Nita: Bonita Trilogy 3

By Carl R. Brush

1859 San Francisco. Nita-short for "Bonita," her mother's name-is an energetic, intelligent, precocious twelve-year-old. She yearns for adulthood, chafes at the notion that she's a little girl, not ready for the challenges that beset her in the turmoil of this new city on the brink of cataclysmic upheaval. Readers follow

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bookside Press
• Release date: Dec 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781778832529

Carl R. Brush

Carl Brush has been writing since he could write, which is quite a long time now. He grew up and lives in Northern California, close to the roots of the people and action of three of six of his seven historical thrillers, The Maxwell Vendetta, and its sequels, The Second Vendetta, and Swindle in Sawtooth Valley, which take place in 1908-1912 in San Francisco and the high Sierra. Bonita and its sequel, Bonita's Quest, are set in pre-gold-rush San Francisco. For yet another historical tale, The Yellow Rose he made a literary jump from California to Texas, where Carl's co-author, the late Bob Stewart, dwelled. It's a tale of the Texas revolution and an imagined affair between Sam Houston and a legendary mulatto woman, Emily West, who is best remembered as The Yellow Rose of Texas. You can find Carl living with his wife in Oakland, California, where he enjoys the blessings of nearby children and grandchildren.

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Dedication

Dedication

To Susanne for your loving support in this and in all things else

Contents

Dedication

I: New Year's Eve Feast

II: Let The Festivities Begin

III: The Discontent Of Luis Mendez

IV: The Cat Appears

V: Cat's Tour

VI: Sinkhole

VII: Hairdressing

VIII: Fever

IX: Nita's Muddy New Year

X: Another Way

XI: Festivities

XII: Morning After

XIII: Mass

XIV: At The Altar

XV: Mary Ellen Comes To Call

XVI: Luis Left Out

XVII: Too Small?

XVIII: Not ‘Mammy’

XIX: School Days

XX: The Ride Home

XXI: Not Again

XXII: Diary Again At Last

XXIII: Getting Down To Business

XXIV: Warning Signs

XXV: Miwok Crisis

XXVI: Poking The Bear

XXVII: High Finance

XXVIII: Mysteries And Fears

XXIX: Ambush

XXX: Avoiding The Tangled Web

XXXI: Conspiracy

XXXII: The Pilot

XXXIII: Choices

XXXIV: Lookout

XXXV: Shipwreck

XXXVI: Starting Over

XXXVII: Patience, Patience

XXXVIII: Banker's Hours

XXXIX: Removal

XL: Dealing

XLI: Reprieve

XLII: Mourning Time

XLIII: Negotiations Continue And Continue

XLIV: Foreclosure

XLV: Once-Thriving Local Business In Trouble

XLVI: Seven Days

XLVII: Anchors Aweigh

XLVIII: Back To Shore

XLIX: New Friends

L: Hostile Forces

LI: Reunion

LII: Vigilante Justice

LIII: Luis In Three Worlds

LIV: Old Times

LV: Deadline

LVI: Making Do

LVII: Re-Entry

LVIII: Improvised Weapons

LIX: New Assault

LX: Password

LXI: The Vault

LXII: Comstock In Cuffs

LXIII: Back To The City

LXIV: Cashing In

LXV: Looking Up

LXVI: Court Orders

LXVII: Full Circle

I: New Year's Eve Feast

I

New Year's Eve Feast

My name is Bonita Margarita Torres Kelly. I am twelve years old. Almost thirteen. I live in San Francisco, California. It is New Year’s Eve in the year of our Lord, 1858. Tomorrow it will be 1859, and this is the first entry in my diary. My mother is also named Bonita Kelly, and she wrote just such a diary. She was quite a bit older than I am when she started, but she chose to begin the telling of her story at a point when she when she almost the same age as I am now. Twelve to my (almost) thirteen. So here I go.

I sat back and read aloud what I had just written in the most elegant Spencerian script I could manage. Artistry is not one of my natural talents, but I’d been working hard. I thought I’d soon be able to match the flowery elegance of my mother’s handwriting, though not quite yet. I was pleased also with the nib I’d chosen to compose my opening sentence. Its look reminded me of the elegant calligraphy I saw in Chinatown shops.

I applied blotting paper carefully to my paragraph to avoid smearing the ink, enjoying the rich aroma of new leather that bound the journal my uncle Luis had given me for Christmas. The cover, also crafted by Luis, was inscribed with a relief image of my pony, Pintado. Luis had done that also. I then changed to a nib with a narrower tip to give it a different appearance between my opening and what was to follow.

I guess I should mention that Luis is not my true uncle. I will explain all that later, but not yet.

I wanted to rush into telling my story just as I rush into most everything I do. Everything, that is, except certain private feelings that are nobody’s business but mine. So I stopped myself. If this diary is to be a true picture of who I am and where I came from, where do I stop? The problem is that the picture is not all that clear in my own head, so how I can I expect to create a picture anyone else can recognize? Do I want other people to recognize my private self? So many people in my family have begun as one person and changed into another, including myself, it’s enough to make a person dizzy. I wondered if that was too private to write even in a diary. But no.

It’s silly to think I would confuse or shock some imaginary reader or disclose private—I mean really private—information. I was not writing for anyone but myself, so of course it would be clear to me, and I’m the only one who would read it, so where’s the harm? I could plunge in, just as I meant to at first. The most important thing is that it should be my best work, at least for this moment. Even though I am sometimes hasty, I also strive for perfection. I was my own audience, but, still, only my best would do. That settled, I was ready to go ahead.

I dipped my pen in the well, tried a few letters on a scrap of test paper. I turned to the journal itself. I held the pen over the thick, creamy paper. Luis had invested in the very best paper for my diary, another token of the affection between us— for a long moment. That idea of being my only reader stopped me again. Maybe this was a mistake. I’m far too outgoing to carry on a conversation with a piece of paper. At least I appear that way. At least I think I appear that way. Then it hit me like a flash of lightning, I could treat my diary like a friend. In fact, this book could become my truest friend in the world, the companion to whom I could reveal everything. At the moment she—the diary was a she, of course—knew nothing, but in time she would understand and agree with me. No contradiction or rebuke, which I’m afraid of when I think of expressing my confidential self. And I certainly would never commit anything to writing. I would rather talk to people than write notes. But here I was already beginning to like the idea of a monologue. A monologue about the hidden life I live but never tell about. I felt a smile cross my face.

Since we are going to become the very best of friends, Diary, it is important for you to understand my history. Let me start by explaining my name.

First of all, I am named Bonita after my true mother, Bonita Kelly, who I mentioned earlier. She says she could never understand why men, but not women, could name their sons after themselves, call their sons Junior, and keep their Christian names going down through the generations. Somehow, though, my mother couldn’t bear to carry the tradition far enough to call me Junior, so I was just Bonita. ’Nita for short. It is sometimes confusing to explain, but it suits us fine. What doesn’t suit me is the annoying apostrophe at the beginning of my nickname. I know it is grammatically right and proper, but since it is just you and me here, I am going to dispense with it. So I am henceforth just plain Nita. I hope that’s all right. On second thought I don’t need to ask you, do I? If it’s all right with me it’s all right with you since we are one and the same. Well, almost.

My second name, Margarita, is the name my other mother, Flora Torres, gave me when I was a baby. For the first six years of my life I believed that she was my true mother and that her husband, Miguel, was my true father. No, that’s not quite right because I didn’t believe anything at all for the first couple of years. No one does, do they? We lived in Mexico City. I don’t remember much about that time because we came here to San Francisco when I was only six. That was when my grandfather, Flora Torres’s father, died. I never met him. I know only his name, Benito Alvarez. He was very rich. He was the one who stole me from my true mother.

I am grateful for the care that Flora Torres gave me in those early years. But that all changed when she had a daughter of her own. Rosita, she called her. From then on, I was truly a stepchild, always tagging along. Flora always denied her neglectful attitude, and she professed to be heartbroken when I decided to live with my birth mother instead of her. Maybe she was. It was obvious that she had some affection for me. What mother wouldn’t? She was by no means a monster, but her devotion to Rosita was evident to me even in those early years. The cuddles, the endearments that were once mine all went to Rosita. But that is all behind me now, so no more about it.

That explains three of my names. As for my last name, Kelly—Nita. We need you in the kitchen.

Grrr. That was me growling like an angry bear. Here I had barely begun telling my story, and already mother is calling me to help prepare the New Year’s Eve feast. I’m tempted to hide or pretend an illness, but much as I want to resist mother’s control, the cost of defiance is scoldings and making others sad and that would be too high a price. Besides, the rich and spicy smell of the feast drifting up the stairs has become irresistible. I can’t bear the thought of missing the meal—meals, really—and all the festivities that go with it.

There will be the party tonight with all our special friends and relatives from Sausalito and Vallejo—the Richardsons and my uncle Luis and the Vallejos. Also there will be mother’s business partner and dear friend, Sylvia Gonsalves. Actually she’s like an auntie to me. Tomorrow—New Year’s Day, of course—there will be a beautiful mass at Mission Dolores followed by another party here at home to include a special blessing for this new house. It seems strange to have a big mass on a Saturday, but as Mamá said, it is New Year’s Day, and there will be another mass on Sunday as usual.

It has been over a year since we moved from the Brown Hotel downtown. I didn’t much like that hotel. There was very little space and no privacy whatever. This new house is much better, but it has yet to receive its blessing, and mother won’t be happy until it does. And believe me, if mother isn’t happy about something, she won’t let you forget it. Oh, and then, there will be another feast on New Year’s day if you can believe that, with so many more friends and acquaintances we won’t be able to count them.

Much as I hate to abandon you, my new friend, you’ll have to sit here on my desk and wait. Luckily, I know you won’t mind. That makes me a little sad, knowing how I hate to wait for anything, but then I realize that you have a virtue I didn’t think of until this moment. Unlike me, you are very patient. You will sit quietly until I return and complain not at all. I will make you my secret place. You will be like a jewel box hidden in my heart. No one will know of you and our secrets but us. No one.

Well, that decision cheers me up. I’ll just dip the nib on my pen in this well of water and wipe it with a soft rag. I’ll be back, my Diary. Don’t worry.

Coming, mother. I’ll be right there.

II: Let The Festivities Begin

II

Let The Festivities Begin

Bonita was pleased with the resplendent table she and her people had prepared for this celebratory day. "These celebratory days " would describe the occasion better. White candles contrasted beautifully with the deep green waxy leaves and the fiery red-orange berries adorning the Pyracantha branches that in turn adorned the center of each of the three long tables. This party was not only a holiday party. Bonita had another aim, one she had yet to disclose even to Sylvia. Their business acumen had carried them to great heights in San Francisco, heights unparalleled for a pair of women. But high society social societal circles were still closed to them.

Largely because they were engaged in commerce rather than investment or some more sophisticated endeavor, those in the more rarified spheres counted them as on the same plane as the blacksmiths, the milliners, and other regular laborers. She’d lately started to wish to somehow climb to new spheres. If it were successful, this party could be the first step up that ladder she’d begun to dream about. The Bishop was coming, as was Mayor Teschemscher. Once the word got out that they’d be attending, it was possible other dignitaries she’d invited would come as well. She almost said something to Sylvia, but decided the time was wrong. Instead, she returned the focus to the party itself.

What do you think, Sylvia?

Sylvia beamed. Fruit of our labors, as the good book says.

Don’t tell me you’re going to start quoting scripture. I don’t know if I can stand it.

Sylvia raised her hands, palms out. Oh, no. See what associating with you has done? You’re corrupting me with religion. I’ll keep quiet and leave the Bible-quoting to you.

The two women embraced, then stepped back from one another and smiled with the deep affection grown from shared tribulations and deep trust. After a moment, Sylvia raised her chin and sniffed the air.

It smells as if Consuelo is using too many peppers again, she said. The children will never touch that salsa.

I talked to her, Bonita said. There will be a choice for the pepper macho people and a milder version for everyone who prefers that.

My goodness. You’ll work your kitchen staff to death and spoil your guests beyond measure. They should eat what you serve and be happy for it.

Sylvia Gonsalves was older than Bonita’s twenty-nine years. How much older she refused to divulge, even to Bonita, close though they had become over the years. Bonita suspected she didn’t really know her own age herself. She was Portuguese by way of Brazil and had landed in San Francisco some time in the 1840’s. She had prospered by founding and operating a brothel called El Marinero Feliz, The Happy Sailor, which catered to the ship crews and ranch hands that frequented the village then called Yerba Buena.

She and Bonita had met when Bonita was fourteen and a runaway from an unhappy foster-parenting situation on the Vallejo ranch north of Yerba Buena. She masqueraded as a boy and made herself useful in El Marinero by playing the piano, which skill she had learned at the Vallejo’s, though the tunes she played in the brothel were of an entirely different character than the classical melodies which she had learned in the sophisticated household. It wasn’t long, though, before she grew into her woman’s body and couldn’t maintain the male disguise. In the meantime, Sylvia developed a distaste for her business, disbanded the brothel, and turned to the project of finding more savory employment for those ladies who wanted out.

It was a struggle, but then came 1848 and the gold rush, and suddenly it was no problem at all to find gainful employment for anyone, male or female, who didn’t care to dig and pan for that elusive shiny metal. In the process, Bonita and Sylvia became business partners and developed a formidable commercial empire. K and G—Kelly and Gonsalves—enterprises owned real estate, a drayage company, and assorted other ventures, including two cargo and passenger ships that plied the waters between San Francisco and Sacramento.

Sylvia, my love, Bonita said, What a momentous day this is. The anniversary of moving from the Brown Hotel.

This house is fine for you, Bonita, but I still rather enjoy the hotel. My new privacy gives me the opportunity to indulge—what shall I call them?—my romantic urges from time to time without resorting to the maneuvers I was sometimes forced to use to create private time for myself when we occupied the same quarters.

Sylvia, I never interfered with you and Felipe.

Never on purpose, no, Bonita. But you must admit there have been delicate moments. And don’t try to look so innocent. You know exactly what I’m talking about.

Bonita chose to steer around the implications of Sylvia’s remark.

Wonderful, she said. Then we both get what we want.

Makes for a perfect partnership.

And friendship.

The house, perched on a hillside near Mission Dolores, which itself was the site of San Francisco’s European origins, represented the success of everything they’d dreamed of and worked for.

It also signifies, Bonita went on, "the fifth year of the founding of La Casa de Mija." The House of My Daughter, as it was called in English, was a small hostelry Bonita and Sylvia had built as a refuge for downtrodden and brutalized women. The daughter in its name referred to Nita, whose whereabouts—indeed her very existence—had been still a mystery when the house opened.

I want everyone happy, Sylvia said. A knock sounded from the front door.

Surely we don’t have guests already, Bonita said. The party’s not to start for hours yet.

Perhaps some delivery or another? Sylvia said.

Nothing I ordered, Bonita said. Well there’s only one way to find out.

Bonita was astonished to see Mason and Marshall Fox standing in the doorway. They were entrepreneurs, owners of the firm that held most of the debt that Sylvia’s and Bonita’s businesses had incurred in the course of conducting their various businesses. Though the two women didn’t much like or trust the men, the sources of loans to businesswomen were few and far between. Most people held that the world of business was both unseemly and too complicated for women. So they were more or less forced to use the brothers’ resources.

The men were twins. They had grown up in Los Angeles, sons of a wealthy east coast businessman who had made a fortune in the shipping business, then succumbed to heart problems when the boys were fifteen. Their mother had died giving birth to these, the lone children in the Fox family. The boys had shown an aptitude for business, but had little interest in the sailing industry. Thus, they had migrated west, a land with a reputation for giant trees, and transferred their allegiance to timber.

May we come in, ladies? one of the men said.

Certainly, Bonita said. The veranda roof afforded them some protection, but the two had still gotten wet on their ride to the house even though their buggy was equipped with a folding canvas top that covered part of the front seat. It’s dry and warm in here.

Thank you. We’d be most obliged. They entered and began wandering around. They talked as they strolled into the living room, peered into the kitchen, and looked up the stairs.

We know we’re early. said one of them. Bonita still didn’t know them well enough to know whether the speaker was Mason or Marshall. However, we have other engagements and didn’t want to miss paying our holiday respects to anyone.

Well happy new year to you both, Sylvia said. And welcome to our new home.

"‘Our’ new home? It was our understanding that one of you would continue to live at the Hotel while the other relocated to this new house," said the one Bonita thought was Marshall.

We have an arrangement, Sylvia said.

I suppose that’s your business, whatever it is, Marshall said. Sylvia smiled but ignored the last remark.

Would you care for some refreshment? Bonita said. Consuelo should have eggnog prepared by now.

Thank you, no, Mason said. We must be off to the next stop on our agenda. Thank you for your hospitality.

But you haven’t even taken off your coats and hats, Bonita said.

Well, these may be times of entertainment for most people, but they are important business times for us. So many clients to call on. Best wishes to you both, Mason said.

We’ll be on our way, now.

If you must, Bonita said. Farewell and take care.

Bonita and Sylvia stood shoulder to shoulder as they closed the door and watched the buggy draw away from the house."

What do you think that was all about? Sylvia said.

You know as well as I do, partner, Bonita said. It was an appraisal. Every penny the women’s businesses owed to these brothers contained a clause that stipulated the twins could call in every penny Bonita and Sylvia owed at any moment. Such a move would provide a cash infusion for the Fox business and would all but ruin Sylvia and Bonita.

It’s hard to see how they could to do without the regular payments we make to them. Still, we don’t know everything about their affairs, and all that prowling around as if they were shopping at a bazaar reminded me of buzzards perched on a limb keeping a watch for their dinner.

You don’t suppose they’re actually planning to swoop down on us, do you?

Bonita said, Could be. But I forbid any such talk on today of all days.

Well said, Sylvia agreed. Happy new year.

And to you and everyone else. What would make me happy at this moment is for my daughter to make an appearance. Nita, she called, where are you?"

As if she’d been waiting in the wings to make her entrance, Nita skipped into the room with energy that seemed to dominate the scene wherever she went. Her long dark tresses fanned as she twirled her way toward her mother and the woman she thought of as her aunt. She ended her dance with a curtsy, her head bowed before her smiling mother.

"Yes, Mamá?" she said. With the linguistic dexterity of the young, Nita moved effortlessly between Spanish and English, despite speaking only Spanish until she was six. It was still a delight for Bonita to hear Nita call her Mamá. When they’d first met, she’d been forced to masquerade as the girl’s pretend auntie for two years during which Bonita and Flora Torres engaged in a struggle over her custody.

"What in the world have you been doing up there, preciosa? Guests will start arriving soon, and you aren’t even dressed. And I detect a certain aroma. You’ve been in my lavender water again." Nita ignored the scolding about the lavender water.

I’ve just been reading. You know how much trouble I have putting down a good book.

And which good book this time?

"Jane Eyre, of course."

Didn’t you just read that? Sylvia asked.

It’s even better the second time around.

Or the third. Bonita laughed and turned to Sylvia. She loves the way Jane breaks away from Rochester, but she likes to skip the part where they get back together at the end.

Jane would never have done that, Nita insisted. "She’s too independent. I’m sure Miss Bronte was forced