After some searching they found Olvera Street, thinking it would re-
mind them of home, but, like much of Los Angeles, it was more like a stage set for a Hispanic neighborhood than the real thing. "But it's all very colorful," said Holly. "It makes Houston seem rather square."
"Los Angeles is wild, when you think about it," said Peter.
"Houston is solid, like gas and oil wells," Holly responded sagely.
"Los Angeles is curlicues and minarets and statues."
"Houston is flat and rich and modern—"
"Los Angeles is hedges clipped to look like animals, mushrooms, arches, and permanent erections—"
"Houston is elegant women, humidity, and men in cowboy hats—"
"Los Angeles is elegant women, humidity, green lipstick, and men in cowboy hats."
They dissolved in laughter. Their two worlds, Elizabeth thought. Their two families.
"Where's UCLA?" Peter asked her. "We want to help you relive your youth."
Elizabeth drove up Westwood to a neighborhood of low buildings with bookstores, restaurants, and shops that was the first part of Los Angeles that looked like a small town. At the far end were the gates of the Los Angeles campus of the University of California, and they drove up the curving street, higher and higher, passing dormitories in the hills to their left and athletic fields in a sunken amphitheater to their right. "That was our side of the campus," Elizabeth said, pointing to older, Spanish style buildings on the far side of the athletic fields. "I think there's a parking lot at the top of this hill."
She was swept by memories. There were new buildings, but she recognized old ones and she felt again the comfort of a campus separate from the rest of the world, shaded by huge trees, the roads lined with red brick buildings mellow and warm under the hot sun. We didn't appreciate it when we were here, she thought as the campus seemed to wrap itself around her, making the world she lived in as unreal as the sets she and Tony used in television.
From the parking lot they strolled into the shade of a vast sculpture garden. "Most of this is new," Elizabeth murmured. "They've bought so many pieces."
Peter was darting from one sculpture to the other, exclaiming in delight at familiar names. "Henry Moore and Jean Arp and Giacometti. . . ." Looking up, he saw Elizabeth starting up the broad steps of a brick building. He loped back to her. "What's this place?"
"Dodd Hall; the school of journalism. Where your father and I met, and worked together on the campus paper, and passed love notes back
and forth in class." The corridor seemed dark, after the sunlight, and she paused. "It doesn't look the same." Frowning, she read the names beside the doors and looked into the classrooms. "Excuse me," she said at last, stopping a professor coming out of a classroom. "Isn't this the school of journalism?"
"Oh, my, no," he said. "That was phased out some time ago."
"Phased out?" Elizabeth looked down the corridor at the rectangle of sun that was the front entrance. "Why did they get rid of it?" she asked the professor.
"You know, my dear, I don't know. I never knew much about it, though I believe some of the school's graduates have become rather distinguished in the newspaper world."
"Yes," Elizabeth said, "I believe they have." She walked on, belatedly remembering to turn and thank him, but she was distracted by an overwhelming sense of change and loss. / thought it would be here forever. I thought a lot of things would last forever.
They shared their leftover lunch in a corner of the sculpture garden, then drove down Sunset Boulevard to the white gates of Bel Air. Elizabeth drove slowly up the steep twisting road to the top, catching panoramic glimpses of the city, fading into mist on the horizon. Wild-flowers grew along the road and trailing leafy branches brushed the Wagoneer when they pulled close to high gates where Peter and Holly craned their necks, trying to see the mansions hidden behind thick shrubs and huge trees. "I wish we could go inside," Holly said, gazing at the corner of a terrace beneath an arbor of riotous flowering vines. "Does Tony live up here?"
"No," Elizabeth said. "He lives in Malibu. We can drive over there, if you'd like."
"Oh, please."
They drove to the Pacific Coast Highway and then turned to follow the ocean where Peter and Holly exclaimed at white sand beaches and the sun-splashed ocean with dark figures of swimmers and sailboats skimming past. Thinking of the hundreds of miles they had driven that day, Holly sighed. "There's so much. Santa Fe seems awfully . . . small."
"It is small," Elizabeth agreed. "But it has its own beauty and its own pleasures. No city has a monopoly on those."
"You mean Houston has them, too?" Holly asked, almost slyly.
"Yes," Elizabeth said after a moment. "Houston probably has them, too. I haven't been there long enough to find out. We're coming into Malibu; we ought to stop talking and admire the scenery."
Mountains were on one side; the ocean on the other. "How do we get to
the beach?" Peter asked as they rounded a curve and saw a gatekeeper guarding the road.
"We don't," Elizabeth answered. "This stretch is private."
"People own the beach?"
"In this part of Malibu."
"Is Tony one of them?" Holly asked.
"Yes," Elizabeth said.
"You mean we can't see his house? The gatekeeper would let us by, wouldn't he? If he knew we were Tony's friends?"
"The gatekeeper meets people every day who call themselves Tony's friends," Elizabeth said.
"But we really are!"
"Even so, we're not going to try. Maybe next time you come here we'll arrange it."
"You've been there," Holly said flatly.
"Yes, and someday you will be, too. Right now, though, we're going to stay on the public part of the beach; we'll be there in a few minutes."
They drove down an access road beyond the row of private homes and then walked along the water, while Holly's mood swung from disappointment to delight in the beauty around them. But later some of her prickli-ness returned when they finally began to talk about their family.
It was when they were eating dinner, their second picnic of the day, though this time, instead of leftovers, it was an assortment of pates and smoked fish Elizabeth had bought at Mon Grenier, in Malibu. They sat on the grass of the Hollywood Bowl, surrounded by the Santa Monica mountains. Thousands of people around them were sprawled on blankets or sitting on folding chairs at tables set with cloths, crystal, and candles, while children shouted and played tag until hauled in by their parents, only to begin again a few minutes later.
The night was warm, the breeze brisk as the sun went down, and then, as they finished dinner, Peter remembered aloud the days when they'd all picnicked at the open-air Santa Fe Opera, and Holly thought aloud how much her father would like this spectacular place, and then they were talking about Matt.
"I don't think he's really happy," said Holly. "I mean, he's busy and he's doing lots of interesting things, but when we talk on the phone he always says he misses us—and I don't understand how you can be having such a good time and running around with Tony when Daddy's in another city, alone and lonesome. ..."
Her voice faded away. Around them, many of the picnickers were packing up to sit on the wooden benches closer to the stage. Others
remained on their blankets and, like them, Peter lay back, staring at the sky, listening to his sister and his mother.
"If your father is lonesome, he knows where to find me," Elizabeth said at last. "But I haven't heard anything from you or him that makes me think he's unhappy. Holly, he chose to go to Houston alone; he chose what he's doing. We talked about it and that was what he wanted. I've told you everything I can about what's happened to us. Nothing has changed. You talk to him more than I do; you know better than I what he's thinking. But as far as I can tell, he's making his own way at his own speed and he still thinks he can do that best if I'm not with him. When he changes his mind, he'll tell me. And I'll tell you."
"And Tony?" Holly
asked after a moment.
"Tony is my friend. I've known him for twenty-five years; he's made it possible for me to be on television; he likes me, he tells me so, and he's fun to be with. Would you rather I didn't have fun? What do you think I should do? Sit at home with the doors and windows locked while my husband decides what he wants to do with his life?"
Holly squirmed uncomfortably. Peter turned his head and looked at Elizabeth. "Isn't there anything in between? Couldn't you have fun with Isabel and Heather and Saul?"
Elizabeth smiled. "I do."
"But you're not really happy without a man," Holly said. "Telling you how perfect you are in jonquil silk."
Elizabeth gave her a long silent look until Holly dropped her eyes. "It's nice to be admired by a man. It's nice to share a dinner with a man. It's nice to talk about your work with a man. You know all that; you want the same things. I hope you find them with a man you love. If you don't, I hope you find them with a man who is a friend."
The music began. The lilting melodies of a Strauss waltz danced through the natural amphitheater. Dreamily, Peter said, "I wonder how many friends Dad has in Houston."
"Peter!" Holly cried, and vehement shushes came from the people around them.
"I don't know," Elizabeth said in a low voice. She was uncomfortable and unwilling to admit it. "I'm sure he has some. He needs companionship as much as anyone, and you know how attractive he is . . . I'm sure he has a lot of—a few—casual friends. ..."
She was being shushed as vigorously as Holly had been, and she fell silent, sitting quietly with her arms folded about her knees, her thoughts far from waltzes, far from Los Angeles. She hadn't let herself put it into words, but why wouldn't Matt sleep with other women? He was a sexual
man who wasn't used to sleeping alone after twenty years of marriage . . . especially after the two years that followed their purchase of the Chieftain, when they'd been so close.
The music reached a crescendo and as it ended, the audience burst into applause, breaking into her thoughts. I'll deal with it later, she told herself, and it almost worked. Her thoughts about Matt lay just below the surface all evening, and into the next day when the three of them had breakfast before Peter left for Stanford.
"You'll sort of keep an eye on Maya, won't you?" he asked as he got up from the table. "You'll be there, anyway, with Isabel; could you just stop in once in a while and see that she's okay?"
"Of course," Elizabeth said.
"I will, too," Holly said. "Luz and I will keep her too busy to be unfaithful."
"I didn't mean that," Peter said, flushing. "When people are apart for a long time, you can't expect them to . . . Oh, shit, I'm sorry, Mom."
Elizabeth ignored it. "Are you all packed?"
"Sure."
"And everything is in the car?"
"Mom, stop worrying. I've got everything. I am fully prepared to face the world. And"—he grinned a little lopsidedly—"it's only a trifle scary." He gave Holly a quick hug, then put his arms around Elizabeth, holding her so tightly she was breathless. "I wish I could stay home with you, Mom. I hate to leave you alone."
With her hands on his chest Elizabeth put a few inches between them. "I'm not alone, Peter; I'll be fine. You're the one who's going off among strangers. But I predict you'll take the place by storm." She kissed him on both cheeks and held him. "I'm so proud of you, dearest Peter; I'm going to miss you."
Against her cheek she felt the muscles of Peter's face tighten and knew he was facing the reality for the first time of leaving; of never living at home again in the same way; of no longer being able to hide behind youth or helplessness when things got rough.
"But I like knowing you'll be doing what you most want to do," she went on, giving him no time to ponder the fears that surged up when least expected. "And I'll feel close to you when I read your letters. Because you are going to write, aren't you, Peter?" She held him away again. "Regularly."
"Sure." He grinned that lopsided grin again. "Or I'll find the front door locked when I come home for Christmas, right?"
"Wrong. The front door will never be locked to you. But write anyway. I love to get mail."
Peter grinned again, then dropped his arms. Elizabeth had gotten him past the shaky part and he was ready to leave. "I'D call you tonight, okay? When I get my room and phone number and everything. You and Holly'll be home by then, won't you?"
Elizabeth saw that he was ready, but suddenly she was the one to hold him back. My family is shrinking. Just two of us left — Holly and I — in all the rooms of our house where there were four not very long ago. And in a year Holly will be gone, too. But by then . . . maybe Matt and I . . .
Peter was looking toward the Wagoneer and she stepped back, setting him free. "I'm pretty sure we'll be home. If there's no answer, keep trying."
He gave Holly a quick hug. "Take care of everybody. I may call you up now and then. If you don't mind."
Holly shook her head, biting her lip. "I think I might miss you, too, like Mother."
Peter looked at the two of them standing side by side. He coughed and bent to kiss Elizabeth again. "I love you, Mom." He coughed again because his voice was sounding weird and he wasn't sure he could trust it. He got behind the wheel and leaned out the window.
"Drive—" Elizabeth bit her tongue. Do not tell him to drive carefully, she ordered herself, and then heard herself say, "Watch out for the other drivers."
Holly and Peter burst into laughter, and Elizabeth joined them, and so, with laughter buoying him up, Peter pushed in the clutch, shifted gears, and drove away.
The dust was thick and choking on the road to Nuevo and heavy trucks rumbled around the narrow curves that led to the town. Dynamite blasts echoed off the mountains; pneumatic drills, like deafening machine guns, rattled through the valley; the roar of engines and warning beeps of trucks as they backed up was heard all day long.
Elizabeth hated to make the trip—a drive she had once looked forward to as an escape into a lovely timeless serenity—but she knew it was worse for Isabel and Maya and the others who lived beside the construction site. And so, at least once a week through the red and gold days of September, she gritted her teeth, rolled up the car windows to keep out as much dust as possible, and went to see them.
In almost every way, Nuevo was being transformed. Saul had kept his promise and hired a lawyer to try to get the court to stop construction
until the dam could be studied more fully, but that had failed: reports on four years of study had been submitted to the Committee on Land Use and Development; it had studied them further, then recommended approval to the legislature, which had duly approved it. There was no reason, the judge said, to grant an injunction. The work could proceed.
And so construction headquarters were set up on the high ground at the narrow end of the valley, where an abandoned farm had been sold long ago to Terry Ballenger. Office trailers, equipment sheds, portable toilets, and fuel tanks sat helter-skelter near a bulldozed parking area for cars and trucks. Below the headquarters, crews were digging a channel to divert the Pecos River from its normal course through the town. The channel would lead the river in a sweeping turn around the town and the dam site, forcing it into a tunnel blasted through the rocks on one side of the narrow exit from the valley. From there the river would connect with the riverbed below the Nuevo Valley. The following summer, when the dam was built, if all went according to plan, the diversion channel would be closed, the river would return to its original course—and when it was stopped by the dam it would overflow its banks, flooding the town and the lowest part of the valley, and form a lake.
"But of course nothing will go 'according to plan,' " Cesar told Elizabeth. "We're taking care of that."
And that was another way Nuevo was being transformed: it had become Isabel's campaign team. In almost every house, in Gaspar's General Store, in Roybal's Maintenance Shop and Gas Station, the people of Nuevo were mimeographing letters to voters, addressing and stuffing envelop
es, lettering posters, lining up private homes where Isabel could meet voters and talk to them, arranging campaign appearances in village squares and crossroads of small towns.
Cesar was in charge of the campaign, but in a few weeks Maya had become his best helper. She knew nothing of political campaigns, but she knew everyone in the valley and she soon learned that her small wistful smile could convince someone to work another hour or seal another hundred envelopes and her solemn black eyes could make someone willing to do the dullest job. Soon, with the ideas she picked up from Saul and Elizabeth, the newspapers she read every day, and her fierce belief in Isabel, she became more confident, taking on whatever tasks she was given. She was finding a place for herself.
Nuevo worked for Isabel and fought the dam, but in other towns and valleys voices were raised in argument. As the summer wore on, Isabel campaigned in a district that was becoming sharply divided, because for the first time in years there were jobs in the valley.
Most of the people in Nuevo knew nothing of the politics behind the dam, the new roads, and the resort; what was important to them was that the companies doing the work were New Mexican, using local workers. Months earlier, in the spring, hiring had begun; young people, hearing of jobs, came back to Pecos and Nuevo and other small towns that had been dying, and engineers and foremen from Albuquerque added to the growing population by setting up house trailers for the season. Roybal was making twice as much money in his gas station as the year before; business tripled in Gaspar's General Store; and in July Hector Corona reopened the restaurant and bar he had closed five years earlier.
"Boom time in Nuevo," said Isabel wryly, handing a paper plate to Elizabeth and settling with a sigh on the grass beside the river. They were at the far end of the valley, away from the town. No longer could they eat in lawn chairs beside Isabel's house, talking in low voices and listening to the cry of a jay overhead; the jay and their voices were drowned out by the noise of construction. Even where they sat, more than a mile from the site, they had to stop talking when the warning siren sounded, and, a few minutes later, when dynamite was set off.
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