by Julie Mars
Alice takes the backpack and asks him to wait for her. She disappears down a narrow path between boulders that barely allow sunbeams to slant through. He hears her voice, her singing, but it sounds far away. He sits with his back against the rocks, and spread out before him is the whole wide world.
She does not return until the sun is halfway to the horizon line.
They walk home in silence.
At the house, she makes a simple dinner, and while they are eating it, she asks him to tell her his own story, the whole thing. Vincent feels tongue-tied. He doesn’t know where to start. And then suddenly he begins talking. He hears himself tell Alice about the fire that consumed his parents. About Regina and Margaret. About India, and prison, and the years he’s spent trying and failing to find his daughter.
He barely looks up, but he feels Alice listening to him.
He knows he has never been listened to so intently, and it almost scares him.
When he finishes, he finally raises his eyes to hers. Her face is timeless and still, like the rocks they have visited, like the quiet here, broken only by the howls of the coyotes in the distance.
“You need a home,” she says. “Stay here.”
Vincent experiences a convulsion of sorrow, but the very next morning, he begins to build a shack just over the ridge. He builds it out of rocks and old boards which, Alice says, have been piled against the house since the last time Thomas visited, when he himself had thought of building a place.
Vincent takes care of Alice’s flock of sheep and he watches over Alice, as Thomas would have.
MARGARET HAD arranged a blanket in the back, so Magpie had a little nest right behind the front passenger seat. She also stashed a five-pound bag of dog food and several gallon bottles of water in case they got stranded in the middle of nowhere. She had eight protein bars and hoped they would not totally melt in the heat.
Rico arrived at two minutes to nine. Margaret had never seen him out of his work clothes, and he looked vaguely dressed up to her, with a short-sleeve yellow shirt, beige jeans, and flip-flops. He reached into his truck for a pair of boots with socks stuffed inside. “In case we have to do any walking,” he said as he put them in the car.
“Good idea. Let me get my sneakers,” Margaret said. Next to the closet was a nicho and in it, among her rocks and shells, was the rusty old lock the sea had tossed onto the beach back in New York. Impulsively, she tucked it into her pocket. For good luck, she thought as she collected her shoes and went back outside.
“I want to stop at Java Joe’s for a raspberry scone,” she called to Rico as she locked up. “Did you eat?”
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t mind some coffee for the road.”
So they drove to the neighborhood diner and ordered large coffees to go and two scones, in case Rico changed his mind later. Then they got into the car to zigzag their way to the I-40 entrance on Rio Grande Boulevard. Margaret drove north along the river toward Central and then turned east, soon passing the Biopark. A week after she had arrived in Albuquerque, she had meandered through the lush botanical gardens until she found herself on a narrow path beside the tracks of a little old-fashioned train which ran between the zoo and the Biopark. As it chugged by, the engineer in the shiny black engine pulled the whistle and waved to Margaret and so did all the people on the train, both children and adults. She waved back. That moment, so filled with innocence and friendliness and good will, had brought tears into her eyes. Inexplicably, she felt that way now, misty-eyed, as she accelerated up the ramp to I-40. Time had been set aside, just for her and Rico to have some fun.
Perhaps Rico felt that time had been carved out for them too, but not in the same way. For him, it had been sledgehammered out of granite. When he had arrived home last night after work, he had showered, then gone to collect Elena to take her to Saturday evening mass. She was dressed and ready, but even so they were a few minutes late, and had to crowd into one of the back pews where Elena had a hard time hearing the sermon. Rico was hungry but had no time to rustle up a meal until well after eight. Rosalita, sitting in the living room with the television on, had acknowledged him when he came in with a subdued “Hola, Rico,” and the girls, one by one, had come into the kitchen, their eyes shaded with worry, to ask him if he was feeling any better today.
“I’m fine, mi hija. No te preocupes. It was just a bad moment for your papi. Olvídalo.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Lucy.
“What’s your new friend welding, anyway? I want to meet her,” said Ana.
“Are you and Mama getting a divorce?” Maribel demanded to know.
While attempting to calm his daughters, he made himself some quesadillas. By the time he had planted himself at the table, all the girls were enthusiastically relating the small events of their days in an effort, he thought, to make everything seem normal. Rico had nodded as he chewed, making appropriate responses where required and asking obvious questions. He noticed the funny ways the girls had chosen to support him, such as scurrying to clean up after him instead of leaving him to do his own dishes, and avoiding all mention of what happened last night when he had put his head down on the table and wept.
Rosalita was absorbed in the television until he came out of the kitchen, and then she turned it off. “Rico,” she said, “what’s going on with you? Can we at least talk about it?”
“I’ll tell you if you think you can listen.” He felt tired just saying it.
“I can try,” she said.
“Then let’s go for a ride,” he said, and this time she got up and followed him out to his truck. He headed toward the West Mesa and ended up at the volcanoes. Rosalita made no comment as they drove along the dirt road full of ruts and finally arrived at the base of the biggest volcano. The night was dark with not much of a moon, and no one else was anywhere in sight.
“Let’s climb up there,” Rico asked, pointing to a rock about a third of the way to the top.
“These aren’t the best shoes for climbing, but I think I could get that far,” Rosalita answered, and they got out of the truck and started toward the volcano, choosing their steps carefully in the darkness. Rico took his wife by the hand and guided her along. Once they reached the wide rock shelf, he helped her up onto it, and they both sat down. The night was still, with all the lights of Albuquerque twinkling in the distance and the craggy shapes of the East Mountains darker than the sky. Right down the center of the landscape, like a black snake, the river slithered. Neither spoke.
Finally, Rosalita began. “This is hard for me, but I want to say it.” Rico nodded. Her features were not clear to him in the dark night. “What happened was, I did let myself fall a little bit in love with this other man. I didn’t have the courage to leave you and the girls, probably because I didn’t really want to, but at the time I thought I wanted to. I started to hate myself for not leaving and for wanting to leave. I think the hate I had toward myself spread out into my whole life and I couldn’t face anyone, so I shut myself down and turned away from you. When I finally started to turn back—that was more than a year ago, Rico—you were gone. I kept waiting for a chance to get back in, and when one came, the first time we made love, I grabbed it. I know it’s terrible, what I did. I know it’s probably too late to fix it, too. That makes me sad because looking back, I know I was stupid. I didn’t risk anything, and I lost it all, anyway.”
Rico felt like a priest listening to a confession. It was a familiar role, one he’d perfected when he had begun to listen to Elena recount her litany of maternal sins, something that had gone on for twenty-six years. How many sins could a priest listen to before he simply didn’t care anymore? What was his job, anyway? To give the blessing and say, “Go and sin no more,” knowing full well the sinner would be back again next week with the same list. He said nothing. Rosalita, opening her heart to him was just one more person on the opposite side of the confessional screen waiting to receive penance and absolution.
“Here I am, doing all the t
alking,” Rosalita suddenly said, “when I promised I would listen.”
But Rico didn’t feel like talking now. He couldn’t. There was nowhere to start. “Come here, Rosalita,” he said. She slid closer, and he put his arm around her. He pressed her head against his chest. “Listen to my heart,” he said.
He could sense Rosalita’s tension. She wanted to know who was staying or going, how they would manage from now on. He had no answers.
Rosalita whispered, “Are you going to Gallup tomorrow with Margaret?”
“Yes, I am,” said Rico.
“I don’t want you to go.”
“I know you don’t,” Rico said, “but I’m going.” He wondered if his heart had begun to beat faster, if she could hear how his blood was beginning to pump with more intensity.
“I’m afraid you’ll never come back.”
Rico said nothing.
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to tear yourself away from her and come home.”
Rico remained silent because he had no idea what to say.
“I’m afraid our whole life is crashing down around us,” she said, and now Rico tightened his grip across her shoulders and said, “Shhhh, Rosalita. Be quiet.”
Rosalita was afraid of everything, and Rico, sitting there in the dark night, noticed that he did not feel afraid of anything at all. It wasn’t worth explaining because Rosalita would misinterpret any words he said, use them to soothe herself or to drive herself into some frenzy of fear, and he didn’t want to be swept into her whirlwind either way. So he just kept a grip on her and stared into the endless sky, sprinkled with stars and planets.
By the time they turned into their driveway, it was a few minutes past eleven. They had not spoken much, and what they did say to each other was of no consequence, things like, “Are you tired?” and “Did you have enough for dinner?” They had both fallen right to sleep, though Rosalita had gotten up early enough to make a big breakfast for everyone. Rico could feel her watching him, feel her dread of the moment when he would get into his truck, back out of his parking place, and take off. The girls were quiet too, and when he finally left, everyone followed him out into the driveway, as if they were sending him off on a dangerous expedition to the North Pole rather than a day-trip down I-40. Witnessing their serious faces and whatever sense of impending doom that had driven them into the driveway to wave goodbye, Rico was tempted to just step on the brake and forget about this outing with Margaret, but he kept going.
When he pulled into Margaret’s yard and saw her coming out the screen door with a couple of gallon bottles of water, the world became brighter and lighter; and when he placed his work boots onto the floor of the backseat and saw her sculpture tucked in on top of the long box they were about to deliver, he began to chuckle.
Before very long they were out on the open road. Rico gazed at the volcanoes as they sped by, trying to pick out the rock shelf he had sat on with his wife last night. Today, he was going in the opposite direction with a different woman. Rosalita was darkness and the moon, and Margaret was the bright sun, the morning breeze, and the empty road ahead.
“Feel free to identify any points of interest,” Margaret remarked with a little grin.
Rico made a sweeping gesture and said, “Sand and rocks.”
“Don’t forget sky,” Margaret added.
It was noisy in the car with all the windows open and the fan going full blast. The racket made it difficult to chat back and forth, which suited Rico fine. As for Margaret, she was entranced by the wide open space, and not far past Tohajiilee, which was just twenty miles into the trip, she pulled off the road and said, “Rico, would you drive? I would really love to just look out the window.”
“No problema,” he said, opening the passenger door while Margaret slid across the front seats and buckled up.
When he got back in the car, she said, “I’ve never seen anything so empty. I just have to look and look.”
He flicked on the turn signal and pulled back out onto the highway. It felt good to take the wheel of her old car so she could drift where she wanted to. He would handle the forward motion and give her all the time she needed to look. He understood why she would want to. The sand and rocks and sky had stories, too. Margaret’s eyes were dreamy as she followed the edges of white-topped mesas and the cliffs where rocks had crashed down and piled up below.
Following the directions, they exited at Thoreau about an hour later and began to meander quietly through the landscape, past wild horses and emaciated stray dogs, until Margaret said, “It’s like being in a meditation, isn’t it? I mean, not meditating, but being where you’re supposed to get to,” and Rico thought he knew what she meant.
After many more miles, Margaret said, “Let’s stop for a minute and let Magpie out. If it’s okay with you, I want to do a few sketches.”
“Sure,” Rico said, and he pulled to the side of the road. By this time, they had not passed another car or truck in perhaps twenty minutes, nor a house, though they did see a flock of sheep with a black-haired boy and two dogs, along with many circling hawks and one or two white-tailed rabbits. Margaret poured water for Magpie into the bowl she had brought, and Magpie slurped it up while Rico watched. She took a sketchbook and a pen from her bag and sat on the hood of the car, making sweeping movements across the empty pages and turning them more quickly than Rico could imagine a drawing being done. There was no sound except the crunch of his flip-flops on the dirt as he walked up the road a ways and back again, just to get his blood moving. It was hot and cloudless. It made Rico feel lazy, and when he returned to the car, and Margaret was still making those big gestures across page after page, he climbed up on the hood too and, leaning his back against the windshield, closed his eyes.
Was this the way it was supposed to be for a man and a woman, Rico wondered. Silent and empty and close and comfortable all at once? Were their bodies supposed to feel this lazy, like a big sombrero had covered their eyes and they had fallen into a deep sleep? Were men and women meant to search out unfamiliar landscapes? If so, what about the wives and daughters left behind, lined up in the driveway with fear in their eyes, their right hands lifted in unison to wave bye-bye? What about them?
Rico opened his eyes. Margaret was facing away from him, her feet on the hood of the car and her knees gathered up to provide a place to rest her sketchbook. He reached for her, his hand hovering just a few inches from the small of her back. Perhaps it was the hot desert sun that made the air between them seem to shimmer, as if it were made of silver and iridescence.
Margaret said, “Whew, it’s hot as hell out here, isn’t it?” and she snapped the sketchbook closed. “We need a shade tree.” But there wasn’t one, so they hustled Magpie back into the car, started it up, and continued on, another 13.5 miles before they took another turn, this time onto a narrow dirt road that had still not recovered from the spring melt, when ruts half as deep as the wheels were tall had formed.
“Shit,” said Rico as he maneuvered the car along the edges of the ruts. It took a lot of concentration to drive safely. Meanwhile, Margaret paid no attention to the road. Rico could handle it, and all it would do—if she watched too hard—would cause her to grip the sides of her seat and take shallow breaths. Instead, she studied the scrubby growth, the silver threads in the green that made the sage look hand-painted, and the way the rocks rose up into the blue sky like prayers. On and on they went, inch by inch. It was easy to see why the other Roadrunners had made this trip once and then refused to go a second time, though Margaret herself could imagine coming again and again, driving over these same ruts until her hair turned as silver as the edges of the sagebrush.
1998
IT ISN’T until four years have gone by, four years of blistering heat and freezing cold, four years of wind that mercilessly kicks the sand around and rain that pounds the dirt road into a sea of mud with ruts as deep as waves, that Vincent thinks of capturing some of this intense seasonal drama in paint. It has taken him that long
to feel the rhythm of this place which changes, but never changes. He asks Alice, when she goes on her annual visit to her granddaughter, Thomas’ sister Gracie and her three children in Phoenix for the month of July, to bring him some oil paints and some canvases. “Just a little starter kit,” he says, “something to play with.”
He expects nothing, but as soon as he uncaps the bottle of linseed oil, he begins to swoon. He examines the tubes of paint, sixteen of them all laid out in a row, and he feels the colors in his blood. He begins to take long walks. He sets up a makeshift easel and loses himself in what he’s finally doing again, after twenty-some years away from it.
It is Alice who suggests that they invest some of the money they live on, money that comes from the slaughter of the sheep each year, on some first-rate art supplies. “Sign Thomas’ name to them,” she says. She knows a fancy gallery near where her daughter lives in Phoenix that specializes in Native American art. She will take the paintings there herself, she says. She will dress in her long skirt and turquoise beads when she goes in for the first time.
Vincent feels neither shame nor pleasure as he agrees. They need the money, and he is used to scrabbling for it after a lifetime spent that way. He buys linen instead of canvas, buys pigments and mixes them himself. He has it all shipped to him from an art supply store in New York. When Gracie comes to pick up Alice, he has the paintings packed and ready to go.
He never leaves the home he has finally found.
Never wants to.
AFTER A while, Margaret placed her feet up against the dashboard. It was a position she liked to be in in a car, but she almost never had the opportunity, because how often was she a passenger? In New York, she was one of the only people she knew who even had a car, and aside from Rico, not one person in New Mexico had ever opened the door of the Dodge Colt Vista and gotten in. Having her feet off the floor made her feel she was floating in a bubble, moving along on an air current, disconnected and free. She found it soothing.
