by Barbara Wood
Like a crowd of unexpected party guests, recollections of events from decades ago had swirled in kaleidoscopic color and noise as she lay watching the sunrise shed new light across her bedroom. Inexplicably, she had found herself thinking of baskets woven by Indian women and recalling that the patterns in the weave contained a story. And then she heard herself, eight years old, asking Doña Luisa: “Mami, why is the village named for angels?” And Luisa had answered: “Because it was built upon sacred ground. What other reason could there be?” Stories of Coyote the Trickster, and Grandfather Tortoise who causes earthquakes sprang into her head. And then Angela was remembering a warm afternoon long ago when the new plaza was being dedicated by Governor Neve and everyone had been given a little cross made of tin. She had stood there with her parents… or had it been just her mother? The colonists from Mexico numbered forty-four that day, eighty-five years ago. Such a small population… She frowned. But no, there were others there, standing away from the celebration, silent onlookers with flat expressions. The Indians. They had numbered in the thousands that day. How many were left? A few hundred.
But there was a blank space among the memories, as if in all this remembering she had forgotten something.
After she had bathed and dressed with the help of her personal maid, and then had drunk her morning chocolate and silently recited her first prayers of the day, she had gone straight to the kitchen, thinking that the thing she had forgotten involved the food for today’s feast.
Because Angela’s large family was now a cultural mix of Spanish, Mexican, and American, all tastes had to be considered. Along with tortillas, tamales, and frijoles there would also be Spanish-style seafood and American-style beef. The huge kitchen with its three enormous ovens, massive tables, and deep fireplace was already, at this early hour, alive with the bustle of Indian women cooking, gossiping, filling the air with exotic aromas and words. Angela paused to inspect the puchero, a stew made of knucklebone, meat, vegetables, and fruit, layered and set to simmer for hours. The mistake was in stirring. Puchero must never be stirred. She lifted the lid and found that the layered stew was cooking nicely.
When all seemed to be going well in the kitchen, Angela wondered if the thing she had forgotten involved the musicians and the dancers. Or had she perhaps forgotten to invite someone? Were there enough chairs, plates, garden lights? For even though the party was being held in honor of her birthday, Angela insisted upon overseeing all the arrangements herself.
She stopped at a window to look out across the rolling hills in the haze. Spring was over, the flood season had passed, now it was summer, the season of smoke. Soon would come the desert winds that annually cleansed the air by driving it out to sea, after which came the fire season, when mountainsides raged with brushfires. There was comfort in the progression of the seasons and the predictable cycle of nature. Benevolent California, she thought wistfully. And once in a while the ground shook to remind Angelenos that they were mortal.
She continued through the house, searching for something to fill the empty space among her clamorous memories. She stopped at the bedroom that had been Marina’s, thirty-six years ago. On that very bed, the eighteen-year-old had wept and confessed her love for a Yankee. Angela had not heard from her daughter since, and not a day had gone by in the ensuing thirty-six years that Angela had not taken a moment to send her thoughts across the distant horizon and say a silent prayer to the Blessed Virgin to watch over Marina and keep her safe.
In the corridor, she came upon the set of four upholstered antique armchairs that had been brought to California long ago by Doña Luisa. The brocaded silk was worn and faded now, and the veneered arms and legs nicked from the assaults of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The chairs were to have been a wedding present to Marina. But Marina had run away and the chairs had stayed.
Angela trailed her fingers along the antique wood and thought: We five came together from Mexico. But why can I not remember that journey from Mexico? Why do my memories begin on my sixth birthday?
Voices interrupted her thoughts. Two grandsons talking as they came along the colonnade. “The cattle haven’t been doing well since the drought.” And the words triggered another memory. Cattle. Angela five years old and watching strangers arrive with large, frightening beasts. There was never meant to be cattle on this land. They were brought from across the seas. That is why they are dying.
“And Captain Hancock has found oil seeping onto his property. It makes the land useless for crops and grazing. We are not far from the tar pits. We might have oil, too. We must convince Grandmother she should sell the rancho while the land is still good.”
“Everyone is selling. The Picos and the Estradas have sold much of their land to Anglo newcomers, George Hearst, and Patrick Murphy. We would be wise to do the same.”
The men were accompanied by women in wide, sweeping crinolines. Angela herself did not wear the heavy cumbersome frame beneath her gown, but simply a petticoat. And she had stopped wearing a corset fifteen years ago. Women’s fashions, she thought, were becoming more and more torturous.
She greeted her grandsons and their wives with a smile and open arms. It was always so wonderful to have the family gathered together.
Navarro wasn’t here, of course. He had died twenty years ago, exactly sixteen years after the night Angela stabbed him. Outside of Carlotta, no one knew about the attack. On that fateful night, when Angela had seen that Navarro still lived, she had summoned a doctor, who had stitched and bound the wound, and helped put her husband to bed. The doctor was paid for his secrecy and when Navarro regained consciousness he had ordered his wife and eldest daughter not to tell anyone the truth of his condition— a man stabbed by his own wife was too humiliating.
And of course, Marina wasn’t here either.
Six months after her sister disappeared on the night of her wedding, Carlotta received a letter from Marina saying she was safe. Carlotta had written back to say that their father wasn’t dead, that he had survived the knife wound and that she could never come home, he would kill her for having run off with an Americano. Carlotta never heard from her sister after that, and when Navarro died twenty years ago, the family had no idea where to write to Marina to tell her it was safe to come home. They also had no idea if she was even still alive.
“We’ve come to collect you for the photographer, Grandmother,” the grandsons said, flanking her on either side, each to take a frail arm. “He is getting ready to take pictures. It’s the light, he said. The light is perfect right now.”
But there was something Angela had forgotten, if only she could remember what.
* * *
In September of 1846, at the outset of the Mexican War, there was rebellion against the American forces occupying the Pueblo of Los Angeles. An American fur trapper named John Brown rode five hundred miles in six days to inform Commodore Stockton in Monterey of the resistance. U.S. troops were immediately dispatched and, shortly thereafter, the New York Herald sent a cub reporter named Harvey Ryder to cover the story.
That was twenty years ago. Ryder never returned to New York.
“Ironic when you think about it,” he was saying now to the photographer who was setting up his equipment beneath the banyan trees near the Navarro hacienda. “The Spaniards came here three hundred years ago looking for gold and when they didn’t find it they wrote California off. Gave it away to the Mexicans and then the Mexicans lost it to the United States. And then gold was found.” He laughed. “I’ll bet their king wishes he’d never given up this gold mine! These folks should be glad the Americans came along. Without us that gold would never have been found. It would still be in the ground and Los Angeles would still be a cow town of five hundred people.” He pushed his bowler hat farther back on his head. “Well, it’s still a cow town, only now it’s a cow town of five thousand people.”
The reporter fixed his eye on an Indian woman walking by with a basket of fruit on her head, her long braids swaying. “The New York He
rald sent me to cover the war with Mexico,” he said to the photographer who was either listening or not. “I was supposed to report on the war, but it was all over by the time I got here. Never went back to New York, though. Gold was discovered right after the treaty was signed and, like everyone else, I went north to make my fortune. Found a little gold. Not much. Knocked around in Oregon for a while after that. Got married and divorced. Even have a couple of kids somewhere. Then I ran into an old friend in San Francisco, who told me the Los Angeles Clarion was looking for a reporter.”
Servants were getting the garden ready for the party. Bowls of fruit had been set out, from which Ryder helped himself. “This place is growing,” he said as he peeled an orange. “No doubt about it. Everybody’s buying up the ranchos and naming towns after themselves. Met a dentist by the name of Burbank the other day, bought himself a Spanish land grant in the eastern part of the San Fernando Valley. And Downey, same one who was governor a couple years back, subdividing his rancho and selling lots. Some folks are even keeping the Indian names, they think it’s romantic.” He shook his head. “Like Pacoima and Azusa sound romantic?”
He separated a wedge of orange and popped it into his mouth, juice squirting down his chin. “Angelenos are an unpredictable breed. You think all they do is gamble and take siestas. But you should have seen them when war between the states broke out. This town was instantly divided over the issues of slavery and secession. I am talking all-fired, gun-shooting passionately divided. Half the menfolk rode off to fight for the Confederacy or the Union, the other half stayed home and tore the town up with drunken fistfights and gun battles. But the war issue was quickly overshadowed by the drought of ‘62, which devastated the cattle industry here. Close on its heels was the smallpox epidemic that carried off half the Indians. Seemed ironic to me, as the Indians were the ones who worked the herds. When the cattle died, seemed like there was no more need for the Indians.” He smiled and looked at the photographer for approval. The man kept working.
“Got a serious bandit problem here though. Mostly ne’er-do-wells if you ask me. They claim they’re taking revenge on the Yankees for stealing their land. Hell, it isn’t stealing! A lot of those old Spanish land grants weren’t valid. No U.S. judge is going to allow a crude map with someone’s name on it to stand as legal title. The Mexicans didn’t even do proper surveys. Just rode out to some trees, drew them on the map, then rode south to a rock, drew that, then rode over to a creek, drew that, and they called it legal. That’s how they took it from the Indians. Now, the Americans did it properly, came in with surveyors and lawyers and obtained the land fair and square. But you can’t make the banditos understand that.”
He ate some more orange and inspected his fancy satin waistcoat for drops of juice. “Lotta lynchings hereabouts, too. Hotheaded group of Texans living out in El Monte, call themselves the El Monte Rangers, darned near started a civil war right there in town when a comrade name of Bean— brother of Judge Roy— was found dead in a field near the Mission. Those old boys rode through shooting at everything in sight and strung up just about anything that didn’t move.
“Can’t blame the people for turning vigilante, though. You have one sheriff and two deputies covering the whole county, and one marshal as the only lawman for the town. Folks are forced to take the law into their own hands. ‘Course, Los Angeles isn’t a town anymore. Got promoted. Five thousand people living in twenty-eight square miles are now officially a city— leastwise according to the California legislature. But I tell you my friend, I’ve seen Paris and I’ve seen London. And Los Angeles is no city.”
He removed his hat and fanned himself with it. “But I predict someday it will be. The railroads are coming, and with them, hoards of new immigrants from the East hungry for land. You don’t see many Indians anymore. Used to be there were thousands but over the past quarter of a century, despite a few uprisings, they died, the Missions were secularized, the Indians were let go, and they just vanished, mostly to death.”
As he licked his fingers and then wiped them on his handkerchief, he looked around the grounds for the family. He had sent a couple of men to round everyone up for the portrait. He was supposed to interview the matriarch, Señora Angela Navarro, and ask her how it felt to be ninety years old.
“Something mysterious happened in this family back in 1830,” he said as the photographer continued to set up his contraptions and plates and squint frequently at the sun. “The youngest daughter disappeared on her wedding night and Navarro, who owned this rancho, took to his bed with an inexplicable illness. Bedridden for weeks, I hear, and when he recovered he was a different man. Ceased to have any interest in the running of the rancho, so his wife was forced to take over.
“The story goes that at first few people had taken her seriously, since she was only a woman and Navarro was still on the scene. But one year the winter rains were coming and the señora warned everyone that there was going to be a terrible flood. She even had her workers digging drainage ditches on the downslope of the property. Other rancheros didn’t listen to her, so when sure enough the plain flooded and crops were destroyed, Rancho Paloma was spared because of the runoff canals. After that, they started listening to her. When she cut back on cattle production and introduced citrus groves and vineyards on the property, the other rancheros said she was crazy. But look what’s happening on the other ranches. The cattle are all dying and the owners are being forced to sell their land. Not Angela Navarro. Some say she’s the richest woman in California.
“I remember seeing her for the first time, when I came out here in forty-six. I was coming up the Old Road when I saw her. Magnificent, she was. Oh, I’d seen horsewomen back in New York, but Angela Navarro rode like a man. No sidesaddle for her. And wearing a man’s broad-brimmed black hat, like the Mexican cowboys wear. They say she had ridden her property every day inspecting the orange and lemon orchards, rows of grapevines, avocado groves, until she became a fixture of the landscape. Was forced to switch to a carriage when age finally caught up with her.”
He pulled out his pocket watch and clicked it open. Supposedly all the old Californio families were coming to the party, plus wealthy Anglo newcomers. Treating her like royalty. As if she were a queen. He laughed at his private joke. Angela Navarro, Queen of the Angels!
“Besides running the rancho,” he continued out loud although the photographer was clearly more interested in his chemicals, which was okay with Ryder since his soliloquy was by way of preparing the article he was going to write, “she also channeled her energies into good works and demonstrations of civic pride. Yes sir, Navarro’s widow has been a real force in this town. It’s because of her that wooden sidewalks got put in so that ladies could walk down the street without trailing their dresses in mud or dust. She helped fund the Catholic Sisters of Charity in 1856, which established an orphanage for children of all denominations. She also helped fund the first hospital, and twice a year on Christmas and Easter she distributes food and clothing to widows and orphans. When the city’s first board of education was established in 1853 by the city council, Angela Navarro was one of the original members, and when Public School Number One was built on the corner of Spring Street, it was Angela who insisted that the school be open to girls as well as boys. So just remember, mister, that you aren’t going to be taking a picture of just any ordinary person.”
“I’m ready,” the photographer finally said.
* * *
Angela’s nine children had produced over thirty grandchildren, from whom had sprung great-grandchildren too numerous to count. Not all had survived, just as not all her own children were still alive. Carlotta had died long ago in Mexico, but Angelique and her American husband, Seth Hopkins, who had struck gold in the north and came down to start citrus orchards, were here, along with their children. Yet despite this large family whom Angela had come to regard privately as her “little tribe,” she still acutely missed Marina.
Perhaps that was the missing piece in her min
d. Marina.
The photographer seated Angela in a big ornately carved chair that resembled a throne, and surrounded her with sons and daughters, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. She wore a somber black dress with white lace collar and cuffs, and a small white lace veil pinned to her white hair. There was much arranging and rearranging of the participants, as the photographer tried to get the whole family into one shot. But children squirmed and babies cried and men cursed the heat, so the taking of the pictures was quickly becoming an ordeal. Only Harvey Ryder seemed to be enjoying it as he sat back in the shade, eating an orange and keeping his eye on the plump rear end of one of the Indian women.
In the midst of all the commotion and complaining and changing seats and removing hats and putting hats on and telling the photographer what would be best, Angela suddenly stiffened. Ryder, his instincts honed over the years, immediately saw it and was on his feet. The strangest look had come into the old lady’s eyes.
No one noticed at first that Angela had risen to her feet. But when she started to walk away from the gathering, and the photographer said, “Excuse me, ma’am, we need you in this,” Angelique immediately went after her.
“Grandmamá? Are you all right?”
Angela came to a standstill at the edge of the garden where a low stone wall separated the house from the farm buildings. Her eyes, encased in folds of skin and surrounded by wrinkles, but still sharp and bright, were fixed on the lane that led from the Old Road.