When the Homestead Act was passed in 1862, land-hungry settlers poured into California from all over the country, eager to claim the 160 acres (65 hectares) per person promised by the government. Harry Flannagan was one of these. He was a blue-eyed Irishman, with bright red hair, muscular arms, and a strong back and shoulders geared for hard labor. In Ireland, Harry Flannagan had been a poor man and the opportunity to own land was heady stuff to him. He took his time, traveling up and down the California coast for months before he chose his spot and filed a claim with the nearest land office in Los Angeles. As was required, he attested that he was twenty-one years of age and swore he’d never borne arms against the United States or given comfort to its enemies. He further declared his intention of improving the plot with crops and a dwelling, with the understanding that if he was still on the land in five years, the property would be his free and clear.
The rugged acreage he’d chosen was beautiful, but there was little or no fresh water on it and farming was precarious. Despite its proximity to the Pacific Ocean, the land was arid and the irony wasn’t lost on him: nothing but water as far as the eye could see and none of it was usable. No one bothered to tell him that for the past twenty-five years the idyllic-looking harbor had been known as Puerto Polvoriento, “Port Dusty.” Regardless of its obvious shortcomings, he was convinced he could turn the land to his advantage and he set about it with a will.
The only small impediment to his ambition was the fact that the sixty-five hectares he’d laid claim to infringed in its entirety on the land that belonged to Pilar Santiago-Vargas. Not surprisingly, this came to her attention, which prompted her to mount her horse and ride out to challenge the audacious interloper. It was never clear how the encounter played out or what wiles the plucky farmer employed in defense of his hopes, but the upshot was that Harry Flannagan took Pilar Santiago-Vargas as his lawful wedded wife within the month. He was not, after all, a man to quibble about a few excess pounds. With regard to her homeliness, he was also motivated to make allowances. Some eight and a half months later she bore him a son—the first of seven boys who arrived at two-year intervals, a band of fiery-haired Hispanics. By agreement, Pilar and Harry took turns naming their boychicks, who were, respectively, Joaquin, Ronan, Bendicto, Andrew, Miguel, Liam, and Placido.
Harry and Pilar were married for fifty-six years, until he was struck down in the influenza epidemic of 1918. Pilar lived on another fifteen years and died in 1933 at the age of 101. Harry’s crowning achievement was the founding of the Flannagan Water Company, which provided water to the citizens of Peephole for twenty-five cents a gallon, making him rich beyond imagining. Thereafter, he spear-headed construction of the Puerto Dam, which was completed in 1901 and provided a distribution system that delivered running water to the town.
Oddly enough, in the years I’d lived in Santa Teresa, I’d rarely been to Peephole, and I was looking forward to seeing it again.
12
WALKER MCNALLY
Monday, April 11, 1988
“Mr. McNally?”
He became aware that someone was addressing him. He opened his eyes. He didn’t recognize the woman who was bending close. She had a hand on his arm, which she was shaking insistently. Her expression showed impatience or concern and since he didn’t know her, he wasn’t sure which. The overhead light was bright and the ceiling tiles looked institutional, designed to dampen sound, though he couldn’t remember the name for them.
“Mr. McNally, can you hear me?”
He wanted to reply but there was a heaviness that filled his body, and the effort was too great. He had no idea what was going on and no memory of events that might explain his lying on his back, immobilized, with this woman leaning over him.
Something hurt. Had he had surgery? The pain wasn’t acute. More like a dull ache that radiated through his body with a thick layer of white on top, as cold and heavy as a blanket of snow.
The woman stepped aside and two copies of Carolyn’s face came into his visual frame, one slightly offset, like a watery duplicate. Nausea stirred as the surface ripples widened and dissipated near the edges of his view.
She said, “Walker.”
He focused and the two images locked into one, like a magic trick.
“Do you know where you are?”
Again, he wanted to respond but he couldn’t move his lips. He was so tired he could scarcely pay attention.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Her look was expectant. Clearly, she wanted an answer, but he had none to give.
“You were in an accident,” she said.