Hers the Kingdom (88 page)

     We had dinner on the terrace. "I'm not at all sure what I had in mind when I built this big place," Connor began, and Porter finished for him: "You built it as a setting for Sara's portraits, obviously."

     "Obviously," Connor answered, "but what I was getting at— Dina Cameron has suggested another use."

     "Do you mean the charity ball?" Kit asked, explaining to us, "she says it's time some of the other rich San Franciscans help support the mission. She says Connor has done more than his share."

     "That's probably a good idea," Sara put in, "my society friends— don't snicker, Porter—they tell me they are dying to see Wildwood, and of course Connor and Kit are the mystery couple in the city."

     "Mystery couple?" I asked, intrigued.

     "The current theory differs from the original theory—which had Kit a brazen young fortune hunter and McCord her unsuspecting victim, just a nice rich old man. When Kit turned out to be the 'heiress to the Reade fortune' and 'a daughter of the Boston Reades' we got the revised theory. Now Kit is the young innocent, duped by the old Irish satyr. It's all a matter of good and evil, don't you see? Your roles now seem firmly established in society."

     Porter doubled over with laughter. "Now you see what you have to put up with when you are 'blessed' with your very own gnome," he told Connor, "Sara's not only going to draw pictures of your life, she's writing the book."

     "Enough—Porter, Sara, both of you," I said, smiling in spite of myself.

     Neither Kit nor Connor seemed to mind the banter, even if it was at their expense. "To get back to the charity ball," Kit said, "would we have to be here?"

     "Of course," Sara answered for him, "you would be the main attraction."

     "Perhaps you could make a recording, Kit . . . a few inanities . . . we could set the Victrola next to your portrait, and the guests could play it at will. You would be a real mystery woman then."

     "That settles it, Porter," Kit answered. "If there's going to be a charity ball, you have to be here. I won't do it unless you are. We'll just see how you do with all the debutantes fawning over you."

I traveled between San Francisco and the Malibu with sporadic regularity, staying in the northern city until my conscience began to hurt or I got a cranky letter from Willa, inquiring when I thought I might be returning. Then I would try to convince myself—and Sara—that I did not really dread going back.

     Thad had two "companions" now, strong young men who had worked as attendants in a veteran's hospital. It was their job to keep close watch on Thad, night and day. There had been other outbursts since the night of Sara's "reckoning." When they happened, he could not tolerate Willa's presence. Most of the time they occurred at night, brought on, perhaps, by nightmares. He would wake, drenched with sweat, crying and wild. Sometimes it took both men to restrain him; his bed had been fitted with straps for this purpose.

     I could never sleep after one of these outbursts. I would lie awake and wish I were away, free of the constant dread that Thad would explode. I was ashamed of myself for feeling that way, for wanting to be rid of the burden. I looked at Willa and understood how much heavier hers was. Dark circles had appeared under her eyes and she was slimmer than she had been for many years. Her sixtieth birthday was behind her now; her long hair, pulled back in a knot, was gray, the lines at the corners of her mouth etched deeply. Yet she carried herself well, her back straight, her step firm, her health good.

That winter she made a detailed study of a pair of condors seen feeding on the northernmost border of the ranch. She was gone, at times, for two or three days, making camp at one of the cabins used by the herders. She returned refreshed and excited, with a wealth of stories about the giant birds and their amazing capacities.
I looked forward to those times, I enjoyed being caught up in her enthusiasm, enjoyed seeing Willa with color in her face, the smell of the out-of-doors about her.

     In the spring I went north for the first of three benefit balls scheduled for Wildwood. The rhododendrons were in full bloom, the trees were flowering, and azaleas were blossoming everywhere. The spring at Wildwood was splendid. Dina Cameron was there, a flowered dress making her seem twice her usual size. Kit was in a pale yellow chiffon which floated to points at her ankles, a camellia in her hair. And, at Kit's insistence, Porter rented a dinner jacket and was standing in the reception line, next to Mrs. Cameron.

     He was, I could see, a great attraction to the young women present. Working on the docks had done for Porter what none of his body-building programs ever had. He was tall and lanky, and the tendons in his neck looked like steel cords. With more enthusiasm than skill, he fox-trotted the young women around the dance floor. From their faces, I guessed they didn't mind his poor performance.

     The benefit raised an unheard-of sum for the Mission House. It was such a success that two more balls were scheduled, each for a worthy cause. By the time the day for the third arrived, Kit had developed a positive dread of the evening ahead, having grown tired of the need to contend with young swells, fortified by liquor swigged from a flask. They would ask her to dance, holding her closer than she liked, breathing brandy into her face. They would suggest a walk in the garden, among other things. Most were dissuaded by a chilly look, a sharp word or two. One vacuous young man, convinced of his irresistibility, attempted to waltz her through the french doors and onto the terrace. That time, Porter saw what was happening and came to her rescue. After that, Connor and Porter agreed between themselves to keep her in view.

     "You will not discuss politics with the mayor," Kit said to Porter as she straightened his tie before the last of the benefit balls, "and you will especially not discuss his shipping line."

     Porter bristled. "The man's an ass."

     "That may be," Connor put in, "but he's a decent sort of an ass."

     "Those are the most dangerous—the 'Sunny Jims' who wear flowers in their lapels and sing and dance—the actors playing at politics."

     Kit bared her teeth in a pseudo-smile. "No politics?"

     "If you're threatening me," Porter told her, "I think you should know that I've been threatened by meaner-looking brutes."

     She gave him a sidelong glance so he would know her patience was wearing thin. "Come along," she said, taking Connor and Porter by the arm, "let's dance."

     "Tell the band to strike up Sunny Jim's theme song," Porter said in a loud voice as they descended the grand staircase.

     Kit was fond of Mayor Rolph, whom she considered a genuinely good man. She enjoyed his ebullience. As he claimed her for the first dance she wrinkled her nose at Porter.

     Later in the evening, Connor was at Kit's elbow when the band swung into "Avalon." "Did you ask them to play it?" she asked. "Remember that night at the Rose Bowl?" He kissed her ear in answer.

     She was smiling at him still when the dance ended and, for a moment, she did not notice the stolid young man who claimed her next dance. She wanted to shrink from the heat of his hand on her back, pressing her into him. She could feel her own muscles constrict in an effort to hold back. The conversation was predictable:
He had graduated from Stanford two years ago; probably she had seen him play. Football. He had captained the team. She must have gone to the Big Game when her brother was at Berkeley.

     She made small, noncommittal answers. She did not want to be rude, she only wanted the dance to be over.

     
He was in banking now, the family business. Probably she recognized the name. As a matter of fact, his father had known hers. Mr. Reade was a fine gentleman, his father said. Of course, his father was familiar with her husband, too.
He hesitated over the word "husband" as if it were distasteful.

     When the music stopped she thanked him, her smile fixed, and walked purposefully off the dance floor so no one would stop her.

     "You look like you've been sucking lemons," Porter gibed.

     "I've managed to get a Stanford football headache," she told him. "If Connor wants me, tell him I've gone to our rooms to look for a remedy."

     In their dressing room she rummaged through Connor's kit in search of a pill. She came upon a druggist's bottle marked
Digitalis.
She frowned and tried to think what it could be.

     So preoccupied was she with the question that when she walked into the bedroom she did not, at first, see the football player. "I'm sorry . . ." she began, confused. Then she asked herself what she was sorry about and, angry, said, "These are private rooms. I believe you have made a mistake."

     He was looking at her, his lips curved into a tight, brutal smile. He walked toward her and she backed away, until the wall stopped her.

     "No mistake," he said, breathing into her face.

     "Please leave," she told him, struggling to keep the fear from her voice, "leave now or . . ."

     He grasped her arms and she winced with pain, but she did not cry out. She tried to raise her knee, to hold him off, but he was pressed too hard against her.

     "What the devil!" Connor exploded, grabbing the man from behind. He released Kit and shoved Connor with force enough to send him crashing against a chair before striding out.

     Connor seemed to crumple on the floor, the color drained from his face. Perspiration appeared on his forehead.

     "Darling," Kit cried.

     "A minute," he gasped, "give me a minute . . ." He was speaking with difficulty. "Medicine . . ." he began, and she was off to get the kit before he could add anything.

     In a few moments he was able to pull himself into a chair. She stared, worried, at his face.

     "I'll be fine now," he said, trying to grin, "There was a time when I could have handled that young ox."

     "That animal," Kit said, furious.

     "Don't say anything, not yet," Connor told her. "Porter can be quick with his fists . . . don't . . ."

     "I know," Kit reassured him, "just let me speak to Sara for a moment—she can finish downstairs for us. I'll be right back. Don't try to get up."

     She was dismayed that he agreed so easily, knowing what it meant. When she returned no more than three minutes later, he was dozing. She helped him undress. Then she sat watching him sleep, a slight line between her eyes, a small dread in her stomach.

The next morning Connor seemed as hearty as ever, though he did cancel a business meeting in the city to stay on at Wildwood with us for a few days. Porter had nothing better to do, he said, since he hadn't worked for two weeks now and he was beginning to suspect that he had been blacklisted.

     "Why would that be?" Connor wanted to know.

     "The word is that I talk too much," Porter answered, "and I know my note-taking bothers them. The bosses don't like people who know how to write."

     I sat under the Camperdown elm and watched Porter swim, stroking deliberately up and down the pool as if he were pacing himself. At the end of the avenue of yews, Connor and Kit walked together, heads close, his arm loosely around her shoulders. For an instant I felt a bubble of happiness rise in my throat.