San Joaquin Valley, California
Lancer Ranch
Ralph Waldo Emerson. My mother embraced his poetry and cherished her first edition of his essays.
Catherine’s book, neatly shelved with Scott’s journals, watched from across the room.
Winnie believed it was a deep maternal instinct which inspired Harlan’s daughter to espouse Emerson’s philosophy as guidance for her children someday. I’ve come to think it was a premonition her role as a mother would end soon after it began and spiritual guidance would be required. Either way, Catherine Garrett Lancer chose wisely. Insights from Mr. Emerson have served me well.
If asked what words of his I’ve relied on most often, it would be the following:
“When the eyes say one thing, and the tongue another, a practiced man relies on the language of the first.”
A practiced man, indeed. A lengthy list of subjects have provided me plenty of practice. A wangling grandfather and a buttoned-up father. Pompous professors. Confused commanders. A lovely lady.
Scott’s surfacing dimples caused the pencil to hover over his written words. More practice and a trip to Sacramento may be required with that last one.
And then there’s Johnny and Kinsey. The moment my little cousin bounced off the Green River stagecoach and into my brother’s line of sight, my practice of listening to tongues say one thing while eyes say another increased tenfold.
When was the first time he’d practiced Emerson’s wisdom on Kinsey and Johnny? Thinking, Scott tapped his pencil on the journal - disregarding the tiny dots it made.
“Denver.”
The head nod with a satisfied smile confirmed the memory of their cross-country journey to Philadelphia. It was Denver. The opera house. And that damn derby hat.
*********
Johnny poked the derby Kinsey held out in front of him. “I thought I told you to lock that hat away because I never wanted to see it again.”
“I did.” Brown eyes ignited.
Blue eyes sparked. “Then do you mind tellin’ me what is this?”
“A different hat.”
Scott pinched the bridge of his nose to suppress the snorted snicker which would not improve the current situation between his traveling companions.
Johnny leaned in. “Little girl, you have tried my patience one too many times. Scott, I’m gonna see if this fancy hotel knows how to serve a common man a few shots of good tequila.” Having stated his intentions, the reluctant opera attendee turned and announced his departure by shutting the door more forcefully than needed.
Kinsey and Johnny’s discussion of cultural experiences commenced shortly before the train pulled into Denver’s Union Station. Acquiring their keys at the hotel’s front desk, the discussion grew into a disagreement. While locating their rooms, the disagreement escalated into an argument, which bloomed into a battle that now inspired Johnny to slam the door and leave Kinsey staring at a brown derby hat.
“He hates me.” Welling tears extinguished the brown-eyed flame as the derby sailed to the bed. “Fine. So be it.” Kinsey’s thumb, wedged between her first and second fingers, formed a defiant fist. “I don’t give a fig!”
Scott’s hand lowered the unladylike gesture. “Listen. It’s nothing you said… exactly. And it’s nothing you did… more or less. Give it time and tequila. Johnny will calm down. We will attend the opera tonight.” Snagging the derby, Scott placed it on his cousin’s head. “Besides, this looks better on you, Freckles.”
He found Johnny seated in a room off from the lobby where the hotel guests could enjoy a good spirit or a cold beer. Scott opted for the cold beer. Setting himself across the table from his solemn younger brother, he leaned back, quietly observed the hotel surroundings, and took a sip of his selection.
“Boston, she needs to learn she can’t have her own way every damn minute of every damn day.”
Seeing the spark had fizzled in his brother’s eyes, Scott remained silent and partook another sip.
“Did you hear her call me closed-minded?”
Silence. Sip.
“You’re the one who spoils her, Scott.”
Silence. Sip.
“She can’t make me into someone I’m not.”
Silence. Sip.
“I might’ave made her cry.”
Silence. Sip.
“Dammit.” Johnny stood up. “She in her room?”
Nod. Sip.
“There better be at least one rabbit pulled out of a hat during this opera show tonight.”
Smile. Sip.
********
Smile. Sip. Scott placed his pencil aside and examined his drink. He swore the ranch would cease functioning if not for Maria’s lemonade. The woman certainly knew the fine balance between tart lemons and sweet sugar. A far cry from Jane Standford’s rendition. That sour concoction shriveled up a man’s cajones. On second thought, forget the bitter lemonade. Scott was certain Mrs. Stanford’s piercing eyes could accomplish the same feat while her tongue complimented a gentleman’s silk cravat. Another example validating Emerson’s in-depth understanding of human nature.
Horse hooves. Creaking wagon wheels. Two familiar voices sparring. The distant clamor of Johnny and Kinsey returning from the mission pointed out Scott’s brain had strayed from his journal writing. The pencil returned to its duty.
In the beginning, my brother’s seasoned temper and my cousin’s cheeky retorts composed heated conversations which were in sharp contrast to a liking for each other reflected in their eyes. But as time passed, a crevasse opened between them - widened by opposing opinions and independent thinking. Eyes no longer disagreed with spoken words.
However, this morning I’ve noticed there’s construction for a different kind of bridge to close this gap. Caring concern, disguised as jabbing jousts, is gradually replacing unsteady infatuation with solid friendship.
*********
“Scott, you need to tell this little magpie sittin’ next to me to give a man’s ears a five-minute reprieve from her meddlin’.”
Riding alongside the buckboard destined for Sister Rosa’s mission, Scott readjusted his hat to keep pace with the rising sun and shade a sportive grin. “It appears, brother, you’ve acquired your own personal matchmaker. Congratulations.”
“Honestly, Scott.” Kinsey managed the persona of a patient schoolmarm reciting multiplication tables as she bounced along. “I’m not matchmaking. I’m happily sharing my sound knowledge on the topic of romance.”
“Right.” Boots gait kept in rhythmic time with the hoofbeats of the wagon’s horse. “Your sound knowledge on the topic of laundry best be happily shared by the time we arrive at the mission and I talk to Sister Rosa.”
Scott hoped the reminder pointing out the reason for his presence today would buy that five-minute reprieve Johnny requested.
“It’s obvious you two men are completely unaware that advice columns have become quite popular in newspapers across the country.”
Reminder ignored. Reprieve denied.
“Half-pint, unless there’s a shortage of corncobs in the outhouse, the last thing I need in my paper is a female advice-giver sharin’ her knowledge of romance.”
“Of course you don’t, John.” Kinsey’s hand delivered a patronizing pat to her driver’s knee. “Your sharp wit, deeply rooted in rude schoolboy humor, will most certainly capture the heart of Leticia Lopez.”
“Well, kid, since your sharp tongue, deeply rooted in spoiled-brat sass, managed to lasso the Grape Crusher’s affection, I’d say my chances are pretty damn good with the fair Leticia. So keep that freckled nose of yours out of my business.”
********
Arriving at Guadalupe Mission, Scott veered off from the buckboard to spare Boots enthusiastic greetings from a sea of boisterous children. The horse’s patience need not be tested with a few dozen little hands patting him simultaneously in places Boot’s would rather keep to himself. Daniel, one of the mission’s older boys, approached Scott as he dismounted to offer water and shade for the horse. Boots nickered his approval.
Scott held back and observed his brother with laughing eyes jump down from the buckboard to a chorus of Mister Johnny! Mister Johnny! while a few sisters offered warm welcomes. What were Johnny’s initial words when asked about the mission? Nothin’ but a bunch of noisy kids and nosey nuns. Scott removed his hat and brushed off a layer of road dust. “Your eyes are telling me something different, little brother.”
“Well, what a pleasant surprise!”
Turning, Scott was treated to another set of smiling eyes. “Sister Rosa. A pleasure to see you again.”
“Let me put on a pot of tea and we’ll catch up.”
“Thank you, but I’m afraid this isn’t exactly a social call. I need to speak with you.” Scott turned to spy Kinsey drifting off with her class of budding artists. “Ah… to be more accurate -” A well-placed thumb and index finger to the mouth produced the shrill whistle he intended. Capturing his cousin’s attention, Scott’s finger now waggled in the air - requesting her presence. “We need to speak with you.”
Father Andrew’s quarters had changed little, physically. However, the astute Sister Rosa and her stern eyes peering over wire-rimmed glasses removed any light-heartedness still lingering in the room’s corners from Scott’s last visit. Sitting behind the padre’s desk with her cup of tea, the good sister wasted no time. “Can I assume someone has strayed off the Street of Truthfulness?”
Seated, Scott assumed his customary casual pose of crossed arms while resting his ankle on a knee. “Oh, someone didn’t stray, sister. She took a deliberate right turn down Manipulation Alley.”
The corner of Sister’s Rosa’s mouth twitched as her eyes acknowledged Scott’s response with a blink - a sign that a reprimand was in his future for trying to make her laugh. “I see.”
“Honestly, Scott. You make me sound like a delinquent.” Kinsey shifted her backside in the wooden straight-back chair she’d been offered. “Sister Rosa, I have a perfectly reasonable explanation -”
“My dear child.” The nun removed her glasses and locked eyes with the delinquent. “If your explanation was perfectly reasonable you wouldn’t be sitting here.”
Scott’s mouth took a turn in twitching.
“I assume, Mr. Lancer you have something in mind to help this young lady maneuver back onto the right path.”
“I do.” Shooting Kinsey a sideways glance, Scott continued. “Assisting with the mission’s laundry would give my little cousin ample time to reflect on her poor choices while fine tuning her skills with a washboard.”
Sister Rosa’s tea cup rose to hide a smirk but failed to conceal her dancing eyes. A sip was taken followed by a nod of agreement. “Sister Margaret will appreciate an extra pair of hands to tackle the piles of dirty clothes.”
Kinsey stood and cleared her throat. “I’d like to suggest my cousin’s response to my brief moment of bad judgement is quite unreasonable.”
“Unreasonable?” Scott uncrossed his arms. “Well, maybe I should ask Sister Rosa if Father Andrew keeps a sturdy hairbrush in his desk drawer to help us define what’s unreasonable.”
Hands placed on hips created a picture of confidence. “You won’t find one.”
Scott’s eyes narrowed with the challenge. “How can you be so sure?”
A smile of superiority graced Kinsey's face. “Because Father Andrew is bald.” With her reasonable conclusion stated, the newly appointed laundress left to begin her reflection.
“She has a point, Scott.” Sister Rosa delicately returned her tea cup to its saucer. “The man is bald.”
“My God, that girl.” Scott’s cheeks warmed with his word stumble. “Forgive me, Sister. Blasphemy was not intended.”
“The Good Lord feels your pain, my son, and understands. You are forgiven.” Playful crinkles appeared at the corners of the nun’s eyes. “I must commend you for resisting to quote John Wesley during your cousin’s reprimand.”
Scott’s eyes mirrored Sister Rosa’s with her reference. “Cleanliness is next to Godliness. I can’t deny it. The temptation still remains.” Rising to leave, appreciation was expressed. “Thank you for your watchful eye on the young lady.”
“Of course.” The Sister accompanied her guest to the door. “Yesterday I was informed a rather substantial amount of money was deposited in a Guadeloupe Mission account at the Green River bank. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Scott felt the nun reading his eyes as a grin could no longer be concealed.
“Hmmmmm. I thought so.” Sister Rosa smiled. “Let’s shorten the sentence of our Washboard Warrior slightly, shall we?”