“They still speak Spanish?”
“I think English is now the most widely spoken language there, but Spanish remains common.”
“What about their own language?”
“Which of their own languages? There are close to 200 of them.”
“It’s the same here in New Mexico, isn’t it? You told me one time that the main reason the uprisings against the Spanish conquistadors failed was that the First Nations couldn’t coordinate their opposition because each tribe had their own language.”
‘First Nations’ is one of the Canadian phrases Sharice retains. At least she doesn’t end sentences with ‘eh’. That’s an anglophone Canadian thing.
Despite the freezing weather and high wind, Emilio was outside to greet us as we stepped out of the Bronco. The three of us quick-stepped into the tiny adobe house where we were greeted by Consuela and given a steaming cup of Mexican hot chocolate. Consuela’s version is so authentic, I think it must have been handed down to her by the Aztecs. The ingredients are whole milk, cocoa powder, vanilla beans, cinnamon, chili powder, a little bittersweet chocolate, and a few drops of honey. Nothing is better on a cold morning.
After we were all seated, Sharice announced that she was with child. Consuela burst into tears of joy. Emilio retrieved a bottle of Presidente Solera Brandy, added a splash to our cups, and proposed a toast—“May he be the first of many.”
Consuela went to their bedroom and emerged with a Mexican bola, a traditional chiming pendant worn by expectant mothers during pregnancy. It is worn low to rest directly in front of the baby who will hear the gentle ringing sounds.
“I wore this when I carried Ninfa. Emilio call your baby ‘he’ because he is macho. But I hope you have a girl.”
I said I believed it would be a girl, but I didn’t explain why I held that view.
After much discussion of the good news, Emilio suggested he and I move to the kitchen to prepare breakfast while the women “speak of woman things”.
We prepared huevos rancheros. Since we’d both been taught to cook by Consuela, we made a good team, and plates were on the table in less than ten minutes. Which was a good thing because the brandy had made its way to my head speeded along by the chili powder and steam.
Consuela, Emilio, and Sharice were doing all the talking. I just listened and ate. And thought about Sharice’s suggestion that I forget about Floss Man. Maybe she was right. Sitting in this familiar home was just as warm and reassuring now as it had been over the last thirty years.
When the Basque guy named Shorty disappeared from Otowi, a young San Ildefonso Indian named Adam consented for a while to act as watchman. His parents were Julián and María Martínez—the famous potters. They already owned the land and they bought the house that had been built there.
When Edith Warner replaced Adam as station master, she brought her meagre belongings—a box of books, a barrel of dishes, two cots and four chairs. Church wrote of Edith that, “She found herself thinking of her little German grandmother who as a bereaved and timid young girl had packed her thick Lutheran books in a wooden chest and set sail for a new life in America. It seemed as though the spirits of all women, who since humanity’s beginning have made homes in wilderness, came now to companion her like an invisible chorus. Perhaps the trouble with the little house, she thought, was that only rootless men had used it for a shelter. No woman had ever tried to fill it with human warmth and make it beautiful.”
I suspected I qualified as a rootless man. I’d spent most of my life sleeping behind my shop. I spent a lot of time at Dos Hermanas drinking tequila. I made a living breaking the law. A ridiculous law in my opinion, but men with roots know they are not entitled to choose which laws to obey. But Sharice had taken me in. And now we were having a baby. Being a father made me feel like a man with roots. And I liked it.
When I first used Edith Warner as a source of insight—comparing her taking the job as train stationmaster to my taking the job as department head—it had been mostly in jest, said in order to keep the banter going between myself and Susannah. But as I thought about the way she and Tilano were so different yet so right for each other, how they each made the other’s life complete, it was no longer banter. It was a life lesson.
Chapter 27
Sharice had decided to consult her oncologist about choosing an obstetrician.
In plain English, she wanted to ask her cancer doctor about getting a good doctor to deliver a baby. I suspected there was another reason she wanted to see Dr. Rao.
My suspicion was confirmed when Sharice asked Dr. Rao if having been treated for cancer might affect her pregnancy.
Doctor Rao said, “Docetaxel has been shown to be both embryotoxic and foetotoxic in rabbits and rats, and to reduce fertility in rats. As with other cytotoxic medicinal products, docetaxel may cause fetal harm when administered to pregnant women. So I never use docetaxel on a pregnant patient except in very special circumstances. Of course you were not pregnant when you received docetaxel. So the question is whether there are lingering effects. There have been no long-term studies regarding this matter. If you decide to continue the pregnancy, I’d like to meet with your obstetrician so that we can jointly monitor you and the baby.”
In addition to the two new words I learned—embryotoxic and foetotoxic—the words that got my attention were, “If you decide to continue the pregnancy.”
I didn’t want to lose my newfound roots. I didn’t want my baby to be denied a chance to experience life. But I also knew even though she would consult me, it would ultimately be Sharice’s decision.
The appointment had been scheduled early in the morning and Sharice had been directed to fast because Dr. Rao wanted both blood and urine samples as part of her routine monitoring. After the samples were taken, Dr. Rao said she had called the obstetrician she’d recommend—Dr. Chandra—and scheduled an appointment for tomorrow.
So we headed to The Grove for breakfast. Sharice ordered the organic egg-white frittata with crimini mushrooms, roasted asparagus, tomatoes, and arugula.
To offset all that healthy stuff, I choose the burrito of scrambled egg, Tully’s local sausage, goat cheese, and green chile.
After we were seated and our plates delivered, Sharice asked me what I thought.
“The sausage is delicious.”
“I meant about what Dr. Rao said.”
“I liked the part where she said she wanted to cooperate with Dr. Chandra. And I’m glad she set the appointment up for tomorrow. I’m anxious to hear all about our baby from a doctor who knows that stuff.”
“What about what she said about the risk?”
“If I understood correctly, the risk is high if you take it while you’re pregnant. But there’s no data on whether there’s a risk years after you’ve taken it. You’re a health professional. Would traces of it still be in your system?”
“I doubt it. But it’s effects could linger.”
“What sort of effects?”
“I have no idea. But there are certain medicines that weaken teeth. Years afterwards, there is no evidence of the medicine in the body, but the weakened teeth remain a problem. Maybe the docetaxel could have affected the ability of my body to develop a healthy umbilical cord.”
I guess I frowned because she added, “It’s just an example.”
“And there are other possibilities, so that’s why it’s good that you’re meeting with Doctor Chandra tomorrow. You can ask her lots of questions.”
“What if she doesn’t have any answers?”
Chapter 28
William Hughes, Assistant Director of the Office of Compliance, showed up again Tuesday morning in my office to tell me the complaint he had told me about had been dropped and asked me if I had talked to Professor Armstrong, insinuating—it seemed to me—that I might have coerced Armstrong into dropping the complaint.
“I have
not spoken to him since your last visit. I haven’t even seen him. And anyway, you never told me that he was the person who made the complaint. I was just guessing.”
“We have to protect complainants from retaliation, and the best way is to keep their identity unknown until the formal process begins.”
“That makes sense.”
He smiled. It looked like something he rarely did.
Then he frowned and said, “Another complaint has been filed against you, this time anonymously, so I couldn’t tell you who filed it even if I wanted to. The complaint charges that you violated Physical Plant Regulation 107r which prohibits ‘defacing or destroying buildings and/or equipment belonging to the University’. Specifically, it claims that you defaced or caused to be defaced the door to one of the faculty offices.”
Obviously the door to Bakke’s office. But she was happy with the change. I couldn’t imagine who might have complained about changing the way the door opened, but at least I had a defense against the charge.
“I did have a change made to the door to a faculty office, but it was not defaced.”
“Perhaps in your opinion it was not defaced, but the regulation defines defacing as ‘any alteration that changes the function or appearance of the building or object’.”
I ask Mr. Hughes to follow me to Bakke’s office. I pointed to the door. “The change to that door is an artwork,” I said.
“An artwork?”
“Yes. A class project by the students in Professor Olley’s class in wood sculpturing. It was approved by me and overseen by the professor.”
“How does changing its hinges make a door become a work of art?”
“How does displaying a picture of a can of soup become a work art? Art can be anything these days. And if you try to change it back, you’ll likely be charged with censorship.”
He looked at me apprehensively.
“Think about the The Three Cultures mural in the library,” I said. “You want to get caught up in something like that?”
He shook his head slowly. For once I thought he and I agreed about something. After a few moments of reflection, he said, “I’ll discuss it with my supervisor. Maybe she’ll agree with the art angle and let it go.”
“You are obviously knowledgeable about all the rules and regulations around here,” I said. “Is it possible for me to see my father’s personnel file?”
“Is your father a UNM employee?”
“He was. He taught here for many years before he retired and eventually died.”
“Are you his heir?”
“Yes. His only heir.”
“Then you are entitled to see the files and receive copies of any or all of the contents. However, the university is allowed to charge you for the cost of making copies if they choose to do so.”
I thanked him for the information, and he left.
Freddie came by before his class and asked, “Do you know what’s going on with The Three Cultures Mural in the library? They have a curtain over it. If there’s a restoration project for it, I’d love to be involved as an artist.”
“They aren’t restoring it; they’re hiding it.”
“Why?”
“Some people think it’s racially insensitive because the Hispanic guy looks like a laborer, the Indian guy looks like an artisan, and the white guy is in the middle and above them.”
Freddie’s brow furrowed. “It was painted during the depression as a WPA project or something as I recall. It probably provided work for Hispanics, Native Americans, and Anglos when jobs were scarce. And what’s wrong with being a laborer or artisan? Hell, you and I are artisans.”
I shrugged. “These days anything that anyone finds offensive has to be knocked down or painted over.”
“That’s censorship! Every art work ever created offends someone or depicts something someone dislikes. Diego Rivera was Hispanic. But his painting Flower Festival has the Native American women shown only from behind. But we see the faces of the Europeans in the picture. That was also painted in the 1930s and sends the message that the native people were not as important as the Europeans, which at that point was the accepted view. It’s not right ethically. But it’s historically accurate. Should we tear down the coliseum in Rome because people were fed to lions or gladiators were forces to fight to the death? If you get rid of all negative things in history, there won’t be much history left.”
“History isn’t very popular these days.”
“Who said, ‘Those who cannot remember their past are condemned to repeat it’?”
“George Santayana. Full name, Jorge Agustín Nicolás Ruiz de Santayana y Borrás.”
Freddie laughed and said, “Now that is Hispanic!”
“Your reaction to the mural issue is mild compared to Susannah’s.”
He brightened. “What did she say?”
“That anyone whose psyche is so fragile that it’s offended by a hundred-year-old mural needs to get three things—a job, a life, and a backbone.”
“Sounds like her. Working a ranch has put a lot of spunk in that woman.”
His eyes moistened.
“Don’t give up hope,” I said.
“I’ll never do that.” He was silent for a moment then said, “The main reason I came by was to thank you for arranging for Stella Ramsey to publicize me teaching a class.”
“No need to thank me. In fact, I benefitted from it more than you did. Dean Gangji was unhappy about me hiring an ex con. But the publicity was so good that he decided to let it go.”
“I’m happy for you. But you’re wrong in thinking it benefitted you more than me. I received a benefit you don’t know about.”
He was smiling like the cat who ate a—forget the canary—make it a turkey, complete with gravy and cranberry sauce. “Was this extra benefit one of the things you listed as what you most missed while in prison?”
He was astonished. “How did you guess?”
“Your list was freedom, sex, and booze. You earned your freedom. I bought you a drink, and Stella has a thing about men who seem down and out.”
“Did you expect I would end up in her bed?”
“No. But if the idea had crossed my mind, I would have thought it not unlikely. So what now?”
“I’d give her up in a heartbeat just to have lunch with Susannah.”
Melvin Armstrong arrived moments later. He skipped the nicety of a greeting and said, “I need a new kiln.”
“Is something wrong with the current one?”
“No. I want a different type, a raku kiln. I don’t suppose you know what that is.”
“I’m a potter. Why would you think I don’t know what a raku kiln is?”
“Because you just copy Native American stuff.”
A reasonable answer.
“How much does the kiln cost?”
“A little over $2,000 with shipping.”
“Okay. Get me the details, and I’ll process a purchase order.”
He stared at me. “That’s it?”
“Yes. I think all I need for the purchase order is the item number, description, price, and vendor.”
“I don’t have to make a formal request?”
“No. Verbal is fine.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“If you asked me for a block of granite to carve a statue, I might need more of an explanation. But you teach ceramics. And you said you need a raku kiln. And there’s enough money in the budget to buy one. So that’s what we’ll do.”
“Good,” he said and walked away.
William Hughes returned a while later and handed me a box. “This is your father’s complete personnel file.”
I took the box from him and felt its heft. “Looks like I’m going to have a gigantic copying charge.”
“No charge at all. The people in the
HR department were happy to get rid of it.”
“Don’t they need it for historical purposes?”
“All those old files were digitized several years ago.”
I smiled at what my father might have said about his files being digitized.
“I hope you won’t mind that I looked through the files,” he said. ”I have the right to do so, but I feel the need to tell you that I looked.”
“And?”
“Your father had a distinguished career. You should be proud of him.”
“I am.”
I spent the rest of the day reading about my father.
Chapter 29
Silver City is nestled on the south side of the Gila Wilderness, the world’s first wilderness area, so designated on June 3, 1924.
Some would say the south valley of Albuquerque is a wilderness. So what does ‘wilderness’ mean in the case of the Gila? According to federal regs, it means no motorized or mechanized vehicles, including bicycles. Camping and fishing are allowed with proper permit, but no roads, buildings, logging, or mining are permitted.
The Gila Wilderness is named after the Gila River, and the beds of its several branches are the lowest elevations in the wilderness, just below 5000 feet. The Mogollon Mountains arc across the wilderness, the highest point being Whitewater Baldy at 11,000 feet.
The Mimbres people lived in the area between 1000 and 1130 AD, and they left many cliff dwellings and other evidence of their culture. The ‘other evidence’ is mainly pottery. And I have dug up and copied some of it.
My second favorite thing about the Gila Wilderness, after the pottery, is the white-nosed coati mundi. And I remain steadfast in my admiration for this species despite having been bitten by one of them. Which is a lot less serious than being bitten by the animal that bears the wilderness’s name—the Gila monster. Their venom is highly poisonous.
Sharice awoke from a brief nap along I–25 South and said, “Why would your father take a sabbatical in Silver City?”
“Junior told us he’d been on sabbatical when I was born, but she was mistaken. Not about the year. But she was mistaken about the sabbatical part. I found out by reading his personnel files that it was a leave without pay.”
The Pot Thief Who Studied the Woman at Otowi Crossing Page 15
