Keeping Secrets (20 page)

He turned to dressing, no more bothered than if he had swatted a fly. I couldn't speak until he was ready and at the door, then I said, “I won't be here when you get back. There isn't a man alive who can get by with striking me.”

He slammed the door and stomped down the stairs. In a moment I walked to the door, opened it, and looked down across the gallery to the foyer below. He was gone, and I found myself staring into the upturned face of Nathan.

I closed the door again and went back to sit on the bed. I was shaking hard and unable to think. A glance in the mirror told me the cut was small, but I could already feel the rising underneath, and for several minutes I had to keep a cloth on it to stop the blood.

I sat holding it impatiently. I must get dressed, put my things together, buy a train ticket … all of these things seemed insurmountable obstacles in front of me then. How could I buy a train ticket with no money? I sat there and shook, and tried to think of how I could get money quickly. Go to Lyla? No, I didn't want her to know. Woody? No, I couldn't. Nathan?

He was knocking at the door. “Are you all right, Electra?”

I tried to steady my voice. “Of course. Emory had to go out, that's all.”

He kept standing there. “Go back to bed, Nathan. Everything is fine.”

He hesitated awhile longer, then at last I heard him walk softly down the stairs. I realized I couldn't do anything until morning, yet I did not want to be there should Emory come back. My head was beginning to throb. Finally I decided to stay, but not undefended. I took a small lamp off the dresser and put the base underneath the covers. Made of hollowed brass, it was heavy enough to be useful, but light enough to lift. I brought a fresh, cool damp cloth from the bathroom and put it next to my temple before going back to bed. Then I looked across at the mirror again, and the sight of myself, lying like a wounded soldier braced for another enemy attack, made me start to laugh nervously, then to bite my lip and weep.

I fell asleep, finally, and around sunup I was awakened by the ringing of the telephone downstairs. Nathan answered quickly. Had he lain awake? I couldn't make out his words, but as soon as he hung up the phone he bounded up the stairs and knocked on my door. “It's Cabot. He's been in a wreck out on the South Loop, but he's all right. The police phoned. Someone has to go out there and get him.”

“Well, call for a taxi, Nathan. Thank God, he's all right.”

“Uh—you know the South Loop, out there by the asylum.”

“Yes?”

“I—uh—I could call a taxi for you. I'm sure he'd want you to come.”

“Nathan, that's absurd. Get going,” I demanded through the door.

“Please, Electra, I really—”

Oh, this is too much, I thought. The wound on my temple was now the size of a small bird's egg. I raised my hand to it, then quickly took it down. The whole situation rivaled the plot of a cliff-hanger at a matinee. I didn't know whether to pity Emory or murder him. “Nathan, was anyone with—I mean, anyone else hurt?”

“The police said his car swerved off into a gully. They didn't say any other autos were involved. Apparently he was lucky—the Cole Six was demolished.”

“You've got to go, Nathan. I'm ill this morning.”

“All right, but what do you think the police will ask me?”

“How should I know, Nathan? You're wasting time. Go on.”

At times Nathan's indecisiveness and cowardice were enough to drive me mad. It was no wonder he got on Emory's nerves. He was fortunate Emory would put up with him.

A couple of hours passed before the taxi carrying both of them arrived in front of our house. I'd kept cold compresses on my face most of that time, and had gone about the regular daily task of cooking breakfast. Later, I would talk to Emory about leaving in a way that I could do so with some dignity. For now I would just have to tell Nathan I'd gotten out of bed and slipped from dizziness, thus the small gash and goose egg on my temple.

I heard them chatting amiably as they came up the walk. Emory looked as though he were none the worse for wear, and the first words I heard him speak concerned ordering a new Overland—he'd been wanting one anyway, and the 1917 models were soon coming out. He was telling Nathan about the Model 85 Touring Sedan with the new hard top and lush gray upholstery when they came through the door. When he saw me, his voice fell silent. Nathan's eyes widened in astonishment.

“I had a little accident myself this morning—” I began, and turned back to the stove.

Through breakfast Emory did the most enviable job of idle chitchatting he had ever managed, while I went along with the game just pleasantly enough to signal him he might as well be prepared for a good raking over the coals. Soon Nathan dabbed at his mouth, threw down his napkin next to the plate of food he'd scarcely touched, and mumbled he needed to get down to the office. My little tale of the “accident” hadn't fooled him any more than Emory.

“See about that Overland, first thing,” he told him.

When Nathan was gone, I said, “What did they do with the Cole Six?”

“Towed it away to the junk heap.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“What you mean to ask is, ‘Was there anyone with me?' No, I was alone.”

“Well that's a blessing anyway.”

“Electra … did I do that?” he said, nodding at my temple.

“You know damned well you did.”

“Actually I can't remember … much of anything. Were we fighting?”

I shrugged. “Never mind. It doesn't matter anyway, now.”

He looked anxious. “You're not going to leave me, are you?”

“I was turning it over in my mind,” I said, and scooped a spoonful of sugar from the bowl.

“Well, I wouldn't blame you. I've been a real bastard lately. But I wish you wouldn't. I love you very much and I need you, now more than ever.”

I was moved by that remark, but unwilling to show it. “I'm worn out with serving as your whipping boy, as I am sure everyone else is. I hope that wreck last night shook some sense into you.”

“I'll straighten out,” he said earnestly, avoiding my eyes. “I guess sometimes you have to go all the way to the bottom before starting up again … but promise me you won't leave.”

“I'll think about it, but first let's get something settled. I want to know whether or not you're carrying on with Aegina Barrista, and I want the whole truth. You owe me that, at least.”

“No. There is nothing between us except business, I swear. Once things were different, but that was a long time ago and it is all over.”

“Someone saw her with a man of your description, at a tea dance, not too long after we married.”

“Oh, is that what got you started on her? Well it must have been one of her boy friends—she has plenty of them. Hell, I don't have time for tea dancing, never have. And I don't see much of Aegina. Since we got back from Mexico I haven't seen her at all.”

“And why was she with you in Mexico—just on a nice little visit with her old man?”

“She had been there for a few days before I went. She tried as hard as I did to change her father's mind about the movement. It was almost time for classes to begin here, and Barrista is always worried about her safety, so he asked that we return on the same train.”

“And you expect me to believe nothing happened between the two of you on the way back?”

“I'm telling you the truth. We talked a lot, mostly about conditions in Mexico and about Barrista himself. But she has someone else now, and I wouldn't have come after you if I'd wanted anything more to do with her. I don't see why you've always felt so threatened by her.”

“Ah … men! All right, but I want to see some changes in your behavior or I swear I'll walk out that door and never come back. You ever talk to me again the way you did last night, and you will see how fast I can get my baggage together. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“All right. We'll overlook last night,” I said, and began to tidy the kitchen. He walked up behind me as I stood at the sink, and kissed the back of my hair. Then he whispered, “All my life, there has never really been another woman for me. You've got to believe that, and stick by me through the hard times.”

“It's a pity you weren't around to help me through when I was having them,” I said caustically. I wanted to be kind and forgiving, wanted to tell him I supported him more than he knew, but something kept holding me back. Everything came out in spurts of bitterness. He kissed my cheek, and probably could have used his old advantage against me, but instead he mumbled something about being exhausted. I told him he ought to show the first signs of common sense he had in months, and skip the office today so he could rest. Without another word, he went upstairs.

I stood holding a plate and a hand towel, fighting back a disgusting urge to cry for him because, while I'd seen him hurt by other things, I had never been so hard on him, or ever expected to be.

I don't know whether he would have been able to better deal with what he stood to lose in Mexico by virtue of the encounter between us, because he never had the test of time. Within a few days the situation south of the border—like one of our city streets—had taken another abrupt turn.

Throwing caution to the winds, Barrista was on the way to San Antonio, fire on his breath.

23

From what I gathered between Barrista's frequent lapses into frenzied Spanish during dinner at our home the next evening, Carranza was showing all signs of installing himself as a dictator. He was rolling out decrees that spelled assurance of his own election to the presidency the following spring. The title that he had carried for almost three years—First Chief of the de facto government—would not keep him from succeeding himself in effect, but would, on the other hand, give him authority to change the constitution immediately.

“He has called a constitutional assembly for late November, and picked the delegates from among his sympathizers. By spring he will have a new constitution representing his ideas alone. He has written his ticket to absolute power,” Barrista said, then emptied his wine goblet in one gulp. “The man is contemptible. He must be stopped.”

Emory cocked an eyebrow. “Are you ready now, Señor Barrista?”

“You have my word, amigo. There is no backing out.”

He then began to detail his plans beginning the first of the year. He wanted to make the perfunctory gesture of getting his name on the presidential ballot, and was confident he could get the backing of the most powerful rebel chiefs, including Pancho Villa, plus the solid support of mine workers, textile workers, and ranchers. “Once I announce my candidacy, and become a public figure in this new respect, I can associate my name with the Plan de Pacifica Reforma safely. Carranza cannot persecute me or my followers without the risk of being labeled a dictator.”

“You still better post an armed guard around your hacienda,” Emory told him.

“I intend to.”

“And if you run for President, only to find there has been a ‘slight discrepancy' in the vote count, causing you to lose, what then?” Emory asked.

Barrista shrugged. “A call to arms.”

My pulse quickened. It seemed Emory was locking all the windows.

The expected course of events, on the other hand, was that Barrista would not be allowed candidacy, so the final coups would be pulled a little earlier. The signal would be the single name of Carranza on the ballot. Within one week following the election, Barrista's four brothers, in co-operation with the other Mexican revolutionaries, would have a band of troops numbering close to 150,000 by Barrista's estimation, prepared to form a chain around the radius of the capital and close in. Emory would be in Mexico while it happened, but Barrista himself would co-ordinate the forces. “I know I can get the trust of these men, but they will never put their trust in a gringo,” he said, and, remembering all the jesting about Emory's love of a fight, I glanced at his face. His expression was calm and thoughtful.

“All right, let's have a look at the maps you brought,” he said.

I had no desire to see territorial maps scarred with red marks, so I went outside and sat on the front steps. Although the early autumn night was chilly, I hardly noticed. Every nerve in my body was charged with excitement because I knew the plans which had proved so elusive before were now destined for reality.

The aspects discussed that night smacked more than ever of risk and hidden dangers, of the appearance of turncoats and disappearance of the faint of heart, but then I thought, what revolutionary plan did not? What force for change on such a grand scale did not bear heavy burdens of this kind? The only question at hand was whether or not it was worth it, and that had already been answered by Carranza himself.

Under the glow of a full moon I rested my face in my hands. It was like touching a cold cloth to fever. The bruise on my temple already seemed to be getting smaller. Either because he was too busy concentrating on other matters to notice, or he was too diplomatic to make reference to my wound, Barrista had said nothing about it.

The hour was very late when he and Emory folded up the maps. Barrista was to be our house guest overnight, and by the time I got everyone settled down it was nearly two in the morning. Yet I was still too excited to sleep. I waited until Emory had bathed and come to bed.

“It seems a hundred years have gone by in the past couple of days. I'm exhausted,” he said.

“I hope you weren't thinking of going right to sleep.”

“Did you have something else in mind?”

“Come a little closer and I'll show you.”

He sat down near me and smiled. “I've left something to be desired as a husband lately, haven't I?”

“You might say that. I want to catch you while you're sober.”

He ignored the last remark and said, “Well, you see my dear, what with little revolutions here and there, dormant copper mines, and other minor incidentals, I do get preoccupied now and then.”