Gift of the Golden Mountain

by Shirley Streshinsky

  "It was so strange, hearing her version of what happened all those years ago. She was not at all easy on herself, there was no trace of self-pity. I think that is what affected me so, that still lovely woman reciting hardships that were beyond belief, yet not expecting any sympathy. Her life has been so sad, so filled with failed choices. She made me understand that she did not leave me by choice, but by necessity. Poor woman, poor mother. And once I felt that surge of sorrow—for her, not for myself—I knew it was settled in me.

  "Before I left that morning she made gruel and tea for us and said, 'We will take it in the garden.' In the back of her little clinic was a small walled garden, and in it was a mimosa tree. I could not believe my eyes when I saw it, I have dreamed so often of my mother sitting under a mimosa that I actually wondered if I might be hallucinating. To prove it really was there I broke off some leaves and put them in my pocket, and now I am tucking them in the pages of this journal."

  I touched the small spray of dried mimosa leaves and smiled to myself, thinking of May. We leave day after tomorrow for her wedding, "we" being Annie and me, Kit, Phinney, Emilie and Amos, the Diehls, Mrs. Nakamura. And Israel. May remembered that Israel is an ordained minister, and asked him to perform the ceremony, bless her. These past months Israel has been what he calls "poorly," he has lost a great deal of weight but his voice can still rise to great lofty, ringing-from-the-rafters heights. He tells me he is going to tie that righteous knot so everlastingly tight they will never be able to undo it, and I believe him, I do. Annie is at his place righ now, helping him pack. She is the only one he will accept help from . . . Em couldn't believe it, when I told her. But then, Emilie was convinced it wouldn't work—my asking Annie to come live with me for a while, to help out.

  Kit has chartered a plane, a good idea in view of the sheer quantity of things we are taking.

  The sweet, celebratory scent of carnations and roses and star jasmine is in the air—my garden is bountiful this year—and I have this peculiar sense that the curtain is about to rise, the show is about to begin.

  That is foolish, of course. The show has been going on fulltilt for several months, it's just that all the action has been off my stage. I've been sitting here, in my old sunlit cottage, petting the cat and hearing about all the momentous events secondhand.

  Kit spends most of her time across town at Children's Hospital, where Philip has been moved to give him better access to the rehabilitation teams at the University of California medical school. Kit and Karin decided that Philip should not know about Thea's setback two months ago, when she had to spend several days in the hospital after a misadventure with drugs. The child seems to be fine now, but she hasn't wanted Karin to leave her, not even for a short visit to the mainland.

  My last conversation with Karin was notable not so much for what she said, as for an echoing kind of sadness I could hear in her voice. I could not tell her that Kit had confided to me that Philip was relieved she would not be coming to the mainland, that he is filled with a kind of self-recrimination about Karin. He knows how miserable his accident has made her life, he says, but he hasn't the energy to try to sort out what he should do about it. He acknowledges, too, that he needs her to care for Thea and to maintain touch with Dan.

  Philip is in a wheelchair and he is beginning to make sounds that approximate words. When Annie finally talked Israel into letting her take the van and me out solo, our first outing was to the hospital to see Philip.

  I was flabbergasted. Now that he can manage a small smile, he looks more like . . . Philip. His old self. Oh, a bit older, I admit. His hair is very much grayer. (Annie thinks he used to dye it.) Kit has had many of his books brought over from the house, and his desk and a lovely old walnut tea table, so it looks more like a study than a hospital room. We had tea together, Earl Grey served from an antique Queen Anne service he acquired in England some years back. Kit poured.

  "Faith," Annie hollers from the bathroom (we have been on a first-name basis since she was three), "could you wheel on in here and hand me the shampoo? I got into the shower without it."

  I wheel on in, I hand her the shampoo, she rewards me by flicking me with a fingertip spray of water.

  "Incorrigible," I tell her.

  "Just like me darlin' old grand-mum," she comes back, gurgling with laughter, spraying water every which way.

  Emilie had told me I would be sorry, that Annie moves in and makes a place her own, scatters her belongings like leaves in the autumn, turns the volume up full blast, is bossy and loud and generally obstreperous.

  It is true, Annie's like that. But I am not sorry. From the day she walked in, heaved her giant duffle bag in the corner and shouted, "She has arrived,"I have not been sorry. She is a tall girl, and solid, with masses of red hair which is curly to begin with, and with a permanent is electric curly. That's what you notice first: This great aureole of red hair, glowing in the light. Then the tattered jeans and cowboy boots with rundown heels, the wrinkled denim shirts embroidered with sunflowers, and the orange suede jacket, fringed all over, bought for five dollars cash from some down-and-out country singer.

  My granddaughter, who is twenty-one now, walks into my cottage emitting sparks . . . electrons . . . pure energy. The air all but crackles, the music begins, she laughs a big, bubbling laugh, and I know I am alive.

  I needed Annie, and I think she needs me, too.

  The "updated plan" (Annie's label) is for her to enter San Francisco State's theater program in September.

  But first, Hawaii and the wedding.

  FMG: Notes, Reade family file, box 16

  On Thursday, June 7, in this good year of our Lord 1973, Hayes and May, Karin and Thea were waiting for us on the tarmac of little K'eahole Airport. Those marvelous soft Hawaiian tradewinds tossed us together in one big tangle of arms and embraces, ruffling our hair as Thea and Karin lifted flower leis over our heads and kissed us on both cheeks, island fashion, in a wash of fragrance.

  Hayes stood, looking for all the world like the young Charles Lindbergh, the hero of my youth, except not quite so bashful, not quite so shy. And May, holding tight to his hand, looked as all brides should look—radiant. Hayes bent to kiss Mrs. Nakamura on the cheek as May looped her arm through Israel's and whispered something that made him fight to keep the tears from his eyes. (He cries so easily these days.)

  I was moved almost to tears myself when I saw Kit take Karin's face between her hands, and the two women came together with an affection made stronger by adversity. I watched Amos, very much the college man, lose no time moving around the periphery of our group to speak to Thea, and I watched the lights go on in her face when she saw my grandson again.

  "Round 'em up," Phinney shouted.

  "Move 'em out," Annie bellowed, and our wagon train started on down the road.

  Friday morning, June 8

  I am staying with Abigail in her little house. We rise early, she and I, before any of the others are up, and have our coffee at the picnic table under the kiawe tree.

  "Have you brought him home to die?" she asked me.

  I could not speak, so I nodded.

  "Does he know?" she asked.

  "He knows," I was able to say, "but he doesn't want the others to know, not until after the wedding."

  "Israel," she said, "the promised land."

  "To Israel," I said, "this is the promised land."

  "And so it is," she answered me, "and so you will stay with him here, until God calls him."

  Friday afternoon, June 8

  May is to wear Hayes's mother's wedding dress. It is ivory satin and cut in the style of the thirties, on the bias, soft and clinging. Marylee Diehl is beside herself with pleasure. She walks around the house, bourbon and soda in hand, calls everyone "hon," has an opinion on everything, is terribly anxious to please. She talks about everything, that is, except her other son. That pain lodges within her, inconsolable.

  Hayes's father will be his best man, in Andy's place. There has been a refr
eshing minimum of planning for this wedding. May and Hayes are taking the attitude that everything will fall into place without a lot of fuss. The wedding is to be at four o'clock—the minister of the little country church asked only that we close the door when we leave. Two of Abigail's daughters asked if they could decorate the church and May said, "That will be wonderful." Kimo and Clarence are preparing the pit for the kalua pig right now. Israel is with them, talking and laughing and hanging on to a beer bottle, just as if he could still drink.

  Hayes and his father have gone with Kimo into Kailua to meet the fishing fleet and buy ono and mahi mahi and several other kinds of fish for dinner tonight, and the luau tomorrow. Thea and Amos volunteered to drive to the other side of the island to buy fresh vegetables—a good excuse to be off together, though when I mentioned this to Emilie she told me I was imagining things. Annie and Karin are attempting to bake a wedding cake. Annie found a picture of a spectacular-looking marzipan cake in a magazine and insisted it should be her contribution to the wedding effort. Never mind that she has never baked anything in her life. Emilie took one look at the picture in the book and the three pages of directions, threw up her hands, and joined May and Kit and Marylee, who were starting out on a hike that will take them along the old trail that follows the sea.

  Now I am going to pull back the beautiful red and white quilt that covers the narrow bed in my little room in Abigail's house and take a nap. I tell you, it is wonderful—knowing they are all here, moving and milling about, those I love most in the world, and that they will be here when I wake.

  Saturday, June 9

  She came down the aisle on Phinney's arm, her face lifted, luminous with light and love. She smiled at Hayes all the way, and we smiled back, all of us, in love with her and their happiness.

  Israel's face, gaunt and gray, became beatific; his voice rose, gained momentum until it resonated to the rafters and carried out the high windows to the ocean beyond, great moving tones that echoed his Baptist childhood, the wonderful words of the King James Version of the Bible.

  "We gather today in the sight of God . . ."

  "I do," Hayes answered, firmly.

  "I do," May sang out with perfect clarity.

  And then the joyous release of the processional and we were all outside, circling the newlyweds. I looked at May, tucked inside Hayes's arm, her head turned for a moment into his shoulder, and prayed a short prayer that Porter and Sara and Lena be watching us this day.

  Sunday, June 10

  May and Hayes left last evening to catch a midnight flight for New York, then on to honeymoon at Kit's place in the south of France. Kit left this morning, after an early breakfast with Karin. They sat, their elbows propped on one of the long tables set up for the luau, and spoke in low, urgent tones that did not carry. Kit looked into her coffee cup and nodded; Karin lifted her hands and asked a question Kit could not answer.

  Thea starts summer school classes tomorrow, so she and Karin will be leaving tonight. Amos was going to spend a couple of days with us here—he had been keen to explore Volcanoes National Park—but he and Annie have decided to go over to Honolulu with Karin and Thea to sample the night life. Amos talked Annie into going. Em is sure it was the other way around. She does not want to see how smitten her son is with Thea.

  In another week everybody will be gone, except for Israel and Annie and me. We are here, as Annie says, "for as long as God says." I am beginning to see of what firm stuff my granddaughter is made.

  TWENTY-NINE

  HAYES COUGHED.

  "Are you catching cold?" May asked.

  "Would I catch cold on our honeymoon?" he laughed, pulling her to him to kiss her, keeping one eye on the road.

  "Let's get there fast and go straight to bed, just in case," she teased.

  "Good idea," he answered, moving his hand up the cool flesh of her thighs.

  They arrived at Kit's house in St. Paul-du-Vence in midaftemoon, but they did not go directly to bed. The housekeeper was waiting for them, there was information to be exchanged, directions to give. They would not require a cook, they would not require a maid. Madame Reneaux understood perfectly.

  "The French do understand," May said as she undressed.

  "How do you know that?" Hayes answered, helping to remove her underpants.

  "No time for explanations," she said, pulling him into bed with her. "I can't wait."

  She nuzzled her head into the crook of his neck and asked, "Who would know to send a wedding gift here?"

  "Umm," he answered, drowsing.

  "Madame Reneaux said it arrived yesterday. The package in the front hall. Who would know to send it here?"

  "Umm," he muttered again, so she would know he was listening even if his eyes were closed.

  "I think I have to go see," she told him, sitting up.

  "Curiosity killed the cat," he answered, pulling her back on top of him, his hand pressing her into him so she could feel him rising.

  She giggled.

  "You laugh," he said, moving into her, "I've got me a wife and I plan to love her."

  They moved into the rhythm with fresh energy, as if they hadn't made love a few minutes before, as if it were the first time, looking into each other's eyes, she arching over him so he could cup her breasts in his hands.

  When she woke he was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding an object in his hand for her to see, and his eyes were grave.

  "What is it?" she asked, pushing away the tangle of her hair.

  "A totem. An African family tree, this one is carved from a solid piece of mahogany—an exceptionally fine piece of native art. It's called the Tree of Life."

  "Eli?" she said.

  He read the card: "Glad you moved off the bench, brother. Love to your bride. Want to see you both."

  "How did he know?" she asked, smiling and wondering why Hayes wasn't.

  "I suppose he figured it out, from my note."

  "I didn't know you kept in touch."

  "I didn't want you to know. The less you know the better, in fact."

  "You know that won't work, not with Eli," she came back, annoyed. "We went through all that."

  "I deposit money for him every two months in a Swiss bank account."

  Now May looked shocked. "Your money?" she asked.

  It was Hayes's turn to be surprised. "Of course my money. What did you think? That I was acting as a conduit for some Panther supporters?"

  "No, not really," she said, "I just mean . . . well, I thought with the State Department appointment. . ."

  "Right," he said, his hands tracing over the bodies on the carving, faces and backs and legs, intertwined to form a tree, smooth ebony faces. "It's risky business, but I couldn't leave him stranded, either."

  "What happened to the money we gave him when he left?"

  "It went to the people who smuggled him out. When he contacted me the first time, he was broke."

  "The first time . . . have there been other times?"

  "Only once. When he got married, he let me know."

  "How?"

  "I was in Paris, I got a phone call telling me . . . not from Eli, from someone else. They also asked for more money. Later I got a note from Eli through the mail. He said marriage complicated his life, but that it had saved his sanity. That was about it, except to thank me for the money."

  May touched the totem, moved her fingers along the smooth flat back of a boy, clinging to the tree. "So you sent it," she said, a statement, then asked, "But how did you get messages to him?"

  "Through the mail. I have an address in Libya. In fact, the only message I've ever sent him was that you and I were going to be married. I knew there was some risk involved, but I thought it would be minimal—and I did want him to know."

  "You remember I asked if there was any way we could let him know," May reminded him, pulling a silk robe around her.

  "I remember," he said. "What I don't know, and would like to, is how he knew we would be here. How he knew about this place a
t all."

  May was walking into the bathroom, but she stopped short, turned, and looked at him. "You didn't tell him?"

  He shook his head, and watched her face as she tried to come to grips with the puzzle.

  She spoke slowly. "I'm trying to remember if I ever said anything about Kit's place in St. Paul-du-Vence. Maybe I did. Do you remember when I first told you about it?"

  "I've been trying . . . I can't get it clear. It seems to me there was a conversation about the summer you went to Greece, to study the volcano at Thera. Karin was supposed to have gone with you and Kit to the house in France, but Karin backed out . . . something like that."

  "I remember talking about it to Sam, but I can't be certain we ever did when Eli was around. And frankly, I'm not sure it was the kind of thing we would have talked about to Eli. Not after Sam accused us of being jetsetters."

  They sat in silence for a while, thinking. "Somebody could have done some research," May finally offered.

  "I know," Hayes said, a grim set to his mouth. He caressed her shoulder, but it was an absentminded caress. Their seclusion had been violated.

  Honeysuckle vines grew heavy on the stone walls of the garden, sending out waves of fragrance into the early summer evening. They sat side by side on an old bench, watching the birds feed on small clouds of insects that were lit by the waning light, waiting.

  May was wearing a white dress that gleamed against the green of the garden. They touched fingertips, and smiled and did not break the silence.

  The ring of the telephone ended their waiting.

  "Speaking," Hayes said, pulling May to him and turning the receiver so she could hear too.

  "Mr. Diehl," a woman's voice said in heavily accented English, "your friend is very looking forward to seeing you and wife. He asks if you and she can meet him at a place on the border with Spain tomorrow evening?"