California Bloodstock (4 page)

Massachusetts, indeed all of the East, let T. D. Jr. down. Nowhere could he find views of sufficient depth to test his principles.

He was cursing the tininess of it all in a saloon near his studio on the occasion of his twenty-first birthday, when he met Richard Henry Dana. Dana, the eccentric and bumbling attorney who, as a Harvard undergraduate, had shipped before the mast to California and written a best seller about it. Poor Dana, now so pitifully under the thumb of a pious Calvinist wife that he was forced to cloak his visits to the joints on the waterfront in the guise of missionary work. T. D. Jr. had read the book and saw him coming.

Young man, Dana demanded in a stern and fatherly voice, what business have you in this dive and what is that evil you are drinking?

He snatched up T. D. Jr.'s drink and put it away in one neat swallow. T. D. Jr. ordered another drink for Dana to sample and, remembering that the best humor is based on cruelty, decided to have a little fun.

So…it's come to this, T. D. Jr. goaded.

What's come to what?

Old men in dry months waiting for pain.

What?

Like you, T. D. Jr. said, waiting for pain. You know, out of it. Why don't you quit playing the fool?

Dana was incredulous. Veins bulged in his forehead. His eyes narrowed. He stared at his hands now gone parchment grey after years of association with little other then ledgers and holy scriptures. Then, slowly squeezing them into soft fists, he looked up at T. D. Jr. and blurted out what would catch on a century later as a truly all-American response: I could have had it all.

Sure, T. D. Jr. said, rolling his eyes. But he did sense a certain change fibrillating in Dana. A temporary change to be sure, but at least notable in that Dana started buying his own drinks. And as he drank on, Dana's imagination took giant steps backward, which in turn hoisted his dignity like a flag, until he was swaggering at the bar like a buccaneer. Gesturing wildly with his walking stick, he raved about his adventures as a young man, depicting heroic scenes of himself in California, a land of such enormous presence as to dwarf God's own soul…but not his.

Not knowing any better, T. D. Jr. was intrigued, and they drank together through the night, an old man telling a young man about fortune and mistakes, lying.

At dawn the sun popped up out of the Atlantic, splattering them straight in the face with what Dana translated to T. D. Jr. as the moral of what they had been talking about. With tears in his eyes, Dana said that a man's only business was to make his life as exciting and interesting as possible.

Go to California, he said, and don't come back.

Why not, T. D. Jr. figured, maybe the place had scale.

T. D. Jr. returned to New York and told his mother that he was going west to make his life more interesting. He felt his boots quite solid on the marble floor of his mother's library.

California, he said.

Pippa looked at her son standing there in his bottle-green cutaway and thought the scariest thought a mother can think: I have birthed a fool.

Naturally she was bitter, figuring that her son's plans had something to do with the rumor she had heard about her estranged husband having settled in California. But this was not the case; it had nothing to do with his father although, now that she mentioned it, looking old T. D. up once he got there sounded like a reasonable thing for T. D. Jr. to do.

Dinner that evening with Backhouse Fish Lippencot went badly. Pippa soon exhausted reasonable argument and grew snide and bitchy. T. D. Jr. stared at the cherubs and stags molded into the ceiling, and nervously drummed his butter knife on the stemware. Old Backhouse looked alternately at his daughter and grandson and thought it was all too predictable for words. It figures, is all he would say.

Finally, in desperation, Pippa gave T. D. Jr. a copy of his father's book so that he could read for himself
of the scoundrels Dad had taken up with. T. D. Jr. said he'd read it on the way, and after spending the money his grandfather had slipped him on the best daguerreotype equipment and chemicals available, he traveled west by rail and stage to St. Louis. There he boarded a paddle-wheel gambling boat and enjoyed the cruise down the Mississippi immensely, winning close to $1,000 at roulette with what the croupier, one Pierre Wallingsford, described as blind luck.

Disembarking in New Orleans, however, he was approached by Wallingsford, who explained that he had ensured the young traveler's luck by clever manipulation of a hidden foot pedal. Wallingsford claimed to have been fired as a result and now expected his share of the winnings. T. D. Jr. questioned Wallingsford's honesty and in the ensuing argument the latter challenged the former to a duel. They were to meet in a meadow curtained with weeping willows and Spanish moss at dawn the following day, but T. D. Jr. made other arrangements.

He cleared the harbor shortly after midnight aboard a dark-sailed bark of dubious reputation bound for Panama, leaving Wallingsford's underhanded deal with the dueling referees to cause more trouble and embarrassment for the former croupier.

T. D. Jr. was disgusted to find that his ship, the
Rainbow
, was a former outlaw vessel only recently gone straight as a slaver. When a storm splintered her mizzenmast eleven days out of New Orleans, forcing her into Vera Cruz for repairs, he sought other transportation as a protest against human bondage. The captain called him a naive lickspittle
and refused to refund any portion of his fare. Undaunted, T. D. Jr. decided upon a land crossing of Mexico and reached Mazatlan two months later with a respectable command of Spanish, a bleached mustache, and a deep tan.

Leaving Mazatlan he sailed for Monterey via the Sandwich Islands, a roundabout route only to those who don't understand the ass-busting monotony of a long tack up the coast. During the layover in Honolulu he made several daguerreotypes of spectacular volcanic mountains and a portrait of one Samuel Brannan, the leader of a party of quarrelsome Mormons, also en route to California. Apparently something about Brannan fascinated him.

Under sail again on the last leg of his journey, young T. D. watched dolphins racing the bow of the schooner
Eagle
and counted the days like a spoiled child waiting for his birthday.

Sexual currents and horses, fandangos in the plaza, and sweet kisses on the beach; but not for Taya.

The
Eagle
was in from the Sandwich Islands and Taya watched naked Worm Eaters pile hides on the embarcadero. The
Eagle
was rumored to have two violins in its hold along with its stocks of coffee, chocolate, and gun powder, and there was much excitement. Any excuse for a
baile.
Taya had dressed carefully in her best deerskin boots, embroidered chemise, and full, gathered muslin skirt secured about her waist with a scarlet silk sash. Dressing up improved her mood but she had no plan for dancing. No, she had come to watch the way things happen to people.

Two greaser dons in from San Juan Bautista for some shopping strutted toward her. They wore their
britches part way open to show off full underdrawers of white linen. Separating in front of her like a river current sliding around a snag, they passed close on either side making obscene high-pitched sucking sounds. As they melded side-by-side again behind her, she turned to spit, but it was no use. They were laughing. She bit her lip and walked back across the plaza toward the custom house.

Everywhere there was preparation for the baile, and everywhere also there was talk of revolution against Mexico and speculation about take-over by the gringos. Gringos, of course, were known as good dancers but Taya didn't think about them that way anymore. She had been having her own revolution. She had begun to think of herself as a country, her own country, a free country, the United States of Herself. And such sovereignty not only saved her spirit; it was perfect for California back then. Indeed, the land was peppered with assorted free-state personas looking to increase their treasuries.

Near the customhouse she was confronted by just such a person, one Joaquin Peach, formerly of Valpariso. He wore the billowy white pants of his native Chile and carried himself with the confidence of a conquistadore. He had come to California to soldier for Mexico but, seeing the possibilities, quickly struck out on his own with a number of other
rotos.
The rotos, of course, were a class apart, men with much tradition. Originally the lowborn gangsters who had driven Spain out of Chile, new generations of rotos had gone on to fight for various ambitious politicians in revolution after revolution throughout South America. Now they were showing up in California,
gay and belligerent, starting knife fights and stealing chickens.

Well, here comes the sunshine, Joaquin Peach announced loudly as Taya approached.

I hate you all, Taya thought, and kept walking.

Wait, Peach said, I saw you with those greaser dons. How about a present?

As she passed, Peach smiled and reached out for her arm. Taya slapped his hand away. He smiled again. She went and leaned against a barrel in the shade of a fat oak on the edge of the plaza. Peach followed her.

Please wait, he said. And watch. Fun for you, and a present too. Maybe.

A quick bow and he was off, swaggering through the scattered crowd toward the two greaser dons who were now celebrating their purchase of twin tortoise-shell combs from the schooner's mate. They were taking turns gulping from a bottle of brandy and flashing the combs at passing Californianas, with lecherous suggestions as to how the combs might be had. Obnoxious but altogether common behavior for gentlemen of their class.

Taya watched Joaquin Peach step between them and in one quick flurry snatch the bottle and rap them both on the forehead. They went down like puppets with their strings cut and Peach picked up the combs. Speed and surprise were of the essence here, but Peach did not rush off. Instead, he stood proudly exhibiting the combs. A crowd gathered. The greaser dons worked at blinking their way out of the shock that always follows a sucker punch. It took them about a minute to focus on Peach; and it was at
this point that Peach told them they had the manners of goats and turned on his heel in the direction of his horse. The chase was on.

Chase, however, is the wrong word. Follow-the-leader would be more like it. Around the plaza went Peach, picking up more mounted pursuers with each pass. And soon he was doing tricks, gallop bounces and saddle reverses, which all in his dust, including the greaser dons, found impossible to resist mimicking. Or improving on.

This showboating merry-go-round went on for a good ten minutes, until Peach dropped the tortoise-shell combs in front of Taya, and hit the road north at a high lope with the greaser dons et al in whooping pursuit.

How dashing.

But so what. Taya picked up the combs and tossed them into a small huddle of Worm Eaters. She'd take a ride herself.

Trotting south down the beach toward the point, she hardly noticed a young man with a pale mustache messing around with strange devices and holding forth at the
Eagle
's captain about the significance of what he had just seen. Something about a tool for dealing with things everybody knows about but isn't attending to, and something more about his work catching things you don't usually see.

No, Taya hardly noticed.

T. D. Jr. had a picture of his father, a daguerreotype actually, that he had made from a family portrait he found in the attic of his mother's townhouse. He had studied it until he was convinced that he could recognize his father anywhere, but standing at the patio gate that evening in California he was not so sure.

Excuse me.

The old man was obviously drunk. He located the sound easily enough but seemed to have difficulty shifting his eyes to fix the young intruder in his liquid vision.

I am looking for Mr. T. D. Slant.

What's it to you?

T. D. Jr. tried to measure the deterioration of the old man. He moved closer in the twilight, close enough to catch a whiff of whisky breath vaporizing with the essence of rose water and the smell of beard wax and damp tobacco. And something else. The scent of bile, perhaps, sweating through the old man's pores. It was vaguely familiar. He had sniffed it as an infant in a white knit suit crawling through dirty laundry. Suddenly he was sure.

Father!

The old man's eyes twitched frantically, out of control, flooding. Could this really be his son, the son he had walked away from like a bad debt? No. More likely just another rude joke meant to humiliate him further. And yet, if it were true, if the young man
standing before him truly was his son, what better time for him to arrive? A son in need is a son indeed, he reasoned. Still, he'd be damned if he'd let this kid, son or not, make a fool of him.

Prove it!

T. D. Jr. pulled the daguerreotype from his coat pocket and handed it to the old man. Sure enough. Captured in the silver emulsion, a woman sat with a slight curl to her mouth. An infant in a knit suit of obvious French styling balanced on her lap. Standing behind them was a man in a beaver hat. Old T. D. Slant squinted and found himself locking eyes with one of the men he used to be.

A moment later, he passed out.

Taya rode the beach late into the night, watching the tide pull the sand clean then wash back and mess it up again. It occurred to her that she was no longer living her life. That it was the other way around. That her life was living her.

When Taya found father and son together on the patio in the morning, much explaining was in order all the way around. T. D. Jr. agreed. He had liked her right off, when he had seen her in the plaza. And he
liked her more now. Taya made breakfast and then sat next to T. D. Jr. across from the old man. Together they waited.

You know how it is when someone doesn't want to tell quite the whole truth? Well, that was old T. D., his mind strobing back over the years, looking for easy answers. He felt a babbling fit coming on, and there was no dignity in that. Taya kept staring at him as if he were someone else, and his son, he noticed, wasn't blinking much either. He lost his wits totally for a long silent moment and when they returned he was desperate.

What do you want from me?

T. D. Jr. was a bit unnerved by the outcry but Taya wasn't even startled. Her words came out flat and sharp.

Who is he?

Who?

My father.

It was not as if she were deliberately hardening on old T. D. Or was she? He had expected her to ask, eventually, when they were both recovered, but not now. When he saw something very sharp crystallizing in her eyes he went to pieces and told her everything he knew. Almost.

And strange, very strange was the following week. Almost no conversation among the three of them, but they were very polite to each other, like new in-laws. Finally, off they went, leaving Monterey in a wet predawn fog. First Taya and T. D. Jr. riding out front on horseback. Then came old Slant, creaking along in a small cart loaded with the books he was
saving for his old friend Vallejo, a few personal effects, and his son's daguerreotype paraphernalia.

Over the years, old T. D. had developed a theory about the four points of the compass. You go west for adventure, east for civilization, south for hospitality, and north for obscurity. He sucked in the damp air and exhaled a low gushing whistle. Whew, he was traveling north. What he saw as the new inevitabilities of his life eased through his mind, and he relaxed at the prospect of fading quietly into insignificance. He was kidding himself.

And he was still at it when they reached the scattered fruit orchards of the Santa Clara Valley. They stopped beside a shiny little creek and he suggested they rest for an hour or so, take a little nap. Without waiting for an answer, he arranged himself in the warm grass and stared up at a blank, indifferent sky. But before he could close his eyes, Taya sent the twin horses of guilt and anxiety racing through his mind once again by announcing that she was not going on to Yerba Buena.

She said she was going to find her father and then take care of Sewey and the Burgetts. She had decided, and that was that. He and T. D. Jr. here could do as they pleased. She had crows to pluck.

Old T. D. rattled to his feet, arguing like an auctioneer, spitting a combination of perils and insecurities at her like darts. He called her an hysterical adolescent. He spit in the creek for emphasis. It was the worst of times and dangerous folly to go traipsing around in this obviously darkening climate looking for a father who was, likely as not, dead anyway.

When he ran out of argument he threatened her with force. Goddamnit, he'd make her stay with him, for her own good. But when she calmly shook her head, he found himself nodding hopelessly in uneasy agreement.

T. D. Jr., who had remained silent through his father's harangue, was now about to offer up similar advice when she turned to him, a cautious smile unfolding on her face like a challenge, and he could not stop himself from returning it. After all, it was a man's business to make her life as exciting and interesting…etc. He liked her better than his father anyway: youth against age, and all that. Maybe even a bit more.

That evening in San Jose, old T. D. told Taya about Counsel, the only man he thought might know what had passed over the last fifteen years with Buckdown. And later that night he took his son aside. They walked out into the warm darkness of the town's deserted square, mind to mind, father and son perhaps for the first time. Perhaps for the only time. They kept their voices low, specific, and sentimental.

The next morning old T. D. Slant climbed into his cart and headed for Yerba Buena alone, wondering if Buckdown was alive and asking himself if courage had to hang between a man's legs.