Blood and Oranges

by James O. Goldsborough

  Contents

  Part One Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part Two Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part Three Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Part Four Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Coda

  Acknowledgments

  To Miss Winters

  Complacencies of the peignoir, and late

  Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,

  And the green freedom of a cockatoo

  —“Sunday Morning” by Wallace Stevens

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  It began on an ordinary morning at the rancho, of which there’d been too many lately. Maria served him in the breakfast room before she took the buggy into Salinas. It was Sunday, and she attended church with her Mexican family before returning for work Monday. For Eddie, Sundays were no different. After breakfast he would saddle up and start his rounds. Eva, his mother, took breakfast in bed, though Maria set two places for lunch and dinner during the week. Sundays, Eva stayed upstairs in the sitting room off her bedroom to take tea when Father Ignacio came to pray with her and receive alms for the church. Eddie made the tea and set out the fruit and nut empanadas Maria made every Saturday. Eva didn’t go to mass in Salinas anymore.

  Eddie Mull was a creature of routine, a routine that started each day with coffee, eggs and toast in the breakfast room looking out on Tesoro’s five thousand acres. Summer or winter, the room was filled with bright flowers gathered around the rancho. He was used to taking breakfast alone, which he’d done since his mother’s descent into invalidity. He was a sociable person, but running a large rancho five miles from town didn’t give him much time for society. His usual company at breakfast was his newspaper, the Salinas Index, delivered by bicycle each morning by one of Maria’s nephews. Eddie was twenty-seven years old and still living alone with his mother in the house where he was born. He’d been thinking a lot about that lately.

  Normally, he skimmed the newspaper, looking for the usual things that interest farmers and ranchers: produce and animal prices; weather; the latest ships arriving in Monterey and San Francisco, where they were from and what they were carrying. Local miscellany didn’t interest him. The Index didn’t carry much news from the rest of the state, let alone the nation, but that morning an article about the aqueduct being built to Los Angeles caught his attention. TheIndex was not known for its prose, but the reporter held nothing back, gushing on about “an aqueduct to rival the Romans, the greatest engineering feat in California history, transforming the arid plain of Los Angeles into the new Jerusalem.”

  He read the story, drank some coffee and read it again. He’d heard of the aqueduct but never thought much about it. Water interests every rancher and farmer, but Los Angeles is a long way from Salinas. This time, for some reason, it stuck. He set the paper aside to take up with him that night. Sitting back, he stared out at the ranch for as long as he ever had at breakfast, maybe a full half hour, a long time for a busy man with a big ranch to look after. The aqueduct stayed with him all day, in the barns, in the sugar beet fields, on the range with the cattle, back at the house taking coffee with his Mexican foreman after Celestino returned with his family from church.

  I think I should go and have a look, he thought.

  After Father Ignacio left, Eddie brought the tea service and plates down and put them in the sink for Maria. Sometimes Eva took soup before retiring, but Father Ignacio remarked that she wasn’t feeling good, and when Eddie looked in she said she wasn’t hungry. He warmed the dinner of enchiladas and rice Maria left for him, went over Tesoro accounts for a while, took the Sunday newspaper and headed upstairs, falling asleep reading about the aqueduct.

  He was awakened by the clanking of the cow bell Eva kept by her bed, the signal to Maria, who slept at the end of the upstairs hallway. But Maria wasn’t there. Eddie couldn’t remember hearing the bell before on a Sunday night. He threw on his robe and headed down the hall. The grandfather clock on the landing said one o’clock. In her room, he picked the bell up and set it back on the night table. He didn’t like going into her bedroom, never had.

  His mother lay on her back, one arm dangling where she’d dropped the bell. Her eyes didn’t see him. Like her mother and her mother before, Eva had a bad heart, but out on her horses when she was younger you’d never know a thing was wrong. She’d lived her life as she wanted, always had. Seeing her like this, sickly, frail, covers pulled up to her neck, was bad. Parchment skin and china bones. It was the women’s damn Latin blood, not like the Mull men, tough stock bred on that desolate Scottish island. Hearts don’t give out on Mull, just hope.

  He picked up her arm and felt for a pulse, the faint throbs that tell us we’re still alive. He looked closely into eyes that seemed more annoyed than scared. “Mamá?” He thought he’d try Spanish, but she didn’t respond, just looked out with empty eyes, so maybe it wasn’t the heart. If it was, he should get her coughing, so he sat her up and told her to cough, but she didn’t. Or wouldn’t. Her medicines were on the night table, and he gave her two aspirins, which she managed to get down with his help. He knew he should get her down to the car but waited to see that she didn’t cough up the aspirins.

  The room was stuffy, unhealthy, and he crossed to open a window, standing there a while looking out into the blackness, thinking what to do. Not a light anywhere. Critters asleep, except maybe coyotes on the prowl. He couldn’t have said how long he stood there or why. The descent into frailty would only get worse, Doc Summers said. Eddie hated seeing her like this. She would go on having attacks until decrepitude was all that people remembered of her, not the woman she’d been.

  She slipped down in bed, and he propped her up again, so she could see the crucifix. Carry her down or get Tin Lizzie out first? The ride to the hospital past one o’clock on a dark dirt road would not be easy. He’d done it before but never at night. He was vaguely aware he was wasting time, not consciously aware, but aware somewhere. That’s what she always said about him: Eddie had six thoughts at once, all contradictory, not at all like Willie, his twin, focused on just one thing: Jesus. She’d always loved Willie more, everyone knew that, loved him almost as much as she loved Jesus.

  For twins
who shared the same egg, same sex, same genes, how could they be so different? That’s what everyone said.

  Strange that she couldn’t talk. Eva was always talking. No panic, no fear, no pain, though he couldn’t be sure of that. Frustration, yes, but also a kind of acceptance as though she’d passed through the pain stage or maybe just didn’t give a damn anymore and wanted the whole thing over. He stood watching her, fighting against what he seemed to be doing. Doc Summers said to make sure she stayed awake if it was the heart. But was she? He’d have to call him before they left for the hospital. He would not be happy. First had to find the number.

  Doc was waiting in the parking lot when they arrived. He looked in the car, felt for a pulse and shook his head. “You didn’t tell me it was anything like this, Eddie.” His hard voice cut through the cold night. “Your mother is dead. You didn’t let her lie down, did you? Lying down’s the worst thing for a heart attack. Get in there and get someone out here with a gurney. I’ll take care of Eva. Why the hell did you let her stay out there anyway?”

  Doc had known his mother forever, delivered her children. He knew she would never leave the ranch—unless it was this way.

  The hospital sign said emergency, but he didn’t see any lights and no one was coming out. He rang and rang again. Damn people were probably asleep. Why was he at the hospital anyway if she was dead? The morgue was the place, but wasn’t the morgue part of the hospital? He looked back to Doc Summers, who’d laid his mother out in the seat. It had taken too long to phone him. Couldn’t find the number at first. They hadn’t had a phone out at the ranch that long. He hadn’t said much, just that Eva had another attack and it looked different from the others. He was bringing her down.

  Back up the hill close to four o’clock. Total silence. They’d been five in this huge house, six counting Maria. And now only him. Sleep impossible. Coffee, then saddle up and head into the hills, wear himself out, mind and body. Find Celestino. Get through the day. Through the week. Tesoro without Eva. Strange feeling, not sadness, more like emptiness. Go back to town to wire Willie in his sordid little church in San Francisco. Telling his sister in Monterey would be easy. Lola never was close to Eva. Willie would cry. Since returning from his church mission in China he’d been down to the rancho a few times—brought little Calvin down to meet his granny. Over sherry and a game of chess, Willie put on his preacher’s smile and told his brother not to worry about Mamá. As children they’d spoken Spanish. He blessed her, prayed for her.

  Eddie sipped his coffee, felt the hot blackness jet into his bloodstream and waited for some hint of the sun coming up over the Gabilans. He felt queer in the silence, his mind jumping from Mamá to Doc Summers to the aqueduct, which despite everything still lingered. A snort from the stables broke the silence. Horse having a bad dream. He didn’t like riding in the dark. Fall out there in the hills and he’d be joining Mamá sooner than intended. Arrangements to be made, everything up to him. Of course.

  He supposed they’d blame him, just like Doc Summers had. Maybe he’d been slow, but who’s to say? Who’s to know? And wasn’t it better like this? Wasn’t that the point? Wouldn’t she say so herself? Better to go fast than sink into total senescence and orneriness. Eva Cullel Herzog Mull, dueña of Tesoro, the largest rancho in Monterey County, the woman with enough gold cups to fill the den, best damn horsewoman in Monterey County, maybe the state. She’d have beaten the men, too, if they’d have let her. He’d make damn sure he didn’t go like that when his time came.

  How could anyone reproach him with anything, anyway? He’d been there with her—theonly one. The others had gone off to make their lives. Now it was his turn.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The will was read the day after the funeral and couldn’t have been simpler: Tesoro, the huge Salinas rancho that had been in the family since Grandpa Otto Herzog of Monterey married Isabel Concepción Cullel, daughter of Admiral Jose Maria Cullel, of Barcelona, in the days when California still belonged to Mexico, was left to the Mull twins, Eddie and Willie. Eddie had no problem with that. Despite their differences, the twins had always been close. How could they not be? Lola got the deed to the house in Monterey as well as all the family silver, gold and jewelry and anything she wanted to take from Tesoro except the Spanish walnut chess set that had been the admiral’s gift to Grandpa Otto a century ago. Willie took that.

  Beyond the physical property there was just the checking account. Wes Samuels at Salinas National long had urged Eddie to get into bonds, trusts, indemnities, the things bankers love, but Eddie was a land man. If there were no other assets, neither was there encumbrance. When Tesoro was sold it would give full return on value, and Eddie had every intention of selling. Willie would argue, but Willie never understood business. Born a few minutes earlier, Eddie had always been the boss. Together they would find something new. He couldn’t let his brother go on preaching to bums in a former saloon on Turk Street. He’d been up to see it. Once was enough.

  He already knew the buyer. Claus Spreckels was a German who like Grandpa Otto ended up in Monterey and did all right for himself thanks to sugar beets. Spreckels had been trying to buy Tesoro ever since the death of Robert Mull, who’d come west from Pittsburgh in the 1850s looking for gold and found another kind of gold in Eva Herzog and Tesoro. Spreckels pestered Eva for years after Robert was thrown from a horse and landed on his head. She put up with it because she liked the old codger, who might have struck up something more personal if he hadn’t had a wife and thirteen children. When Spreckels heard Eva was gone, he sent condolences and came to the funeral, taking Eddie aside privately to commiserate.

  He offered stock in his businesses, but Eddie wanted cash. Negotiations dragged on, for both men knew the value of things, but eventually Eddie received $107,650 for the rancho, a fortune. Willie agreed to the sale when Eddie told him Eva’s last wish was that he should have a new church, which wasn’t true.

  They were drinking coffee at the kitchen table after packing up all day. Both men were exhausted. Little Cal, legs dangling, sat at one end of the table, staring from one to the other, still puzzled that two men could look so much alike.

  Willie wore a funny look.

  “Something bothering you?” asked Eddie.

  “Something Doc Summers said at the funeral.”

  “What did Doc Summers say?”

  “Didn’t quite catch the meaning—something about you and Mamá.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Didn’t understand . . .”

  Eddie glanced at the boy, whose stare bothered him. Cal had the blue eyes of his dead mother. “What didn’t you understand?”

  Willie shook his head. “Not important. I think he’d had a few.”

  They held each other’s gaze for a moment.

  Willie knew.

  No one in the family was too nostalgic about any of it except, surprisingly, little Cal, Willie’s motherless son born in China, named after John Calvin, a boy who’d visited Tesoro only twice but regarded it as the only permanent thing in his short and itinerant life. Cal was sent to live with Aunt Lola in Monterey while the brothers prepared to go forth and seek their fortunes. Eddie still thought it would be San Francisco, but the aqueduct was worth a look.

  Chapter 2

  Willie back on Turk, Cal in Monterey, the Spreckels’ check deposited at Salinas National, Eddie caught the overnight train to Los Angeles. Arriving at Arcade Depot, he was bustled along the Southern Pacific platform, out across Alameda onto Fifth Street. He’d been to San Francisco, full of opportunities since the earthquake but risky. When would the next one hit? Los Angeles had no bay and half the population of San Francisco, but vacant land in every direction. Suitcase in hand, he set out walking. The crowd carried him down Fifth, people rushing in every direction, trolleys clanging, horses clopping, carriages and motorcars coming at him as he crossed the street.

  Exhilarated, stiff from sitting
up all night, he stopped a moment to rest. A large, able, self-confident man, rustically imposing, he felt foreign in this Mexican town of stucco and plazas about which he knew nothing except that an aqueduct was on the way. He set down his suitcase and leaned against a building, just one more newcomer, no one paying him any mind. They didn’t know he had $107,650 in the bank. Thinking of the money, his mind flashed back to Salinas National Bank. Why, Willie had asked the manager, were they opening a joint account? Wes Samuels, who’d known the Mulls for decades but never before laid eyes on Willie, carefully explained, just as Eddie had told him to do.

  Ready to move on and see the city, Eddie picked up his suitcase and suddenly froze. He wasn’t sure at first, it was too strange. It wasn’t fatigue, wasn’t imagination. He wasn’t religious like Willie, didn’t believe in miracles, omens, things like that. Signs, now signs were another matter. Signs, if you knew how to read them, gave you an edge. Signs and water were a rancher’s best friends. Crazy as it was—and he never told anyone—he heard a voice. Leaning against that building on Fifth Street, he heard a voice say, “think of the water, Eddie,” heard it as clearly as the clang from the trolley down the street.

  He’d come here for a look, yes, but why choose a Mexican town on an empty plain ten miles inland from where it should have been built instead of the beautiful Golden Gate?

  “Think of the water, Eddie.”

  Eddie Mull knew about land and water. In Salinas, two plots of land not five miles apart could be fertile or barren depending on how the water came off the Gabilans. Gold made San Francisco, but the Sierra mines petered out. Water, clear cold water running off the Sierras into the Owens River and now on its way to Los Angeles would never run out. There would be water as long as there was snow, and there would be snow as long as there were mountains. All the mountains had to fear was fire.