Miguel thought less and less about the mushroom house, and by the time the family had settled comfortably for the summer at Del Rio, he was certain the mushroom had been a silly idea in the first place.
It was a slow and languorous summer, and withal, a time of discovery and excitement for Miguel. Here, he found that Maria did not cling so closely to her ancestral ways.
In the city, his mother kept her household intact and untouched by the life around her. Spanish was spoken almost exclusively. Miguel never forgot the humiliation of his first weeks in school, the shocking discovery that he could not speak the language of his schoolmates and teachers except brokenly—like a foreigner.
He hated being a foreigner. Nothing Maria could say to him could ever really engender in him the feeling of pride she felt in her apartness. She had been the daughter of hidalgos and hacendados, and though Raoul Rinehart had taken her from her family, outraging Spanish pride and Catholic morality, her love of him could not rob her of her sense of identity. Home, to Maria, was a great, dimly remembered hacienda in the Sierra Morenas of Northern Mexico, a feudal land holding measured in square miles. And her big house in Berkeley was redolent of her past.
In the still and somber conservatory hung a portrait of a noble ancestor in breastplate and morion and Miguel, suffering at the Ampico, doggedly practicing an art for which he had no talent whatever, could never escape the searching, cold blue eyes under the steel cap. And outside, in the warm afternoon, the sound of unknown neighborhood children playing kick-the-can would symbolize the thing he wanted more than anything else in all the world. To belong.
But at Del Rio Maria seemed happier and more willing to let him mingle with people of his own age.
He liked swimming and became quite at home in the water, to Concha’s distress. The nurse could not swim and she grew frantic when he struck out into the sluggish current. He had never before been particularly active, but now long hours in the open hardened him and turned his skin brown.
“You look like an Indio,” Concha would say.
“But, Nana,” he would tease. “You’re Indian.”
And the descendant of Aztec chiefs would say proudly, “I am one-sixteenth Spanish.”
He read a great deal, drowsing on the beach, or under the madronas. Maria was an easy mark for book salesmen and Miguel profited by her inability to refuse anything in tooled leather bindings.
She encouraged his keeping of notebooks and a diary, because she was distantly related to Blasco Ibañez and dreamed of literary greatness for her son. Raoul thought it mildly tiresome and planned that Miguel would follow his elder brother Luis into Raoul’s copra brokerage firm. Meanwhile, however, he did nothing actively to discourage Miguel’s “scribblings.” Raoul was not often on hand. He had acquired the habit of living apart, though not alone. Miguel knew that his father had a woman. The family called her La Roja—the Red One.
His father’s apartment was a fascinating place, with guns on the walls, their dark oiled stocks and bluish metal reflecting the light from the lamps with heavy gold fringe on the cloisonne shades. There were tapestries and draperies of heavy green plush that could be drawn over the windows to shut out every shaft of sunlight and turn the paneled rooms into a secret place. And often, mingled with the man smells of tobacco and brandy, there would be a haunting fragrance of perfume in the air. At these times Miguel would know La Roja had been there. It would give him a dreadful thrill. He knew she must be very bad and dangerous and very, very beautiful and he would feel oddly disloyal to the family as he sensed the presence of an enchanting evil and a door leading into a strange world beyond childhood.
But that river summer, Raoul and Luis were only a tiny part of Miguel’s life. Three hours from the city, Del Rio was like an island in a faraway sea: an island of tangled forests and sun-drenched beaches and long stretches of dusty gravel road. The three hours might well have been three hundred.
He mingled with the sons of the families on the mountain. He visited their houses and ate lettuce and tomato sandwiches and drank brown celery phosphates and listened to phonograph records.
There were always small reminders of his foreign background, of course. The gringos—he thought of them that way—could not fathom his attachment for Concha and called it sissy. It bothered him until Maria explained that American children were not raised by nanas. After that, he felt rather sorry for them and refused to take offense when they teased him about Concha.
His friends began to take over part of his life. There were three. Tommy Eubanks was fat and big for his age. His small, alert eyes were bright with precocious knowledge. Sandy Johnson, who was poor, stayed with Billy Alberg in the big house near Eagle Rock known as The Roost. They called themselves the Fitch Mountain Gang and they had a password (Swordfish), and a secret meeting place in a secluded glade of willows near Frenchie Beach, and a recognition cry that was supposed to sound like the yelp of a coyote. They liked to think their cry frightened everyone on the mountain.
Together, they roamed and explored the hills beyond Eagle Rock, made rafts, and even raided the vineyards across the river. Miguel didn’t like the sweet grapes and never ate any, but Tom could always eat his share and more and the raids were exciting. Once the vintner had even chased them all the way to the river bank with a shotgun loaded with rock salt. They spoke lovingly of that time around the beach fires after dark.
But best of all about that summer was the way it seemed to Miguel that he was finding a place for himself as a friend of Essie’s. His family ties were stronger than he knew and he took to himself anything that seemed to confirm them.
Often Anson, who had taken a job as lifeguard at Del Rio Beach to be near Essie, and Miguel and Esther would walk from Patches to Del Rio through the long twilights. These were the best times. The gravel road would shimmer white and ghostly in the fading light and the stars would come out—first one at a time and then suddenly the sky would be full of them shining through the branches of the overhanging trees. Miguel would feel secretly proud of himself because he almost always saw the first one and kept silent so that Essie could get her wish.
The glowworms would be shining in the hazelnut bushes and Miguel would scramble into the dusty underbrush, braving brambles and poison oak to emerge grandly with a smear of luminous life wriggling in his palm.
And there was the singing. They would stride along together, Miguel scuffing his feet in the gravel, singing. “Louise” was a great favorite. Essie could do a marvelous imitation of Maurice Chevalier with her lower Up pushed out and an old straw hat of Luis’s on her head.
But the song Miguel liked the best was “That’s Where My Money Goes,” because when they reached the verse that went, “She’s got a pair of hips just like two battleships—“ Essie and Anson would let him carry the song alone and come in with a shout on the chorus: “That’s where my money, all my hard-earned money goes!”
And there were times when Essie would sing “Borrachita” for them in her sweet, thin voice and the plaintive melody would almost bring tears to Miguel’s eyes. “It’s the call of the blood,” Concha would say approvingly. “You cannot escape it.” Miguel was pleased about Anson’s job at Del Rio. He understood that Anson wanted to be around Essie, but Anson paid enough attention to Miguel to win him completely.
Miguel loved to sit and listen to Anson talk about books and music and politics. Anson knew a great deal about politics. He knew, for example, that Governor Roosevelt would be the next president, but only because Norman Thomas would steal votes from Mr. Foster. Hoover, said Anson, was destined for the ash can.
Miguel, who did not shed the last vestiges of his fathers Republicanism until ten years later, was rather shocked to hear talk like this. Everything Anson said seemed to open up new vistas and novelty was of itself shocking in Maria Rinehart’s family.
It surprised Miguel, for example, to see Tom’s parents, Oliver and Ella Eubanks, dancing with the young people at the Saturday night dances at Del Rio pavilion.
Sometimes their boisterous behavior struck Miguel as peculiar and faintly unseemly.
Their parties at Eubank Onus, their house near The Roost, were loud and hectically gay. Occasionally Miguel would stumble into one while seeking Tommy, or one would develop on the spot as couples dropped in “for a little fun”
Both Oliver and Ella were drunk often. They knew how to mix alcohol and juniper extract to make gin and they made a great deal of it. And when they were drunk they quarreled a lot and laughed about things that didn’t seem funny.
Ella embarrassed Miguel. Once she had walked into the bathroom without knocking and found him standing at the toilet. Laughing at his confusion, she told him, “You have nothing to be ashamed of, honey. You’ll be quite a man some day.” He was humiliated and he didn’t appear at the Eubanks’ place for almost a week.
Sometimes Ella would lift her skirts and dance to the phonograph music, her thighs jiggling enormously and her breath coming in short, excited gasps. She spent time at parties whispering and giggling with Billy Alberg’s father. Oliver didn’t seem to mind. Oliver had been an aviator in the Great War and he had been to England and France, but now he was a real estate salesman and he was always trying to sell something to Martin Alberg. So he didn’t really mind if Mr. Alberg and Ella were together. “Sell him a lot, sweetie,” he would say with a big, toothy smile. “A little fun is okay, but sell him a lot.” And then he would burst into laughter at his own pun.
Billy’s father was a dapper little man with rimless glasses and a small, round paunch. He was one of those who blistered badly in the sun so he wore a shirt whenever he was on the beach. He even went into the water with it on and it clung to him, like a pink, slick membrane as he breast-stroked industriously through the torpid current.
According to Tommy, Mr. Alberg was rich. His house was the biggest on the road, and it was built on river frontage, which cost more. It had a private boat landing, although the Albergs didn’t have a boat. Mrs. Alberg, a pale and colorless woman, didn’t think boats were safe.
The Albergs had a green Studebaker with a California top and sliding windows and it was the best car on the mountain except for Raoul’s La Salle—which really didn’t count, because it wasn’t around very often.
Miguel grew curious about Mrs. Alberg. Someone had mentioned in his hearing that she was “a Scientist,” and the phrase, together with the two small leather-bound books she always carried, aroused his interest. He asked Maria about it.
“She is a Christian Scientist, dear,” Maria explained.
Miguel was still puzzled.
“Christian Science is a religion. A very kind and gentle religion that teaches one to think good thoughts and do kind things for one another.”
“Is that why Sandy gets to stay at The Roost?”
“Well, that’s part of it. Linda Johnson went to school with Lillian and since the Johnsons have very little money, Lillian has made it possible for Sandy to spend the summer here with Billy.”
“Then it’s a good religion?” Miguel asked.
“All religions are good,” Maria said.
“What does Billy mean when he says that God is love?”
“That’s part of their faith”
“Is God love?”
“In a way, dear.” She looked thoughtfully at him and added, “It is not always easy to believe. But Lillian has had a marvelous Demonstration.”
“You mean God actually demonstrated to Mrs. Alberg that He was love?”
Maria smiled tolerantly. “Perhaps. In a way that satisfied her, anyway. ‘Demonstration’ is a word used by people who are interested in Science.”
“I’m interested in science,” Miguel declared.
“That’s not the same kind of science, dear.”
“I always thought there was only one kind. Like chemistry and astronomy and physics.
“Well, this is a metaphysical science,” Maria said with a touch of impatience.
“Concha says you don’t believe in God if you aren’t Catholic.”
“Concha,” Maria said stiffly, “is a peon. In Mexico the priests and sisters sometimes teach things that are not so. But the peones have no way of learning that these things are untrue. You must not expect a woman of Concha’s class to understand everything, Miguel.”
“Are we Catholic, Mother?”
“We left the Church when I married your father,” Maria said. “Concha says if you were born Catholic you are always—”
“As I have just explained to you, Miguel,” Maria said with some asperity, “your nana is a good, but an ignorant woman. We have no family religion. Esther thinks of herself as a Catholic and I have no objection to it. Neither has your father. But I am no longer Catholic. Nor are you, unless you choose to be later, when you are older. It doesn’t really matter,” she went on more gently, “as long as you behave with kindness and honor. Follow the golden rule and you can be at home in any church.”
“Yes, Mother,” Miguel said. Presently he asked, “Do you understand Christian Science?”
“No,” Maria said thoughtfully. “But perhaps I shall study it. It has been a great comfort to Lillian, I know.”
“Is she so unhappy, Mother?”
“Why do you ask me that?”
“Billy says she is very unhappy.”
Maria let a sigh escape her. “The children always know,” she said.
“Know what, Mother?”
“Sin is sin, with or without religion.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Miguel said, perplexed.
Maria kissed him with a surprising show of emotion. “I hope you never will know.” He was disturbed to see tears standing in her dark eyes. “My poor fatherless boy,” she said.
Miguel felt a chill of uncertainty, as though the ground had trembled slightly beneath his feet. “I have a father, Maria,” he said. He called her by name very seldom, knowing she did not approve of it, but it seemed right just now.
“Yes, hijito, of course you have,” she said, wiping her eyes. He had no more stomach for discussing religion, but he wanted to get back on firmer ground. Maria had frightened him. “Why does Mrs. Alberg carry those books with her?” he asked. “She studies her daily lesson. Mrs. Eddy says one should never cease the study of Divine Mind.”
The idea of a grownup studying lessons was appalling to Miguel.
“Is Mrs. Eddy a teacher?”
“In a way, dear. She is the discoverer of Christian Science. She wrote one of the books.”
“I know. Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures.”
“Miguel, you haven’t been touching Lillian’s books?”
“No. I looked over her shoulder.”
“That was very rude.”
Miguel was crestfallen.
“In fact,” Maria continued sternly. “One should not even ask about a person’s religion. The worship of God is a very personal thing. Lillian is a Scientist because it gives her comfort. Heaven knows she needs it.”
“Yes, Mother,” Miguel said.
“You will remember, dear.”
Miguel nodded solemnly. Suddenly he was struck by a thought. “Is Mrs. Eubanks a Christian Scientist, Mother?”
“I should say not,” Maria said dryly. “It would be straining charity to call her a Christian of any sort.”
THREE
The speaker system broke into Miguel’s reverie. He found that he had been standing before a display window near the stairway leading up to the cocktail lounge, letting the crowd flow by and around him.
How easy it was to drift off into the past these days. He wondered if it were a sign of encroaching middle age. Was thirty-three old? Sometimes it felt old. Older than God.
The metallic voice of Orly informed him that his New York flight would begin loading at the south concourse in five minutes. It was time to say good-by to J. C. and absorb the last flurry of his Gallic sarcasm concerning Nora.
He could handle Jean Claude’s thrusts easily enough, possibly because as t
he weeks lengthened into months and he had stayed on and on in Europe, he had found himself more and more at ease. Home might be where the heart was, but Miguel suspected he, for one, would always remain a split personality.
It was getting back into the society of Americans that was going to be difficult. Nora lived now in a glare of publicity. He wondered how it would be, living with Americans and listening to the things they talked about, the salacious lies about public figures. Did that singer really have a Negro child? Was that State Department secretary really a homosexual? And Nora, would people really know her only the way Jean Claude did? By reputation?
He wasn’t being fair. He knew that. He was too ready to generalize. Not every living soul in the land of the free was a thrill-hungry gossip. It was just that those who were would be hard to adjust to—and adjust he must. In the Beginning was the Word. And the Word was Adjust. Not easy to do. But didn’t he owe that much to Nora? She had worked hard for her success, worked for it and fought for it with the tools the wise and all-seeing gods had given her. He couldn’t ask her to give it all up and join him in the safety of obscurity.
It occurred to him to wonder for a moment if he were jealous of her. He didn’t think he could be jealous of the Nora he knew. But this other, this fictitious person of celluloid and glamour, this Nora Ames...
How could a man be sure?
Yet there was, and always had been, a disarming quality of frankness about Nora. It made you understand that she might cause someone pain, but only because it was necessary to her survival. It simply had to be done. Nora had gone into two marriages that way. First with Tom, because she needed him to take her out of the Victory Girl class and situation she loathed. It had. And then with Altmann, the producer she married in Hollywood in the spring of 1947, while Miguel and Alaine were in Europe. Altmann had been necessary to ease her through a trying period in her career. When she divorced him, he simply vanished, used up, an obliterated man. But was Nora to blame? She didn’t love Altmann and told him so. From the beginning. She loved someone she couldn’t have. So it had been Nora of the hungry eyes and the high pompadour, Nora the Victory Girl, who walked out on two marriages, not Nora Ames the Love Goddess.
Night of Fire and Snow Page 3