The first two I know you have in abundance, so I am sending you a wishing stone for the third, this little desert quartz wrapped up in silk. And the turquoise stone is for protection, of your heart, of your precious self. Cooper and I send all our love. If you took ten Mr. Richard St. Johns and stacked them all together end to end, you would still be worth more than all of them. I still can’t believe he already had a wife. Was he going to tell you at the altar?
• • •
December 20, 1948
My dearest M.,
Enclosed are two Christmas presents for you—I wish that they were better ones. I wish I could give you all the magic in the world filled into a great copper tub. Then you could warm it and step inside and have yourself a luxurious soak.
Yet in this simple copper band is more magic than most of our kind will ever see. You must not wear it, but keep it close. Someday it will want to return to the mountains, but now I think you must have it. Keep it close, and I will be close too.
The other gift I have drawn for you. I am sorry it is not a painting, as you’d have liked. I feel the new paintings must not leave the mountains, but I wish to give you something of mine. And so I send this sketch, this child of mine, and ask that you please give it a home, as skinny and ragged and humble as it is. I send this parcel with my love, and Cooper would surely send his as well, if he were speaking today.
• • •
March 3, 1949
Sweet Maisie,
How is it I have a friend who is so strong and brave and vital as you? I would hide at home by my nice, warm fire, but there you are, speaking out from the stage, the street corner, the lecture room—and now you are ready to go before Congress and speak out for Women once again. Surely Injustice must tremble in his boots when he hears that Maisie Tippetts has come in. You are trying to change the world, my dear, and I but to understand my little piece of it. It is good of you to love me anyway, foolish little dreamer that I am.
And I cannot even claim that I am succeeding in my own small task. The land baffles me, showing me a strange new face every time I walk it. But this is one thing I have discovered to be true: the land will mirror back at you whatever it is that you most expect to see. Whether that be good or ill. When I look in that mirror, I see images in oil paint, spirals, feathers, creatures metamorphosizing from leaf to flesh and back again. Cooper, of course, sees language in the mirror of the stones, the sky, the trees. And you, what will you see, my Maisie? You must come, please—come and tell me.
• • •
April 20, 1949
My dear,
I am sorry. I know you must be hurt, or angry. I don’t know what I can say to explain. I only know you mustn’t come. It is because I love you that I keep you away. Can you understand? It is difficult now. I fear that I have made a terrible, terrible mistake. I keep thinking back to the years of my girlhood, before I lost the state of Grace. I have no such protection here, no holy water, no penitence. Only a stone, that crumbles in my hand like my hopes, my work, our future.
I set pen to paper in order to explain, and now I give you riddles, like Cooper. Let me be clear then. I found myself pregnant with Cooper’s child. I am no longer pregnant. There. The words are said.
Maisie, I am not a good woman. I have done things no one should do. I’ve loved these paintings, these breathing images, more than any flesh and blood, more than anyone but Cooper, maybe even more than him. And the God that I knew as a child would surely Damn me now for that.
Please understand, I couldn’t bear for you to see me now, like this. I must be still, regain my strength. And then, my dear, I must paint.
• • •
April 24, 1949
Dearest M.,
As you see, I have sent you a canvas. It is my final painting: The Nightmage. The other paintings must remain on the mountain, but this one, my dear, you must promise me to keep safe in New York, far from here.
It is the finest I have ever done, this stagman with his horns of flames. He is a master of fire, and an artist himself. He was my muse, but no longer. I have been his creature, while I thought he was mine. I have been his canvas, his chalk and his paint. I know I will not paint again. I am emptied out. I am hollow inside. The land mirrors my nightmares now and I cannot bear this emptiness. Worst of all, I can not answer the questions I see in Cooper’s eyes.
He doesn’t know there was a child, Maisie. I cannot tell him. I cannot tell him.
Now I want only peace, silence, empty white walls around me. I don’t want to see these colors, these spirals, these lines, this terrible beauty anymore. And so I entrust my work, my muse, my passion for the land, my love for Cooper into your strong and capable hands, where I know they will find safe haven.
A.N.
Maggie held Anna’s last letter in her hand, staring out at the mesquite wood that lay beyond the window glass. Anna may have sat in this very same spot when she wrote the letter to Maisie. Never dreaming that half a century later a stranger would read those anguished words. She felt again that pang of conscience that made her wonder if she was even cut out for the role of biographer. It was different than journalism, different than interviewing a living and willing subject.
Cooper must have wanted this, or he’d never have left his papers to her. Maisie must approve as well, or she wouldn’t have sent Anna’s letters. But what about Anna Naverra herself? Maggie sighed. She knew what the answer would be. And she didn’t know if she had it in her to ignore it, to publish these letters anyway. But she also could not simply abandon the work, and leave the riddle of Cooper unsolved.
At the very least she wanted to find, or reconstruct, The Sagauro Forest. She owed him that, for bringing her here to this land that was stealing her heart.
• • •
Dora put on a silk chemise, a man’s vest, and a long bright skirt—a full one, good for dancing, with a lace petticoat of Anna Naverra’s peeking out from underneath. She tied back her hair, and put on earrings of dangling Mexican milagros. Around her neck she wound the strands of a Zuni necklace: silver beads and malachite. She pulled on her scuffed green cowboy boots, and smiled at herself in the bedroom mirror. It had been too long since she and Juan had gone out on a date and enjoyed themselves. Juan hadn’t been off the mountain in weeks. A night on the town would do them good—and their marriage good as well.
The barrio bar where Fox played tonight used to be one of their favorite haunts, just down the street from the little house they’d rented when they first got to Tucson. The music would be loud, the beer would be cold; she wanted to dance until the place closed down. “What do you think, Bandido?” she asked, attempting a Cajun two-step, the move made awkward by the piles of clothes, books and lumber underfoot. “How do you think I look, old boy?” The dog yawned hugely, rolled over on his back and closed his eyes, ignoring her.
The light was still on in Juan’s studio. She checked her watch. They ought to leave soon. She left the house, whistling Zydeco tunes as she crossed the stable yard. “Juan?” she said, pushing open the door.
He sat on a stool in front of his easel, his dark hair paint-streaked and tousled, sticking up in an endearing way.
“Juan?” she said again, smiling. “It’s eight o’clock. Hello, Mr. del Rio? Anyone home?”
He pulled his eyes away from the canvas with effort, and focused on her. “Dora,” he said, naming her. Looking dazed. “What is it? What’s wrong? What do you want?”
“Nothing’s wrong, love. It’s just getting on time to go to the Hole, or we’ll miss the first set. Are you going to want to clean up first? Mind you, I think the dishevelled-painter look is rather sexy,” she added as she came up behind him and put her arms around his waist. “Eau de Turpentine. My favorite.” She kissed him behind one ear.
He sat stiffly in her embrace, still looking at his work. The canvas had dark shapes blocked out, images slowly emerging from the paint. He moved away from her and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his
hands. “Oh lord, Dora. Sorry. I forgot.”
She shrugged, wounded, but she gave him a bright smile. “That’s all right. We still have time to get there. Let’s take your jeep, okay?”
He lowered his hands and looked at her. “I’ve just gotten going with this,” he explained, “and I can’t really leave it now. Oil paint dries too damn fast out here in the desert—I need to work while it’s still wet.” He put on his work glasses again. “I’ll tell you what, we’ll go out tomorrow night instead. I promise.”
Dora swallowed. “I’m at the hotel tomorrow night. And it’s tonight that Fox is playing. Juan, we made these plans days ago. We never go out anymore.”
He gave a short, explosive sigh, and paced over to his worktable. He picked up a paint-soaked rag and a clean bristle brush, and he turned to face her. “Dora. Honey,” he said to her with a visible attempt at patience, “I’m in the middle of my work. We can always go out another night but this … this is important to me. And this isn’t going to wait.”
She took a deep breath, and conceded, “Yes, of course. I know your work is important.” And not me, she added silently. Then she winced at the petty sound of that. Disappointment was a stone she swallowed, lodged inside her throat.
“That’s my girl. I knew you’d understand.” He smiled as he stepped back to the canvas, patting her shoulder as he passed. Exactly the way he patted Bandido or the cats. Absently. Dismissing her.
The gesture undid her. “Actually, Juan,” she said more sharply, “I don’t understand. I don’t see why this is more important than a promise you’ve made to your wife.”
He shot her a puzzled look. “Come on, you’re being melodramatic. It’s only one night out, after all. We’ll do it again. We’ll go dancing next weekend.” She stared at him stonily. He sighed again. “Look, I’m right in the middle of things here, so if you really need to argue about this, we’re just going to have to do it later.” He turned decisively back to the canvas, adding rusty color on the left side of it with wide, cross-hatching strokes.
“We need to talk about this, Juan,” she persisted, stepping toward him. “It’s not just tonight. It’s too many nights of broken promises, all adding up. It’s you sleeping on the sofa now. It’s the fact that you won’t even talk to me anymore—goddamn it, put the brushes down and talk to me for once.”
He shook off the hand she had put on his arm. “This is not a good time for a therapy session. I need to capture this image while it’s fresh—and if you keep on like this, I’m going to lose it.” He ran his paint-stained fingers through his hair, looking harried. “Why are you doing this now? Why does this have to be a big deal? We can talk about it later, all right? We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“No, we won’t,” she said quietly, close to tears. “You won’t want to talk tomorrow either.”
He turned on her then, anger in his eyes. “Don’t play the martyr here, Dora. It’s not attractive. It doesn’t work on me.” Juan stabbed the brush into the paint on the palette. “You married a painter, you want me to be good. You’re always on at me about bringing in more money—so for god’s sake, let me do my job.”
She paled and backed off. “All right,” she said. Her voice was high and tremulous. Exasperation crossed his face.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, don’t start crying now. Why is everything such a drama with you these days? If you wanted a man who worked nine-to-five, you should have married a banker, not me. You know I can’t predict when a painting is going to happen. Why is this such a problem all of a sudden?”
Dora took another steadying breath. She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t going to stand there like a fool. “I’m still going out tonight,” she told him. “Even if you’re not coming. I need time off the mountain, Juan.”
He shrugged. “Fine. I hope you have a good time.” He bent over his painting again, blending the rusty tones into the browns. He gave her one last glance over his shoulder. “Tell Fox I’ll catch him next time.”
“You tell him yourself,” she snapped.
She left the barn, closing the door behind her—although her impulse was to slam it. She was torn between anger with him, and guilt. Was she indeed being ridiculous? Weighing a night out in a bar over art? Only, sometimes it seemed inspiration only struck when he was supposed to be doing something else, something for her, or their marriage—and right now that excuse was wearing thin. She went into the kitchen, picked up the phone, and angrily punched in Maggie’s number.
“This is Dora,” she said. Her voice still wavered. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I know this is short notice, but you wouldn’t happen to feel like going out would you? Right now, I mean. To a bar called the Hole. I’m all dressed up and ready to go, but I’ve lost my dancing partner… You would? Hot damn, I’ll be right over.” She hung up the phone and picked up her purse. She was going to have a good time tonight, she told herself firmly, Juan or no Juan.
Dora fetched the keys. She’d take Juan’s jeep. He was like a kid with a new toy with the thing; he still didn’t like anyone else to drive it. She backed from the yard, grinding the gears and aware that her husband would hear the sound. She gunned the engine and sped from the drive, kicking gravel into the yard.
When she turned onto the road, her headlights picked out three shadows approaching from across the wash. The Foxxe sisters. And Angela’s boyfriend, Pepe Hernández. They waved at her to stop, and she did.
“Are you going to hear my brother play?” Isabella asked her.
“That’s right.” She made herself smile, blinking back an onslaught of angry tears. “Do you want to come along?”
“Can we?”
“You’ll have to squeeze together in back, because Maggie is coming.”
The Foxxe sisters climbed into the jeep, with Pepe wedged between them. He was a skinny young man, with a sweet brown face and black hair falling to the collar of his T-shirt. He wore an eyepatch over one eye, and always looked to Dora like an underfed pirate. His T-shirt read, SAVE OUR DESERT on the front, and on the back, VOTE NO TO THE ROCKING K DEVELOPMENT. It was an old T-shirt and a lost cause; that old ranch would soon be history.
“Strap yourselves in and hold on tight,” Dora warned them as she pulled the jeep into Cooper’s yard. “I don’t quite have the hang of driving this thing.” She leaned on the horn and Maggie stepped out onto the porch, looking dashing in her black L.A. suit. She locked her door and came over.
“Maggie, you know Angela and Isabella. And this is Pepe. They’re coming with us.”
“Great, it’s a party.” She climbed into the jeep. “Dora, I’m glad you called. I was just about to go out to the U., to hear a chamber quartet. But I’d much rather dance. I definitely need a night out on the town.”
“Not half as much as I do,” Dora wagered, flooring the gas, speeding down Cooper’s driveway and trailing clouds of dust behind. She steered the Jeep through the dry wash bed and out to the graded dirt road of Reddington Pass. Then she turned the radio to a salsa station, and headed for the lights of Tucson.
The Hole was officially The Hole in the Wall, but no one used that cutesy name. The place itself was not cutesy, it was a bit of a dive, southwestern style. Located downtown in an old adobe building at the edge of the Barrio Histórico, it had remnants of a past glory in its saguaro rib ceilings, carved oak doors, thick adobe walls, and weathered wood plank floors. There were bullet holes in one smoke-stained wall from bandidos back in 1912.
Maggie stopped and read the sign on the door: BIG BAD BAYOU RATTLER BOYS. “Is that the band? What kind of a name is that?”
Dora laughed at her expression. “There are musicians out of four different bands jamming together tonight. Bayou Brew is a Cajun band. Diamondback Rattlers are Tex-Mex, mostly. Big Bad Wolf plays Celtic punk and the Momba Rhomba Boys are reggae. Fox has played with all of them at one time or another.”
“Fox is playing?”
“You bet he is. Fox miss a jam like this?” Dora said, and behin
d her the Foxxe sisters giggled.
“What kind of music will it be tonight then?”
“Loud music,” Dora answered. “This isn’t exactly Estampie, honey. Anything goes in a jam like this, so long as it’s danceable.”
She took Maggie’s arm and steered her through the door. Inside, the rambling rooms of the bar were already growing crowded. Dora recognized some familiar faces from when she used to live down here: Mexican couples from old barrio families; Anglo yuppies bent on rennovating the neighborhood; Little Bob, the hot-shot environmental writer; Big Jon, the folklorist, sitting in the corner with his banjo in his lap. Aging hippies and Earth First types in faded clothes from Guatemala mixed with U-of-A students in bright gym clothes that exposed a lot of suntanned flesh. Urban cowboys were propping up the bar, tossing back double shots of tequila.
Dora threaded through the hot, smokey rooms, Maggie and the others trailing behind her. She greeted a woman who used to be a neighbor; nodded at a customer from the gallery; kissed the cheek of a young Apache man she’d met in her bookmaking class. Beyond the maze of little inner rooms was a central courtyard, open to the stars. Clematis flowers, big as saucers, covered the vines that choked the walls. Mismatched tables had been pushed back to make room for dancing on the cracked tile floor. The band was setting up on a stage built under the limbs of a mesquite tree. Fox was bent over a tangle of wires; he looked up, saw her, and pointed left.
“Fox has saved us a table,” Dora reported. It was close to the stage, with a RESERVED sign on it. Pepe went looking for another chair, Maggie for a pitcher of beer, and Dora sat down with the Foxxe sisters, who were quiet, wary of the crowd.
Maggie came back with a tray loaded down with a sweating pitcher of Dos Equis and bowls of white tortilla chips and green chili salsa, blistering hot. She sat beside Dora and said to her, “Just go ahead and have a good time. You look like you could use it. I’ll have one beer then switch to tonic, so I can drive us home.”
Dora opened her mouth to protest, then she shut it. Maggie was right. She needed this. If Juan had been here, she would have stayed sober to drive home and even that would have provoked an argument. He would never admit when he was drunk, even when he could barely stand. The hell with that. The hell with Juan, she told herself as she knocked back a beer. She was going to let down her hair tonight, and she wasn’t going to think about her husband.
The Wood Wife Page 18
