I've mentioned, in my letters, the nurses who work here with Dr. Seagrave—some of them walked out of Burma with Stilwell. They are an amazing group, these women. Tough, kind, caring. In spite of the heat and the jungle rot and the terrible boredom of waiting. And of course they are women in a world of men, in a time of war. All the old rules are suspended, they have to be. Marriage and fidelity are ideas that exist in another place, not here, not for most of us, not for me. I have become friendly with a nurse. (Friendly. A euphemism.) A big-boned, blond girl called Sunny because she is that, who grew up on a farm in Georgia. She calls herself a Georgia cracker and she probably is one, but she gives me comfort, makes me laugh, she makes this place bearable. She knows I am married, that I am going to be a father, that whatever is between us is temporary. She knows it, but I am not certain that I do.
I have never loved anybody before Ch'ing-Ling. There had always been women, but never the time, it seemed, to become deeply involved. I know what you are thinking: Porter became deeply involved with issues, with causes, not with women. I suppose that is so. I know I loved Ch'ing-Ling, and I think I still do, but I won't know for certain how I feel until I return, and we have time together. I know from her letters that she is unhappy with the States, and I think it likely that she will want to return to China. I do not discount that as a possibility. It is just that, right now, all that seems so far away.
If you tell me to give up Sunny, I'll have to tell you that I can not and will not, not now (and perhaps not ever). If you tell me what I can do to make things as easy as possible on Ch'ing-Ling, I will do my best.
Thank you for inviting me to get this off my chest. I know you won't like it, will probably be upset as hell with me, but I needed to confide in somebody, and you always were the right one. I know that after Connor died there were men in your life, and I know that some of them you cared for with something more than a passing passion. I am counting on you to understand the complexities of this situation, the unknowns. I appreciate your going to so much trouble to set it up so that we can write to each other in confidence. Cover for me. You always have, haven't you? When do I get to do something for you? Merry Christmas anyway, Kitten.
Love,
Porter
18 January, 1943, Katherine Reade McCord to Porter Reade
San Francisco
Dear Porter,
The best laid plans do go awry, and mine certainly have. Your letter arrived yesterday and was delivered, according to plan to my house in Pacific Heights. As you know, I've turned it into a hostel for service wives for the duration but I check in regularly to pick up my mail. As fate would have it, Lucy was passing by yesterday and decided to do me a favor and pick up my mail. Since I wasn't at Sara's when she arrived, she simply left your letter and three others on the front hall table.
Yes. Ch'ing-Ling found your letter and the "confidential" on the envelope must have set off all sorts of alarms in her, because she opened and read it.
Dear God I'm sorry, Porter. I would give anything to undo what has been done. Ch'ing-Ling is in her room, where she has spent most of her time for the past two months, and she will not talk to any of us. Aunt Lena and Sara are wandering around the house looking worried. They know about the letter, but they do not know what was in it and I will not tell them unless you ask me to.
I don't know what to tell you to do. You are right, maybe there isn't anything to "do." If you can come back, I think you should. I have this awful urge to tell you to write to her and lie, tell her anything to give her hope. I have this letter going out with an Air Force acquaintance, so you should have it within a week. Please answer at once to tell me if there is anything at all that you can think of for us to do.
I am so awfully sorry, Porter. What a rotten thing to have happen, when you are trying to sort things out. I'm sticking close here, and I'll wrack my brain to do whatever I can.
Love,
Kit
16 February 1943, Liao Ch'ing-Ling to Porter Reade
San Francisco
Dear Porter,
The baby was born two days ago, a girl not boy, weighs seven pounds one ounce. I stay one month only, until the kind princess who watches over babies give a smile to this child then goes back to heaven. It is an old Chinese folk story about Songzi Niangniang and everyone still believes. Till now many babies die before they have one month birthday. If our child grows strong and healthy at one month we have good sign. I go then and leave her stay with old Aunts and Sister Kit.
I cannot take this child because I don't know where I go. Better she stay here, with good people take care of her. If not for them I never can go, my heart would break.
Our marriage was wrong, I know that. You dishonor me. For me, come to this country no good even before. I never can be happy here. I feel that now for many months. Aunts are good, Kit is good, but the voices harsh and English sounds hurt on my ears. I don't want to tell you, away at war, but now I cannot keep silent. It is no good. I leave, and you never can follow. I ask this.
I think sometimes of death. I think of just walk with baby into the ocean. I will not, do not worry for that. Better, I think, is what Hawaiians call "hanai." Giving baby to someone else who is good and wise. I hold baby close for one month, then give to Kit. Kit always asks me to stay, says, "Look at such beautiful daughter, stay with her." I tell her truly I never be happy here, and baby cannot be happy go with me. I tell Kit she is already my sister, now can be happy Mother, have happy child.
I go home to China. Do not follow. Good-bye.
No longer your wife,
Liao Ch'ing-Ling
15 March 1943, Lena Kerr to Porter Reade
San Francisco
Dear Son,
I have tried, dear, and so have Kit and Sara. We have pleaded with Ch'ing-Ling to wait until you can return, but she would not and we cannot force her to stay. Ch'ing-Ling is determined. She has made up her mind and nothing we say dissuades her. Kit has been frantic, even to considering blocking all paths for your wife's departure. Sara and I finally convinced her not to. Kit blames herself, but I feel certain when the pain of this difficult time has dimmed, we will all be able to think more clearly, and perhaps we will come to understand that Ch'ing-Ling did what she had to do to save herself. She was so very unhappy here, son. Even before your letter to Kit fell into her hands, she was brooding and troubled. We cannot know all that went into her decision.
Your daughter is so beautiful, Porter, such great black eyes that look up at you with such seriousness! And then she smiles, an utterly beautiful little smile. I have never seen such a captivating child, all pink and pretty and with a lovely shock of black hair.
I didn't think Ch'ing-Ling could possibly leave her, but she did. This morning, on a freighter that sailed for Chile. I did not help her make arrangements, but when I saw that she would go, no matter what, I made sure she had enough funds. It was the only thing I could do to try to make things easier for her, and I knew you would want me to help.
I am so very sorry, Porter. You know that darling Mei-jin will be well cared for until her father comes home. We take turns holding her. When I see Kit with her, I am reminded of myself when you and Kit were babies. We love your child, my grandchild, deeply, son. It is as if we have been given a sign that the world is, after all, a good place, a living place, with this small, wonderful girl child. Bless her and bless you. And bless dear Ch'ing-Ling, may she find peace wherever she goes, for all the days of her life.
My love,
Mother
May waited, pacing while the receptionist checked.
"Take elevator E to the penthouse," the girl finally said. "Mrs. McCord's executive assistant will meet you there."
Mrs. Emmons was waiting, smiling in the self-contained way she had always smiled, as if everything had been planned well in advance. "How nice to see you, May." She touched her lightly on the arm, guiding her down the thickly carpeted hall. "She's waiting for you in the little study off her office, where you won't be
disturbed. There's a private entrance here." She rapped once on the door, smiled encouragingly, whispered "Go on in," and left.
May put her hand on the doorknob, turned it, and the words began to batter: It doesn't matter, I don't care. She closed her eyes as she pushed open the door.
May's teeth began to chatter, her whole body to shiver. She stood, frozen. It was Kit who opened her arms, who moved to close the distance between them, until they clung together, holding hard.
FIVE
"WAKE UP, WAKE UP, Happy Birthday," Karin called out, laughing as May emerged from under her comforter, blinking. "You've got a big day ahead of you, let's get moving."
May groaned. "You sound like a drill sergeant," she mumbled, then, opening her eyes, added, "you're sprinkled in flour."
Karin laughed. "Look. Breakfast. In bed. Now! Can't you smell it?" She was carrying a breakfast tray on which was a single red rose in a cut-glass vase, an omelette, a brioche, Earl Grey tea in a flowered pot, and a funny Valentine with a silver-wrapped chocolate kiss. May propped herself up and read out loud: "Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet and not good for you but what the hell, have a kiss." She peeled the silver paper from the chocolate and popped it in her mouth, making a show of enjoying it.
They ate breakfast together, May in bed and Karin perched on a chair. The sun was streaming in the window, filtered through a cherry tree in bursting bloom.
"I can't get used to spring in February," Karin said, nibbling on a brioche.
"It isn't spring, it only looks like it and feels like it. There'll be more rain."
"But not today," Karin smiled.
"Not today," May agreed, throwing off the covers. "I have to meet Kit at the Bank of America at ten. I'm off to the shower."
May had to tug open the bathroom door; it gave suddenly and balloons came tumbling out, red, white, and pink, and the quivering harmonica strains of "Happy Birthday" sounded.
May looked at Karin. "Sam?"
As he came bounding up the stairs she turned and hit a balloon at him, hard, and in a few minutes they were all swatting at the balloons, hitting them at each other, both hands flying and balloons bouncing every way.
"Wait, wait," Karin finally called out, breathless, "you haven't seen the best part," and led May into the bathroom, saying, "Look up."
On the ceiling was a mural painted in bright blues and pinks, of May and Karin suspended in clouds, costumed in ethereal Greek gowns and angel wings, staring down from the heavens, each wearing a Mona Lisa smile.
"Oh my God," May gasped, and then, looking at Sam as if she couldn't quite believe it, "That is very funny. But it wasn't there yesterday—was it?" She answered herself, thinking out loud: "I wasn't here yesterday—and it was locked last night, I thought that was strange, but when did you do it?"
"If you look hard," he said, ignoring her question so he would not have to admit the amount of work it had required, or the lengths to which he had gone, "you can see where it says 'Happy Birthday, May' on your lyre."
She threw her arms around him. "Thank you, Sam. That is absolutely the most extraordinary birthday present I've ever had, and I'll cherish it forever."
"Or at least as long as you live here," Sam came back, more pleased than he wanted to show.
"Phinney's got to see this," May said to Karin, "He will go absolutely wild, won't he? I can't wait for them to come out now."
Karin glanced at Sam conspiratorially.
Kit was waiting in a private lounge in the Bank of America's Trust Department. "Happy Birthday, dear," she said as May hugged her, adding, "and Happy Valentine's Day, too." She handed her a box wrapped in silk paper.
"What's this?" May said, as they sat down together, and she started opening the package, "I've been getting surprises all morning. I love it."
Inside was a blue velvet box, not new, the velvet matted from use. "Oh Kit," May said with a sharp intake of breath, staring at the strand of perfectly matched pearls, and grasping her hand.
Kit squeezed back. "This was the first gift my husband ever gave me. I wore them all the time when he was with me, and I was always happy when I wore them. I hope they'll work their magic for you." She attempted a wry smile, bent her head toward May's, and added, "I always meant for you to have them."
"Are we ready, Mrs. McCord?" a tall, balding man interrupted.
"Are we ready, Miss Reade?" Kit repeated, smiling at May.
"I'm not sure," May laughed, but it wasn't true. She did feel sure, and she knew it was because of Kit, that it had always been because of Kit. She wondered, as she settled into a leather armchair, when she would find the words to tell her.
At 12:25 precisely, Kit interrupted the president of the Bank of America to say they had to be on their way, and when he continued to talk on, about the Hunt holdings which May would now control. Kit simply stood and reached to shake hands with him and said goodbye, nicely but firmly. May followed Kit, trying not to laugh.
"What a windbag," Kit exploded when they were alone. "No matter how many assets the two of us represent—and that is more than any other two people in this city, take my word—that man still thinks we 'ladies,' as he kept calling us, should be delighted to listen to his palaver . . ."
At that May burst out, "You're wonderful. I've never seen you in action before. I'm beginning to think that being rich and powerful might even be fun."
Kit grew serious then. "Not really, May. It probably hasn't quite registered yet, how much wealth you control, and the burden of it. When it does you will probably feel scared. It frightens me, sometimes."
"I'm glad you're here to help me," May said solemnly.
"So am I," Kit answered. "Now let's get some lunch."
"You buying?" May asked.
"You're the lady with all the money," Kit came back, and they laughed together, like old friends.
The maitre d' at the Metropolitan Club had been watching for them, saw them leave the elevator, and made a quick motion to one of the waiters.
"Mrs. McCord," he greeted them buoyantly, "and Miss Reade. Happy Valentine's Day to you. A beautiful day, no?"
"A lovely day, yes," Kit answered, pushing May ahead of her. "Lead on, Charles."
Afternoon light streamed into the big room, glancing off the marble pillars and bathing the tables and diners in a hushed pastel glow. May concentrated on following Charles, so she was nearly at the table before she looked up.
She stopped short and stared. "Emilie! Phinney! Annie and Amos! Aunt Faith and Emilie—you knew this all along!"
"Happy Birthday," Annie and Amos called out, too loud in the restrained setting.
"What a wonderful surprise," May said, shaking her head as if she couldn't believe it. "Look at you, just look at all of you. Here. What a wonderful, wonderful birthday present."
She moved around the table, kissing each in turn, flushed with excitement.
"I could hardly stand it this morning," Karin said, "When you said, 'Phinney has to see this' . . ."
"Shhh," May came back, "Not one hint, and be careful—Phinney's awful about wheedling secrets out of you."
Talk swelled and flowered and spilled out over those seated at the large round table, talk about other birthdays and other surprises and all the things a family remembers when it gathers. May sat between Emilie and Amos—happy, animated, excited.
In a lull in the conversation Annie piped up to ask, "Is it correct to call you an 'heiress' now?" And Amos quickly added, in a voice in the process of change, "How rich are you, May?"
"Pretty rich," May answered, wrinkling her nose.
Emilie broke in, speaking just loud enough for those at the table to hear: "This is kind of a family secret, Amos," she said. "If everybody finds out that May has inherited the Hunt estate, then people will bother her."
Amos turned to May, clearly disappointed. "You mean we can't tell anybody you're rich?"
Annie broke in, exasperated, "Everybody knows it's déclassé to flaunt wealth. And it's even worse to
ask somebody how rich they are."
"Déclassé," Phinney put in, winking at Amos, "pretty good, Annie. I like that. Déclassé."
Before Annie's feathers could get ruffled, May tapped gently on a glass, sending a small crystal echo over the table.
"I have something to say," she announced. "I know it probably is not in very good taste," she began, smiling at Annie, "but I admit to having come into a nice little slice of the Gross National Product today . . . no no no, no applause," she joked, "and I hope you will all bear with me while I do something we can all agree, at the outset, is . . . well . . . self-indulgent." She cleared her throat. "What I want to do, and what I want all of you to let me do, is to give each of you a present. Please, hear me out before you say anything. I've thought it all out very carefully, and none of the gifts is lavish . . . I'm not going to throw money at any of you, I promise. Okay?"
"You're not?" Phinney said, feigning disappointment. May grinned at him and went on, clearly nervous: "Okay. I'll start with the twins. First of all," she said, "Tickets to the next Rolling Stones concert." Amos sat up very straight and Annie clapped her hand over her mouth. "Also," May went quickly on, "an education fund so you can go wherever you want to go to college."
"Great jumping gold frogs!" Annie squealed, all thoughts of decorum vanished. When the laughter calmed Amos spoke up. "But when are the Stones coming to this country?"
"Who said anything about 'this country'?" May asked, rubbing his arm.
"Next," she went on, "Phinney and Em. I want to give you a tour of Europe—but no backpacks and no hostels. This is going to be a first-class tour all the way. Kit and I will be your travel agents. We'll arrange everything. All you have to do is get Mr. Ambergen to take over the store for you."
"Aunt Faith, you're next," she went on quickly. "You were also the hardest person on my list. However, I have arranged for a special service—a van with a wheelchair lift. The driver will take you anywhere you wish, all you have to do is give them an hour's notice. So you can go anywhere you want, whenever you want. Karin also gets wheels. No, just listen," she said, as Karin started to protest. "Nothing flashy. Just a nice little Volkswagen bug. Yellow. Your color. I thought you needed something safer than your bicycle, especially when you come home late nights from your new waitressing job."
Gift of the Golden Mountain Page 8
