The Braxtons of Miracle Springs

by Michael Phillips

  “And this,” I said finally, “is our friend Laughing Waters, whom Zack met when he was in the Utah-Nevada territory. She is the daughter of a Paiute chief.”

  “Charmed, young lady,” said Mr. Kemble, showing no surprise. “Welcome to San Francisco.”

  “Thank you,” said Laughing Waters shyly as she took the hand he offered.

  “Well . . . sit down, all of you. I hope your visit is to tell me you’ve decided to get back in to journalism, Corrie.”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ve only been married about a month.”

  “What do you do, Braxton?”

  “I used to be a minister,” replied Christopher. “At present I’m working the mine with Corrie’s father and brothers.”

  “Still trying to coax a few more ounces out of those hills, eh?”

  “There’s still a big vein there,” said Tad. “Pa’s sure of it. We just have to find it, that’s all.”

  Everybody laughed.

  “That’s what they all say!” chided Mr. Kemble.

  We chatted a while longer, then Christopher asked Mr. Kemble where would be a good place to go for dinner that evening.

  “That depends,” he said, “on what you want. If you want the best food in San Francisco, in my opinion it’s found at Mary Pleasant’s place, but then you’d never get in.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “It’s a boardinghouse. Once her guests are taken care of, she only has two or three tables available for reservations, and they are hard to come by.”

  “A boardinghouse has the best food in San Francisco?” said Christopher in surprise.

  “Not just any boardinghouse. Mammy Pleasant’s a well-enough known lady—a colored lady with more spunk than any ten white women, with what you might call a checkered and not altogether savory past. She was housekeeper and cook for Milton Latham, and that’s where she made her mark on this city. You know Latham, don’t you, Corrie?”

  “I know of him,” I answered. “I’ve never met him.”

  “Well, he knows about you, too. I make sure important people read my newspaper. And so does Mammy Pleasant if I know her. She’s as feisty a woman as you are yourself, Corrie Hollister.”

  “Corrie Braxton,” I corrected him with a smile. “And what do you mean feisty?” I added.

  “I mean just that,” rejoined Mr. Kemble with a laugh. “Trying to pass yourself off as a man so I’d give you a job, thinking you were worth a man’s pay, running off to cover the war right in the middle of the worst fighting this country’s ever seen—if that’s not feisty, I don’t know what you’d call it. You always set out to do what no one would figure you could.”

  “That’s my Corrie!” chimed in Christopher.

  “Now stop that, both of you!” I laughed. “I just do what I feel I ought to do, that’s all.”

  “No matter what the odds are against you, and no matter that you’re a woman.”

  “I still don’t know what that’s got to do with it.”

  “I know you don’t,” replied Mr. Kemble, somewhere about halfway between being serious and still trying to kid me in front of my new husband. “And that’s what you never understood—things are different between women and men. I’m not arguing with you, understand, Corrie. I’ve learned to respect you for what you’ve done, and there’s certainly no doubt that you’ve been an asset to this paper. All I’m saying is that you never let tradition or custom or the practices of the rest of society stand in your way. Mammy Pleasant is just the same way. You and she’d get along pretty well, I think.”

  “What did she do like Corrie?” asked Becky, following the conversation with keen interest.

  “She took Abraham Lincoln seriously, that’s what,” replied the editor.

  At the sound of the dead president’s name, a pang went through my heart. I hadn’t thought of him in a while, and suddenly I was remembering all the heart-wrenching events of that April of two years before.

  “What did she do?” asked Tad.

  “Last year, just a year after the war was over, she flaunted her Negro blood by suing the San Francisco streetcar company. They wouldn’t let her on the car because she was colored, so she sued them.”

  “I don’t see anything wrong with that,” I said.

  “Lincoln may have freed the slaves, but there’s still a difference between white and black,” he replied, “just like there’s a difference between men and women.”

  Before I could reply further, Zack piped up with what had got us started talking about Mrs. Pleasant in the first place.

  “What’s all this got to do with us finding a place to eat?” he said.

  We all laughed.

  “I suppose we did diverge a little from the original question, did we not?” said Mr. Kemble. “I was telling you how Mammy Pleasant started her boardinghouse. Like I said, she went to work for Milton Latham. He was a Virginian like you, Braxton—of Mayflower descent, and one of San Francisco’s leading bankers. So when he entertained, everyone in the city came. He often gave lavish dinners on Sundays where all the prominent men could be seen. I was even invited myself a time or two.”

  “I wish I could have seen it,” I said.

  “Once Mammy Pleasant was in charge,” the editor went on, “she served up the guests a remarkable assortment of jellied meats and stuffed birds and all manner of seafoods and pastries. She was instantly hailed as San Francisco’s preeminent cook and only several months later opened her own boardinghouse. The place has been so popular that Mrs. Pleasant can pick and choose her boarders from among hundreds clamoring for rooms under her roof.”

  “And you say she takes in diners in addition to her own boarders?” asked Christopher. I could tell that his, Tad’s, and Zack’s mouths were watering at everything Mr. Kemble was saying.

  “Only a few. I’ve only been there once myself.”

  “Don’t you know her?” asked Zack. I could tell he liked the sound of Mammy Pleasant’s cooking.

  “I’ve met her. I don’t think that qualifies me as a close enough friend to ask a favor.”

  “You said you thought she read your newspaper,” I said.

  “Yes?” said the editor, drawing out the word questioningly.

  “Maybe you could write something about her, or place an advertisement for her boardinghouse in exchange for her allowing you to bring some guests for dinner with her boarders,” I suggested.

  Suddenly Mr. Kemble’s face lit up.

  “I’ve got an even better idea!” he exclaimed. “If everything I’ve heard about Mammy Pleasant is true, it is sure to work.”

  “What?” I asked excitedly.

  “You all just be back here at five o’clock. If I’ve been able to arrange it as I’m hopeful of, we’ll all go to dinner together—that is, if you don’t mind having a crusty old newspaper editor accompany all you young folks.”

  “We’d be honored to dine with you, Mr. Kemble,” said Christopher, shaking the editor’s hand. “We’ll be back later this afternoon.”

  Chapter 9

  Shopping in the City

  That afternoon we spent shopping. Everywhere we walked, all the merchandise booths outside many of the shops did their best to lure us inside, and finally, in store after store, we succumbed.

  Christopher bought me a lovely handbag, Tad and Zack both bought themselves leather vests, and Christopher bought himself a Western-style hat.

  We all laughed until our sides hurt as he was trying it on, looking in the mirror this way and that with now a funny and now a serious expression.

  “What do you think, Corrie?” he asked finally, cocking his head playfully to one side, glancing at me while still keeping one eye on himself in the mirror.

  “It’s perfect!” put in Tad before I had a chance to answer. “Strap a holster to your side and you’ll look like a regular gunslinger!”

  “No one would ever look at you and take you for a preacher—that much I can say,” I answered.

  “Not in a hundred years!�
� added Zack, laughing pretty hard by now at the sight. “But I like Tad’s idea about the gun. That’s really what you need now.”

  “Somehow I don’t think it would work,” said Christopher. “I’d probably shoot myself in the foot just with it hanging there!”

  “That is a good idea, though, Tad,” Zack added, with a little more seriousness in his tone than I liked. “Maybe I’ll get me a new holster and six-gun.”

  “Zack!” I exclaimed. “Don’t joke about something like that!”

  “Who’s joking? Sheriff Rafferty wears one. I think it looks kinda good.”

  “He’s the sheriff—it’s different for him.”

  Zack said no more, but I could tell he was still thinking.

  “What about you, Becky?” I said, trying to divert the conversation away from the subject of guns.

  “There was a pretty white blouse with multicolored lace I saw at the store where you got your bag,” she replied.

  “Why didn’t you try it on?”

  “I wasn’t sure about it. But I have been thinking about it since.”

  “Let’s go back,” I suggested. “I want to see what it looks like on you.”

  “Not back to the women’s store!” moaned Tad.

  “How about if we men meet you back here in, say, about an hour,” suggested Christopher.

  “All right,” I said, “but you keep them away from any gun shops,” I added, trying to make light of the worry I felt inside.

  We split up, and the three of us girls turned around and walked back to Powell Street to the Women’s Emporium.

  Laughing Waters had been mostly quiet that afternoon. It was such a new experience for her—not only being with us, but being in the city, and shopping like this. Not that we were all that used to it either. This was a once in a lifetime adventure for us, too. But for someone like Laughing Waters, who had spent most of her life either in the desert with her people or at a mission school, walking through stores full of expensive clothes and white people was a tremendously unusual experience. I could tell she felt shy and awkward, yet she was enjoying herself at the same time.

  I didn’t know whether she had any money. I offered to buy her a blouse while Becky was trying hers on, but she didn’t want me to.

  Laughing Waters was so beautiful, with such dark, mysterious green eyes. And with the way she was dressed—more or less like the rest of us, with her black hair tucked up under a simple hat, no one would immediately recognize her as an Indian. But I knew she was afraid that someone might.

  As we talked throughout the three days we were together, Laughing Waters had told me how nervous she had been about going with us. It was no secret that Indians were not very highly thought of in white society, and I had seen her glancing around from time to time, wondering if passersby were staring at her. But with Christopher, Zack, and Tad close by—all three tall, strong, and confident young men—I didn’t feel nervous in the least.

  Besides all that, San Francisco was such a mixed pot of nationalities that Laughing Waters blended in with all the rest.

  When we met Christopher, Zack, and Tad an hour later, Zack had a package under his arm. It was all wrapped up in brown paper, but I knew well enough what it was.

  I could see that Tad was a little quieter than he had been, but no one said anything about it.

  I sure wasn’t going to bring up the subject of guns again.

  Chapter 10

  What Mr. Kemble Had Been Up To

  It had been a wonderful day!

  We’d seen so much and gone all over the city and by late afternoon were nearly exhausted.

  I didn’t know exactly what Mr. Kemble had intended to do when we’d left him earlier in the day, but we were back at his office at five to find out. From the smile on his face that greeted us, I knew he must have been successful at whatever his scheme was.

  “Are you ready?” he said enthusiastically.

  “Ready,” I repeated, “but you still haven’t told us where we’re going.”

  “I thought we decided on it earlier—we’re going to Mammy Pleasant’s place for dinner!”

  The three men in our party gave a cheer.

  “How did you manage it?” I asked.

  “Never mind,” interrupted Mr. Kemble. “All I had to say was that Corrie Belle Hollister—excuse me, I mean Corrie Braxton, though I did have to tell her your maiden name so she would know who I was referring to—in any case, all I had to say was that you and your family would be accompanying me, and Mammy Pleasant immediately invited us all to have dinner at her place . . . as her personal guests.”

  “My wife—the famous newswoman!” said Christopher.

  “I am no such thing!” I protested.

  “Oh, but you are, Corrie,” added Mr. Kemble. “I could never have secured such an invitation just for myself—but the mention of your name, and that was all it took. Shall we be off?” he added, glancing around first at Christopher, then at the others.

  We walked back out to the street, where Mr. Kemble hailed a horse-drawn carriage big enough for all seven of us. As we climbed inside, I was thinking there must be more to the story than he had told us—something about his tone as he explained made me suspicious. But I didn’t say anything. On the way I found out the rest of the story.

  “Actually,” Mr. Kemble said as we bounced slowly along in the carriage, “there is one thing I’m going to have to ask you to do in exchange for this dinner, Corrie.”

  “I thought so!” I said.

  “A minor request,” smiled Mr. Kemble. “I knew you’d be happy to do it in order to treat your family to the best meal in San Francisco.”

  “Do I have any choice?” I asked, pretending to be annoyed. I looked over at Christopher and smiled.

  “Not really—not if we want Mammy Pleasant to let us in.”

  “What is it I have to do?”

  “The very thing you enjoy more than anything.”

  I looked questioningly at Mr. Kemble.

  “I told Mammy that you were the best woman newspaper writer in all California and maybe in the whole country, for all I know. I told her that you were just like her—not afraid to stand up for what you think is right. So I said that if she’d serve us dinner, you’d write an article about her boardinghouse and the fine table she serves and that I’d print it in the Alta. There, you see, nothing to it.”

  “You want me to write a restaurant column?” I said, laughing.

  “Something kind of like that.”

  “But you’ve got reporters who do that all the time. I don’t know anything about food.”

  “You know what you like.”

  “I reckon so, but—”

  “And you do have one thing none of my other writers have.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The name Corrie Hollister. You’ll write about Mammy Pleasant’s boardinghouse in a way none of my men could. People will read it, too. I haven’t had a word from you in so long that just sight of your byline will grab interest.”

  “Mr. Kemble!”

  “On my honor, I mean every word. Mammy Pleasant knows that, too. That’s why she agreed to let us come. Just write it like you were writing about your Aunt Katie and her seedlings from Virginia. Mammy Pleasant’s an interesting person. But she’s never been written about the way you’ll do it. You have a special way of observing things in situations that most people can’t see. And you have a talent for putting what you see onto the printed page in a most unusual way. That’s what makes you a good writer, Corrie.”

  “Are you trying to flatter me, Mr. Kemble?” I asked, smiling again.

  “I’m not above such a ploy from time to time.”

  “If you keep it up, it may just work!” put in Christopher from the other side of me where he was sitting. “I can tell that Corrie’s defenses are weakening.”

  “Exactly what I hoped to accomplish!” rejoined Mr. Kemble. “I’ve been trying to get Corrie writing again and back on my staff ever since she return
ed from the East. I have to tell you, Braxton, your coming along when you did has thrown some complications into my plans for your dear wife.”

  Christopher laughed.

  “I meant every word of what I said, Corrie. You are a skilled writer with a unique way of probing into the insides of what you write about. I hope—now that you are married and that you and this fine husband of yours will be settling down together, and after writing this brief piece about Mammy Pleasant’s place—as I said, I hope you will reconsider my former offer.”

  “I will think and pray about it, Mr. Kemble,” I answered.

  “We will, however, have to give some thought about what to do concerning your byline. Dropping the Hollister may lose some readers.”

  “I will think about that too.”

  “That is all I ask. In the meantime, if you are uncomfortable with the arrangement about tonight, I’m sure I can—”

  “No,” I said. “I’ll agree to be a restaurant columnist for one evening. After all you’ve told us about this place, I don’t think anyone would forgive me if I made us turn around now!”

  Chapter 11

  A Dinner to Remember

  Mr. Kemble had not exaggerated about the food nor about Mammy Pleasant herself.

  The boardinghouse was a big two-story building. I don’t know how many rooms it had or how many people there were living under its roof, but the dining room was full and bustling when we walked in about fifteen minutes before six o’clock.

  Mammy Pleasant greeted us at the door. She was a stately-looking Negro woman, beautiful, and dressed very expensively.

  “I’m happy to meet you, Mrs. Braxton,” she said, shaking my hand up and down in hers. “Mr. Kemble speaks so highly of your writing that I am honored for you to do an article about my home. I certainly hope you find the dinner to your satisfaction.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “I’m sure we will.”

  She offered her hand to Christopher. He took it, smiled, but said nothing.

  Mammy Pleasant showed us to a table at the far end of the dining room. We sat down and presently two young Negro women began to serve us our dinner.