Was it kindness? Respect for my father, and pity for him and for me? Or was it loneliness? Or was there some other reason of which I did not know?
The reading of stories causes one to wonder about motives, but I could think of no reason why a small boy would be useful, but many ways in which he might be a trouble or at least an inconvenience.
While dressing, I thought of school. I wanted to go to school, yet I didn’t. I had known very few children of my own age, and none very long. Francisco had been the only one whom I could call a friend. We had moved often, and my few ventures into schoolrooms had not been pleasant.
Other children taunted me. Said I spoke like an old man. Teachers were sometimes flattering, more often irritable, usually wary. My father and mother had taught me many things, had read to me from books usually read only by older people. In some ways I knew much more than my teachers; in others I knew less than any of the children. My teachers often realized how widely I had read and were nervous because of it. I did not want it so. I wished only to learn, and to be friendly.
“Today,” Miss Nesselrode said at breakfast, “we will buy some clothing for you.”
“I have money,” I said.
“How much?”
“One hundred and seven dollars. My father left it for me.”
“Keep it, Johannes, and say nothing about it to anyone. There are men in this town who would rob you for even one of those dollars.”
She seemed to be considering, and then she said, “Perhaps we will invest a little of it for you, along with something of mine. It is never too soon to learn how to handle money.
“Many people know how to get money, but few know how to keep it. Wise investments are always based on information, Johannes, so the more you know, the better. The women know much more of what is going on than their men realize, although most women are simply not interested. Sometimes when we are among ourselves, they talk of such things, and I can learn who is buying, who is selling, and what the city officials are about to do.
“Often men talk to me, wishing to impress me with how much they are doing and how important their activities are. I listen, Johannes, and I remember.
“When you are a man, remember to tell no one of what you are doing unless you wish it to be known. The woman you are telling it to may be relating it all to another man.”
She looked at me suddenly. “Johannes? What do you wish to be? What would you like to become?”
I did not know, and I told her so, but the question worried me. Should I know?
“There is time,” she said, “but the sooner you know, the sooner you can plan. To have a goal is the important thing, and to work toward it. Then, if you decide you wish to do something different, you will at least have been moving, you have been going somewhere, you will have been learning.
“What did your father do? I mean, how did he make a living?”
I did not know. He had taught school for a while. I know for a time he had worked for a newspaper. We had moved often, for even in the East there had been attempts to kill him. Or he thought there were.
Yet, I was puzzled. I told her what he had done, but there were other times when he had traded in horses, when he bought and sold things.
“With what, I wonder? Johannes, your father worked at things that paid but little money, yet you seem to have lived well, and you traveled. He paid for your trip west. Three hundred dollars for him, one hundred for you. It is quite a lot. Can you remember nothing else?”
She seemed to have an idea. “Was there no one he went to? Or some place to which he returned from time to time?”
I could remember none. Of course, I had been very young, and of those years there were only memories of places and people here and there. From the years, I could recall only brief moments, none of which seemed important.
Although Miss Nesselrode had said we were to buy clothing for me, yet we went to no stores. She always took a walk each day, and on this day when she returned she told me a tailor would be coming to take my measurements. “You are tall,” she said, “and we must leave no clues, so we will lie a bit about your age. You will tell people you are twelve. It is a small lie and will turn away speculation if your grandfather should hear of you.
“In any case,” she added, “there is no connection between your father and me.”
“Except the wagon,” I said.
“Yes…” She paused, considering. “There is that.”
Chapter 20
THE ROOM WAS long and low, with two windows that looked across the zanja into an orchard. On the other side there was one window which looked toward an empty corral. Inside the room there were two tables and four benches.
There was a smaller table at the far end, and a chair where Thomas Fraser sat. He arose when we entered the room.
“Miss Nesselrode? How good to see you again! And Johannes—?”
“Vickery,” she said. “Johannes Vickery. I hope you will find him a good student.”
“The classes are for four hours only. You understand, ma’am? I have my own work, and can afford no more time.”
“That is understood. I believe you will find him eager to learn. You have how many students now?”
“Only five at the moment. Three young ladies and two young men. Johannes will be the sixth.”
“Very well. Tomorrow, then?”
“Eight o’clock…here.”
He followed us into the yard. He had always been thin. He was thinner now.
“It has been good to see you, ma’am. It was an adventure we shared, one that cannot be forgotten. I would never have believed—”
She smiled beautifully. “It is all very well, Mr. Fraser, but a time that is past. Teach Johannes what you can. None of us might be here were it not for his father. Each time I see Mr. Farley, he assures me that is true. He says he never saw a man shoot so unerringly, so coolly.”
“He is a good man,” she told me later, “and no doubt he will write well, but if he is to make a living, he must do more than write. His book must sell, also.”
“But surely the stores will do that!”
“No doubt they will carry a few copies of his book, as my store will do, but why should they be bought? What is to make somebody come to that store and buy his book, of all that are available? He must give them a reason. He must somehow excite their interest, and then the book must hold that interest.”
We walked along the street, sometimes on walks made of boards but more often of hard-packed earth or even of sand. Here and there flat rocks had been placed to make the walking easier when there was mud.
The bookstore was a small place wedged between a general store and a saddle shop, and the books on the shelves were few. There were newspapers and magazines, and she always had coffee on the stove.
“We will be having more books at any moment now. They were ordered long since.” She removed her hat and placed it beside her parasol. “You can help me here, Johannes. Look about and see what we have.”
“You sell books?”
“Of course, but this is also a reading room. Men come to read the newspapers, to talk business and politics. One can learn a great deal that is useful just by listening.
“It is also a place where people can meet me, although, as you will see, Mr. Finney does most of my business for me.” She smiled suddenly, her eyes filled with mischief. “After all, what would a mere woman know about business and politics? A wise woman in these days will listen in wide-eyed innocence, Johannes, ask a discreet question or two, but refrain from comment.”
“You shouldn’t tell me this,” I protested, grinning at her. “I shall someday be a man, and I will know what you do.”
“And by then it will have been done, Johannes. In the meantime, listen, learn, and say nothing. Remember, no matter what you do or what you become, you will also have to do business. It is the way of the world, Johannes, so learn what you can now.”
Later she commented, “In the course of a week, every man of import
ance will come in. At first it was the Anglos and Europeans, now the Californios come as well.”
“And my grandfather?”
“He does not read. He can, but he does not. There are many who assume that once they have become men there is nothing to be learned from books.”
Standing by the door, I could watch people passing in the street: a pescadero, selling fish from the sea; a vaquero in a buckskin suit and broad sombrero, riding a dun-colored horse; a Mexican woman selling panocha, the dark Mexican sugar candy of which I had heard from Francisco. A passing carreta was pulled by a burro who seemed too small for the task.
At sundown we closed the shop and walked home through streets rapidly growing empty as people went to their homes.
One man paused, removed his sombrero with a broad silver band, and told Miss Nesselrode of a fandango that was being arranged, and would she come? When we had gone on, she said, “That was Señor Lugo. He is of an old family here, with much land. He knows your grandfather.”
“They are friends?”
“No, I do not believe so. Your grandfather does not seem to make friends, nor care to. He is known, respected, and sometimes feared, but he does not make friends.”
“He came from Spain.”
“So it is said. You would know more of that than I.”
“My mother said he came from Spain long ago, when she was a very small girl. He was given land by the king. He was a very important man in Spain, and very rich.”
“I wonder why he chose to come to California? He does not seem the type for adventure, and if he had a strong position in Spain, why would he give it all up to come here, to this outpost?”
My father and mother had talked of this, and they had also been puzzled.
“Was your mother the only child?”
“I do not know. Sometimes I think…No, I do not remember.”
Yet I did remember something…something…What?
Now that the question had arisen, I tried to discover a reason why a man of wealth and position would abandon it all and come here. California was delightful, but far from the centers of power. Where had I heard that? My father, I guessed.
My mother had talked much of her family, and I could see in her much of the fierce pride the old hidalgos had, pride of family, pride of name, and of person. Yet too often, it seemed to me, such pride was founded upon events of long ago, or just upon the family’s continued existence.
Once, seated in the wagon, I asked my father how such families came to be. What had they done?
“Very often,” he said, “he who founded the family would not be received in any of their homes now. The founder was often a peasant, a poor soldier or sailor, an adventurer with a strong arm and a sword who carved his way to wealth and position.
“Usually he was a man of strength, courage, and acquisitive instincts who rode in the entourage of a king or great lord and was given estates as a reward for services in the field or court.
“There were few cities then, and everything centered around the castle. Each lord in time of war was expected to furnish so many fighting men. Shoes, clothing, everything necessary was made by craftsmen at the castle. The only way for a young man to escape from being a serf was with a sword. By courage in battle you might win a name for yourself. There were no shops then, or craftsmen outside the castle, and if you did not own land, your only chance of success was that sword I spoke of.
“If you did not belong to a castle, you were a landless man, which meant you belonged nowhere, were fair game for anyone, and almost an outlaw.
“Some such men became wandering traders. Later some settled down to practice their trade or craft, and towns came into being. That’s roughly the way it began, in Europe, at least.”
Another day, when the newspaper readers had gone, we closed the shop and I walked home beside Miss Nesselrode. “It is a very small town,” she said to me when we paused to let a girl driving goats pass before us, “but it will not remain small.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It has the sea close by, it has many thousands of cattle, almost anything will grow, and the climate is perfect. It will surely become a great city.
“Above all,” she said as we crossed the street, “it has men like Don Benito Wilson, William Wolfskill, the Workmans, and others. They are forward-looking men.
“Do not forget, Johannes. It is men who make a town, and bigger men who make a city.”
“I have known one,” I said, “and you met him, too. Peg-Leg Smith.”
She smiled. “You know, Johannes, he was an old scoundrel, I think, but I did like him.”
“He liked you, too,” I said, and told her about his finding me in the desert.
“During the next few years, Johannes, you should be thinking about your future. What do you want to be? What do you want to become?
“To succeed as a human being is not always the same as succeeding in your life’s work, although they can go hand in hand.
“You are alone, or almost alone, but that can make you stronger, for you will not be inclined to lean on anyone. You have enemies, but that can be an advantage. Enemies can be an incentive to survive and become someone in spite of them. Enemies can keep you alert and aware.”
We ate a small supper, quite late. “You read a great deal, Johannes, so you can be a help to me in the store.”
“I’d like to help.”
“Good! We will think about that. In the meanwhile, tomorrow you begin school.”
The room in which I slept was small, with a narrow bed and two windows. There was a chest in which to keep clothing, a table, a washbasin, and a pitcher with water. On the floor were two rag rugs. The walls were bare, of plastered and whitewashed adobe.
Lying in bed that night, I worried. At no time had school been pleasant for me, although I had an abiding interest in learning. Wherever I’d gone to school, I’d come in after all the others were settled in and knew each other. I’d come along late and would know nobody and frequently I was one of the youngest in the school.
They knew about the same things and the same people. They could talk about them. I didn’t know any of those things, and none of the people, and I’d lived in different places and mostly I’d talked with older folks or been talked to by them.
Usually a strange boy in school was teased. Often he had to fight, and twice I got licked. Once we fought until we were both tired out and it was kind of even up, although I had a bloody nose when it was over. I got blood on my clothes and I hadn’t any others.
Each time a day was over, I was glad to go home. I said nothing to my parents, and except the time when I was bloody, they did not know about the fights. That time Papa took me out back and tried to show me something about fighting. He didn’t show me much, but it helped.
“Most boys in schools,” Papa said, “hit for the face. Keep your hands up, and when you can, hit ’em in the belly.”
Later he said, “These are rough boys. If they push or shove you, don’t talk, don’t call names, don’t argue. Hit them first, and hard.”
I did, and it worked. It worked on that same boy who gave me the bloody nose. He shoved me and I swung a backhanded blow and hit him in the belly, knocking his wind out. Before he could fall, I hit him in the face. That day he had the bloody nose.
Now I had it to do again. There were two boys, and I could be sure one of them would think he was something big.
Miss Nesselrode, I was afraid, would not look kindly upon fistfighting.
Nowhere in Los Angeles was far from anywhere else in those days. The school was only about three or four minutes’ walk from Miss Nesselrode’s, and it was a little before eight o’clock when I showed up.
Two boys and two girls were sitting on benches outside, but not together. They all looked up when I came into the yard, but nobody said anything. One of the boys was bigger than me, both taller and heavier, and he was older, too, I thought.
“What do you want here?” he demanded aggressively.
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“I am going to school.”
“Supposin’ I said I wouldn’t let you?”
This was the beginning of trouble which I did not want, but one does not avoid trouble by backing away from it, not in all cases. I walked toward him.
He had not expected that, and it bothered him a little.
“Mr. Fraser knows me. He expects me this morning.”
“Ol’ Fraser doesn’t run things out here. He runs things in the schoolroom. I run ’em in the yard.”
I said nothing, I simply waited. My heart was pounding heavily. Big as he was, I did not think he was any stronger than some of the Indian boys with whom I had wrestled.
“Who are you, anyway? I never saw you before.”
“I have just come from the sea. I came around the Horn in a Boston ship.”
The other boy was fascinated. “Around the Horn? Gee!”
“My name,” I said, “is Johannes Vickery.”
“That ain’t so much,” the big boy said. “Anybody can come around the Horn.”
“Of course. But I did it.”
I was lying. I had not come around the Horn, but there was need to establish my story. Miss Nesselrode had told me that, and so had Jacob Finney.
At that moment Thomas Fraser turned into the yard from the street. “Good morning, Johannes. I see you have met Rad Huber. And this”—he indicated the smaller boy—“is Philo Burns.
“The young ladies,” he said, “are Della Court and Kelda O’Brien.” He glanced around. “Where is Meghan?”
“She’s coming.” It was the girl called Della who answered. “She was expecting her father to come in.”
Fraser glanced at me. “Her father is Captain Laurel, of the Queen Bess,” he explained.
We went inside and took seats at the table. The others had seats occupied before I arrived, and I waited until they were seated, then sat down.
“That’s where Meghan sits,” Rad said belligerently.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and moved over one space.
“You go sit at the other table,” Rad ordered.
The Lonesome Gods Page 14
