Gateway to the Moon_A Novel

by Mary Morris

  He makes a face and leaves her in the dark. But at daybreak he returns with a candle. It will burn for eight hours and the next day he will bring her another. Sofia places the candle on her small desk and proceeds to study the list of her crimes. She turns the dense pages slowly. There in the solitude of her tiny cell she does laugh. Who has spent so much time observing her every move, keeping a record of everything she did and did not do to prove her secret faith? She reads until the candle burns down and then she sits again in the dark. She sinks onto her straw pallet. She supposes she has been guilty of all these sins and more, but who could know this about her? A shiver runs down her spine. There is, of course, someone, but Sofia cannot begin to contemplate it.

  In the morning when a thin light trickles in beneath her door, she begins to read again. When she is served her tepid tea and bread and her new candle is lit, Sofia turns to her jailer. “I would like paper and a pen.”

  The jailer is stunned by this request. “And why is this?”

  “I wish to defend myself.”

  Shaking his head, her jailer leaves, but later that day paper, ink, and pen are brought to Sofia’s cell. Again she sits at her small desk and, as the candle burns, begins to write. She writes slowly, day and night, as long as she has light. It is the job she must do. She answers the charges against her—one at a time. She ponders them, writing long and detailed responses. She reads in other languages because she was taught by an Italian tutor. She enjoys chocolate because her uncle was an exporter of cacao. She lights candles because it is her family’s ritual to light candles, just as is taking a siesta or sipping a glass of port. She prefers beef and lamb to pork. She has not menstruated in years.

  When she is finished, she gives the pages over to her jailer and asks if she may see the judges again. But weeks go by, and then months. She has time to think. Too much time. Every night in the darkness she feels as if she has solved a worrisome puzzle, but when daylight comes she is sure she is wrong. Finally the darkness wins, and one morning before her stale bread and tepid tea are served, Sofia knows.

  Bernadine had been with her since she was a girl. They were raised almost as sisters. It was Bernadine who first braided her hair. Bernadine who held her as she sobbed upon learning that Alejandro was accused. Who stayed with her in her room after he was burned at the stake. It was Bernadine who accompanied her on her wedding night, who moved with her into the hills of New Mexico, who knew all the family recipes, who had helped birth her three children.

  But it was Bernadine who had rubbed the salve into Federico’s sores. It was Bernadine who kept the list of Federico’s favorite dishes from home. Bernadine who drew his special salt baths and sprinkled them with rose water. Bernadine was not reaching for her, the woman she’d raised as a girl, but for Federico as she raced outside. It was Federico she wanted to save and for whom she’d sobbed. She’d never intended for him to be taken. Only Sofia. It is possible that she will never see Bernadine again. But if she does, she will tear her apart with her bare hands.

  Finally her permission to appear before the judges again is granted. In the tribunal she reads her responses. She reads them as methodically and slowly as they read theirs—only her responses are longer than the accusations against her. She explains that she washes her hair not only on Fridays but whenever it pleases her because it takes her hair two days to dry. Once she did not go to mass on Good Friday because she had suffered a miscarriage. She explains that she does not drink chocolate because she is practicing witchcraft, as some women have been accused, but because as a child her nurse prepared it for her every day and it became her habit.

  Her responses take three days to read out loud. When she is done, the judges say that she will have their answer, but they do not say when. And again weeks, then months go by. She languishes in her cell. They give her a Bible and she reads it over and over, not only because she is a believer but because seeing words on a page keeps her from going mad. She thinks she will die of the cold, and then in summer of the heat. She loses track of time.

  At last on a hot summer day when she feels that she can barely breathe, her jailer informs her that her request has been granted. Without any further explanation she is moved to a larger cell. It even has a small window near the ceiling where, if she stands on a stool she has been given, she can breathe fresh air and see the sky. “Why am I being moved?” she asks her jailer when at last her belongings are arranged in the larger cell.

  “Because you asked to be,” is all he says. More weeks go by until at last she is called before them. She has decided she doesn’t care what their verdict is as long as she doesn’t have to wait any longer. If they plan to burn her, she hopes they do it soon.

  Once more she is brought into the room where she has stood two other times. She expects that she will have to stand again for hours or even days, but the verdict takes only a moment. Her inquisitor does not look up when he tells her that she is found neither innocent nor guilty. “All charges against you have been dismissed,” he says in the same flat tone in which he has told her everything.

  She is stunned. All this time for nothing. “And my husband?”

  “The charges against him have been dropped as well.”

  Sofia cannot help but smile. At last their ordeal is coming to an end. “When may I see him?”

  “Unfortunately,” her inquisitor says, “that will not be possible.” He informs her that he died in prison. He has been buried. Sofia will not give these men the pleasure of seeing her grieve. She will not cry in front of them. She never has before. “Then give me his bones.”

  After almost two years in the Inquisition prison in Mexico City, Sofia Pera de Torres, accompanied by two servants, five aging donkeys, and a cart, walks through the gates of the Flat House and begins the journey home. In a wooden box she carries her husband’s remains. It is fall when they set out. Sofia wishes she could wait until spring, but she senses that if she doesn’t leave Mexico City now she never will. As they cross the plains of Mexico, the wind pummels them. In the mountains they almost die of the cold. They sleep on the hard ground and build fires when they can. One of her servants dies of starvation. When she thinks the trip could not be worse, the roads turn to mud. The wheels of the cart sink into the ground, and three donkeys die of exhaustion. Sofia is certain that she will never see her children again, but in the spring when the ground thaws and a grave can be dug, she arrives back in Entrada.

  Her sons, who are tending the fields of garbanzo beans, cannot believe the strange entourage that wends its way up the trail toward the old hacienda. At first they stand motionless in the fields. Then Enrique, her youngest, falls to his knees, sobbing. José helps his mother off her donkey. She points to the box on the cart. “Be careful with that,” she instructs them. “These are your father’s bones.”

  His is the first death. She tells her sons to find a place high on one of the hills on the property. It should have long vistas and be close to the stars. There should be trees that can bring eternal shade. She does not want her husband plagued by the heat of the sun. They find a spot half a mile from the house on a hill where a young oak tree grows and there they begin the Torres family cemetery.

  In time they will all be buried here. In his safe Federico has left instructions. He has requested that he be buried as a Jew. Sofia is stunned by his request, but he has written in a language Sofia can neither read nor understand what is to appear on his tombstone. She finds a man in the village who can carve the letters and make the Jewish star. They bury him on the hill that his sons have chosen.

  Bernadine had, of course, disappeared shortly after Sofia and Federico were taken away. Sofia will live on for many more years and will be almost one hundred when she dies, but she will never recover from her sense of betrayal. During her widowhood she intends to tell her children that they are Jews, until the governor of Santa Fe, Francisco Gomez, is accused of having a tail. He is also required to have his foreskin examined by a panel of experts. The results will prov
e inconclusive though it is noted in the public records that he has no tail. Although he will be acquitted, Francisco Gomez Roybal will live the rest of his life as an outcast.

  Sofia does not want her children to worry about having tails. It will only be a burden to them. Every time there is a family gathering she thinks she will tell them what they surely suspect, but she doesn’t. What is the rush? Is there any reason why they must know now? And then Sofia begins to forget. At first she forgets that she was born and raised in Mexico City. She even seems to forget her life in New Mexico. On her deathbed she gazes into the eyes of her grandson, Diego, with a look of recognition on her face, and says, “Alejandro, is that you?”

  Then she closes her eyes, leaving her children and grandchildren to wonder who Alejandro was and why their mother should see his face as she departed from this world. They bathe her body, trim her hair and nails, wrap her in white linen, in keeping with a tradition whose meaning they no longer recall, and bury her beside her husband beneath the oak tree at the top of the hill.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE GHOST ROAD—1992

  As usual Nathan is late. And Rachel has no sense of when he might be coming home. It is almost eight o’clock. The boys have had their dinner. Davie is watching cartoons but Jeremy has homework to do. A geography lesson. He is sitting at the dining-room table, studying a map of New Mexico. She checks on the boys and then starts to clean up. She slams cabinets closed, bangs pots and pans into the sink. As she does the dishes, Rachel is trying to decide when she will leave her husband. The question for her is no longer if. The only question remaining in her mind is whether she will move back to New York to be near her family—the family she did everything she could to get away from.

  But leaving Nathan, Rachel has decided, won’t be that difficult. It is as if they aren’t really married anyway. They barely inhabit the same space. Since they moved to New Mexico, they’ve only been to a single powwow and their one camping trip was a disaster. In fact they’ve barely done any of the things she imagined they’d spend their weekends doing. And during the week they never have dinner together. How many meals has she made and then put in Tupperware, only to be tossed out a few days later?

  She has been a single parent for a long time—and not a very good one, she fears. She will do better. She will find a way. “Okay, kiddies,” Rachel says, “let’s take our baths, then you can watch some TV.” But Jeremy still hasn’t finished his homework. He shows her the map of New Mexico.

  “I have to pick out a city to write about,” he tells her. Rachel sighs. All she wants to do is lie down, collapse. Outside the wind blows and she senses that winter is near. She will be more isolated than she already is. She tries to envision the winter with Nathan gone. And without Miguel. No one to arrive in the afternoon to watch the boys. No one to show them how telescopes work or tell them about the stars. Jeremy spreads the map out on the coffee table and kneels beside his mother. He’s pointing to cities far to the south of Santa Fe. “Mom,” he pokes her in the leg, “look.”

  She is tired and the map seems to swirl in front of her. She can hardly tell north from south. “It’s upside down,” Rachel says. She turns the map around. “Maybe we can pick a city nearby,” she tells him. “One you can visit and learn even more about.”

  Jeremy nods. He thinks this is a good idea. He has become such a docile child since his brother’s accident. At first she thought it was just his guilt but in fact he is a kinder person than he was before. “Look, here’s Tesuque.” With her finger Rachel traces the cities and towns going north. This map is fairly detailed and easy to read. She moves her finger toward Taos until she comes to Española.

  Then as if her index finger has become a divining rod, she veers east on a narrow strip toward Chimayó until she comes to a tiny speck—a dot on the map that begins with an E. Entrada. She peers more closely until she sees it clearly. That is the name of the town Miguel comes from. Isn’t that what he said? A warmth rushes through her. She will go there. She will try to find him again. If only to tell him that Davie is fine, that he did all the right things. And then perhaps he’ll come back and teach Davie how not to be afraid.

  * * *

  The road between Española and Entrada is marked with roadside memorials. Every half mile, around every blind bend, every curve, she comes to another. Some seem new with fresh flowers, the cross standing tall. The names clearly marked. Others are more faded and neglected. She reads some of the names as she drives by: Martinez, Gonzalez, Chavez, Roybal. Pascual Roybal. This one seems the newest, almost fresh. Or perhaps just well-tended. The plastic flowers aren’t tattered. The name on the cross is still clear.

  Rachel slows down. Perhaps she should start heading back. It is later than she intended. She’s not sure she wants to be on this road at night, and it is almost dark. In another twenty minutes or so it will be. It is almost winter and she can see the snow on the distant mountains. A light flurry falls, but it soon turns to rain. The pavement will be slick on her way home. Ancient willows and cottonwoods line this two-lane road taking her north. It is not like the highway from Santa Fe to Española.

  She follows the signs until she comes to the town, if you can call it a town. She drives down its one main street and then sees the lights for the general store and something seems to awaken in her. She pulls up in front of the sign that reads Roybal’s General Store. She thinks of the roadside memorial. Pascual Roybal—the same as the name on a painted board hanging above the porch. Standing on the porch it seems familiar. She steps inside.

  The wooden shelves are lined in canned goods—carrots, peas, Spam. There is a shelf of bread and another of cereal. An old refrigerator is against the wall and on it are signs for the prices of milk, butter, and eggs. A handwritten sign says “Sodas, 50¢. 5¢ back on return.” At the counter she almost knocks over the rack of beef jerky. An old man leans on the long wooden counter. Behind him are rows of cigarettes and small bottles of whiskey, tequila, and rum.

  Off to the side is an old corkboard and on it are notices. Sofa for sale, $20 plus delivery. Puppies for adoption. Guns, cars, appliances—all for sale. Rooms to rent. Jobs needed. Jobs available. Rachel nods. She’s been here before. She pushes some of the old notices aside and then she sees it, buried beneath others. Her old flyer with the smiley face. Only one tab has been taken. She looks at the old man at the cash register. “Hi there,” she says with her brightest smile. It is an eye-catching smile, Rachel knows, and people can hardly say no to her when she beams at them in that way. “How’re you doing today?”

  The man stares at her skeptically. “About as good as any other day. What can I do for you?” She can tell he isn’t accustomed to having a white woman come into his store.

  “I’m looking for Miguel.”

  “Miguel who?” The old man puffs on a cigarette. “There’s a lot of Miguels around here.”

  Rachel nods. She has a feeling he knows perfectly well whom she means, but she decides to play along. “Teenager. He’s very tall.” She raises her hand far above her head. “He’s a stargazer.”

  “Miguel Torres.” The old man nods, straightening himself up. And Rachel notices that this man is very tall as well. “Well, you can try his mother’s trailer. But you’ll probably find him up the hill. At the old cemetery under that oak tree. That’s where he usually goes.” The old man purses his lips, shaking his head as if he were understanding something for the first time—that he isn’t the only person who is looking out for Miguel.

  He walks to the front of his store and points to a winding trail that leads up a steep hill. In the distance Rachel can make out the silhouette of a tree. “That’s the old cemetery. If he’s anywhere nearby, he’s probably there. Do you have a flashlight?” Rachel shakes her head. “You should have a flashlight.”

  Rachel doesn’t carry a flashlight in her car. Or a first aid kit. Or bottled water either. She hasn’t developed her survival skills in this part of the world. She knows how to watch her purse
on a crowded subway, but she hasn’t awakened her instincts here. Perhaps it is time to do so. She buys a flashlight, a small first aid kit, a water bottle, and two energy bars. So that she can survive. In case she gets stuck in the middle of nowhere.

  She stands on the porch. Outside it is a clear night and stars fill the sky. The canopy is so huge that it frightens her to look up. She keeps her eyes to the ground. Besides, she could trip on roots or stones. As she walks, she feels the chill of fall in the air. That coolness in the breeze as winter sneaks in. Leaving her car parked in front of the store, Rachel begins the climb. Flashlight in hand, she hikes up the path. She turns the flashlight on. It isn’t very strong. Just bright enough so that she can see the dirt path in front of her, riddled with the roots of old cottonwoods.

  Halfway up the hill she pauses and turns it off. A shiver runs through her as she stands in the perfect darkness. This is why Miguel comes here. And it is frightening. Standing there, Rachel Rothstein begins to shake. She is utterly alone. She is nothing in all of this blackness. An irrelevant speck among billions of specks. The dust she sweeps away. Why would anything in her life matter? It is as if she’d been tossed into the middle of the ocean on a pitch-black night. She would die of fear before she drowned. Not the fear of sharks but the fear of being nothing at all.

  Overhead the Milky Way stretches its huge canvas. She can barely bring herself to look at it. She’s never seen so many stars. It rounds over her head like an enormous dome. A shooting star illumines the sky. She wants to turn around and head back. None of this matters. None of it will make a dust mote of difference, a hill of beans, a grain of sand. That is how tiny her concerns about her little life are. Still she feels she owes this to the boy. She turns on the flashlight and resumes her climb.

  The hill turns steeper, surprisingly so. She almost has to scramble on all fours. Her feet slip on a rock and she stumbles and falls, bumping her knee, then rights herself. Pain shoots through her. She keeps climbing. At the crest of the hill she can make out the giant oak that the man told her about. She steps closer, and hears a rustling. Miguel is standing near the tree with his homemade telescope aimed at the stars. In a moment he’ll notice her flashlight and it will annoy him. She flicks it off again, but he’s already seen her. “Who’s there?” he asks sharply.