The Tooth of Time

by Sue Henry

  Evidently he had missed seeing where she had gone, for he stopped in the middle and looked carefully around, failed to see her, and clenched a fist that he shook in front of him as he swore an oath I couldn’t hear. He walked up to the man on the bench, who lowered his paper and looked up at the interruption to his reading, then shook his head.

  His questioner turned away, looked around once more in apparent frustration, and began to walk quickly back the way he had come. I could see as he came closer that he was frowning in irritation.

  The waitress arrived with my lunch, and I turned back to see that, having set my soup in front of me, she was looking down into the square and waving. A glance showed me that he had raised his hand to her as he vanished behind the concealing white flowers on his way out of the plaza.

  “You know him?” I asked her.

  “Oh sure. That’s Alan Medina. He runs his family’s gallery a little way up Kit Carson Road. You should stop in. They have some great stuff.” She gestured in the direction of the street on the southeast corner that led immediately to Paseo del Pueblo, where I remembered the stoplight that backed up traffic in the middle of town. Across the intersection, I had noticed on the map, it turned into Kit Carson Road, which was lined for a couple of blocks with more shops and galleries.

  “Anything else I can get for you?” she asked.

  Assuring her there was not, I decided to ask no further questions, but ate my soup and sandwich while I considered what I had seen.

  Looking down into the square was a little like watching a movie on television with the sound turned off. You could see what was happening, but you had no point of reference to know what it meant.

  I had immediately wondered if the man chasing Shirley could be the Tony she said had taken her money, but he was—according to the waitress who evidently knew him—a local, not some businessman from out of town. The impression I had from seeing his dark hair and skin color had made me wonder if he was Indian, but the name she had given, Medina, was Spanish in origin.

  Taos was definitely a town of three nationalities—Indian, Spanish, and Anglo—many involved in one way or another with the variety of arts and crafts that defined the community. It was interesting that though the shops and galleries that lined the plaza seemed to be mostly managed by the latter two cultures, the land itself was still owned by the Pueblo Indians, who had never lost it. The idea pleased me, for I knew there were many parts of the Southwest where this was not the case, where the land had simply been taken from the Native peoples and given to immigrants.

  Letting it all go, I took Stretch for a walk around the plaza, wandering into a shop or two, finding a lot of tourist kitsch and some very nice pieces of original artwork. Finally, with a rest on one of those benches in the square in mind, I bought a soft drink for myself and an ice cream bar for him. He loves ice cream on a stick, but chocolate is not good for dogs, so I remove that, and half the ice cream, before he gets his licks.

  It was growing warm and I had seen enough for the time being, so we went back to the car and then home, stopping briefly at the grocery on the way.

  I spent part of the afternoon assembling my student loom, a fairly simple operation given the instructions that came in the box with it. Completed, it stood like an easel on the dinette table and I could see that I would be able to weave a piece about twenty inches long and fifteen inches wide—just right for a cushion cover, if it turned out reasonably well. Following the instructions that came with the loom, I warped it, running the strong neutral thread back and forth between the teeth at the top and bottom. Though I was tempted to take out the yarn I had selected for weaving and give it a try, I thought better of it and decided to wait until Monday afternoon, when Pat could help get me started correctly.

  Instead, I took out the mystery I had picked out at Moby Dickens, settled myself on the couch with a glass of iced tea, and got a good start on it. I left the air conditioner off and could hear birds in the tree overhead again and the hum of insects in the long grass outside the fence that surrounded the RV park. By three thirty I found myself rereading paragraphs and pages, so I snoozed a bit before taking Stretch out for a walk.

  We circled the perimeter of the grounds. There were few trees, so I felt lucky to have a space in the shade of one. As we walked the lightly graveled dirt road the sun was warm on my shoulders, but I had worn my wide-brimmed straw hat and sunglasses, so I didn’t mind, but I noticed the scents of sage and warm earth that drifted past. Living in Alaska you forget the dry, dusty smell of prolonged heat with little rain that is typical in the southern states. What rain does fall often evaporates before reaching the ground. No wonder adobe lasts so long.

  A grasshopper flew suddenly out of the brush in front of us, the buzz of its wings causing Stretch to stop and look for the source, but the hopper was already gone.

  Back at the Winnebago, I made myself a salad to go with slices from a roast chicken I had picked up at the grocery delicatessen, fed Stretch, and took a quick shower before dressing to meet Pat at the bar in the Taos Inn for our musical evening. Feeling festive, I wore my silver bracelets and earrings, along with a new dress I had found in Santa Fe the previous week. Taking along a sweater in case it was cool later, I was ready to go out the door by six thirty.

  “Stay home and be a good galah while I’m gone,” I told Stretch, giving him a pat or two. “I won’t be late.”

  Sometimes it’s good to tell someone when you’ll be back and find him waiting when you are.

  I knew that by the time I reached the Adobe Bar he would be curled up under the table, mostly napping but fully prepared to let anyone who was imprudent enough to even walk past outside know that he was ready and able to defend our house on wheels.

  THIRTEEN

  THE TAOS INN WAS LOCATED ON PASEO DEL PUEBLO Norte, a block from the midtown intersection, so I found a place to park on Bent Street and walked the short distance. When Pat came hurrying into the lobby of the inn at just after seven, she found me examining its fountain, which was surrounded by vertical beams that rose up over two stories to support a stained-glass cupola.

  “Sorry,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I had to park across the street in the lot behind the John Dunn Shops. Bluegrass music is popular around here and I’d forgotten how fast the space out back fills up.”

  I assured her it was no problem and that actually I had been glad of the time to enjoy the spectacular lobby, which in the 1800s, a brochure had told me, was a small plaza enclosed by adobe houses, with a community well in the center that had eventually been replaced by the fountain and cupola. In the 1890s, the largest of the houses was bought and occupied by Thomas Paul “Doc” Martin, the county’s first, and only, physician. He, along with his wife, ultimately purchased the rest of the property. When he died, his wife, Helen, had the plaza enclosed and, in 1936, opened the Hotel Martin—a name that was changed to the Taos Inn by subsequent owners.

  The converted adobe houses are today various parts of the hotel. Doc Martin’s house became the restaurant, the plaza, the lobby, and Adobe Bar, which was billed as “the living room of Taos” and featured an assortment of live entertainment five nights a week, from bluegrass and flamenco to Celtic, gospel, and folk music. The hotel registration desk was on one side, and the remaining space was filled with seating. But through windows in the west wall I could see that outside, between the main bar and Paseo del Pueblo Norte, was an extension in the form of a patio, with tables at which people settled to enjoy the famous margaritas and watch the traffic pass along the street—see-and-be-seen. Featured musicians are visible to patrons at both inside and outside tables and their music spills pleasantly through.

  As we stood near the desk a talented fiddler began a rousing rendition of “Orange Blossom Special,” the kind of music that makes it impossible for me to keep my feet from tapping.

  “This is great, but where’s Ford?” Pat asked, glancing around the room. “I asked him to save us a couple of places and, with this
crowd, I hope he did.”

  The room was tall and open, and the close-set tables and chairs filled all available space. The walls were white, with several pieces of colorful artwork, and the ceiling around the cupola made of narrow poles laid in attractive patterns. The tables were filled and people stood lining the walls behind them, drinks in hand. Folks sat on the stairs leading up to a balcony over the registration desk, where others occupied more tables and leaned over the railing to watch the musicians. Hung over that long balcony rail were several colorful, handwoven rugs similar to those I had seen at Weaving Southwest.

  The group of five musicians had set up against one wall. The fiddler was a woman with red hair that glowed like copper from an overhead spotlight and whose fingers were a blur of motion on the strings from which her bow drew the complicated music. Everyone in the room seemed to be in motion as they stomped and clapped so enthusiastically that I could feel the rhythm through the soles of my feet, infectious and lively.

  As Pat hesitated, looking around, from the other side of the room I saw a hand waving a signal and caught sight of Ford Whitaker motioning us over.

  “There,” I said, laying a hand on her shoulder and pointing in his direction.

  We made our way through the crowd and, true to his word, though I don’t know how he had managed, Ford was holding two chairs for us in a group with five or six other people who were sitting around two small cocktail tables that they had pushed together.

  “Hey,” he said, when the piece and following applause had ended and it was possible to hear. “Glad you got here. I’ve had to fend off half a dozen attempts to grab these seats.”

  “Sorry,” Pat told him, and explained her parking problem.

  I was introduced to those around the table before a waitress appeared and we ordered margaritas, which arrived in good order, along with a refill for Ford in thanks for saving our places.

  There was little opportunity for conversation as the music and enthusiastic appreciation of it by the crowd continued for the next half hour. I was sitting next to Ford and between musical numbers he leaned close to quietly ask me about Shirley.

  “I hear you and Pat got her sprung from the hospital and she went home with you yesterday. How’s she doing?”

  I explained how she had disappeared that morning without a word, leaving me to wonder where and why she left so abruptly, and how I had seen her later in the plaza.

  He frowned and shook his head. “That’s odd. Did she say anything about what happened?”

  “Just—adamantly—that she didn’t try to kill herself and didn’t know how she got to the garage where her landlady found her. She talked a little about the guy she was seeing. Did you know him—someone named Tony?”

  “Not really. I’d met him once—here, I think—but I’d seen them together a time or two. Why? Something wrong there?”

  I was deciding what to answer when the music started again, so all I could do was shrug, helpless against the volume.

  Ford grinned and nodded. “Later,” he mouthed and turned to listen.

  After another half hour of music, thinking that it must be about time for the group to take a break, I resolved to beat the crowd to the restroom, got up, and started to make my way across to the door on the far side. I had almost reached it when I caught sight of a totally unexpected and familiar face near a group of people who had not been able to find seats and were standing to listen.

  Tall and angular, still wide through the shoulders, narrow at the hips, wearing, as usual, jeans, Western shirt, and well-worn boots, Butch Stringer leaned against the wall, nodding in time to the music. It brought me to a halt so sudden that I attracted his attention and as recognition dawned his whole face lit up with a delighted grin.

  “Maxie McNabb!” he crowed and, stepping away from the wall, swept me into a bear hug of greeting that all but took me off my feet. “Where the hell did you spring from?”

  The last time I had seen the long-distance trucker was a couple of years earlier on the Alaska Highway in a place called Liard River Hot Springs, between Steamboat and Watson Lake, halfway up the long road north. Later the same day, trying to avoid a collision with a passenger car and a pickup towing a boat, Butch had purposely driven his Peterbilt and trailer rig off the highway and been badly injured as a utility pole caved in the front of his cab, breaking both his legs and several ribs. It had been a horrific accident in which four people in the other two vehicles had died. Rescuers had been forced to cut Butch out of his crushed tractor, then medevaced him to a Canadian hospital by helicopter in order to save his life. From there, once stabilized, he had been moved to a hospital in Seattle. After that I lost track of him and, with no way of knowing where or how to make contact, I had finally given up trying and simply hoped he was and would be okay.

  Some prayers are answered, it seems, for there he was, alive and well, now holding me off at arm’s length and grinning from ear to ear in satisfaction.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “It’s good music, but too damn noisy to talk.”

  I agreed and he led the way through the crowd at the door.

  Once outside, however, I suddenly remembered Pat and Ford, who would wonder when I didn’t return to the table.

  “Wait a second,” I told Butch and made a quick trip to explain that I had just met an old friend.

  “See you tomorrow night at the show, then,” Pat said, and I went back across the room.

  Butch stepped out to meet me and I saw that he was limping noticeably.

  He saw me looking and nodded toward his left leg, knowing I was acquainted with the history of the injury. “It’s nothing now. I got real lucky, considering the mess they were both in before surgery. They thought for a while I’d lose this one, but I had a stubborn doc who got me through still standing on my own pegs.”

  “Is it painful?”

  “Oh, it kicks up a bit when it rains.” He grinned. “But it doesn’t rain that often in New Mexico. Took me out of a truck, though.”

  I could imagine that it would, remembering that he had been making regular trips of over 2,600 miles from Seattle to Anchorage and that driving 80,000 pounds of truck and trailer for ten hours or five hundred miles a day would be more stress than his kind of injuries could endure.

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Yeah, but not half as much as I would have missed the leg.”

  It was, I agreed, a more than fair exchange, though regrettable. Before the accident I had had the opportunity to watch him maneuver his huge rig with the confidence and assurance of an expert and knew he had been very good at what he did.

  “Things happen and you change directions,” he said, with a dismissive lift of those broad shoulders, and switched gears. “Have you had dinner?”

  “Yes, but not dessert,” I told him. “You?”

  “I should have a table in the dining room right about now. Join me?”

  I did and, after that quick trip to the restroom, was soon rewarded with a flan from the dessert menu, while Butch started on his pork tenderloin, served with a baked yam, glazed carrots, and some kind of salsa.

  “I treat myself once a month to dinner at Doc’s,” he told me. “Drive up from Santa Fe and take advantage of good food and good music.”

  “So you’re not living here?”

  “No, I moved to Santa Fe as soon as my busted ribs healed up and they had done all they could for my legs—almost a year ago. I’m running the office for a trucking company down there and do a little driving on short, in-state runs once in a while to keep my hand in. We’ve got a good bunch of distance guys—and a few gals—and I like the country.

  “But tell me what you’re doing in Taos. It’s a long way from Alaska. Vacation? For how long? Are you still driving that motor home? And I want to know what happened after the accident. Did you catch up with Jessie? And how about the boy?”

  So I told him how I had wound up in Taos after my friend Sarah died in Grand Junction. How open-ended my travels
were and that I hadn’t decided where I would go next in the Winnebago—maybe back to Homer for a month or two, but maybe not. That I was thinking of driving east to parts of the country I had never seen, but planned to be in Taos for the next couple of weeks at least.

  Then I related the part of the story of my trip up the highway with Jessie Arnold that he had missed, and that the boy, Patrick, was fine and living in Fairbanks.

  “That Jessie,” he said, remembering with a smile. “She’s a pistol, that one. And that husky of hers . . . What was his name?”

  “Tank.”

  “Right. Your two dogs really got along, didn’t they? Do you still have Stretch?”

  I assured him that I did—though at times I think it’s the other way around and Stretch really has me.

  As we talked I had examined his face and noticed that the accident and recovery had left their mark there, as well as on his legs. There were a few more lines and a slightly heavy look around his eyes, of the sort that I’ve noticed before in people who have experienced extended periods of pain and struggle, physical or mental. My Daniel, for one, who suffered the agony of a cancer undetected until too late to do anything but help him die in as little pain as possible, which was not easy toward the end. But there had been and still was something intrinsically fine about Butch, something that made him the kind of person one likes to have as a friend, who doesn’t do anything by halves. I could see that the new lines in his face could not all be attributed to his accident, that many were the kind that result from smiles like the one with which he had greeted me.