Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (latest books to read txt) 📗

“What is it then?”

“It is that I am Mexican, too!”

“You?”

“Me, me. I am Mexican! Mexican!”

He was crying.

“You?”

“Me.”

“No!”

“Yes! Mexican!”

“Hallelujah!”

“Hallelujah!” he repeated, and they fell into each other’s arms.

♦ ♦ ♦

Fred W. Gilmore telephoned, and this time when the men returned to his office they were not bearing gifts.

“It’s just that the time is not right,” Willie said, adopting his most righteous tone. “That’s all I can say.”

It’s not what they had come to hear. “When we are in charge,” said John C. Porter ominously, “we will remember those who fought with us, like the Rev. Bob Shoemaker, and those who stood on the sidelines. We want you on our side, Reverend. We need you.”

“It is a delicate matter,” said Willie.

“It is an urgent matter,” said Porter.

“I need more time.”

“We’re out of time. The situation grows worse with every passing day.”

Willie shook his head and stood up.

“You will regret this, Reverend,” said Gilmore, standing in the doorway on the way out and ignoring Willie’s proffered hand.

Miss Shields looked on.

“You will regret this more than you know,” he repeated.

Miss Shields wrote it down.

Distressed and needing solace, he caught a Big Red Car to Angie’s that evening. A gentle man, he did not like to have enemies, powerful and threatening enemies. No sooner was the trolley in sight of her building, the familiar façade with its tall palms lighted from below and friendly green awning, than his spirits began to lift.

He found her pacing the floor.

Something was badly wrong.

“Tell me.”

He tried to hug her, but she pulled away.

“Tell me.”

She walked to the window and looked out. The silence frightened him. Was this it, the break he’d feared but expected, the terrible swift sword of retribution. He was a sinning fornicator who had no right to the happiness this woman had brought into his life. Had the time finally come?

“Angie, please. Some terrible thing has happened. I must know.”

Silence.

“What is it, dearest?”

She spun around suddenly to face him. “My husband . . .”

Willie’s face drained of all color. Of all the things he expected, all the things he deserved, to hear of a husband was the last. Fornication could be forgiven, but adultery?

“Your husband?”

“He called from Bakersfield—says he’s coming.”

Sinking down onto the couch, closing his eyes, he listened as she told him of the past she’d never talked about and he’d never asked about; never asked about because something told him not to ask about it, because he feared something exactly like this, something that put everything at risk, not only their relationship, but everything he had built, his very existence. He knew the reckoning would come, it always does; he knew the Lord’s ways. She was his drug, his habit, his secret love. He knew.

“Let’s go away, Willie.”

He was astonished. “Go away?”

“Just for a little while—why not? I told him not to come, that I wouldn’t see him, that I was divorcing him. Listen, I know Gil. If I’m not here, he’ll lose interest and go away.”

“He knows where you live?” he said, shocked.

“He has a key.”

“He has a key?”

“It was a mistake. He wanted to—oh, never mind. I should have had the lock changed. Everything was going so well. Why does this have to happen?”

She stared at him, her dark eyes pleading.

“But run away? You’re not serious.”

“No, no, not run away, Willie—go away until he’s gone, that’s all.”

He would not panic, could not allow himself panic. Too much was at stake. He stood up, his mind turning, churning, a kaleidoscope, seeking an answer. He came close to her, and this time she did not back away. Taking her in his arms calmed them both. He kissed her hair and forehead. And suddenly he heard the voice, just as Augustine had heard the voice in the garden so long ago. It said: “If not now, when?”

“Pour me a little scotch, will you dear. Let’s talk about this.”

Chapter 16

They arrived in Southampton after an easy crossing on the Normandie, stayed two nights at Portsmouth, crossed to the Isle of Wight for a day of hiking, rented a car and motored to Bath and Bristol, coming back to London through Oxford. Maggie struck out on her own each day, disappearing after breakfast to the local flying field, leaving Cal to see the sights and study the newspapers, which grew direr by the day. She was a flying phenomenon in a nation where women had not yet taken to the air. In London, Cal had to drag her away from her flying friends at Penshurst Airfield to keep to their itinerary.

Britain was in frenzy over Hitler, divided between those who would accommodate and those who would resist. Germany had annexed Austria in the spring, and even as the cousins motored across England was preparing for Czechoslovakia. The fear was that if France and Britain did not stand firm, Poland would be next on Hitler’s menu, which meant all-out war. Every London pub was thick with men nursing pints, flicking darts, and arguing over the best means of dealing with the Huns, as they oddly called them.

They ferried to Holland and caught the Berlin train, crossing into Germany at Aix-la-Chappelle and getting their first taste of goose-stepping and Nazi salutes. Unlike London, steeped in dread, Berlin was bubbling with energy and excitement. Staying at the Adlon, Maggie met a young Prussian pilot who kept a Fieseler F5 at Tegel and hated Hitler. Lt. Joachim von Falkenberg was outspoken to the point of recklessness and perfectly suited for flying with Maggie. They flew three days running, leaving Cal to dine alone. The second night, seeing she was not returning, he introduced himself to a young lady at the hotel bar and invited her to dine with him. Afterward, they retired to his room where she showed him how things had been done in the happier Weimar days. Cal had no idea what Maggie was up to, at least not until the third night when a phone call from Falkenberg told him to come quickly