MONTEREY, CALIFORNIA, APRIL 1948
Life in the Stone household was becoming complicated. For the first time, considerations of health were preventing Mike’s wife, Cecelia Chang Stone, from playing an active role in an OSS or Sentinel operation. The stress of the 109-day kidnapping, a 2-month tour of China, Indonesia, and Malaysia, a rare strain of amoebic dysentery, and the exertion required to prevent the Dutch recolonization of Indonesia had taken its toll. There was nothing physically wrong with her, but her nervous system could only tolerate a limited amount of pressure.
Ever since Mike began to suspect the Sentinels may become involved in opposing another effort to abuse the American system of free enterprise, he knew he needed to help his “Mighty Warrior from Hong Kong” to find a less demanding but meaningful role that would keep her challenged.
Mike was pleased when Cecelia enthusiastically approved of his suggestion they spend a week in Carmel, California. The last time they had made this trip together was in 1943. He remembered how concerned he had been over all her unexplained absences in San Francisco and all the late-night phone calls.
One night when they were walking along the beach, she had explained her previous work with the federal government’s “Office of Special Services,” OSS. She had played an instrumental role in assisting wealthy families remove their wealth in advance of the invasion by the Japanese. Her sharing what must have been highly confidential information with him had broken the growing tension and had helped him to understand how much she cared for him.
* * *
THE TOP WAS DOWN ON THE RENTED RED FORD CONVERTIBLE AS THEY sped south along Highway 101 toward Carmel. The brilliant sun illuminated the lush countryside. The orderly orchards, the long parallel rows of crops that appeared to meet in the distance, the rich, warm, recently tilled soil, the tall groves of eucalyptus trees, and the old red farm buildings, together, created a memorable scene.
It was late in the afternoon when they arrived in Carmel. Mike drove straight down to the foot of Ocean Avenue, parked the car, and beckoned for Cecelia to follow him toward the beach. Like Mike, she slipped off her shoes and hurried after him. Feeling the warmth of the sand on the bottoms of their feet and between their toes, they walked along the water, watching the sun slowly disappear like a big red ball falling into the Pacific Ocean.
When Mike noticed Cecelia was no longer following close behind him, he turned to look for her. She was wandering aimlessly, like someone lost in thought. Changing direction, he caught up to her, put his arms around her, engaging her in a warm, protective hug. He could feel her tiny body beginning to tremble, and the tears of her silent crying ran down his cheek. Concerned, he caressed her tenderly, and in the gathering darkness, he gently lowered her down on the still-warm sand. Content to sit quietly, holding her in his arms, he was experiencing a very unusual moment of intimacy. He patiently waited for her to explain.
* * *
THE COOL EVENING FOG WAS BEGINNING TO ROLL IN OFF THE OCEAN. Finally, he dropped his arms and pulled back from Cecelia before he said, “Wait here. Take my coat while I gather some driftwood and make a fire before I retrieve the blanket and the bottle of wine we left in the car.”
The fire Mike built gave off waves of heat. The wine was having its soothing effect. Wrapped in a foglike shroud of quiet, totally separated from the rest of the world with its worries and pressures, they were enjoying the warmth and comfort of each other and the fire.
When the fire began to wane, Mike unwrapped himself from Cecelia. With all possible haste, he began to gather all of the driftwood he was able to spot in the failing light.
He was stacking his last load of wood within easy reach of where they would be sitting when Cecelia said, “I think I’m ready to discuss what’s bothering me.”
She waited for Mike to position himself back under the blanket, refill his glass, and then said, “If for one minute you expect me to stand aside and watch the rest of you work on the industrial-military complex problem, you don’t know me as well as I thought. Knowing you and loving you as I do, it’s important you understand I need to have my own project . . . call it my own kind of music to dance to, even if it’s only a little dance!
“This will be the first time in more than 15 years when we have not been working together. I’m going to need your help, your support, and your love. Just knowing you understand will provide me with the confidence I’ll need.”
Having said what she wanted to say, she hugged him ever tighter, snuggled deeper under the heavy blanket, and whispered, “I am beginning to believe there other issues that require our undivided attention!”
* * *
SITTING IN THE WARM SUN ON THE OPEN PATIO OF THE CYPRESS INN, Mike and Cecelia were savoring the last of their late breakfast and discussing what they would enjoy doing most on their first full day of their vacation.
“I have an idea,” Mike said. “I know how much you appreciate good sculpture. Gordon Newell, a longtime friend of my family, has a studio on the wharf in Cannery Row. He does very interesting work and has sold his sculpture to private collectors and museums all around the world. His studio is as fascinating as his work. It is located in part of an old, dilapidated sardine factory he bought and renovated without disturbing the outer character of the building. Who knows, maybe we’ll find one of his smaller sculptures that will nicely fit into that lit, indented space in our front hall wall.”
* * *
IT WAS EARLY THAT SAME AFTERNOON WHEN THEY ARRIVED AT THE old, drab warehouse that housed Gordon’s sculpture studio. Their knocking on the frame of the open door was drowned out by the loud, repetitive clink of a hammer hitting a chisel hitting a block of marble. Unsure whether to enter unannounced or wait for the racket to stop, Mike said, “Knowing Gordon, he could be at it for hours. Let’s just walk in and let him know he has company.”
Once their eyes adjusted to the dimness of the cavernous studio, they saw Gordon standing before a giant slab of upright marble with his back to them. For several moments they watched the absorbed artist as he worked, chip by chip, on the piece of marble that must have been 10 feet high, 6 feet wide, and 2 feet thick. With the removal of each little chip, the big sculpture was beginning to resemble an enlarged replication of the small maquette sitting on the adjacent workbench. Formed out of wax, the model was not more than 15 inches tall.
* * *
GORDON WAS STARTLED WHEN HE TURNED TO REACH FOR A DIFFERENT sharpened chisel when he realized he had an audience. “What do we have here? Mike, who is this lovely creature? Have you brought me the female model I have been waiting all these years to sculpt?”
“Gordon, this woman is my wife. She is the infamous Cecelia Chang you’ve heard me talk so much about.”
Before either Gordon or Mike could say another word, Cecelia had moved over to where she could see both the maquette and emerging shape of the sculpture. Fascinated by what she was seeing, she turned to Gordon and asked, “Would you mind explaining what you are hoping to accomplish?”
Pleased by her attention, her interest in his work, and her excellent question, the man behind the tools began to explain. “I have a longtime collector of some of my work who asked me to spend enough time with him to enable me to develop a sense of who he really might be. After I had time to think about what I observed, he suggested that I develop an idea for a sculpture that represents what I thought I had observed.”
* * *
SHIFTING HER GAZE BETWEEN THE MAQUETTE AND THE MASSIVE block of granite, she asked, “I don’t get it. What is there about such a large piece of granite with a variety of different grooves, or negative space, running from top to bottom that represents what you have noticed about your client?”
Fascinated by Cecelia’s question, the admiring sculptor launched into small talk with Cecelia, and before Mike could object, Gordon took her by the arm and started to show her around his studio. When they paused to inspect each individual sculpture, the artist would explain what he was attempting to accomplish. How his sculpture reflected what he was attempting to portray. Next, he would describe some of the problems he had encountered along the way.
* * *
FOR THE NEXT HOUR, MIKE QUIETLY FOLLOWED THEM AS THEY TOURED the studio, slowly moving from piece to piece as Gordon explained the story behind each one.
Wholly consumed with Cecelia, listening to her questions and observing her reaction to his answers, Gordon not only showed her the work he had on display in his primary studio but insisted they go into the adjoining building where he stored his unfinished pieces.
When the casual tour ended, Gordon picked up one of the smaller sculptures, one that Cecelia had seemed particularly interested in, and handed it to her. Then he said, “Please accept this small token of our new friendship.”
Unsure of what she should do with the offered gift, Cecelia turned to Mike in a silent plea for help. Without hesitating, he walked over to her, lifted the heavy sculpture out of her hands, and said, “I’ll put it in the car before he changes his mind.”
When Mike returned, the sculpture safely stowed in the trunk of the convertible, Cecelia and Gordon were locked into what appeared to be a serious conversation. He approached and put a hand on each of their shoulders and asked, “All right, you two, what kind of trouble are you planning?”
“Mike!” Cecelia exclaimed. “Gordon just invited us to join him now for a few drinks with his good friend John Steinbeck over at the Bear Flag. You have to be familiar with John Steinbeck; he wrote Grapes of Wrath and Cannery Row! Can you imagine how interesting it will be to meet a Pulitzer–winning author in the very same setting he described in his books? Oh, Mike, please say yes!”
* * *
MIKE HAD SEEN SOME PRETTY REMARKABLE PEOPLE DRINK AND TELL stories, but it was nothing like what he and Cecelia were witnessing. For the next 2 hours, sitting next to Cecelia at a sturdy oak table in the sleepy little bar, it was becoming quite clear that as long as the steady procession of cocktails continued to arrive, the two raconteurs were not to be denied. In Mike and Cecelia, they had a new audience for their old stories—and someone to pay for the drinks.
Word of a possible “free drink” began to spread among the regulars of Cannery Row. Under the spell of the revelers, laughing generously, sharing stories of their own, Cecelia and Mike found themselves hosting a full-fledged Cannery Row party. By two o’clock in the morning, Mr. and Mrs. Stone had more than earned a place as honorary drinking members of the local clan.
* * *
LATER THE NEXT MORNING, THE BRIGHT SUN SHINING AGAINST HIS eyelids awakened Mike. Momentarily uncertain where he was, he threw off the covers, climbed out of bed, and looked around. Slowly, the events of the previous night came back to him, along with the fact that he had somehow managed to navigate their way back to their second-story room at the Cypress Inn. The clock on the wall read eleven o’clock.
A small, motionless lump lay curled in the fetal position on the opposite side of the bed, jet-black hair splayed over the white pillow. Filled with panic, Mike wondered if she was all right. To make certain she was, he reached down and gently touched her neck.
Feeling his touch, Cecelia turned over, opened her eyes, stared around, and asked, “Did John and Gordon really ask us to join their club?”
* * *
LATER THAT SAME AFTERNOON, THE STONES WERE PROWLING AROUND the old town of Monterey when they discovered the Army Language School. Once Mike explained its purpose, Cecelia was having a difficult time comprehending why every branch of the armed services, from bases all over the world, would send personnel to learn so many different languages at one location.
The teachers, Mike explained, were foreign nationals recruited for their expertise in official written languages as well as their command of numerous local dialects.
As they stood debating what they should do next, a group of students streamed out of the language school. They were intent on making their way across the street and into an unremarkable-looking local tavern. Grabbing Mike as they streamed out, Cecelia said, “Let’s follow them. I need to talk to them.”
Never surprised by his wife’s insatiable curiosity, he replied, “Why not,” before he extended his arm and offered to lead her across the street. Inside, Mike settled onto a bar stool at the far end of the bar. He planned to spend the time mindlessly crunching on pretzels and sipping a cold beer.
Cecelia was truly in her element. She walked straight up to a kind-faced man and, in no time, she had been asked to join him and his friends for a friendly beer.
Mike smiled as he watched her begin to ask questions. When two of the students responded, she learned they would be assigned positions in two different provinces in China. Immediately, she began to speak in her privileged Hong Kong dialect. Responding, the two students began to speak flawless Chinese but in the dialects of the provinces where they would be assigned.
* * *
FLATTERED BY HER INTEREST IN THEM, THEY LISTENED AS SHE ASKED, “Where do you come from? Where have you attended college? What language are you here to study? Why are you interested in government work? Where are you hoping to be assigned? What are you planning to do when your service commitment is complete?”
* * *
MIKE WAS FINISHING THE LAST OF HIS SECOND BEER WHEN CECELIA walked up behind him and announced, “This Army Language School is one big melting pot of people from different backgrounds who have come together to study languages. Why couldn’t the same concept be applied to the study of international political science and commerce—kind of an expanded version of the program we attended at Berkeley?”
Mike chuckled, amused by the earnestness of her question, and asked, “What are you planning to do, start a school for future Six Sentinels?”
Not taking Cecelia seriously had always been a serious mistake. One look at her standing defiantly in front of him, her hands firmly placed on her hips, the emerald-green eyes flashing, and the square set of her delicate facial features, Mike immediately realized he had just said the wrong thing.
Clearly upset by his careless statement, Cecelia, not above expressing how she felt, said, “Listen, Mr. Banker, there are two undeniable facts of life that even you would recognize. One, we aren’t getting any younger, and two, these abuses of free enterprise are beginning to appear with alarming regularity. If we expect to perpetuate what we have started, please explain to me why you don’t think it is necessary for us to create a new kind of school, one where students from all over the world could study our Power-Cycle concept? Who knows, we might hatch a new generation of Sentinels.”
* * *
A FEW DAYS LATER AS THEY DROVE THE RENTED CONVERTIBLE BACK to the airport, Cecelia aroused herself from a long stretch of silent introspection before turning toward Mike. “How would you feel about continuing on to New York without me? The language school has given me an idea. I want to take advantage of my being on the West Coast to check out a few ideas.”
Mike knew better than protest. To argue would be futile. Could this be the start of the idea for Cecelia’s special mission like we discussed on the beach?
* * *
ARRIVING AT THE AIRPORT WAS TURNING INTO A STRANGE EXPERIENCE. Instead of returning the rental car and proceeding together to the gate, Mike arranged for its further use by Cecelia. Standing curbside at the busy airport, Cecelia and Mike were trying to decide how to say good-by. It seemed like a very strange thing for them to be doing. Finally, he reached out to her and with both arms, he drew her in to his warmest hug before whispering into her ear, “I’ve been thinking about your new idea. With all of us so busily focusing on the immediacy of the problem directly in front of us, none of us have had the time to think further ahead. I have to think the probability of what you are suggesting may be much bigger than any of us suspect. At the very minimum, we should at least attempt to discover if what you are suggesting is a realistic alternative.
“As much as I will miss you, I understand its importance. Take as much time as you need to find out whatever it is you need to learn, providing you call me every night.”