by Amber Foxx
Mae whispered his name and he looked up. She said, “Jamie wants to go. Do you have anyone coming?”
“Chaplain.”
“You want me to stay?”
“Take care of Jamie.”
“I’ll call Daddy. And Daphne.”
“Thanks.”
Mae eased the door shut. She found Jamie hovering near the exit, vibrating in a total-body fidget as if he were cold as well as anxious. He opened the door and walked at a distance from her as they crossed the parking lot. Mae wanted to be closer, but he was in his stubborn mode, part of the faulty operating system that told him he didn’t need help when he did.
“You need your book back, sugar.” Mae opened the car doors. “You were getting good at sharing your feelings.”
He ducked into the passenger seat. “Sorry. Feel like crap.”
She called Marty and Daphne before driving.
When they got back to her house, Jamie chatted in his usual way while cooking, but Mae felt like he was playing himself as a role, making potato salad and rambling about the differences between boring white potatoes and the indigenous potatoes of the Andes, the blue and purple varieties. Recipes that worked better with the colored kind. How odd they looked on a plate with blue corn.
Maybe the release of words eased his mind and heart a little. At least he was talking. But he faded out every few sentences and paused in the middle of chopping vegetables or measuring ingredients, gone somewhere inside himself.
She couldn’t get him to talk about Florencia. About anything that mattered. He even went for a walk by himself, something Jamie never did. Walking on pavement hurt his hip, and he hated to be by himself. Florencia’s death had overturned him in some way. Mae was relieved when he got back and told her he wanted to go with her when Niall opened his late friend’s studio. It might give Jamie closure somehow.
Giving Niall some private time to grieve, Mae called Daphne to find out when they planned to open the studio. The lawyer told her they were waiting until late on Saturday so Alan Pacheco, Florencia’s biographer, could drive down from Ohkay Owingeh Pueblo after the Eight Northern Pueblos Art Show. He was teaching summer session classes and was on the board of the art show, so it was the first day he was free.
“She wanted him there,” Daphne said. “Classic Flo. Staging a grand entrance after she’s dead. Or a grand exit. Or both.”
Mae sat beside Jamie on the couch and put her arm around him. “Did you catch that?” He usually listened to her phone calls, but he wasn’t quite himself.
“Yeah. Saturday. After your race.” The Dam It Man Triathlon would be in the morning. Jamie leaned back and slumped into her embrace. “I’ll camp at the lake so I get a good spot to watch you. Don’t want to miss you this time.”
“You don’t have to camp. You can stay with me Friday night.”
He kissed her, a weak, dry peck. “Nah. You’ll need your rest for your first triathlon. And a night in the tent’ll do me good.”
Mae brushed his hair back from his face and looked into his eyes. “You mean that?”
“Yeah. I’m learning.” He drew a heart shape on her thigh, and then another, just barely intertwined. “I give you space, we get closer. Right? The Zen koan of love.”
*****
On Saturday morning, Jamie walked along the main road through Elephant Butte Lake State Park, looking for a good spot from which to see the lake for the swimming part of the race as well as the cycling and running. The deep blue lake in the desert with rounded gray buttes jutting from the water was a place full of meaning for him. Memories of near-death, survival, and spirits. Despite the early hour, it made him feel strangely and deeply alive.
A voice called from the playground. “Jamie!”
Ezra Yahnaki stood on the highest point of a large play structure, at the top of a long twirly slide. “We can see good from up here.”
Jamie climbed the child-sized stairs, wondering if the plastic platform at the top could hold both him and Ezra. “What are you doing here?”
“Zak and Refugio Baca are in the race. Zak wanted me to give it a try but I can’t swim.”
“I can’t run. We could register as Ezra Ellerbee. I’ll swim and bike, and you can run.” Jamie pulled his white cowboy hat lower over his eyes, squinting into the low, bright morning sun. “Bet no one can tell the difference.”
“You’re goofy.”
“Yeah.” Jamie rubbed Ezra’s brush-cut hair. “And you’re my mate, so that makes you goofy. You came all the way here just to watch these blokes race?”
“No. Bernadette’s boyfriend is picking me up at Misty’s place later. He’s taking me to Santa Fe. I always stay with Bernadette for a few weeks every summer. Or I have since I’ve been old enough. Zak was going to drive me all the way, but he doesn’t have to now.”
“Nice of him to offer, though.” Especially since being around Ezra might trouble Zak. He had a conscience, and he hadn’t told Will the boy’s dream. “Long drive there and back. And he just got back from a fire, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. I hope he’s not too worn out to race well. When I thought he was bringing me, I told him he should stay over with you in Santa Fe.” Ezra leaned on the railing. “Zak needs to have some fun. He’s awfully serious.”
“So he needs a sleepover with a mate?” Jamie snort-laughed. “Bloody hell, look who’s talking. You’re like a little old man sometimes.”
“I am not.”
“Yeah? Dare you to be silly. Right now.”
Ezra frowned, a look of deep thought. “I wish I was small enough to go down that slide.”
“Yeah, me too. Get my arse stuck, though. Think I could go down standing?”
“You’d fall.”
“Nah. Wear my socks, glide.” Jamie slipped his sandals off. His socks-and-sandals preference earned him some ribbing from people like Zak, but it kept his feet cool yet clean. “Got a great sense of balance. Fuck, I used to rock climb. I can go down a kids’ slide.”
“You fell and broke your bones a lot climbing.”
“Yeah, but this is, what, seven feet off the ground?” Jamie backed onto the slide, holding the railing, and then turned, striking a pose like a surfer. He slid a few inches, nearly toppled off at the first curve, and dropped to sitting. Still off-balance, he tumbled sideways, but managed to catch the edge of the slide like a cartoon character going off a cliff and grabbing a tree branch. Dropping to his feet, he collected his fallen hat and looked up, expecting to find Ezra laughing at him, but the boy’s face was solemn and worried.
Jamie grinned and jammed his hat back on. “I’m not hurt, mate. Lighten up. We’re on project silly, remember?”
“It’s not that. I dreamed that Zak fell.”
“You tell him?”
“No. You know how you wake up and don’t remember your dreams, and then something happens and they come back? It just came back when you fell.”
Jamie climbed back up the ladder. “Jeezus. Hope he’s not going to fall in this race.”
“I don’t know what it meant. There was other stuff, too.” Ezra paused. “It got weirder. There were birds made out of dollar bills flying around and then real birds and they all flew away.”
“What kind of birds—the real ones?”
“I don’t remember all of them. But there was a pink parrot. That was bizarre. I don’t know what it meant. I was practicing dreaming on purpose. Zak asked me to try.”
“Maybe he’ll know.” Jamie wondered if Zak would understand the dream. The part about the parrot and the money could be good or bad. Falling down sounded definitely bad. “Dunno if he’ll have his phone with him. Mae never takes hers when she runs.”
“Can you call him and see?”
Zak’s voice mail picked up. “Mate. Ezra just remembered his dream.” Jamie handed the boy the phone. When he finished, Ezra gave it back and leaned on the railing again, rubbing his shoe against one of the posts. “I feel bad about the other dream, still. I didn’t save Will.”
“Wasn’t your fault. You tried. I know the feeling, though. I backed out on someone I was supposed to help. While she was dying.” With this reminder, a heaviness lodged in Jamie’s chest, a pressure near his heart. “They teach you what to do for ghost sickness yet?”
The boy looked at Jamie. “Can you get it?”
“Sort of. Not exactly.”
“I’m sorry.” Ezra ducked his head again. “I helped Grandma run a sweat house—I was the fire keeper. But I’m not ready to do ceremonies myself yet.”
“No worries. Just give me a few tips. Do-it-yourself healing rituals.”
“Are you being silly?”
“Nah. Serious. Dead serious.”
*****
Mae heard thudding steps on her right and guessed without looking that this loud-footed runner was Zak. With his heavy landing, he might as well have been wearing his firefighting boots. How was he going to handle seeing her? He had to know what she had done. He caught up and stayed neck and neck with her. They were closely matched in both their weaknesses and their strengths. As much time as they’d both lost in the swimming and cycling, neither stood a chance to win or place, but this was the segment of the race where they could excel. Mae wanted to outrun Zak—and he probably wanted to outrun her.
“Enjoyed being behind you,” he said, “but I couldn’t stay that slow.”
In her barefoot shoes, she ran on the sandy shoulder rather than the pavement, and as they rounded a curve, she took a hasty sidestep to dodge a small cactus and bumped him slightly.
Before she could apologize, he asked, “Getting clumsy? Or cheating?”
“Clumsy. I’m sorry.”
So far he was treating her the way he had before he’d ceased to trust her. Maybe he’d taken a cue from Misty and Melody. They’d been civil to her in the past week, though no longer sociable. This was as civil as Zak got. Mae did her best to be friendly. “Glad you made it after that fire. How are you feeling?”
“Whipped. But I’ll still kick your ass. That’s the only thing better than looking at it.”
She sped up. So did he. Mae asked, “Is Melody here?” She had talked to her once since the previous Saturday, and the call had been short and awkward.
Refugio Baca surged past them. He could burn out by pushing that hard early in the run. Or maybe not. Misty was standing on the side of the road cheering and shouting his name. If he wanted to impress her and she liked him, he might have wings.
“Are they—”
Zak passed Mae before she finished her question. Misty waved and cheered for him, too, though not the way she’d jumped up and down for Refugio. She sure moved on in a hurry.
Mae brought her mind back to the race. She didn’t care if Refugio beat her, but Zak was on her runners-to-crush list. She put on a burst of speed. As she caught up again, he glanced at her with a startled expression.
She made a point of not sounding breathless. “What—you thought I couldn’t catch you?”
“It’s those barefoot shoes. I didn’t hear you and then all of sudden there’s this orange blaze. I thought something was on fire. Did you miss me?”
“No. I got sick of looking at your ass.”
“Good one, Miss Mary-Mae.” Zak dodged around another runner and pushed a short way ahead, calling back to her, “You sneaked up, but you didn’t really catch me.”
Was there a double meaning? In the forgery scam, she had caught him. It was sad that so honest a man had gotten tangled up in it. Mae hoped he wouldn’t end up in jail. But she was still going to beat him. She picked up her speed.
In the end, she barely came in a stride ahead of Zak, but that was enough to end the event with a sense of success. She hadn’t expected to win her first triathlon, or even to place at all, only to do her best. Marty came in first for his age group, and that made her as proud as if she’d been the winner. Jamie praised her performance and promised her the best massage of her life as soon as they got to her house.
When they arrived there, however, his mood shifted from celebratory to distressed, with no apparent trigger. He obsessed over how he parked his car. Normally, he left it in the unshaded portion of the driveway when he visited, but he insisted that she pull her car forward in the carport until its nose was buried in the bird-of-paradise shrub next to the laundry shed, and then backed his car in so the two vehicles sat tail to tail, each with its rear half in the shade. He then crawled into the back of his car and fretted over how his camping gear was packed in the hatch, adjusting things as if the tent might be uncomfortable. Mae wanted to tell him to calm down, but let him be. Pointing out his anxiety wouldn’t make it go away.
She finally got him indoors and invited him to share her shower, where he remembered the promised massage. It evolved into lovemaking with a damp and eager transition to her bed. Mae could have rested afterward, contented and close, but Jamie wouldn’t hold still. He burrowed under the sheet with his feet near her head and began to give her a foot rub accompanied by soft singing, his voice muffled.
Mae stroked a hand over his muscular calf and then touched the scar on his right shin from one of his climbing accidents. His long slender toes kept curling off and on. She slid a finger under them and whispered, “Sugar. You can relax.”
“Nah.” He tossed the sheet back and sat up. “Still have to do the death thing, y’know?”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yeah, I do. Closure. Ritual. S’posed to be healing.”
Chapter Thirty
In the evening, Mae and Jamie drove up Foch in his Fiesta, crossing Broadway and Main, heading up to Florencia’s house. The sunset ringed the whole sky with pink clouds against the deepening blue, as if nature were honoring the late artist with a startling display of color. Mae would have liked to walk to enjoy it more, but Jamie said his hip was hurting after falling off a slide before the race.
They encountered Zak, Ezra, Misty, and Refugio on Foch Street. Misty and Refugio were playing in the parking lot beside the Brady and Brady office, back to back, their arms locked through each other’s, apparently trying to see who could haul the other up onto his or her back in some kind of crazy wrestling game, with Misty’s skateboard dangerously near their feet. Mae couldn’t imagine Misty and Reno roughhousing like this. Zak might not like to see another Chino sister with another Baca brother—or skateboarding without a helmet or kneepads—but in her rebound Misty might have found her match.
Zak and Ezra were carefully removing plastic bags that had caught on an enormous cactus that clung to the bluff a short way uphill on the opposite side of the street. A trash bag sat at Zak’s feet, and it bulged at the bottom with the shapes of bottles.
Jamie pulled over and rolled down his window. “Good job, mates. Picking the state flower. First time I ever saw Zak clean up litter. You’re a good influence, Ezra.”
“It was his idea,” Ezra said. He smiled shyly at Mae and then looked at the ground.
“We’re showing him and Refugio the murals at the civic center.” Zak bunched a shredded grocery sack up in his fist and shoved it into the trash bag. “Thought we’d clean up on the way. Are you two ready?”
“Almost.” Misty swung Refugio onto her back and stepped on her skateboard, whooping with laughter. His legs kicked in the air and he whooped like a cowboy as she propelled them toward the street.
“Are you crazy?” Zak ran at them, blocking the exit from the parking lot. “On this hill?”
“Spoilsport.” Misty let Refugio down, promised to show him some tricks on the ramps later, and picked up her board. She scarcely looked at Mae, offering a belated and uncomfortable hello.
Mae returned the greeting, adding, “Don’t be a stranger. Please.”
Misty nodded and turned away.
Jamie drove his car down the side street. He parked in the gravel drive that curved from the back steps of Florencia’s house to the carport in the side yard, pulling the Fiesta up behind Niall’s Beetle.
Mae and Jamie walked around t
o the front of the house. Marty, Niall, and Daphne were waiting on the porch with Alan, a short, solid man with long graying hair and warm dark eyes. As they went in, Daphne turned off the alarm, led the way down a short hallway, and used a second key to open the studio at the back. Marty put his arm around Niall’s shoulders and gave him a squeeze before they entered.
Though the air conditioner was running, the air was stale and smelled like paint. The enclosed former porch was dark, shaded by both curtains and blinds. Daphne uncovered a few windows, admitting a spill of bright light. At the far end of the long narrow room, an unframed painting stood on an easel. After seeing Florencia’s large works in Rio Bravo, Mae was struck by how small this one was, but of course—it had been the painter’s last. It was all she might have felt she had time for. A semi-abstract pink parrot glared from the canvas with one round eye. On the textured white space behind it, blue corn formed a pattern like a river, and red corn the profile of mountains. It was the work Mae had seen in progress in her vision of the gift of the parrot.
For a moment they all stood still, gazing at the tableau: the painting on the easel, a tall stool in front of it, paints and brushes on a stand nearby, and preliminary versions of the final work taped to the wall. Mae thought of Daphne’s analogy. The studio was like a stage set waiting for Florencia to make her entrance, and at the same time it was the empty stage after her exit.
“Before anyone moves anything,” Alan said, “I need some pictures of it the way she left it.”
Niall rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “Christ. It’s closer to finished than she let on.” When Alan had taken his shots, Niall approached the painting slowly, his cough covering a break in his voice. “Her last real work.”
“You’ll want to keep that,” Daphne said.
“Daow.” His long, nasal negation. “Museum of Contemporary Native Art should have it. It’s not signed, but still ...”
“Native art?” Marty asked. “A pink parrot?”
