Even so, as the day of Emory’s departure neared, I wished more and more that matters could have developed any other way than behooving him to fulfill the dangerous job ahead of him. I imagined a bandit behind every bush, the nose of a gun poking through the leaves at Emory as he rode around like Paul Revere. By the time his last night at home arrived and all the work of preparation was done, I was in a fit of nerves.
To make matters worse, rain was pouring down as though from storm clouds slit with razors. I walked testily to the window as Emory flipped through an old issue of the Mexican Mining Journal. I wanted to tell him I never thought marriage to anyone could be this hair-raising, that I might not wait around for his return, that he was greedy as hell for going through with this nonsense, and an absolute scoundrel for presuming to leave me without him for an untold number of months.
Then I looked around at his face, the picture of outward calm, and all I could say was, “Is there any way you can get word to us once in a while?”
He closed the Journal and looked at me. “I’ll try. I might at least get a message through when I stop at the mines. I can wire you, or tell Jones, the engineer, to write you of my safety. Maybe I can send word through Barrista. But remember, no one knows what I’m doing down there—no one here or there—and keep in mind that my safety may well depend upon that.”
“Don’t speak to me as if I were a gossiping old woman. Don’t you think I know that?”
He sighed. “Come here, Electra.”
“No, you come, if you want me.”
He rose and walked to the window. Lightning fractured the skies and thunder rattled the window glass. He put an arm around my shoulder and nuzzled my neck. “Emory—” I began.
“Sh. Listen … when we were kids and I walked away from Childers, what do you think kept me going for the first few long weeks? It was the thought of you, pasted against that fence, wishing me luck. I wouldn’t have made it to the next town if not for that.” I shut my eyes tight. “You were the first person to ever believe in me—I never forgot that—and if you can’t believe in me now I just won’t make it. I know I won’t.”
For a few moments I couldn’t speak for fear that the confession of all my deceit would come pouring out. Finally I turned around and looked up at him. “I’ll be here, Emory.”
He took my face in his hands. “I warned you in the beginning I wasn’t a man just any woman could put up with.”
I managed a smile. “That statement was hardly considerable enough to cover what you’re putting me through now.”
He threw back his head and laughed, then swept me off my feet and carried me toward the stairs. “Time’s wasting. It will be months before I feel anything under me softer than a saddle.”
Up the stairs I held him as tightly as if some force were threatening to take him from me forever.
Three weeks after Emory left I received a letter from Barrista. I held my breath as I opened it, but relaxed as I read the first line: “Your husband passed through here—”
The letter said little else, nor had I expected it would due to the risk that it might have fallen into the wrong hands before it reached me. I read it twice, then refolded it.
He had not mentioned his daughter Aegina. I assumed she was still attending school in San Antonio, and since nothing had ever been proven of my earlier fears that she was seeing Emory, the youthful heiress appeared less of a threat just then. I was glad I escaped the confrontation with Emory which I had dreaded yet felt compelled to bring about at one time. Even now I wasn’t sure she might not one day get in my way, but compared with the other threat hanging over me, she seemed a small aggravation.
Earlier in the week I had picked up a letter from Mark. He was allowing me two weeks to make a payment, and if none was received, I could then look for him at my door. I checked the date of the letter. Ten days to go. If not for this letter, so explicit in its demand, I might have been more wary of the sound of my doorbell that afternoon. I stopped just short of opening the door.
“Who’s there?”
Before answering, the man cleared his throat. “My name is Richard Boscomb. I wish to speak to Mrs. Cabot on a matter of business.”
The voice was well modulated, deep, and refined—certainly not that of Mark. I felt suddenly a bit foolish. The man obviously thought he was speaking to a servant. I hesitated, and finally said, “I am Mrs. Cabot. What do you wish to speak to me about?”
“I’ve some literature in my case which I think might interest you, if you would allow me to come in for a short while. I won’t take much of your time,” he said, still evenly.
I opened the door a few inches. Mr. Boscomb was a slight man, neatly dressed, with a small mustache. He wore a black bowler, which he did not remove, even after I showed him into the parlor. I was convinced by then he was a salesman of some sort.
He went directly to a table and opened his leather case. I pulled up a chair nearby. Now that he was inside, there was an air of pompousness about him. Certainly a salesman would have been more …
“To put it simply, madam, I am in the business of selling information, among other services,” he began without facing me. He drew some papers from his case and laid them on the table, then looked directly into my eyes at last. “A mutual friend in New Orleans has recommended that I pay you a call.”
I leaned forward then. The blood was rising to my temples. “You must be mistaken. I have no friends in New Orleans.”
He observed me for a moment, then a small smile played on his lips. “Shall we say, then, a mutual acquaintance?”
“What do you want?” I demanded.
He picked up a slim folder and handed it to me. “Have you ever seen one of these?”
I flipped through the pages of names, addresses, and telephone numbers, then handed it back. “No,” I answered truthfully.
“Quite. It happens to be peculiar in this area,” he said, then paused before continuing. “My firm is interested in establishing a network of such indexes over this and other surrounding states; ultimately, we hope, on a national basis. We are already under way in a number of strategic points along the eastern seaboard.
“We believe that as the war in Europe continues, as well as the Mexican border troubles, there will be an ever-growing market for contacts such as you see in this volume, to be distributed with the utmost discretion, of course.”
My lips felt like parchment paper. I ran my tongue over them. “What has this to do with me?”
“To put it briefly, your … associate in New Orleans … felt you could be of invaluable help in compiling information that we need, that is, contacts who might wish to participate, over a broad area which we are most eager to encompass.”
I started to interrupt, but he added, “I can of course guarantee you substantial remuneration.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Where did you come from?”
He smiled pleasantly. “My work takes me to all corners of the world.”
“Well you can tell our mutual acquaintance that I am not interested. Good day.”
“But I was given to understand you are in something of … shall we say … an embarrassing financial situation just now. Temporary, of course, I’m sure.”
I rose and handed him his folder, so angry I dared not speak again.
“You might be well advised to hold on to it, madam. There may come a day when you will alter your opinion. Think about it.”
“I don’t think you’ll be hearing from me. Now, get out.”
He drew up his shoulders and picked up his case. At the door he turned and said coldly, “I assure you, madam, I personally will not trouble you further. Here is my card. Feel free to telephone or write to me any time. I receive messages through my office.”
I stood on the porch and watched until he was out of sight around the block, then looked both ways. Seeing no one except a group of children riding their wheels across the street, I closed the door. Then I went upstairs and slipped the two items into the rear of a
drawer in my lingerie chest.
The following morning I took the Mexican-opal ensemble to a pawnshop on the outskirts of town. I was in such a state of despair that I rode all the way with my eyes fixed on the window glass, seeing nothing but a blur of shapes and colors pass by, ignoring the friendly attempts at conversation by the driver.
Since receiving the opals from Emory in December, I had tried several times to bring myself to sell them. I had even investigated a number of shops far from where we lived as possible places where I might exchange the jewelry for cash, without the risk of someone recognizing me. Yet each time I found I simply could not do it, and wound up writing a letter to Mark instead, trying to put him off, while racking my brain for another solution.
The visit from Richard Boscomb had sharpened my fear of Mark to a keener edge than before because now it was evident he had friends who could all too easily tighten the noose around my neck even while he remained miles away. How many others like Mr. Boscomb had been alerted to my situation? Had he confided in anyone here before he left for New Orleans?
“Lady, that’s four bits,” said the taxi driver.
“What? Oh, of course, thank you.”
While in the shop I realized that if the pawnbroker—a small, scrubby little man with garlic strong on his breath—purchased and in turn sold the ensemble, there might come a day when Emory would see another woman wearing it, or at least a piece or two from it.
“Just the stones, take them out,” I told him, my throat constricted.
He peered at me above his eyeglasses, and for a moment I feared he would change his mind and send me away without taking any of it, but then he said, “There’s a lot of gold here. I’ll have to reduce my offer quite a bit—”
“It’s all right. Go ahead,” I told him quickly.
From there I went straight to the post office to forward the money, then walked back home. I clutched the box that held the empty gold filigree settings and tried to console myself that at least I had these. Maybe one day I could somehow get money to have them reset with some opals that Emory would mistake for the originals. Yet I knew that hope was futile. For now, I would have to say nothing for as long as possible, and when the day came that Emory demanded to know why I had not worn the ensemble, I would think of something to tell him.
Once in the house again I went straight to our room, lay across the bed, and wept. After a while I heard a rapping on the door.
“Is anything wrong?” Nathan asked.
“No, nothing.”
“Did you hear something from Cabot?”
“Yes,” I answered. Why wouldn’t he go away?
“Is he all right?”
“Yes.”
He paused for what seemed to me quite a long time before I finally heard his footsteps on the stairs.
14
Emory arrived home at the end of the first week in April—less than three months since he left. Having expected the tour to keep him away half the year, I was delighted to have him back so soon, amazed at his reports that the trip had gone so smoothly, the response a solid vote of favor and support—even including Carlos Barrista. Indoctrination of the people by word of mouth would soon begin.
He was exultant as he reported, “To get around fast in Mexico, all you need is a good horse, a little luck, and a tough ass,” but by the middle of the month an unpleasant surprise caused a quick change in his mood.
General Huerta, who had double-crossed Madero and overthrown the Mexican Government established by him, only to be forced into exile himself the previous year, suddenly appeared in New York. Emory flew into a tirade, which I could not understand at the time.
“I agree he has some nerve, but surely he can’t cause much of a fuss,” I told him. “One thing all of Mexico agrees on is their hatred of him.”
My remarks fell on deaf ears. Emory paced back and forth in the sitting room, puffing abrupt and volatile clouds of smoke from the end of his cigar. Presently he put on his hat and said he was going out.
It wasn’t long before I was able to see at least part of the reason for his anger. Huerta soon began issuing frequent press releases, claiming that he had been wrongly accused of killing Madero, but that he knew who was responsible, and was keeping it secret. What a despicable character he was.
Then on the first of May the fuse was lit. Huerta, we learned, was fomenting a new Mexican rebellion while installed in safe quarters in New York, meeting with “friends” in the style of a corporate official in a board room. He was suspected of being aided by one of the belligerent nations in Europe.
If Emory took the news badly, it was no worse than the way President Wilson viewed it. He immediately issued a statement to the effect that anyone caught planning a rebellion in the United States would be prosecuted severely. Only when this statement was published did I begin to see the full nature of Emory’s wrath.
Government officials were going to be redoubling their efforts to nip revolutionaries in the bud, and one obvious place they were going to comb pretty closely was San Antonio. From then on we would be living under a new burden of danger, heavier than that before. It was a fairly certain guess we wouldn’t be seeing any more of Barrista for a long time because he didn’t dare step across the border. Possibly I would never see him again, if plans for the revolution failed.
Yet that was only a part of the mounting complications around us. The sinking of the steamer Lusitania had all of us, for the first time, more directly involved in the European war than anyone over here cared to be.
Actually there was less said about it around our neighborhood than I would have expected, considering the fact that what began as a predominantly German settlement years ago was by this time so interspersed with people of other origins—English, Italian, French, and Irish among them as well as people like us, with lineage they’d rather not discuss. Maybe it seemed safer to concentrate on the fact we were all Americans, first, and that was why the subject was largely ignored during across-the-fence chitchat sessions and coffees.
I suspect inside the privacy of homes a different story was being told. It certainly was in ours, and I know I was at least partially responsible for the conflict which arose between Emory and me one night because, in the back of my mind, I was always looking out for Woody. The situation was not helped by the fact that Emory had been drinking for a while when we began to talk. I’d learned only that day that a small newspaper in the German language called The German Frie Presse was printed by a man over on King William. Astonished I had never heard of it before, I asked Emory if he knew about it.
“Sure, so what?”
“I just thought it was interesting. I’ll bet that poor fellow feels uncomfortable right now … since the Lusitania was sunk.”
He shrugged.
Irritated by his drinking as well as his attitude, I stupidly forged on: “I hope we don’t get pulled into that war because of it. Do you think we might?”
“How should I know?” he replied belligerently.
“After all the dust was kicked up down in Mexico because old Huerta wouldn’t salute the U.S. flag, I can’t see Wilson letting Germany get by with killing a bunch of innocent Americans.”
“They were warned beforehand to stay out of those waters.”
“Well they have a nerve, declaring all waters around the British Isles, including the English Channel, a war zone.”
“That’ll teach the British to cut off their raw materials and food supply.”
“The British search and seize contraband, all right, but they don’t kill.”
“If they’re starving the Germans to death, isn’t that killing?”
“The Lusitania was a neutral ship, though. The Germans should have checked before they opened fire.”
“The ship carried a cargo of explosives. You expect them to just merrily let them pass through with it?”
“It also carried innocent civilians, and flew a neutral United States flag.”
“The German sub couldn’t see t
he flag because the stupid British patrol boats got in the way. And there were no markings on the freeboard, either, to show it was neutral. Besides, Britain switches flags whenever it suits her purpose on those ships.”
“But they don’t kill innocent people. German subs have torpedoed twenty-nine ships since they declared the war zone.”
“Well then why didn’t the Americans heed the warning sent and stay off the ship in the first place?”
“I guess they couldn’t believe anything that preposterous would happen.”
“Probably the Germans couldn’t either.”
“Well if they were aimed for the Lusitania, do you think if they had seen the flag and an insignia on the freeboard, they would have held their fire?”
“That is a question they don’t have to answer. The point is, they didn’t see it,” he answered, and walked out.
Afterward I was dismayed with myself for letting an argument take shape over the incident, especially when I recognized Emory’s points were as valid as mine. I was thankful when the whole affair was laid to rest. I pitied President Wilson, trying to get out of the mess gracefully, appealing to Germany for an explanation he could accept and thus buy continued neutrality. Between the Great War and problems cropping up now and again in Mexico, he must have felt as if he were riding the rapids in a canoe, paddling from first one side then the other to stay in the middle and avoid the rocks.
By late June we had begun to see the early results of our own efforts south of the border. Copies of the Plan de Pacifica Reforma had now been circulating for two months, and according to Barrista the term “Apostol de Reforma” was being heard from many voices. Since the whole country was in a state of chaos, I thought this reaction a very positive sign.
On the other hand a chilling episode occurred, which was to be repeated more than once in different areas, and reported in the papers. A group of six Mexicans were found near the city of San Luis Potosi—Madero’s stronghold, and the namesake of his manifesto of 1910—with the Plan de Pacifica Reforma in their possession. They were immediately shot by a police firing squad in a public square.
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