Gift of the Golden Mountain

by Shirley Streshinsky

  "The Africans were amazingly patient with us . . . with me, particularly, because I managed to get sick enough to require being shipped out for treatment. Africans who get the same vicious amoebic critter swimming around in their bloodstreams aren't nearly as lucky. But then, they weren't members of the shining generation." The self-mockery in his voice made her want to touch him but she did not.

  "I'm talking too much," he said.

  She answered, "I'm listening. What happened after Africa?"

  "Are you sure you want to hear this?" he asked, and when she said yes, he waited awhile, as if trying to decide. "Okay, I'll give you the abbreviated version. I went south after that. It seemed straightforward enough—voter registration. I could measure my effectiveness through the numbers of people I signed up to vote. In the end, those results were mixed, too."

  "When the black civil rights workers decided to go it alone?" she asked, and he nodded.

  "That brings us up to date—Berkeley and the antiwar movement."

  "And Robert Kennedy."

  He said nothing for a time. A silence settled on them. The light from the standard reached them obliquely. It seemed to May that they existed in a shadow world that was separate, closed off. He sat forward. She wanted to put her hand, palm down, to feel the small of his back through the rough wool of his sweater, but she stifled the urge.

  It was Hayes who broke the silence: "I spent a day in the library reading about your father," he began.

  "Why?" she asked, puzzled.

  "Because I knew his name—old lefties and new radicals still speak of him in hushed tones—but I never really knew much about him, what he'd done. And I thought knowing something about him might tell me something about you."

  She waited.

  "He seemed to know, your father I mean—what he was doing, what his place in the world was. I have been trying to make some sense of it all—where I've been, what it's all about. My batting average isn't terrific. I've been blundering around, trying to figure out some reasonable way with nothing much working."

  He shifted to face her, allowing his hand to rest on the back of the bench almost, but not quite, touching her shoulder. He tried to shift the subject, tried to get her to talk about her father, her own past, but she could answer only superficially. She did not want to talk about herself, she wanted to talk about them.

  As if reading her mind he said, quietly, "I'm a little bit afraid of you, May Reade."

  She looked at him, incredulous. "Why?"

  "Why?" he repeated, laughing a little, trying to shrug it off. "Because you are formidable. Because you're Porter Reade's kid. Because . . ." He stood, ready to go, to end the talk, end the evening. She remained seated on the bench, staring up at him.

  "Why?" she repeated, standing abruptly so that she almost bumped into him. Without thinking, she lifted her face and kissed him, pressing her lips lightly against his at first, until he put his arms around her and pulled her in, holding her to him for a long, hard moment.

  "That's why," he said, as if short of breath.

  Lying in bed, playing the memory one more time, it occurred to her that they had never gotten around to talking about Sam.

  May insisted they take the Jaguar and that Sam drive so she could sleep on the way to his parents' house. She could tell by the way he caressed the wood paneling he was pleased. She put the seat back as far as she could, and dozed off to the Beatles singing "Nowhere Man."

  Sam's parents had been listening for the car because his mother came out to meet them, smiling and laughing. His father stood on the small porch of the bungalow, as if not quite certain where he should be, but smiling too. May took the rosebush they had brought as a gift. He said "Thank you, thank you," and fondled the leaves with a gnarled old hand.

  "It's a 'Sutter's Gold,' Pop," Sam told him, "yellows, shaded oranges."

  "I see," the old man said, then smiling shyly he looked at May and added, "and here we have R. chinensis." Mrs. Nakamura burst into laughter and explained: "That's the Latin for the old-fashioned China Rose, my dear—the source for all the very best roses—and you must take it as a compliment." Her enthusiasm washed over them all. She seated them in her immaculate little parlor, where a table had been laid with a dozen dishes of sweets and an elaborate tea service which, May guessed, was used only on special occasions.

  "What a beautiful tea set," Karin said.

  "It was in my husband's family for very long time, his father's grandfather, and before that even . . ." Sam's mother explained, pouring from the old pot with its panoply of willow trees and birds. "When the war came, and we had to leave everything, you know, had to sell in two days, that was all, we could only take what we could carry, no more, and we had to leave Father's tea set." She laughed then, as if embarrassed at introducing such a serious note.

  Karin noticed the frown that flickered across Sam's face, but May did not so it was she who asked, "How did you get it back?"

  Mrs. Nakamura finished the story she had started to tell: "After the war, the lady I work for, Mrs. Diehl, she did it. She went to our farm, and found out where those people sold our things, and she kept looking and looking and finally she found it, in an antique place up in San Francisco. I wanted to pay her for it, but she said no, it had to be an anniversary present. It was the best present, wasn't it Minoru?" We all glanced at her husband, who only nodded, then she went on, "We never knew how much she had to pay, so I can't tell you how much it's worth."

  Sam sat nibbling on almond cookies, one arm looped over his father's chair so that his hand just touched the old man's shoulder. The men listened to the women talk; May had settled in a rocking chair and the gentle motion, combined with the hot tea and Mrs. Nakamura's easy laughter, made her feel glad she had come. It was the same for Karin, May could tell from the soft set of her mouth, the ease with which she moved to hold her teacup under the spout of the beautiful old pot. What they had envisioned as an onerous chore was turning out to be a lovely afternoon. May looked at Sam, his arm placed protectively on the back of his father's chair, and was struck by the exquisite lines of his profile, by the blue-black gleam of his clean, clean hair. He was wonderful looking, she thought, especially here, in his home with his mother fussing over us all and laughing with pleasure and his father rocking and smiling.

  Had the visit ended at that moment, with the sweet taste of almond cookies and green tea lingering, they might have made their way north again, over the Bay Bridge in the late afternoon haze, feeling warm and good together.

  Sam's mother sounded the first disturbing note when she told him, "Andy is home. He will be leaving in a few days for Vietnam. I thought you would want to see him before he leaves, so I've asked him to come by this afternoon." When Sam said nothing, his mother turned to them and went on, as if she did not notice. "Andy is the son of the lady I work for. He and Sam practically grew up together . . . when they were little boys they were great friends," she said to May and Karin, "they did everything together—fish, swim . . ."

  "In the Diehls' pool," Sam cut in.

  "Yes," his mother agreed, sensing his displeasure.

  "It's getting late," Sam told her, rising, "and May has a paper to write so we have to get going."

  "Yes, I understand," she said, her eyes lowered to absorb the rebuke, and May thought perhaps she did understand.

  But it was too late; at that moment a car pulled up, skidding to a stop in the graveled driveway. "Mama Miyo," a voice called out, and Sam's mother could not help herself, her face filled with light.

  "It's Andy, Father. And look—Hayes, Hayes too. Son," she said, turning to Sam, her eyes pleading.

  "A party," Andy Diehl said, sweeping Sam's mother into the crook of his arm, "You are having a tea party, Miyo mother, and you didn't invite me." She could not help herself, she laughed.

  "Yes I did," she corrected him, knowing he was teasing, but unable to help herself, "I told your momma that Sam and the young ladies were coming, and you should all have tea . . ."


  "Sam, dammit," Andy said, releasing the mother to grab the son around the neck. "Introduce us to your young ladies." His eyes had been scanning them, and now he gave May and Karin his full attention.

  Introductions were stumbled through. Hayes met May's glance and grinned, but said nothing. No one seemed quite to know what to do. She and Karin waited for a signal from Sam, but he made no move to leave. It seemed to May that everyone in the room was ill at ease, with the exception of Andy Diehl, and she knew instinctively that Andy Diehl was never uncomfortable in a crowd.

  Andy was the original fair-haired boy, she thought, all charm and glib talk. He was not so tall as his brother, but he was more powerfully built and better looking in an uncomplicated, blond way.

  It was Hayes who spoke up. "We can't stay, Miyo—Andy has a lot of people to say goodbye to, we've got to be off."

  "There's time for a cup of tea," Andy came back, settling next to the tea table, carefully choosing a candied lychee and eating it, deliberately. "Miyo's tea parties are world class," he said. "You even hear about them in Saigon. Come back, sit down," he laughed. As if playing out some sleepwalking game of musical chairs, the rest of them found places to sit, with Andy in the center.

  He directed the talk as he might have directed an orchestra, pointing the baton first at one to perform, then another, but his eyes kept returning to Karin. They flickered over her, exploring her breasts under the peasant blouse she was wearing.

  "I'm going back to the wars tomorrow, Sam. To Vietnam," he said, almost singing the syllables. "Why don't you come along, keep me company, have some fun."

  "Some fun," Sam came back. "You think you're playing war again. I always knew you were crazy, Andy, but I didn't think you were stupid."

  Sam's mother frowned, then looked confused and relieved when Andy smiled his big, charming bad boy smile. "You are right, brother Sam," he said, "absolutely and totally right, just like brother Hayes here, but it's the only show in town, isn't it?"

  Andy looked at Karin again and suddenly May felt afraid, she didn't know why. She wanted to step in front of Karin, to shield her, but it was Hayes who moved between them, saying "Time to go pal," to his brother.

  Goodbyes were ragged, disjointed. Sam's parents stayed on the porch, in the shelter of their tiny home.

  "Whose Jag?" Andy asked in what they all knew was the opening salvo.

  May returned his fire firmly. "Sam is driving his two young ladies home to Berkeley."

  "No, no . . . listen," Andy came back, "we all have to eat, even Sam, right Sam? And when will we ever have the chance to be together again, think of that. I'm going off to war, Sam!" He was laughing at himself. Karin was the first to smile.

  "Look," Andy went on, "I know you're all part of Hayes's gang—and you want to end the war and bring all us boys home. But some of us are being shipped out anyway, surely you won't hold that against us? And how about a little patriotic, Stagedoor Canteen action?"

  Hayes sighed and shook his head as if he'd played out this scene before.

  "Come on Sam," Andy pretended to plead, "I'm not asking you to sing Yankee Doodle Dandy, just to have a little last supper with me. At Rosie's. Hayes, Sam, tell the ladies about Rosie's. The best to eat, the very best. Terrific enchiladas. Terrific quesadillas, absolutely fantastic margaritas." The words were rolling off his tongue, smart and smooth and mesmerizing. "Look, we'll meet you in town. Hayes, you go with Sam and May, in that By God riotous green Jaguar. I'll take Karin . . . we're off—let's go, troops. To the ramparts!"

  His hand was on Karin's elbow and he was guiding her toward a two-seater Triumph.

  She looked back at them, smiling. "Come on, May . . . Sam . . ." she said. "Just for . . ."

  "Wait!" May called after her. "I can't go anywhere except home. I've got a paper to finish." She turned toward Hayes and managed to keep her voice firm when she said, "So it's time to say so long and good luck." It wasn't clear who she was talking to.

  Karin stopped, and for the first time in a very long time May did not know what she was thinking.

  Andy moved into the hesitation. He took possession by putting his arm on Karin's shoulder. "Meet us at Rosie's," he called back.

  She watched them climb into the sports car. A small explosion of dust marked their departure.

  Sam climbed into the driver's seat of the Jaguar as if he belonged there. They gave Hayes a ride to his parents' home, down a country road lined with great blooming bushes of oleander, red and white and pink. Sam drove fast and said nothing at all.

  May was tired and confused and exasperated. For a time they rode in silence. Then Sam blurted angrily, "You never know what the hell that brother of yours is going to do."

  Sam pulled up in front of a large, rambling house hidden behind a phalanx of oak trees. As Hayes climbed out of the car, she asked, "Will he get her home all right?"

  "I'll catch up to them," he answered, patting the back of her seat.

  May felt better then. She would have liked to talk to Sam, to ask him about his parents and about the Diehl family, but she could tell by the set of his mouth that he did not want to talk. Instead, he threaded his way through the familiar streets of the town where he had grown up with the Diehl boys, driving too fast but handling the car expertly, using its speed and its power, until he swung onto the ramp that led to the Bayshore Freeway.

  Sam negotiated the loop in a single, long swift motion and merged into traffic at top speed, moving between two cars with no space to spare.

  It was five o'clock, and the Sunday drivers were moving sluggishly back into the city. Sam began to wind his way through the lanes, moving two, three at a time, slipping into spaces, then pulling out again in one long, fluid motion. He was dancing up the freeway, feeling the throb and pulse of the engine, responding with sure, swift moves. He did not brake, not once; speed was imperative, speed and the rush of the wind through his open window. He played the car, played the traffic, letting the Jaguar full out.

  She wanted to ask him to stop, to slow down, to pull off the freeway and let her drive. She did not ask because she was afraid to break his concentration, afraid that one spoken word could send them careening out of control into the back of a truck, over the edge of the freeway to burst into flames. Instead she concentrated, made the decisions with him, and it was not until they turned off at the University Avenue exit that she became aware of the cuts her fingernails had left in the palms of her hand.

  May was still typing when Karin slipped in at two in the morning. She went directly to bed without saying anything, and was still sleeping when May left at nine the next morning.

  At dinnertime May found her standing at the stove, methodically breaking apart a block of frozen peas and dropping the pieces into a pot of boiling water. She was wearing jeans and a faded flannel shirt left behind by some boyfriend.

  "What happened last night?" May asked.

  Karin shrugged without turning around.

  "Did you have a great time seeing Andy off to the wars?" May persisted, an edge of sarcasm in her voice. Karin did not answer.

  May waited for a while, caught between anger and concern. "How did you get home?" she finally asked.

  "Hayes drove me," Karin answered in a small voice, feeding another small block of peas to the water.

  "What about Andy?" May prompted. She had by now glimpsed the dark circles under Karin's eyes, and concern overtook the anger.

  "He got drunk," Karin told her, dropping the last of the peas into the water and lifting the cold tips of her fingers to her eyelids in a gesture that was, May thought, at once both brave and terribly sad.

  The kind of silence that cannot be broken began to grow between them; Karin could not talk.

  The lethargy set in on Tuesday. Karin had work to do but she could not bring herself to begin. She went to a lecture on Hieronymus Bosch and the fifteenth-century Dutch painters but she might as well not have, for all that she heard. On Wednesday she could scarcely get out of bed, and when
she did she stood looking at the pile of clothes on the floor, trying to decide what to put on.

  May found her there. "I can't believe this." She tried to hide her alarm by joking, "Miss Neat has finally succumbed to filing her clothes on the floor like the rest of us." When Karin did not answer, May said, gently, "K, it's obvious you are both distressed and depressed. I think it has to do with whatever happened last Sunday night, with Hayes's brother. Can we talk about it?"

  "I can't," Karin said in a small, miserable voice.

  That week May did what work she could do at home to be close to Karin. Sam had made himself scarce. He mowed the lawn and mended a fence on Wednesday, but made no move to come into the house. On Thursday he came to the door to tell her he would be in San Francisco for a few days. "Photographing hippies," he said, "around the Haight-Ashbury." May was relieved.

  "My mother made me a dress out of material like this," Karin said, fingering the yellow and orange flowered voile in her lap.

  May had been lying on her stomach on the living room floor, reading, but now she turned on her side and looked at Karin, sitting primly on the sofa. "Are you going to make that dress today after all?" she asked carefully.

  Karin went on, as if she had not heard, "Mother used to starch it very stiff, and iron it just right so that I could wear it to Sunday school. It had a ribbon for a belt, a green ribbon that matched the leaves on the flowers." She ran her fingers over the material as she talked, and May saw that her nails were bitten below the quick and had been bleeding.

  "There was some material left over," Karin went on, "and she made a little collar for herself, to go on one of the brown dresses she always wore. Housedresses, they called them. Cotton and starched, too. But he wouldn't let her wear it, he said it was too frivolous for a grown woman, so she had to take the collar off."

  May looked searchingly at Karin. Finally she said, "That's the most you've ever told me about your mother and father."