“I see your point. But the cops aren’t going to take your word for it. So unless they think Prather has a motive for framing you, you’re going to stay on the suspect list.”
I shook my head. “There’s another reason for them to buy my story. They have only one straw.”
“Of course! And Ximena had two nostrils.”
“Right. Because she isn’t a hagfish.”
“What the devil is a hagfish?”
“One of the few animals that has only one nostril.”
“You know more useless facts than anyone else on Planet Earth. I suppose you’re going to tell me it has a dozen eyes so that its sense of sight can make up for its poor sense of smell, like that baloney compensation theory about people who lack one sense having their others become more acute.”
“Hagfish have the usual two eyes. But it doesn’t matter because they live down deep where there’s not much light. They are disgusting creatures. They bore into big fish and eat them slowly from the inside out.”
“Charming. Let’s get back to your theory.”
“It’s simple. If I had murdered Ximena by cutting off her air, there would have to be two straws with my prints on one end and her mucus on the other. And if Prather had them both, he would have given both to the police to make the frame stronger. So the fact that there is only one straw fits my story. Drinking tea results in one straw with prints. Closing off two nostrils results in two straws with prints.”
“Prather gave the straw to the police?”
“Who else?”
“What did Whit say?”
“He wouldn’t tell me how they got the straw.”
“What’s your best guess?”
“Maybe Prather mailed it to them via UPS like the thumb that went to Carson Reno.”
Angie brought us a second round, which prompted Susannah to check her watch.
“It’s past six,” she noted. “Where is everybody?”
“Martin just drops in when he happens to be in town. It’s Friday night, so Tristan probably has a date. Maybe Glad and Gladys are also on a date. I still can’t believe they’re engaged.”
“What about Sharice?” she asked.
“She’s also not married, but not for lack of effort on my part.”
“I meant where is she?”
“With her father.”
“She’s spending the weekend in Montreal?”
“No. He’s spending the weekend here.”
She brightened. “He’s come to meet his future son-in-law.”
“No.” I hesitated then exhaled. “He doesn’t know I exist.”
“Ohhhh. So she’s breaking the news to him. I guess it makes sense she wouldn’t want you there when she says, ‘Guess who’s coming to dinner!’”
“That was about a white girl who brings home a black guy she plans to marry. This is a bit different.”
“Right. You’re the remake where a black girl brings home a white guy.”
“There was a remake?”
“Yeah, but they changed the title to Guess Who. Bernie Mac played the father who was dead set against his daughter marrying a white guy. His attempts to break them up were hilarious.”
“Sounds like Sharice’s father. But without the humor.”
“Since he doesn’t know you exist, how can you know he’s not like the Bernie Mac character?”
“He asked her to promise him she wouldn’t marry a white man.”
“And did she?”
I nodded.
“When was that?”
“I don’t know exactly, but it was before she came to the States.”
She shrugged. “Ancient history. And anyway, you two living together more or less negates the promise.”
“More less than more.”
“Is that like ‘less is more?’”
“More or less.”
I ate a chip and slumped back in my chair.
“Don’t worry about it, Hubie. Bernie Mac comes to accept Ashton Kutcher as his future son-in-law.”
“This is real life. Love stories don’t always have happy endings.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
I winced. The first guy Susannah dated after we became friends turned out to be married. And she was dating Freddie when he went to prison. Or as Helga phrased it, when I sent him to prison.
“Sorry to bring up painful memories.”
“You know me. Bulletproof.”
“And you’re with Baltazar now, so that’s good.”
“Baltazar and I broke up,” she said, and started crying.
I guess she isn’t bulletproof after all.
34
Neither am I.
What little sleep I got was marred by fitful dreams featuring a woman who kept morphing from Susannah to Sharice, Sharice to Ximena, Ximena back to Susannah.
I was groggy when the sun finally peeked over the Sandias.
I brewed more bitter coffee. After three cups, my metabolism was on life support.
I couldn’t face sitting there thinking about Sharice and her father. I removed my hand from the doorknob and put it in my pocket, where I found the key to the Bronco. Geronimo rode shotgun as we headed down Second Street into the south valley to the little adobe that has been a second home to me since my parents died.
Which is natural, since the woman who lives there is like a second mother to me. Consuela Saenz entered the Schuze household the same year I did. I as niño, she as niñera.
Almost half a century later, she is now Consuela Sanchez, wife of Emilio Sanchez and mother of Ninfa Sanchez, who continued to be Ninfa Sanchez after she married. Not because of a feminist desire to keep her last name but because she married a guy named Beto Sanchez.
I suspect Consuela and Emilio don’t like Beto any more than I do, but they are too proper to say so. I’m not. So I’ll tell you he is arrogant and condescending to Consuela and Emilio. And to their neighbors. And to me.
Come to think of it, he’s condescending to everyone in New Mexico. He’s the Ugly American and we are his Third World country.
Susannah says it’s because he’s from California. But he lives in Irvine, for God’s sake. Not Napa. How can being from Orange County make you haughty?
His other major flaw is that he doesn’t want children. Consuela’s one remaining wish is to have a grandchild. Or—even better—several of them.
She met me at the front door and took me out the back door to the patio, where Emilio was grilling arrachera marinated in smoked paprika and lime juice. The smoke from the barilla went through my nose and straight to my stomach, where it made its presence known audibly. A cold Modelo Especial kept my innards under control while the tacos were prepared.
Consuela asked why I hadn’t brought Sharice.
“Her father is here. I think they need some time alone.”
Emilio smiled and said, “You have asked for her hand and they are talking of it?”
I hesitated then said, “Yes, I have asked her to marry me. I hope he will approve.”
“Claro,” said Emilio. “He should be proud to have you as a son.”
“I hope you are right,” I said. Then, to change the subject, I told Consuela she seemed to be getting younger.
She blushed and said, “Is because of the new kidney.”
The kidney came from Ninfa. The cost was shared between Medicaid and Hubieaid. I earned my share by selling a pot. The same government that runs Medicaid would have jailed me for digging up that pot. Doesn’t bother me. I have the satisfaction of knowing the potter likes her work being admired. And she’s glad it saved Consuela’s life.
Emilio said, “It seems to me a milagro, Uberto, that they can take the kidney from one person and put it in another.”
“Yes. That’s why they call it a mi
racle of modern medicine.”
“But I worry about Ninfa,” said Consuela. “She has now only one kidney.”
“Millions of people have only one kidney and lead perfectly normal lives.”
“So you have told me, but—”
“Let us eat,” said Emilio.
He sliced the arrachera and covered it with grilled onions and Serrano peppers in the folded corn tortillas.
We were sitting on homemade lawn chairs made from woven willow branches. Sunlight filtered through the pecan trees, which still had most of their leaves. A faint breeze carried the smell of dry grass.
Consuela reminded me that Día de Muertos was only a few weeks away by asking, “You will visit the grave of your parents?”
“Of course. And I will take cempasúchil.”
Cempasúchil is the Náhuatl word for marigolds. The Aztecs called them the flowers of death.
I wondered if anyone would visit Ximena’s grave. I doubted she had one. I feared her mortal remains were still in a refrigerated drawer at the medical school awaiting the possibility of further examination if there was a murder trial.
I passed from my former residence through my pottery workshop into my store to see something I rarely see. A customer. This was one of the rarest. He was black.
35
I’ve been in business for twenty years and had maybe ten black customers. One every two years qualifies as rare.
But the oddest thing about this particular man was that I knew who he was. And when I realized that, I also realized he wasn’t a customer.
He was carrying something I had made, a black coffee mug with my signature in white letters.
“Are you Hubert Schuze?”
“I am.”
He held the mug up for me to see.
“I believe this belongs to you.”
Drat. She told me to get everything out, and I was scrupulous about it. Toiletries, clothes, even Geronimo’s leash. I hadn’t looked in the kitchen cupboards because all the dishes were hers.
Except for the mugs.
“You are mistaken, sir. That does not belong to me.”
He was tall and gaunt. I could see where Sharice got her long limbs and lithe muscles.
“It has your signature on it,” he said.
“The Declaration of Independence has John Hancock’s signature on it, but it doesn’t belong to him.”
When his eyes narrowed, I could see Sharice’s almond eye shape. “This is hardly a joking matter.”
“It was an analogy, not a joke. I formed that mug. I signed it. I fired it. Then I gave it to your daughter. It belongs to her.”
“What is your relationship with my daughter?”
“Would you like a cup of coffee? I have some New Mexico Piñon Coffee you might enjoy.”
“This is not a social call. I repeat the question. What is your relationship with my daughter?”
“I am in love with her.”
“Are the two of you sleeping together?”
There was no way in hell that I was going to answer that question.
“Mr. Clarke, you and your late wife did a terrific job raising Sharice. She is intelligent, inquisitive, kind, quick-witted, focused and free of the psychoses and neuroses that seem to plague so many people of her generation. You must know what a sound person she is. If she has decided or ever does decide to sleep with a man, she will do so for reasons that even a father could not object to.”
“That’s a nice speech, Mr. Schuze. But it is not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you will get. And the only one you are entitled to. Sharice is a grown woman. If and when she is ready to tell you about her love life, she will do so.” For some reason I cannot fathom, I took a step toward him before continuing. “And neither you nor I have the right to deprive her of her right to handle that information on her own terms.”
His jaw was clenched so tightly that he seemed to have grown muttonchops.
He finally loosed his muscles enough to speak. “Can you at least tell me what your intentions are?”
“I have asked Sharice to marry me.”
“I feared as much. You two are making a grave mistake.”
“She’s your daughter. Your only child. You should be able to read her better than anyone. Does she seem to you like a woman who’s making a mistake. Is she unhappy?”
“It’s not the present I’m worried about. It’s the future. Neither of you has any idea what you’re letting yourself in for, what it’s like to be a mixed couple.”
“No disrespect sir, but we know more about it than you do. You and your wife were not a mixed couple. My parents were not a mixed couple. Sharice and I are a mixed couple, but we are not fools. We know some people will dislike us merely because we are together. We’ve already experienced that. But why should we care about the opinions of bigots?”
He was silent, his countenance not quite so knotted. “Sharice will decide whom to marry. I understand that. But I will not give my blessing for her to marry you.”
“I think you will.”
He bristled. “You doubt my word?”
“No. I doubt your ability to stick to your word. I think you will discover that you love her too much to withhold your blessing.”
“Perhaps she will reject your proposal of marriage.”
“I acknowledge the possibility.”
“I will take my leave.”
I offered my hand. He hesitated then shook it.
As he turned to go, I said, “Have a good flight tomorrow. I hope the Alouettes win the game.”
He said thank you, but it didn’t sound like he meant it.
36
Instead of going to La Hacienda, I went to bed. The drumming of the rain stopped in the middle of the night, allowing me to hear the rumbling of my stomach.
I made a mental note to store some canned goods for emergencies.
At 6:00 a.m., I was at the door of the Blake’s Lotaburger on Rio Grande Boulevard a few blocks north of my residence. Blake’s is a New Mexico chain with about seventy locations across the state. You used to be able to spot one from five miles away because of their distinctive signs, a tall stick-figure man dressed in red, white and blue with a matching top hat. His legs were the poles supporting the sign, his fingers held the sign and his cartoon face looked a bit like Curious George.
The Blake’s on Rio Grande has the strip-mall look. Sadly, New Mexico’s kitschy architecture is disappearing.
At least the menu is the same. I ordered the #7 from the breakfast menu. Most New Mexicans know that’s the Southwest Burrito with fresh egg, tomatoes, onions, Hatch Valley green chile and cheese.
Then I ordered two more, one more for me, since I had fasted all day Sunday, and one for Geronimo since he was tired of the canned dog food.
Despite the double breakfast, I was still hungry at lunch. I walked over to La Placita, passed among the Indians plying their turquoise and silver wares under the restaurant’s covered portal, slipped past the staircase imported from Spain by the family patriarch for his daughter’s wedding in 1872, and chose the table closest to the ancient cottonwood tree that was planted in the courtyard and still lives there even though the courtyard was converted years ago to an enclosed dining room.
I chose the table by the tree because it’s one of the tables covered by Susannah.
“I guess your future father-in-law is still in town,” she said, “or you wouldn’t be here.”
“He left town about thirty minutes ago on the United flight to Houston.”
“Houston’s on the way to Montreal?”
“Only if you’re flying.”
The historic Casa de Armijo that houses La Placita is fascinating, but the best feature about the restaurant—aside from Susannah—is the salsa that makes your eyes water even before you tas
te it. It is best to have a cold cerveza at the ready before eating the fiery concoction.
Susannah brought me a Corona and said, “Have you heard the news about Harte Hockley?”
“I’m back at Spirits in Clay. Where would I hear news?”
“It’s good news, Hubie. You’re off the hook. Harte Hockley was arrested this morning for the murder of Ximena Sifuentes.”
I dropped the tortilla chip back into the bowl and placed the beer glass back on the table. “Why would Harte Hockley kill Ximena?”
“I have no idea. I’m just telling you what I heard on the radio on the way to work. You remember radios, right? Little boxes with voices coming out of them.”
My only radio is a satellite model and the only thing that comes out of it is swing music from the ’40s. It’s what my father listened to. I remembered how he exercised exclusive control over what records were played on our old hi-fi and what channel the television was tuned to. I was probably five or six before I realized there was any other sort of music. David Bowie sounded so odd to me that I stuck with the stuff that had been imprinted on me. And now David Bowie is dead. Where did the years go?
I pulled myself out of the reverie and thought about Hockley. A successful painter. A good-looking and charming fellow. Why would he kill anyone?
For that matter, why would anyone kill anyone?
Susannah brought my lunch, but my appetite was gone.
37
I was longing to see Sharice, but she was at work.
We hadn’t discussed my return to the condo. I’d assumed I would go back after her father left, but my insecurities were making an unwelcome house call. Why did Mr. Clarke say, “Perhaps she will reject your proposal of marriage”? Did he think he had made progress in convincing her to keep the promise not to marry a white man? Was she upset that I accidentally left the mug? Did she think I left it on purpose? Had she and her father quarreled about the mug and what it meant?
The phone rang.
“Hubie,” Sharice said when I answered, “will you come home, please?”
“As fast as I possibly can.”
The Pot Thief Who Studied Edward Abbey Page 17
