Prospects of a Woman

by Wendy Voorsanger

  She found herself wanting to like the girl, to please John. Thinking Lily B. might like flattery, she admired her dress.

  “What extraordinary lace detail on your sleeves,” said Elisabeth.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t find any more flattery. As she looked down at Lily B’s intricate orange lace bodice clashing with that awful red hair, a dreadful jealousy tore her scabbed wounds open. Lily B.’s waist bulged large, with life growing inside.

  46

  I could never deny

  By afternoon time, John knocked on the door of her room at the end of the long hallway on the second floor of the hacienda.

  “Can I get you anything, darling?” John asked through the locked door.

  “No.”

  “Are you unwell?”

  “Tired from traveling. Need a bit of rest, is all.”

  “I have something for you,” he said. “I’ll leave it here.”

  After he’d gone, she opened the door to a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and a wooden box. She pulled the tray inside and closed the door. Inside the box was a leather-bound journal tooled with her first name in large block letters on the front. On the inside page John had inscribed: To a lovely beginning. Yours, John. The rest of the book was filled with blank pages for her words. Her writing. Her story.

  John’s kindness diluted her bitter mood, a little. He was an honorable man, to be sure, and considerate. A man who knew how to regard a woman, proper. He valued her work, her independence. Her future. Unlike Nemacio. And it’s not like she wanted a baby, anyhow. She was relieved at never having to worry about giving up work for mothering. Being with that Dane confirmed it. She’d never get with a baby again after that tumbling, just like Señora Sanchez said. She pushed down the guilt, resolving to forget all about what she’d done, buried under her pile of prospects. Purposeful work and financial success.

  When the sun set and the crickets sang, lulled by the warm dusking of the California night, and the music wafted up from the fiesta in the courtyard below, she finally dug up the courage. Washing her face in the basin, she examined herself in the mirror by candlelight. Her face struck her as too brown from the past summer spent traveling under the California sun, but her youthful glow had not yet grown dim. She brushed her brown hair out smooth, then pinned up one side with the abalone hair comb Nemacio had given her in Manzanita City, letting the rest fall down reckless just the way Lily B. wore her hair. She slipped on her green-and-white striped silk dress and walked downstairs, leaving her gloves on the dressing table, knowing she could face him.

  The October air hung gentle, smelling heady of wild roses and jasmine. The courtyard lit soft from a dozen torches, and the harvest moon rose full and bright. Nearly a hundred people attended the harvest fiesta. The whole Gabilan family. Friends, neighbors, and farmhands. Even el padre from the Mission San Juan Bautista. Guitarists strummed out a Spanish waltz, familiar, but without the soul of Álvaro’s playing years ago down on the river. John Langley crossed the courtyard toward her.

  “Simply breathtaking,” he said, his hands in prayer under his chin.

  “I’m touched by the notebook. Such a thoughtful gift. Thank you,” she said.

  “I’ll care for you in a manner you deserve,” he said, frank.

  Comfortable in this crowd of family and friends, John seemed far more attractive to her than his actual appearance in garish striped pants, his broad belly stuffed into a blue velvet vest a size too small. He escorted her around the courtyard like a precious gem, bragging on about her writing for California Illustrated and her travels to the hard rock mines. Standing tall and stiff beside him, she remained patient, squishing down her fear and ache, looking past everyone she met. Looking for Nemacio.

  “The Californios sure know how to live,” he said, pulling her onto the dance floor. “Don’t you agree?”

  John danced her around with heavy feet, and fat hands dripping sweat in hers. But as he placed a hand on the small of her back, he felt surprisingly safe, like family, and he didn’t at all smell like cheese. She tried to find the romance in dancing, but the moment didn’t feel at all like when she first danced with Nemacio on the ridge outside the Fandango, no matter how much she willed the passion to come on.

  “I’ve got just the person for you to interview for your article,” he said, guiding her to a group of men standing near a low wall.

  When they walked up, all the men turned. John introduced Don Pío Pico, the wealthiest cattleman in California. As John explained how Don Pico had been the last the governor of Alta California, she saw Nemacio sitting on the edge of the wall in the center of the group. He looked magnificent, with a royal-blue suit jacket covered in extraordinary swirling white embroidery and a crisp shirt knotted with a scarf just below his Adam’s apple. She couldn’t look away from him when John introduced the four younger Gabilan brothers, all seemingly cut from the same Californio cloth, slick with charm and deceit. She asked Governor Don Pico how Californio families could keep their ranches with all the force of the American government after their land. But Nemacio interrupted.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Parker,” he said, lifting his hat.

  “It’s Miss. I’m unmarried,” she said, snapping sarcastic.

  “Perdón, señorita,” he said, smoothing down his hair.

  Nemacio turned away from her then and started speaking in Spanish with his younger brothers, who listened to him in deference. She tried not to be taken in by his smooth lush words like before, and instead focused on any bits of Spanish she might understand. But her ears rang with his honey-toned voice, and her legs wobbled as her mind jumped to the memory of them swimming together in the Uva. His body moving over her, inside. She ignored her misbehaving memories and blurted out a question directly to Nemacio.

  “How’d you settle your ranch deed dispute with the Americans?”

  All four Gabilan brothers turned toward her. The brother standing next to Nemacio spoke first.

  “That’s private family business,” he said, glaring.

  “I’m wondering, of course, for the feature I’m writing for California Illustrated,” she said.

  Nemacio held up a hand to his brothers.

  “It turned complicated in the end, Miss Parker,” he said.

  “Oh, but I’d love to hear all the details,” she said.

  “Perhaps another time,” he said, turning away from her to call for tequila.

  When a woman came into the courtyard with a tray of glasses, Elisabeth thought she looked a bit like the Indian women she’d seen digging in the American back at Chana’s claim. She was short with a round face and timid eyes cast down when she served the men. Elisabeth wondered if Nemacio employed the woman, or enslaved her, like the Spanish padre who enslaved the Indians with promises of salvation in the afterlife as long as they broke their backs building the California missions in this life first.

  Nemacio and his brothers drank the tequila, ignoring her. Angry, she gripped her hands by her side, trying to calm her heavy breathing like she didn’t care. John seemed to sense her discomfort and escorted her away to long tables with white tablecloths and ornate wrought iron candelabras. The music stopped, and Nemacio’s voice boomed through the courtyard.

  “Familia y amigos! Comamos todos.”

  Nemacio took his place at the head of the table with Lily B. on his right. Elisabeth sat between John and Doña Maria, wondering how she’d get through a whole meal sitting so near to Nemacio. Everyone spoke Spanish. Elisabeth couldn’t understand much, and seemed like the only person feeling uncomfortable. Lily B. and John seemed to understand everyone’s conversation. Lily B. even spoke Spanish with Nemacio!

  Elisabeth tried to enjoy the lavish feast, with bowls of figs and cheese and olives and spicy salsa, and plates of sliced steak and beans and tortillas and roasted artichoke hearts drizzled in olive oil. But she mostly picked at the food on her plate, imagining Nemacio’s voice belonging to someone else. She turned to John. Tilted her head. Smiled with all
her teeth. Laughed and flirted like she hadn’t a care. She drank the red wine. First a sip. Then a little more. It wasn’t whiskey, she told herself, so she wasn’t breaking her promise. She losened up, trying to be the lighthearted woman she wanted to be.

  For dessert she ate strawberries with cream and drank a third glass of wine, trying not to look over at Nemacio with Lily B. beside him, radiant and glowing like the moon itself. She tried to hold herself in. She tried not to explode like a madwoman. When Lily B. touched Nemacio’s arm, Elisabeth felt sick, like she’d eaten too much sweet cream. She ignored her insides and struck up a polite conversation with Lily B. like a sophisticated lady might.

  “Tell me, Lily B. How did you meet your husband?” she asked.

  “Daddy introduced us. Brought him up to our city house for tea. Love at first sight,” she giggled.

  “And for you, Don Gabilan, was it love at first sight?”

  She prodded polite and nasty, intending to poke and pick like a crow tearing off bits of his flesh until he bled out why he’d left her for this silly girl.

  “Love is a powerful thing, Miss Parker.” Nemacio said slow. “Leading our hearts without permission. Don’t you agree?”

  She wanted to scream, “Yes, damn you. Yes! Love is a beast that leads women into a raging fire of torment.”

  But before she could respond sensibly, Lily B. held up her wineglass in toast.

  “To Daddy’s writer friend, Miss Elisabeth Parker. You are always welcome here,” said Lily B.

  Elisabeth downed the wine as Lily B. clapped her hands together in a buoyant enthusiasm that might’ve spread infectious over most people. But Elisabeth hated her.

  “We live a simple outdoor life here, with a generous spirit,” said Lily B., leaning back in a chair, her belly swelling full. “The rancho is absolute heaven, and I adore the fiestas!”

  What began as charming chatter about the ranch turned into incessant prattle, vapid and grating, about inane topics of dress fabrics, table coverings, flower arrangements, and meal preparation for the harvest festivities. Elisabeth wasn’t at all interested in the domesticity that interested Lily B. Maybe that’s why Nemacio married her. For her homemaking skills.

  Doña Maria seemed tired of her daughter-in-law’s ramblings too, and deftly moved the conversation away from decorative particulars toward the business of the ranch. A formal air swirled around the doña, and Lily B. afforded her mother-in-law respect, listening gracious as she talked with great pride about the importance of her family, her five sons and daughters-in-law and her extended relations of sisters and nieces and nephews. Even with silvering hair, Doña Maria still looked youthful, flashing a girlish smile and speaking English directly to Elisabeth with only a slight accent. She was a formidable woman, and Elisabeth could see how Nemacio might’ve found it difficult going against her wishes.

  “As a close family, we work together to keep the ranch prosperous. With a thousand head of cattle, we employ the Mutsun and Mexican vaqueros, providing stability and prosperity to the region. We sell fruits and vegetables Fridays in the plaza at San Juan Bautista and give cows to the mission on Feast Day, the birth of Jesus Christ our Lord,” said Doña Maria, crossing herself. “We share our harvest with everyone in the Gabilans. I suggest you write about that. The Californio spirit of generosity and love. And the deep importance of family, coming first. Above all else.”

  Elisabeth shifted in the iron chair, uncomfortable the woman might be warning her.

  “What a striking hair comb,” said Doña Maria, reaching out to touch the abalone comb in Elisabeth’s hair.

  “It was a gift,” she said.

  “Abalone?”

  “So I was told,” she said.

  Doña Maria leaned in, whispering.

  “I used to have one exactly like it. I gave it to my eldest son a few years ago, for a woman he’d met in the diggings.”

  The old woman knew!

  “Then I must return it to you. It means nothing to me,” Elisabeth lied.

  With no more room in her heart for shame, she pulled the comb out of her hair and placed it on the table. Doña Maria covered it quick with her bony hand before Lily B. noticed.

  “Gracias,” said Doña Maria.

  Elisabeth glanced up to see Nemacio looking at her with those familiar eyes, smooth like polished pebbles, luring her in, churning her up in a roiling river. Disappointed at herself for still feeling his strong pull, she promised herself not to look in his direction again for the whole night.

  The fiesta continued in the courtyard past midnight, carried along by more toasts and music and drink and dance. She drank far too many glasses of wine and danced into the night with all the men who asked, steering clear of him. Refusing defeat, she pretended to enjoy herself. Dancing with John, she let him hold her close and threw her head back laughing like a light-hearted woman having a joyous time. Across the courtyard, Nemacio leaned up against the wall with his brothers. Watching. He didn’t dance with Lily B., who sat under the rose arbor with her sisters-in-law surrounding her like a flower in full bloom, full of Nemacio.

  “I must dance with my daughter tonight. Her man is always caught up in rancho business,” said John. “Do you mind?”

  Even through her jealousy, Elisabeth admired John’s concern for Lily B.

  “Not at all. I’m ready to retire anyhow,” she said, defeated.

  “Shall I escort you upstairs?”

  “Not tonight, John. Go dance with your daughter,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He kissed her bare hand goodnight. She said polite regards to Lily B. and Doña Maria, and escaped inside the hacienda. She felt her way down the dark hallway, relieved to finish the fiesta and all that joy that wasn’t hers. When she heard footsteps behind, she stopped but didn’t turn around.

  “You still wear the hair comb I gave you,” he said, from the shadows.

  “Not anymore I don’t,” she said, steadying herself on the wall. “You can’t marry John. You’d be my mother-in-law. I won’t allow it!”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  She laughed a wild sort of laugh that echoed off the adobe walls. A maddening laugh, conjuring up spite. He leapt at her, covering her mouth with his hand.

  “Shhhh! Let me explain,” he said, pushing her up against the wall.

  He put his hands flat on either side of her on the wall, encircling. Trapping.

  “I couldn’t take you from Nate,” he said.

  “It was my choice. Not his,” she said, not meaning to sound like she cared anymore.

  “I was desperate,” he said, his breath hot in her face.

  “Desperate to stick a baby in some other girl,” she said, drunk with sarcasm.

  “I didn’t know about the divorce,” he said.

  “You knew,” she said, focusing on a hardened path of hate.

  Sweat dripped down her back underneath her silk dress and she squirmed to get out from under him, but he stepped in closer.

  “I came back to you. To explain, but you were gone. My sister Isabella was supposed to marry John, but she ran off with a Mutsun. My mother was shamed. Insisted I help. She fixed it so John would set the matter right. Get our deed in order. Pay the government to put the ranch in my name.”

  “In exchange for his daughter!”

  “You don’t understand. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. John was supposed to marry Isabella,” he said.

  “But you offered yourself instead. I understand completely.”

  “We’d nearly lost our ranch. That damn claim on the river didn’t pay out enough.”

  “After you left, I lost everything in a fire, but I didn’t go marrying for money,” she said, pushing his chest.

  He didn’t move but kept her trapped up against the cool adobe wall. He was quiet for a long while, breathing heavy. She heard the crickets’ familiar refrain outside, and kept still. Knowing she could wait him out.

  “Without our land, I would’ve been nothing,
” he said, finally. “A poor Californio is nothing.”

  “The land wasn’t yours in the first place. You took it from the Indians. Did you make them slaves too?”

  “The Spanish took the land from the Indians. We pay the Mutsun.”

  “Then you took the land from the Spanish and the Indians. Either way, you’re a thief.”

  “I’m no thief. The Americans steal from us.”

  “You forget the Mexicans. You stole from them too,” she said, working up her nerve.

  “No! We have honor.”

  “Honor, indeed. Well, you’ve no worry now. You’ve got Lily B. and soon . . . a baby!”

  “No more talking,” he said.

  He hung his head down to kiss her, and she slapped his face. He grabbed her wrists, holding her arms above her head like a prisoner against a wall. His words came out soft and shaky.

  “You are the river flowing in me,” he said, gripping her wrists harder.

  “You’re hurting me,” she said weak.

  She looked away, willing herself not to cry. Hoping she was stronger than this.

  “You are my very own soul,” he said, burying his face in her hair, breathing her in.

  When he pressed up against her hard and familiar, his thighs trembled and she savored his pain. He loosened his grip on her wrists, and tasted her lips, urgent. She felt lightheaded, flooding full of him. When he freed her hands she tasted him. Only for a moment. Tasting his weakness and want and memory and love, like water after a long thirst. Only for a moment, then she remembered how he’d opened her up like an ordinary rock with crystal hiding inside, then smashed her in the mud and left her in pieces. She took hold of her senses, wiggling out from underneath his grip. She dashed up the stairs toward the room at the end of the hall, hearing only her boot heels hitting hard on the Spanish tiles, as he called out after her.

  “Te amo solo a ti,” he said, not quiet at all.

  47

  To the shore of the moonlit sea