The Gold in These Hills

by Joanne Bischof

  “When do you want me to get the kids?” I ask. “I can come and pick them up.”

  “Is noon too early? That will give me time to rest, and I still need to finish packing.”

  “Yeah.” I check my watch—10:13 a.m. “I’ll be there in a bit.” I will watch our children. And she will have Austin’s baby. “How are the kids doing?”

  “They’re excited to meet the new baby.”

  I swallow hard and decide to ignore the onslaught of emotions on that one. “I’m sure they are. Okay.” I clear my throat, needing this call to come to an end. “I’ll head off here within the hour to be there when you need. And I can keep the kids for however long until you’re ready for them again.”

  “Thanks, Johnny.”

  I can’t say “You’re welcome”—or anything, actually—so I just nod even though she won’t see. When she hangs up, the rest of the morning still feels like a fog.

  On schedule, I pick the kids up.

  On schedule, Emily goes to the hospital.

  And all else happens as smoothly as the sun changes places with the moon. It’s later that evening and the kids are in the back seat, asleep with empty milkshake cups in their car-seat holders, when the first update is texted through. It’s a number I don’t recognize, so it’s gotta be Austin. I don’t have the courage to look until my truck is parked in front of the cabin. Crickets chirp outside, and Rye is at the cabin window, nose fogging against the glass. It’s then, and finally then, that I open the message from Austin.

  Em wanted the kids to have a picture tonight.

  The image loads next, and on the screen is Emily in her hospital gown, holding a cup of some kind of juice. Her hair is French braided, and she’s traded her contacts for a pair of thin-framed glasses. Though she looks tired, she’s flashing a thumbs-up and a cheery smile that I know is for the kids. A monitor is strapped around her belly, and in the background, a nurse is doing something to an IV bag.

  I stare at the image. How to text back? How to get these fingers to work? I blink quickly and in my mind hear her voice from a century ago. A voice that met with heartache and spoke grace into the empty unknown.

  Dearest John.

  You find the words because you have to.

  I manage to type to the father of this coming baby.

  I’ll show them. They’ll be glad to know their mom is doing well.

  I mean it too. The kids stir awake as I unfasten them each from their car seats. Micaela manages to walk sleepily toward the house while Cameron rests his head against my shoulder. Inside, we do jammies and teeth.

  Once they’re each settled in their new beds, I perch on the end of Micaela’s mattress. “So, Baby is on the way tomorrow, and your mom is doing really good.”

  Her eyes grow wider. It’s the excitement of a girl who loves dolls and life and her mother. This baby will encapsulate all three joys for her. It’s with eager fingers that Micaela accepts my phone and peers down at the picture of her mom.

  Cameron hops out of bed to peek at the screen. “Hi, Mommy!” He kisses the picture then leans into me for a sleepy hug. I squeeze him tight and ruffle his hair before he clambers back into his toddler bed.

  Micaela settles in against her pink pillowcase, staring at the image fondly. I give her some time with it, answering her questions about how babies handle their first few nights. “She’ll probably spend a lot of time sleeping, and your mom will too. When they’re home from the hospital, you can be an extra-big girl and help out.”

  She nods and offers my phone back.

  “Thatta girl.” I kiss the top of her head, rise, and dim the light.

  After cracking their door, I step into my room and, with enough of a glow from the moon, cross over the old floorboards, over the history of this place, and take a knee in front of the nightstand. There, I slide open the drawer and dig toward the back where a forgotten bottle of painkillers sits. It rattles gently on the way back down to the kitchen. The childproof lid isn’t hard to wrangle off, and I sprinkle two pills onto the counter then grab a bottle of water.

  Somewhere out there Emily and Austin are bringing a new life into this world.

  And I’m still trying to reckon with why it hurts. And for how long . . .

  Maybe it’s always going to hurt. Maybe it just slowly begins to hurt less. Is that how grief eventually takes its shape into finding wholeness again?

  I place both pills into my palm. I told myself I wouldn’t do this if the kids were around, and conveniently, it slipped my mind until now. If the kids need me, I need to be alert. Blowing out a sigh, I slide the two pills back into the bottle with the others.

  The bathroom is freezing when I enter and flip on the light. It takes just a second to shake everything into a toilet bowl and flush it all down. The Rx bottle empty now, I pitch it into the can and hit the light off. No sense in postponing a possibility that’s really not going to get me anywhere good. Life is marching on in new ways, no matter how much I wish it wasn’t.

  I sink onto the couch and rub a hand down my face. Rye hops onto the cushions beside me, using my leg as a pillow. The night is young still, only seven o’clock. I’m not in the mood to go to bed yet and don’t feel like TV. I could call my sister or a buddy—but on a crazy whim think about shooting off a text to Sonoma. I don’t want to be reactionary, though. Or desperate. But just like with the kids, this has been a bright spot, so I roll with it.

  How’s the research?

  I check the spelling and hit Send. She sends a message back right away.

  Interesting! Would now be an okay time to talk?

  The words are just the warmth I needed, but I force myself to play it cool for five entire minutes before calling her up. She answers on the second ring and, to my relief, jumps right in before I need to explain about why I texted her out of the blue.

  “These letters have been amazing,” she says.

  I smile. “What have you discovered?”

  “Well, I’ve noticed a few things. First, as you know, there are no references to whether Edith Manchester was actually Edith Del Sol. But there are other clues that indicate this woman is part of my family tree.”

  “Yeah? Tell me.” I want her to keep talking for as long as she wants. Settling more comfortably into the sofa, I close my eyes and just listen. Not because I have the hots for her—I mean, she is pretty and super cool—but because of her energy and life. There’s something really nice about it. Something comforting. Especially lately.

  “Okay.” There’s a smile in her voice, and I wonder if it’s the same for her. If it’s nice to just have someone to talk to tonight. Regardless of where we’ve been or where we’re going, we have this in common. This place and this time and the history that came before it all.

  “In the letters there is an early reference to Señor Tiago, who, if you remember, is Santiago Del Sol. Juniper Cohen was telling John about the final few who remained at Kenworthy in the winter of 1902. It was only a few people at that point.” Her voice goes quiet, and I wait. “This would have been a more formal way to address him, if that makes sense.”

  It does.

  “Then, in a later letter, there is one more reference of him, but this time she calls him Santiago.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember that one. She wrote to John to tell him that Santiago had disappeared just as he had.” That letter was a sad one.

  “Well, did you notice the change in names?”

  “Yeah,” I say even though I didn’t.

  She laughs because it’s obvious that I hadn’t picked up on the switch. “Well, that might be a clue. See, it changed over the course of what looks like . . .” She goes quiet again, and I hear the shifting of the plastic-protected letters. “About a month’s time.”

  “Okay . . .” I’m not fully getting it.

  “That means something changed.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, I’m not certain yet. So I need to keep thinking on it. Maybe Juniper began to know him more. It
almost seems like a familiarity. Or kindredness. If Edie and Santiago were already wed, it could have to do with the fact that Juniper was more at ease. It’s hard to say, though.”

  I smile because that means she’s filling me in on her process even though it’s incomplete. It’s a nice place to be—here, as her friend and confidant with this mystery.

  I don’t realize I’m quiet until she speaks up. “I’m sorry, I probably just totally wasted your time. Calling to tell you a half-baked idea.”

  “It’s more than half baked. And besides, I called you.”

  Her laugh is soft.

  “Anything else? I’m curious, so don’t feel like you have to worry. I’m genuinely interested to know more.”

  Giving her the space to do so opens up an all-new door of intrigue. The hour stretches on as she explains about the marriage practices of the Cahuilla back then. Not only was Sonoma’s great-great-grandfather Cahuilla, but he was a part of the Coyote moiety, which she explains is sort of like a clan. As she speaks, I glean that there were two separate clans within the tribe. The Coyotes and the Wildcats, and that in order to marry, a man’s father would arrange it with the woman’s father, so long as they were not from the same group.

  “That’s really something,” I say when she finishes.

  “It is. And it means that if Santiago did indeed make Edith Manchester his wife, he would have not only defied his father’s way of doing things but that of his entire tribe.”

  I think I get what she’s hinting at. It’s something he would have had to do for love. To defy one’s heritage and family? That’s no small thing. “If it turns out that he did marry this woman, and that they did have a child, then you are from that line.”

  “Exactly.”

  I don’t know much about Native American culture, but I’ve always assumed it’s kind of more prestigious to have a higher amount of native blood. Sort of a status. It even counts on things like college grants and such. When I voice this, I can practically sense her nodding on the other side of the line.

  “It’s true. We’re proud of our heritage and in being Cahuilla. For me, this would answer whether I have some Northern Europe blood in me, likely English since Edith’s maiden name was Manchester. I don’t yet know.”

  “And what are you leaning toward?”

  “It’s hard to say, but I can’t help but be intrigued by this woman. If Santiago married a Cahuilla woman instead, there are no records of it. Native American names were altered and changed so often in those days that it’s incredibly difficult to track down a lineage. So, there’s a gap there as well. One that keeps the questions going.”

  “And with Edith?”

  “There’s something about her that I can’t quite put my finger on. The way she is somehow connected and yet so impossible to trace. I feel crazy even just saying it because the data on her is so sparse. But the timing of her presence in Kenworthy during the late 1890s and even after suggests that she was one of the few available white women in the area. And my family has always sensed we weren’t full-blooded Cahuilla but haven’t quite been able to pin down the why.”

  I think of Sonoma’s picture on the flyer and how her coloring is just a shade fairer than that of the other speakers. “So, you’re hoping she might finish off your family tree?” That would mean Sonoma has less Cahuilla blood in her and not more. I want to understand this.

  “I think so.” Her sigh is wistful. “I’ll try to explain that more, but I just realized it’s getting late. I’ve been keeping you so long already.”

  No sense in making her feel pressured. “No worries. It’s been nice talking to you. Thanks for telling me all about this, and I definitely want to know more as it comes to you. I’ll try to see if there’s anything I can add to the riddle. Maybe I’ll hike back out there again and see if any inspiration strikes.”

  She laughs, and I’m glad she didn’t take it too seriously. “That’s a deal.”

  “And also, good luck with the event that’s coming up. I saw you’re going to be one of the speakers at the big museum opening down in Palm Springs.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m kind of nervous about that. Public speaking is not my thing.”

  “You’ll do great. It’s clear that this history is your thing. And that kind of passion is hard to contain. You’ll do wonderfully.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  I’ve been thinking about going, but it feels weird to just blurt that out. Maybe I’ll bring it up if we talk again. I hope we do.

  Not wanting to hold her on the line too long, or make her feel shy, I end with, “Have a good night, Sonoma.”

  “You too, Johnny.”

  John Cohen

  September 1903

  I dreamt last night that it was not Santiago who tried to stop us from salting the mine. I dreamt that it was myself. That it was others who were bent on the destructive, selfish deed. That it was I who stood in the way, willing to risk my life for justice. When I awoke, I remembered it only for what it was. That was the reality. Not the dream.

  This morning I hiked up to the ridge, needing to see as much sky as possible. There, the world was blue above and green below. We cannot see the ranches from home, but I know Santiago is there each and every day, raising horses, training them. He is a noble soul for the task. This man who walked all the way to Yuma in the deep of winter, scooped me up off the side of the road where I had collapsed only days after being released, and brought me home.

  I wish the dream had been true. That I had the courage he had.

  But maybe God is growing it in me. Maybe it is growing day by day.

  I don’t even know why I’m writing these words. They have to go. Another page that will need to be torn out. Not for me. I’ve already faced my shame, already served the sentence. But for my family. For this place. I do not want my sins to be their legacy. God, set them free of it. Set me free as well.

  John

  Chapter 33

  Juniper

  April 1903

  The hotel roof is half bare, wilting like the side of a cliff on the coast. It stands pathetically now beneath a robin’s-egg sky where men dismantle it piece by piece. Boards are loosened as workers straddle rafter beams. The wood that splinters is tossed aside to be used elsewhere, but what comes down whole is loaded onto wagon beds to be carted away. She is weeping, the Hotel Corona. Her once pristine form bowed beneath the loss of her dignity. It is a sweeping loss as I watch it through the cookhouse window. Edie works quietly beside me, adding roughly chopped onions to a pot of beans. Her belly is at its fullest now—and she pauses to press a hand to her lower back. The baby will come any time now. I stir the mixture so as to remember my purpose here. It is not to watch this grinding machine of men and crowbars as our town nearly ceases to exist.

  John is among those on the roofline where he straddles the ridge. He and another man lower down a board to waiting hands below. They work well as a team. Over the course of the morning, I’ve witnessed John receive instruction twice as often as he issues it. He has always been a quiet leader that way. Willing to do the hard work—able to communicate his way of seeing things only when needed. He is a miner by trade, but at his heart he is a builder. Having helped construct this hotel with his own two hands, I wonder if he, too, is weeping inside.

  It’s hard to see him perched so dangerously, laboring beside men who are getting paid, unlike himself. Yet he’s worked since they arrived, and I doubt he will stop. Having been behind bars for months, perhaps the busyness of hands eases mind as much as it does soul. Or is it a burden that he bears? Of knowing that by his own trigger pull, this town was dead in the water before it even came alive. It is a secret he bears inside as he lowers another board. It’s a secret he carries as the men around him do not know what fated this town to wreckage.

  He worked in the mine every single day, laboring from sunup until sundown, all the while knowing there was no gold. I now know why his quest was so extreme. It wasn’t greed that had fueled him bu
t something as hard to wrangle. Is it still shame that keeps him going from dawn until dusk? A man doesn’t come home to his wife and child with a face so covered in grime he’s barely recognizable, nor dip bleeding, split hands into a basin of water each nightfall, for lack of caring. If anyone wanted to find gold in that mine, it was John Cohen. I cannot imagine the agony to plague him in knowing more than anyone else in the earth’s depths that there would be none. What a hellish existence, fragmented only by the light of possibility that would have dimmed with time.

  We did not speak of faith often, he and I. We attended church during the short time there was service, but neither of us pulled the Bible down from its shelf unless it was a Sunday. How I wish it had been different. That it could even be different now . . . now that I sense something new about him. The same newness I long for within. A fervor for the hope and freedom we’ve been granted.

  “Biscuits are about to burn, June.”

  I startle at the sound of Edie’s voice, which is silly since she’s been up since dawn, helping me. Dear girl. She bustles to the stove, grabs a rag, and opens the iron door to slide out the pan. Culinary arts are not her specialty, and yet she has patiently observed how to prepare a meal. This woman has blossomed in the wake of so much. As I watch her hum quietly while sprinkling sugar on top of the next biscuits—her idea, not mine—I smile and know that it is not she who is learning from me. It is I who am learning from her.

  Today she wears a wool skirt of dark evergreen. I didn’t even know Edie owned a skirt, but now that her belly has grown full and low, she’s declared it one of the most comfortable garments she’s ever worn. The leather belt slashed low around her hips leaves a place for her pistol to reside in its holster. With no men inside, she’s tucked the skirt hem up into the waistband. Her slender legs, clad in gray long johns, peek out each time she crosses the cookhouse floor.