’t let the world get the better of him. Take that episode with the girl back in Kentucky.”

Kendra looked up from the ribbon in her lap. “I didn’t know he had told you about that.”

“Yes, he told me. Pocket,” Hiram said with emphasis, “has what everybody needs most in this world. Guts. A pretty red bow you’ve made on that fir cluster. Now give it to me and I’ll put it on the door.”

As he went outside Kendra looked after him, reflecting that Hiram also had guts. He had come to California with a strong pair of hands and little else. And that was before anybody knew there was gold in the hills. She wished he had told her more about himself. He had said very little, only, “I’m a minister’s son. As you may have heard, ministers send their children to school but they don’t make ’em rich.” But in spite of his reticence, she felt that she knew him well. He had the kind of tough gallantry that she liked.

No more turkeys had come from Honolulu, but the men had said they would rather have steaks anyway. On Sunday morning Loren went to church, but he said Kendra positively must not go out yet. It was not raining, but the day was sharp and blustery, and she was nursing the baby and for her to catch cold would be disastrous. So Kendra stayed at home, with Serena to keep her company. She had the steaks, big thick ones, and the charcoal brazier ready; and she had potatoes and turnips, oranges from Honolulu and a raisin pudding, and the best liquors and brandies in town.

They had a merrier Christmas than any of them had had in years. Pocket and Hiram and Marny came to the front door carrying bundles of firewood tied up with blue ribbon—“A present for Junior,” they said, “to keep him warm.” Behind them in the street a mule driver stood beside a cart that his team had dragged up the rutted mud of the hill. The cart was piled with more firewood, and assorted packages wrapped in paper.

At sight of so much wood, Kendra nearly shed tears of gratitude. Firewood was not only the most expensive gift they could have brought, but the most welcome, now that she had a baby who must be kept warm at any cost. Loren, as delighted as she was, hurried out with a big drink of whiskey to warm the driver. He and the other men helped unload the wood and stack it in the storeroom next to the kitchen, while Kendra and Marny brought in the packages and piled them in a corner of the parlor, to be opened after dinner. Loren came in with Pocket and Hiram, all flushed from the work of wood-carrying. Loren asked, “Drinks, everybody?”

Hiram said, “Sure,” Pocket said, “Not for me,” and Marny said, “Yes, thank heaven, I can even get a little high today, I’m not dealing.”

They had drinks and a royal dinner, and came back into the parlor for coffee and brandy. With joyful extravagance, Loren piled up the fire with the Christmas gift of wood. Kendra brought in the baby and was sure he smiled at the sight of these friends who had brought him so much comfort. When she had taken him back upstairs, they opened the other Christmas presents—woolen scarfs for Loren and Ralph, gloves and slippers for Kendra and Serena, delicacies from China for them all, and a book of Christmas carols.

“Oh Marny—boys,” Kendra exclaimed, “you shouldn’t!”

“Yes ma’am we should,” Pocket said firmly. “Look at what you’re doing for us. Here we are, in this miserable town, all mud and rats and strangers, and you’re giving us a Christmas like folks at home. It’s been so long since I—since any of us—have been in a
home.
”

“Do shut up,” said Hiram. “You’ll make me get a lump in my throat.”

“I’ve already got one,” said Kendra.

“All right,” said Marny, “let’s be practical. Kendra, I’ll help you clear up.”

Pocket cut into her words with emphasis. “No ma’am you will not. You work all the time. This is your day off. Loren and Hiram and Ralph and I have got it all settled. We men will clear up.”

“Oh—” Kendra caught her breath and laughed. “Wonderful. Go right ahead.”

Hiram fortified himself with another drink, and the men went out to the kitchen. Wrapped in warmth and luxury, Kendra leaned back in her chair.

“Oh Marny, isn’t this fun?”

“I think it’s grand,” said Marny.

“All that wood!” Kendra said softly. “Marny, I can’t tell you how thankful I am.”

Marny poured brandy into her coffee. “Don’t be too thankful, dear, it’s not necessary. I’m sure Pocket and Hiram can afford their share, and I know I can afford mine.” She sent Kendra a bright green twinkle across her cup. “I’ve done well in the business of buying steamboat tickets. One or two tumbles—nothing pays off every time—but mostly this has paid off. In fact, I’ve made
lots
of money.”

They both laughed, but after a moment Kendra sobered.

“Marny.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell Loren how you paid for the wood. He’s so glad to have it, and if you told him, he wouldn’t feel quite at ease about using it.”

“I understand,” Marny said quietly. Without further comment she changed the subject. “Look, Kendra, outside. The sun is shining!”

They went to the window. The wind had scattered the clouds and between them the sky was clear blue.

“Beautiful,” murmured Kendra. “It seems a long time since I’ve seen any sunshine.”

“Cold and bright,” said Marny, “perfect for Christmas. Oh I do hope this weather lasts a while.”

Serena came in, saying the men had chased her out of the kitchen. She and Ralph had been to the circus yesterday, and she told them about it. The clown was so funny, and the acrobats were marvelous, and so were the tightrope dancers, and Mrs. Rowe riding bareback standing up on her toes—oh, it was grand. She was still talking about the circus when the men joined them.

“We’ve washed up everything,” Pocket announced proudly, “without breaking a dish. And now,” he went on, taking up the book of carols, “let’s sing. Kendra, will you play?”

She went to the piano, and Hiram said,

“I haven’t sung a Christmas carol since—I can’t remember. Kendra, let’s have—” He began to sing.

“As I sat on a sunny bank…”

Pocket joined him,

“…on Christmas Day in the morning…”

Kendra played the tune. She played “God rest you merry, gentlemen,” and then Hiram wanted an old English wassail song. He could sing it, too. Hiram sang well, in a deep rich baritone, and he did it joyously, waving his glass in time to the music.

“Wassail, wassail, all over the town…”

They all sang but Marny. Marny, quite unable to follow the simplest tune, curled up on the sofa and sipped brandy. She was quite happy.

At last, when the sun had gone behind the hill and the town was turning gray, they said they should leave. It had been a beautiful day for them, they told Kendra, and she said it had been equally beautiful for her. Hiram and Pocket and Marny started down the hill together. Kendra and Loren, looking after them from the porch, could hear them—especially Hiram—warbling the old wassail song.

“Love and joy come to you,

And to your wassail too,

And God bless you and send you

A happy New Year.”

“I think,” Loren said with amusement, “to quote Scripture, Hiram is merry with wine.”

“As long as he’s merry,” said Kendra, “who cares?”

Loren said he certainly did not care. It had been a great Christmas party, he had never known a better, and he was glad everybody had had such a good time.

He went upstairs to make a fire in the bedroom, telling her not to come up until the fire was burning well. When the room was warm she went up too, took the baby from his crib and fed him and put him to sleep again. Loren banked the fire carefully, to keep the room warm, as she would have to get up in the night to nurse the baby again. He said he did not like to think of her getting up on such a cold night, but this was a task he could not do for her.

Kendra reminded him of how comfortable everything was. On the chair beside the bed was the quilted satin robe Marny had given her, and a new pair of fleece-lined slippers, a gift from Loren. “I’m as well cared for as anybody can possibly be,” she said.

She went to sleep warm and secure. At about four o’clock in the morning she heard a cry from the baby. Loren did not wake. Kendra slipped out of bed, wrapped herself in her warm silk robe, nursed the baby, and tucked him back into his crib. How quiet everything was. The wind, usually so wild on winter nights, had stilled, and from the window she could see stars in the clear cold sky. As Marny had said, lovely Christmas weather. Such a welcome break in the wettest winter San Francisco had had in memory. She slipped into bed and fell asleep again.

Since the baby’s birth Kendra had become acutely sensitive to noises in the night. She was sleeping soundly when she heard something.

She raised herself on an elbow, turning her head to look through the darkness toward the crib. But the baby was quiet. The noise came from outside. Now that her senses were clearing she could hear more plainly—men shouting, bells ringing, cries of fright and dismay. Something was going on, something wrong, something terrifying—and just as she realized this Loren woke too, and sat up. “What’s happening?” he demanded.