She stopped for a long moment, forcing Kit to look into her eyes, and then she said in a rising voice, "She wouldn't have just left us . . . she would not have left us. My mother would not have gone away forever, my mother would not have left me behind . . ."
Then she was crying, shouting and crying, fierce and furious in turn, her face wet with tears that ran in rivulets down the smooth face. She made no attempt to brush them aside, but only stood as if leaning into a storm wind, crying and shouting the same words over and over, in a litany that had at long last broken free: My mother would not have left me . . . the words all run together. Kit knew then how deep was the pain, so long stored, and she knew that it had found its way to the surface, had broken through and was spilling out, spewing out in an awful torrent.
"Oh child, poor child," Kit was saying in small, whispering gasps, but May did not hear, would not hear, could not hear.
FOUR
AND SO THE waiting began.
One day, then two.
We sat by our telephones, Karin and I, attached as if by umbilical cord, carrying it with us as we moved about, afraid not to answer on the first ring.
Afraid.
I have lived a long time, and of this I am convinced: Waiting, full of dread, is a part of life not worth living. The numb terror of not knowing, the terrible effort to keep the mind from wandering too close to the edge, to the unthinkable.
Sam called the hospitals. Then he drove Kit through the city streets, checking hotels and motels. Kit could not sit and wait, she had to be in motion, even if that motion were futile. They called at intervals to see if we had heard . . . afraid we would have no news, knowing their voices could only disappoint us.
The hours dragged on interminably. Reading was impossible, television did not distract. You want it to be over, more than anything simply to be over, and when it isn't, the pressure builds until there is a terrible need to scream, to get some kind of relief.
"Damn her!" Sam would swear, smacking a rolled magazine against the table. "One lousy call is all it would take." He said out loud what he would do when he got his hands on her: He would shake her until her bones rattled, he would shake some goddamned sense into her.
At the end of the first day, Sam returned to Berkeley, not wanting Karin to face the night alone.
He found her curled in a corner of the sofa in a faded flannel nightgown, heavy wool hiking socks on her feet, the phone by her fingertips. Sam thought she looked as if she were there for the duration, as if her body were molded in that spot and she would never move until she found out.
Where May was, what had happened.
Sam brought two mugs of tea, handed Karin one, and sat down on the coffee table facing her.
They sipped in silence for a while, until he asked, "Do you think something could have happened to her?"
"Like what?" she wanted to know, flashing anger.
He looked away.
"Like suicide? Is that what you're thinking?"
He shrugged and shook his head, trying to back off.
"No," she said. "She wouldn't."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because she told me once . . ." She stopped, then started over, as if from the beginning, as if she were telling a story to a child: "When May was eleven or twelve she was living with her father in southern California, in an old house on the ranch the Reade family owned. He was going through a really hellish time—you know about how he was labeled a Communist, and had to appear before all of the investigating committees?"
Sam nodded, and she went on: "Anyway, one day she couldn't find him. She looked all over. They were alone, and she must have started to feel pretty panicky. Finally she thought to look in an old shed out back of the house, and she found him there, cleaning a gun. She'd never seen her father with a gun before, she didn't even know he had one, and it scared her. She got hysterical, and I guess it took him a long time to quiet her down and convince her that he really was just cleaning an old gun he had found, left over from the ranching days. He tried to explain how as a boy on the ranch he had grown up with guns, that cleaning it was just a chore, something mindless to do. I guess her reaction must have been so violent that he talked to her that day in a way he never had before. And one of the things he told her was that suicide went against everything he believed in. That to kill himself would be to deny his whole life, and anything of value he had ever done. He said that things were tough, but that he'd been through tougher times, and McCarthy and his kind couldn't beat him. He told her that he had plenty to live for—and that she was number one on the list, and he planned to be around a long time. It made a tremendous impression on her."
Sam exhaled: "And then the bastard died and left her."
Karin's eyes filled with tears. She closed them, and took a slow sip of her tea, as if in remembrance.
Sam waited for a while before he asked, quietly, "What do you think has happened to her?"
Karin sat up, arched her back, and her breasts swelled loose under the soft flannel gown.
"I think she just got in the car and drove. That's what she usually does, drives. Except I know how upset she is—with me, with all of us—so she is feeling alone, and I know how fast she drives. That's what scares me—that she's out there on the road, all alone." Sam moved to sit next to her on the sofa, and put his arm around her for comfort. She put her head on his shoulder and allowed herself to give in for a moment and to weep, quietly.
At two o'clock the next afternoon I was listening to the radio, an hourly news analysis about the Tet offensive launched by the Viet Cong during the Lunar New Year celebration. General Westmoreland was calling it a victory, the commentator said, but in fact what the Viet Cong had proved was that they could strike at the very heart of South Vietnam, that even the United States Embassy had come under attack with the enemy inside the compound, that there was no light at all at the end of the tunnel.
I was listening to a report about two young California civilians—entomologists with a West Coast engineering firm who had been killed when they tried to flee their house next to the Saigon golf course—when May called.
"Aunt Faith," she said, as if to check to see if it was me, "I'm staying at this bizarre motel in San Luis Obispo," she went on, stumbling over words that came spilling out, "truly strange, you ought to see it. I ought to bring you here, you would never believe this place. The showers in the room are made to look like waterfalls, with real rocks. And everything is pink. Bright pink. Someone told me that the men's urinals operate by electric eyes, so that when you step up to one the water goes on automatically."
I let her ramble on like that, only murmuring an "umm" once in a while so she would know I was listening. I didn't care what she said, so long as she was talking. I allowed myself to enjoy the sweet relief of knowing she was all right, that she had not wandered off the edge of the earth. Any anger I had felt evaporated, the awful pain of waiting was already a memory.
"I've been touring the missions," she said, as if it made perfect sense. "I've always wanted to do that—start in San Diego and head north. I didn't get quite to San Diego, but I got to Santa Barbara. That's a lovely mission. I suppose I lost track of time, but now I'm heading north again."
Knowing I had to be careful, I said, "Do you know how long it will take to drive back?"
She hesitated, and I held back from saying more, determined not to scare her off.
Finally she answered: "I'm not sure. And I want to stop at the mission in Carmel. I don't know . . ."
"Well I do know that mission," I picked up, sensing that it was my turn to chatter on, to hold her fast and pull her in. "I went to a wedding there oh, years ago. I'd love to go back, actually. Father Serra—the priest who founded the missions, you know—is buried there, under the altar. There is something so comforting about the missions, I think because they don't change . . . so you can go back forty, fifty years later and see it and pretend you are young again. There's another mission I like even better, this si
de of Carmel. San Juan Bautista. They have a wonderful rodeo there in the fall. I'd love to go . . ."
"Yes," May said, her voice calm now. "Let's. I'll drive on home tonight, and we'll plan to make a day of it very soon."
"Good," I answered, and then very quickly said what I had to say. "Can you come here, to see me, first thing in the morning?"
She hesitated. "I have a class," she began. "I've missed one and if I don't show up tomorrow . . ."
I smiled, glad she was worried about missing classes. "Then will you come as soon as you're finished with your class? It is important. May. I wouldn't ask if it weren't."
Again she hesitated. "I don't know if I want to talk about it—about what happened . . ."
"No talk," I told her. "And no questions. But it is time that I fulfilled a promise I made to Sara. She asked that you see some family papers, and she expected you to see them before your twenty-fifth birthday, which is only five days away. I've been remiss, and now I have to ask you please to help me keep my promise."
"All right," she finally said, full of hesitation, and I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes, thankful that I had been able to convince her, that I had not failed again.
The letters were arranged in chronological order on the dining room table. I had fussed over them all morning long, fingering the yellowed sheets and sharp folds, pages filled with fading script, carefully protected now in cellophane covers. Touching them had sent me careening back to that other war, of a city filled with boys in khaki and boys in blue. The letters were witness to other times, other troubles.
When May arrived I held on to her hand a bit longer than I should have, and was thoroughly disgusted with myself for feeling so foolishly emotional. "It's just old age," I told her, trying to brush off the tears that had insisted on creeping down my cheeks, "and it's dumb."
May rubbed my back a little, letting her fingers linger on my shoulders, and then she settled down to the task at hand while I withdrew to the sunporch to wait.
Reade Letter File: Box 2, folder 4: Porter Reade, 1942-43
31 July 1942, Liao Ch'ing-Ling to Porter Reade
Nob Hill, San Francisco, USA
My Dear Porter,
I am arrived safe from Honolulu yesterday. Your mother and Miss Sara and Kit all came to boat to met me. I feel how fortunate to be with such kind ladies and in so fine house. We also have Kit's niece, Miss Lucy Reade. She teach biology in Balboa High. It is like Chinese family, everyone live together. Except here is only women.
Kit is very busy work Red Cross and gone much time each day. She says when I have some rest she like me to go too. Now I sit at window and look on that small park across street, like park in Shanghai. But America not how I thought. Kit says Chinatown only a few blocks from here, but I cannot imagine it. Her friend has a clinic for poor people in Chinatown. Kit says they need more doctors now because so many gone to the war.
Our baby grows so fast inside me. Your mother will have a walk with me this afternoon at the park, then we go back for tea with Aunt Sara. They feel so much excited about this baby.
I wish I not miss you so much. Always I remember your face. Your mother tells stories when you were a small boy. She says when you come back, you have no more secrets. I tell her already there no secrets for us, we two like one.
I pray for a boy child, and make you proud. Your mother not agree, says she like girls. I have good health, do not worry. But I cannot be happy and wait for you come back. I so much love you.
Your dear wife,
Ch'ing-Ling
2 October, 1942, Porter Reade to Liao Ch'ing-Ling
Chungking, China
Dear Ch'ing-Ling:
Five of your letters arrived all at once, yesterday. It is always feast or famine around here. (Ask my mother to explain "feast or famine" to you.)
I'll start by answering your questions. 1) I have not been ill, only lethargic. By the time I get my stories filed and off by whatever method possible I seem not to have the energy to sit down and write long letters. I am sorry. I will try to do better. I know how difficult it must be for you there. 2) No, I am not disappointed that you have decided not to work in the clinic in Chinatown. You are, after all, pregnant and I would not want you to do anything to endanger either your own health or that of our child. I am not sure what you mean when you say you find the American Chinese to be "thick." If you mean "rough" or "crude" or "uncivilized," I suppose all I can say is that they are probably like all of the immigrants who came to the American West—risk takers, looking for a better life. California was settled by a bunch of louts, when you think of it. Ask Aunt Sara to tell you about some of her relatives, the ones who helped build the railroad. 3) I am afraid there is little chance of my coming home for the baby's birth. As you know, I'm trying to get permission to get into Shensi province in the northwest of China, to interview the Chinese Communists. So far the Kuomintang won't hear of it, but I keep pressing for permission. What you do around here is wait and wait and wait some more, and then one day when you are expecting nothing the word comes in and you have to be ready to go. Even if I weren't waiting for that, I wouldn't be able to get back. That's not to say I won't celebrate. I have a bottle of twelve-year-old scotch I'm saving, and I expect to lift a few toasts to our child when he or she arrives. We had three births this past month in our company, reason for celebrating. I know you want a boy, but I'll be just as pleased with a girl. Women have made my life happy.
It is important, dear one, to keep your spirits high. The war will be over one day, before too long I hope, and we will be together again, a family. We have much to be thankful for, I know you know that. And you know that I love you and miss you and more than anything that I want you to be happy. I know you are in a strange land, that you are worried about your family in Shanghai. I have tried through every channel open to me to get some word about your family. As soon as I hear anything, I will write. I know that you must feel homesick, but I am glad you are far away from all of the turmoil and sadness of this war. We can only hope that when it is over, there will be a bright, new future for China. And that someday, you and I and our child will return together.
I promise to try to be better about writing and to write longer letters. I wish there were more to write about, other than the progress of the war, which in this theater seems all but nonexistent. And you know by now how peculiar the mails are, so don't be hard on me if they don't all arrive on time.
Take good care of yourself,
Your loving husband,
Porter
6 December 1942, Lena Kerr to Porter Reade
San Francisco
Dear Son,
I have lasting faith that you will not, as you suggested in your last letter, expire of ennui. Poor Vinegar Joe! He just can't seem to stir Chiang to action, can he? From newspaper accounts, including your own, I can gather only that nothing much seems to be happening on the China-Burma front. And yet the Chinese Communists are able to harass the Japanese in the north. It seems to me that Chiang Kai-shek is more interested in fighting the Chinese Communists than he is in fighting the Japanese. I suppose if you try to comment on that, it will be blacked out and I do hate to get letters with holes in them, so perhaps you had better tell me what you can in the newspaper articles you write. I feel such a thrill every time I see your byline. You have always made me feel so proud. Porter. I can't remember a time when you ever disappointed me. Though there were a few times when I felt a little bit exasperated. Looking back, those were usually times when you were too absorbed with one thing to pay any attention to another.
I feel a bit that way with you right now. I wish you could manage to write more often to Ch'ing-Ling. She absolutely lights up when she gets a letter from you. And of course, the mails are not consistent so those weeks which bring no letter at all find her quite sad. The pregnancy makes her more emotional, I think. Most of the time Kit can convince Ch'ing-Ling to go for a short outing. Kit and she have become quite good friends, I believe, an
d we all work to keep up her spirits. But your letters are terribly important, dear. Instead of taking the time to write to all of us, why don't you just include paragraphs for the rest of us in your letters to your wife. That way she could share parts of her letters with us. (Though of course there will be tender parts I would not expect her to share.)
Reading over what I have just written, I realize how demanding I must seem, and how small our concerns are when compared to all that you are facing. I am sorry, son. We are simply a band of women here, more engrossed than perhaps we should be with the impending birth of your and Ch'ing-Ling's child.
I think of you throughout the day, wonder what you are doing at that precise moment, and say a small prayer for all of you. I love you, son.
Mother
24 December 1942, Porter Reade to Katherine Reade McCord Ramgahr, India
Dear Kit,
Your letter arrived today, delivered by your friend in the foreign service (you do have good connections). I could almost feel your hot little hand on it. He tells me I have to have an answer ready by 0600 Christmas morning when he is scheduled to fly out, hence this Christmas Eve effort.
I've been trying to think how to answer. In the end, I guess, I will have to be honest. I've never known how not to be honest with you, especially when confronted.
What's going on, you ask. Something is wrong, you say, and you need to know what it is so that you can do whatever you can do. (Why do you always think you can do something, Kit?)
I don't think there is anything you can do, except maybe give me some advice which I may or may not take. Christ.
Here it is. I'm not sure it will translate. I'll have to trust you to read between the lines. (That I do trust you should be obvious, otherwise I would never be writing this.)
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