Keeping Secrets (13 page)

“Does Barrista know about all this?”

“He knows enough.”

I gazed down at my plate. Suddenly the food looked less appetizing. “I'm confused about the Germans, I must say. If Tetzel's working with them, why would they send down Huerta—or pay his way—back into Mexico?”

“I didn't say Tetzel was doing anything but selling copper to them. He had nothing to do with Huerta's return, I can assure you. Don't forget, he's going to make a pot load of interest off the money he loans us, and his bank needs capital to grow on.”

I couldn't say anything.

He asked, “Why do you look like someone just slapped you on the cheek?”

“Well … it's only that …”

“You think it's dirty money.”

“I didn't say that.”

“But you thought it,” he said.

I looked down. “I … uh … you mistake my feelings.”

He leaned back then and said, “Feel free to elaborate, my dear.”

Weakly, I began, “If the war ends tomorrow, what becomes of you and Tetzel and your market?”

“There's always a market for copper. Don't worry about that.”

“But what if it continues, and the United States enters?”

“That depends upon which side we go in on. If we take the Allies, I can't do what I'm doing lawfully anymore. If we go to the other side, I probably can. Only, if the United States enters the war, I'll have a ready market right here at home.”

“And what about Tetzel, then?”

“What about him? He's only serving as an agent over here. If we get into the war, he will cease to do it, that's all. He isn't getting rich off it, and he'd have little to gain by going on with it. Wouldn't you think?”

“I suppose you're right.” I shook my head. “It's very complicated. I wish you—”

“Wish I wasn't involved with the Germans; go ahead; say it.”

“All right. I guess that's it.”

“Why?”

“It's—it seems dangerous, and you're already involved in enough danger just getting Barrista to the top.”

“Why don't you be honest? You have already taken sides, with England. It's that damned Woodstone down the street who has you hoodwinked into it.”

“He has not. Woody's been over here longer than either of us have been alive. You're just angry about my remarks on the
Lusitania
incident. It was plain the day we talked about it that you were irritated with me.”

“Just take my advice and be careful what you tell that old man.”

“Woody? I can't believe you're serious. Anyhow, we don't discuss the war very much, only insofar as his grandson is concerned.”

“I know. You spend your time discussing the arts, and music and ‘what not.' Becoming very hoity-toity, aren't you? Little Miss High Society.”

Common sense would have dictated that I shift the subject then. Emory was now full enough of whiskey and wine he wasn't even making sense anymore. Yet, drawn right into the fight he was bruising for, I said, “I believe you're jealous of the time I spend with him. It isn't as though you're always attentive to me, that's certain.”

“Well if you don't like the way I am, maybe you'd prefer ‘attending' your British friend. I understand he's worth a lot of money. Maybe he'll remember you in his will.… At least you'd have a better chance at securing your future with him, than with me.”

I threw down my napkin. “This conversation is absurd. I'm going to bed.”

“I was thinking along those lines myself.”

“I didn't mean that.”

“I did.”

I awoke very early the next morning—before the sound of reveille from the arsenal—and sat in the kitchen drinking coffee. Too exhausted to think straight by the time I finally closed my eyes the night before, I tried that morning to look objectively at what was happening to Emory and me, at all the unexpected curves and twists our marriage had taken, and decide whether I should go on with it.

We had argued more and more as the months passed, and it seemed to me that I would no sooner feel the presence of a strong bond between us than he sliced it in two. I knew he was under enormous pressures and I wanted so much to help relieve them, even while I was facing some pressures of my own.

I knew that morning I shouldn't have allowed the argument to get going, but I didn't see it coming in time to head it off. Besides, I was trying to see if Emory had guessed something I didn't want him to know. I truly believed he hated himself for letting others manipulate him, and I was sorry for that, but I wasn't willing to take the brunt of his anger. Maybe I was less than a good wife. Maybe I should have let my mind overrule my heart and refused his offer of marriage in the first place … perhaps that would have been more fair to both of us.

I sat and thought awhile longer, trying to analyze our difficulties objectively. Yet I could not get past the way he behaved toward me. His abuse hurt too much and had come so unexpectedly. Had he come to me honestly and told me of his growing predicament, I would have offered him comfort. Instead he baited me, got me mad by twisting my words into false meanings, then on top of it all, forced me right into the bedroom, where I'd always counted on his sensitivity to my needs and desires. I wasn't able to fight off his advances, though I tried hard, and in the end I was being pushed down roughly and plunged into, with no rights whatsoever.

Emory walked in sleepily and poured a cup of coffee, then sat down at the table. I rose and walked to the icebox. I didn't want to look at him.

“It was pretty cold up there last night,” he said, finally. “Has the climate warmed up any down here this morning?”

“Not much.”

“Could you come over and sit with me?”

“Nathan will be awake soon. I have to get breakfast.”

“Damn it, you're not married to him. You're married to me.”

“You made that all too clear last night.”

“Look, I'm sorry for that. I can't remember all of it, but I know I was a real jackass.”

“I've been thinking this morning that maybe you made an error in marrying me. I don't seem to be able to make you a very good wife after all.”

“Don't talk like that. You mean more to me than anything. Look, just forget everything I said … or did … I'll make it up to you. I know what. We'll go to the Roof Garden for dinner tonight. Get all dressed up. Did I ask you to have the waist in my blue suit taken in? Never mind, it'll probably do. How about it?”

“No thanks. I think I'll just stay at home and try and get some rest tonight.”

“All right,” he said, and rose. I thought he was leaving for work when he walked from the room, but he returned in a few minutes and tossed a big envelope on the table. “I intended handing you this last night, before things got all balled up between us. Then from what you said I decided maybe you wouldn't want them,” he said as he drew some papers out. “I don't know … maybe I was right after all.”

I found myself looking at several stock certificates for Cabot Consolidated Copper, each made out to me. I didn't know what to say.

“That represents fifty percent of all I own down there,” he said. “It isn't worth the paper it is written on now, but I hope someday it will be worth a hell of a lot.”

“Oh, Emory—” I began, but he'd walked out.

I felt very low as I stood there holding the crisp parchment papers, and as the prospect of paying Mark crept into my mind, I was thankful to God that Emory had given me something that for the time being was unredeemable.

16

Emory stayed in San Antonio all through the summer of relying upon his mining engineer, Ralph Jones to keep him apprised of conditions in Mexico. For this I was thankful: regardless of reassuring news now and then that chaotic conditions were going to improve, they never did. Carranza's forces grew stronger, but Villa's forces followed suit, and the bandit Emilio Zapata and his mad warriors were running rampant over Mexico City.

Like some other mining concerns, Cabot Consolidated Copper was hanging on as best it could, getting supplies in when transportation was available; putting laborers to work when they were to be found; keeping looting and vandalism to a minimum. When enough time had passed so that I could put our quarrel into perspective, I marveled at Emory's ability to behave with relative calm most of the time since he had so much at stake, and overlooked his occasional black moods as Nathan seemed to. In fact when I counted the many times at home that Emory lashed out at Nathan, as opposed to the one serious conflict between us, I took a lesson from it. Surely next time he picked on me I'd deal with it more deftly, I told myself.…

In August we received an invitation from the Tetzels to attend their thirtieth wedding anniversary celebration at their home in Laurel Heights.

“I'd have thought they would have been married closer to forty years, judging by their ages,” I remarked to Emory.

“Tetzel's original ‘intended' bride was killed in the Indian raid I told you about. Sophie migrated several years after that,” he said, then switched the subject. “Another Pan-American Peace Conference is in the planning. Barrista wrote that he thinks they might ask him to sit in. He couldn't say so, naturally, but he hopes to have his name brought up as Provisional President.”

“Maybe he will.”

“I doubt it. He's determined to get in without a fight, but he can't be allowed to fool himself that there's much possibility. I wrote him to say he ought to stay out of it. Things are going steadily now, and there is no use in taking chances.”

I looked at him squarely. “Why don't you admit you'd really like a good old-fashioned fight, and you are itching to lead the troops?”

I expected an equally kidding reply, but was met with silence.

“It would be nice to see Barrista again, though, and he'd probably come through San Antonio—certainly it would seem routine, and would give you a chance to meet with him. He might—uh—like to see Aegina. She is still here, isn't she?”

“As far as I know.”

“I never have met her—”

“Be sure to set aside the date of that party. And we ought to give the Tetzels a present. Will you pick up something suitable?”

The Tetzel house—or mansion—surrounded by galleries laced with gingerbread trim, and topped with pointed towers—stood upon a small hill. Its landscaping was built up with four stone tiers and spiced with colorful gardens flanking the curved path up to the front and bordering the circular porches.

We arrived during a lull between the rain showers which had gone on intermittently all day long, and the white house and well-planned garden scheme cut a startling contrast against the bleak gray sky, like a picture trimmed from a magazine and mounted on a scrapbook page. In spite of the bad weather, the street was lined up and down with automobiles, so Emory suggested Nathan let us out under a portico on the north side of the house.

I had felt no particular excitement about the party until I saw the windows lit up and people arriving in evening wear. Emory was persuaded to wear a top hat, which he despised—only a hat with a wide brim suited him, and he quickly dispensed with it as soon as we crossed the threshold. I wore a rose-colored taffeta gown with organdy and lace overlays, and matching pumps with Cuban heels. The ensemble was fashionable, yet conservative. Although there were times, such as the party at the Casino Hall the previous December, when I made a point of being a little
outré
, I still usually concentrated on fading into the background at parties, talking little and trying to remain as obscure as possible. If I did not talk very much, there was less margin for a mistake that might give away something I did not want known, and now with all of Emory's secrets strung on to my own, I had to be doubly careful.

I was in for a surprise when Tetzel led us into what he proudly termed “the grand hall.” It was a near replica of the Menger Hotel lobby, on a smaller scale.

Surrounded by an open second-floor gallery which was supported by tall columns, the square floor of black and white inlaid marble was ample for dancing space, and Tetzel directed my gaze above to a skylight made of stained glass he'd purchased in Europe during a trip abroad. “Why, it's remarkable,” I said in all sincerity.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed.

Tetzel was still brusque, yet a little more friendly that night than times before, and as he left I considered the fact both he and his wife still spoke in broken English. I wondered if they retained the German language at home in privacy, as did many of the families where we lived.

Emory had already disappeared, so I found a little table near a pillar behind a huge vase of flowers, and sat down. He would just have to look for me, since he was thoughtless enough to leave me alone in the first place. Several minutes passed before a voice behind me said, “You are much too pretty to be hidden away, madam.”

It was Arnold Stuttgart, and close by, looking elegant in her newest Jenny creation with a tight skirt and tiered lace over-skirt—the frock a good three inches shorter than mine—was Lyla. She wore a headband with a jewel in front and one long feather extending straight up above her forehead. Even if Lyla's head was full of shallow observations, she had to be credited with a perceptive eye for fashion. She was truly a trend-setter in San Antonio, and it seemed to me that was at least one trait to her credit.

“I hadn't expected to see you here,” I told them.

“Arnold believes in cozying up to his bankers,” said Lyla. My eyes met Arnold's. She'd apparently gotten a head start at the cocktail table. I think she'd embarrassed him, because he said quickly, “Adolph and Sophie are nice people, you know, and he has seen me through some lean times in the printing business. How about some champagne?”

While Arnold was away Lyla sat down. “I thought you were going to spend the whole month at your father's cottage in the hills,” I said.