And everyone grows quiet for miles and miles until you can’t take it anymore. “Look, it’s the two guns of Two Guns.”
Silence again, and then Elena stirs. “Are we there yet?”
Bette stubs out her cigarette, shuts the ashtray, and waves away the smoke. “No, honey, not yet.”
You point out the window. “There’s Holbrook. See the wigwams?”
“What’s that?” Elena says.
“They’re like teepees, Indian homes,” Rita tells her, slowing so Elena can get a good look at the tall cement cones painted with crude designs. “They’re motels. People can stay in them overnight.”
Elena stares out the window. “I want to stay in one.”
“We can’t, h’ita,” Bette tells her. “We have to get to Río Puerco tonight.”
“But I want to sleep in a warm wig.” Elena’s lower lip quirks.
Bette shakes her head. “Sorry, honey.”
“Why not?” Loretta asks. “Just for one night.”
“I want to sleep in one!” Elena cries as we pass the Wigwam Village.
Rita gives Bette a sidelong glance.
“I thought you were in some big rush, Miss One-Week-of-Vacation. Besides, Nilda’s expecting us,” Bette says.
“So call her up,” you suggest, “and tell her we’ll be there tomorrow.”
“You have any idea how expensive these tourist traps are?” Bette says. “Who’s going to pay?”
“I will,” Rita and Loretta say at the same time.
Your sisters can only afford one wigwam, but it’s not too bad —a full bath, air-conditioning, and two double beds. But the conical ceiling does take some getting used to. To economize, your sisters stop at a market to purchase bread, cheese, and cold cuts for supper and peaches for dessert. Loretta, of course, buys a double six-pack and opens a beer as soon as she enters the room.
“You drink too much,” Rita tells her. “What kind of doctor is always drinking?”
“I only drink,” Loretta says, “when you’re around.”
“I wouldn’t want a doctor like you operating on my hamster.”
“I didn’t know you had one.” Loretta sips her beer.
Elena turns to Rita. “Let me see that hamster.”
“I don’t have one, honey,” Rita says. “Ask your mommy if I can take you outside to look at the other wigwams.”
While Elena petitions Bette, you strap Aitch into a front harness and regard his reflection in the dressing-table mirror; his thick, dimpled arms and fat-ringed legs dangle like chunky puppet appendages. “Can we come, too?” you ask your niece.
Elena sizes you up, thinking this over. “Okay.”
“We’ll call Nilda,” you say, “from that pay phone by the front office.”
Outside, Elena spots a rusted swing set at the heart of Wigwam Village and races for it. She brushes grit from the seat before putting her arms up so Rita can lift her into the toddler swing with straps. You lower yourself and Aitch onto a leather seat beside Elena. He’s a quiet baby who smiles easily, but his eyes are a concern. They tend to wander and cross. Strabismus, the pediatrician says. He may outgrow it, or he might need surgery. When Aitch looks at you, he sees two mothers. Because you can’t recall a single image of your mother, this doesn’t seem like such a bad deal.
“Higher,” Elena says. “Push me higher.”
Rita shoves the swing with more force, and you say, “You need to lighten up.”
“I know,” Rita agrees, surprising you. “She gets to me. Loretta, I mean. It’s like she’s always laughing at me, mocking me.”
“She’s not mocking you any more than she is the rest of us.”
“The weird thing is that when I’m up north and she’s in Georgia, we get along great. We talk on the phone every week. I feel closer to her than anyone, as long as we’re thousands of miles apart.”
“You’re not pushing,” Elena says. “Push me, Tía, really push.”
Rita tugs back Elena’s swing as far as it will go and releases it to the little girl’s squealing delight. “Something about seeing her in person —Bette, too, but not as much —just irritates me.”
“You’ve got to let it go,” you tell her. “Seriously, it’s bad for all of us, but it’s worse for you, all that negative shh —” You glance at Elena. “All that negative stuff is harmful for you, so let it go.”
“Is that what you do?” Rita says, asking —in her way —about Harold.
“Yeah, sure, all the time,” you say. “I just say, ‘Okay, I forgive you; now get out of my face,’ and I let it go.”
“Hey, I know how to forgive people. I’ve let go of more than you can imagine.” Her tone is sharp but she continues in a softer voice, “What I can’t figure out is how not to let certain people bug me in the first place.”
You cup the top of Aitch’s head, his throbbing fontanel pulses against your palm. You imagine your mother holding you when you were this young. When he’s cozy in your arms like this, you can almost remember her scent, her touch. You bend for a kiss and taste his warm, salty scalp. “You just make up your mind to be cool and let stuff go.”
HOLBROOK, ARIZONA —LORETTA
When Rita and Sophie march out of the cement cone with the children, Bette tells me, “Don’t let her get to you.”
“She doesn’t.” I toss the empty bottle in the wastebasket, reach for another.
Bette arranges bread slices on napkins. “I think she does.”
But I ignore this. “We should have told them to get ice.” I hand Bette a beer and fit the remainders into the slushy cooler. “What were you going to tell me about Dad?”
Bette says that Pam moved in with the old man for a short while.
“Dad was living in sin?” My voice rises with feigned horror.
Bette nods. “Just for a few months, but they didn’t get along. They were both drinking pretty heavily and getting into all kinds of fights over stupid things, mostly over their dead spouses, if you can believe it. They’re insanely jealous.”
“Jealous of the deceased?”
“That’s right,” Bette says. “One time I went over, and they were in the middle of it. I swear, it was like something out of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? but without any brains. And Dad had this swollen eye and scratches on his cheek.”
I swallow hard, but say, “Still, he’s a grown man.”
“I know. I can’t call protective services and say, ‘My sixty-two-year-old father is in an abusive relationship.’ It’s not like they can step in and place him in foster care.” Bette sighs, layering the sliced bread with bologna and cheese. “The best I can do is to be ready in case he needs me.” She covers the sandwiches and gathers up the peaches. “Now, what did you want to tell me?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t say I had anything to tell you.”
“You don’t have to.” Bette stands in the threshold to the bathroom, cradling the fuzzy pink-and-gold orbs and waiting. “I can tell.”
I wish Rita hadn’t taken her camera. This would make an arresting photo: Woman Holding Peaches in Wigwam. Despite my resolve not to say a thing to my sisters, I blurt this out: “I think I’m in love.”
“In love?”
“Yes, I think so. That’s partly why I wanted to take this trip to get away and think it out, to see if it’s still there when I go back to Georgia.”
“Who are you in love with?”
“Chris,” I tell her, “a doctor, but that’s all I can say, or I’ll jinx it.” Really, I don’t dare to say more, not even to Bette.
When she reaches to embrace me, the peaches tumble from her arms, bump to the floor. One rolls under the bed. Bette guards her own secrets so well that she will not press me to say more.
RANCHO VIGIL, NEW MEXICO —BETTE
I don’t completely agree, but Loretta insists we continue on to the Vigil ranch near Santa Fe before checking in with Nilda. We can travel on to Río Puerco afterward, she says. Loretta is acting so strange since her confessi
on to me yesterday that I’m hesitant to contradict her. Rita’s leery of her, too. So it’s Sophie who says, “You know, Nilda was not all that thrilled that we didn’t get there for supper last night.”
“We’ll get there tonight,” Loretta tells her.
“For supper?” Sophie asks.
Loretta nods. “We’ll aim for that, anyway.” And after consigning Rita to the backseat facing rear, I drive steadily through the morning.
The Vigil ranch house is so much like our family’s home in Río Puerco that it’s nearly creepy: the sprawling rectangular structure, the sherbet-orange stucco exterior trimmed with white woodwork, the corrugated-tin roof, the screened-in front porch, the cuartito and adobe oven, the horno in back, and the kitchen garden separated from the drive by the clothesline. Was Heidi inspired by our grandparents’ house when she and her husband built theirs? Though if one judged from the appearance of other homes in the area, this is pretty much the standard setup.
I steer the car over the unpaved road leading to Heidi’s house, pebbles crunching under the tires and pinging against the wheel wells.
“Wha-a-a-at i-s-s-s thi-i-i-is?” The bumpiness causes Elena’s high voice to vibrate, and this inspires Loretta to baa like a sheep.
“We’re tur-r-r-ning into she-e-e-ep,” Rita says, joining in. Then all three of my nutty sisters and Elena make sheep sounds until I pull alongside the clothesline to park. “Okay, knock it off,” I say.
“Where are we?” Elena asks. Loretta explains that we’re visiting a lady here.
“Hand me a brush,” I say, and Sophie tosses me my purse. Loretta opens the passenger-side door. “Wait!” I give my hair a few swift strokes, apply lipstick, and examine my smile in the rearview. “Okay.”
We emerge from the car, blinking in the sunlight as though we’ve just stepped out of a darkened theater. A shadowy figure appears in the screened porch and the door yawns open. A lean man in Levi’s and a denim work shirt emerges. “You must be the Gabaldón sisters,” he says, and my sisters grow shy as real goddamn sheep, so I have to step forward and shake his hand. “I’m Bette Gabaldón. Thanks for letting us stop by.”
His grip is strong and warm. “Clarence, Clarence Vigil.” He’s in his forties, trim and tanned, with graying hair and dark blue eyes. After the long trip with just my sisters and the kids for company, this Clarence Vigil looks as appealing as a dish of ice cream in the middle of the desert. I would not at all mind a taste.
I introduce las borregas, one by one, and the children. Then Clarence says, “Now, I got to warn you —Ma’s had a stroke. She can’t talk too well and gets mixed up.”
He leads us into the house, which is cool and dark and smells of cinnamon and coriander. Deep inside, like a heartbeat, an unseen clock ticks. The front room is sparsely furnished —a rocker, a sofa, and a reclining chair. A piano stands in the dining room across from a table and six chairs. Beyond that is a knickknack-filled cabinet with glass doors. Clarence pauses before the door to a side room. “Her face is paralyzed.” He glances at Elena. “Might be a little scary.”
Sophie says, “Well, maybe I can wait somewhere with the kids.”
“Sure,” Clarence says. “Why don’t you step through the dining room to the kitchen in back? I’ll be right there.” He leans toward Elena. “You like bizcochitos?”
Elena claps her hands. Sophie and Aitch lead her toward the kitchen as the rest of us file into the side bedroom. Like the front rooms, this one is cool and dimly lit. A queen-sized bed stands in one corner opposite an antique dresser set. In the bed, an old woman with shorn white hair rests against propped pillows. Her hands —liver-spotted but smooth, swollen with edema —rest atop the bedspread. She’s wearing a white nightgown, cornflowers printed on it. My eyes travel to her mangled face, her slate-colored eyes. On one side, her expression is neutral, even placid, but on the other, she wears a stricken look. Her mouth is pulled down at the corner revealing tooth and gum, her cheek taut, her eye unnaturally wide and unblinking, her eyebrow arched and frozen in astonishment.
“Ma,” Clarence says in a soft voice, “these are the Gabaldón sisters. They’ve come a long way to see you.”
The woman nods.
He pulls up the dresser bench and a camp stool. “I’ll leave you to talk,” he says.
Loretta and Rita share the bench, and I take the stool, sitting closest to the bed. The sheep remain mute, so it’s up to me to say, “I’m Bette, and these are my sisters, Loretta and Rita. It’s nice of you to see us, Mrs. Vigil.”
“Fermina’s pearls,” Heidi Vigil says in a deep slurry voice, a thread of spittle webbing her lips. “I know jewels.”
Loretta clears her throat. It’s about time she remembered this visit was her idea! “We understand you wrote a book about Fermina.”
“Retorts,” the woman says. “I wrote retorts for the project.”
“Tell us about it,” I say.
“Unmarried project, the unmarried writer’s project, the double you, pea, ay, but then” —she holds up her left hand, revealing a gold band embedded in the puffy flesh —“I quit.”
“But you interviewed Fermina,” Loretta says. “Our aunt Nilda says you made notes, so we’re curious . . .”
“About Fermina,” Rita adds.
Heidi stares off at some focal point beyond us. “Pepe, Pepe Gallegos, you remember him?”
Loretta nods. “He translated for you, for your notes.”
I lean in closer. “What happened?”
“Mining accident, I think. Or was it his father?”
“What happened to your notes?” Loretta asks.
The old woman whimpers. “Ida never liked me.”
“Did Fermina know magic? Did she practice brujería?” Rita’s voice is strained. Of all of us, this inheritance from Fermina has hurt her the most.
Heidi crooks a finger for us to lean in. “Lucinda Aragón,” she whispers, “was a witch. Everybody knew. She helped Fermina.”
“Are we . . . ,” Rita asks, “. . . under some spell?”
“Pshaw, I can spell,” Heidi says. “I am a good writer. But Ida . . . refused.”
“Refused what?” I keep my tone patient, even.
“All my work, my notes.”
“Where are your notes now?” Loretta says.
“Ask Fermina.” Heidi yawns. “I gave everything to her.”
“What if we can’t ask her?” I’m not keen to break the news of Fermina’s death to this old woman.
“Then ask Nilda, she was there,” Heidi says, but a doubtful look clouds her face. “She was just married. I remember she wanted to know about the work.”
“Nilda read your notes?” Rita asks.
“Maybe,” Heidi says, nodding. “I don’t know. Fermina knows.”
“Fermina’s dead,” Loretta blurts out. “She died a long time ago.”
Heidi’s blue-gray eyes fill, her chin wobbles. “Clarence!” she calls. “Clarence!”
When Clarence sees us out, he hands me a yellowed sheet, a carbon copy. “Here’s something I found with my mother’s papers,” he says. “It might interest you.”
I read it aloud as Loretta steers Woody back toward Río Puerco.
Ida Saenz Pomeroy,
Director of the New Mexico Writers’ Project
Work Projects Administration (WPA)
Santa Fe, New Mexico
September 9, 1940
Dear Mrs. Pomeroy:
I am writing to tender my resignation from the New Mexico Writers’ Project as a data collector for the Work Projects Administration (WPA). I have recently become engaged, and when I marry, I will be ineligible for the work. My fiancé is a rancher who owns considerable property outside of Santa Fe. I wish to resign in good standing before I am terminated, as happened to one of my colleagues who inherited a sum of money.
I also wish to entreat you once more to reconsider the decision not to include data gathered through interviews with Fermina, a Pueblo woman who has lived many years in th
e Río Puerco Valley community that we are surveying for the recovery project. The insights she provides illuminate an important, and often overlooked, perspective on those early years in the territory. I know you have complained that my writing style is not suited for this project, but I suspect the information my subject divulges with regard to a leading family in this community is more the problem. You have also stated that the interviews veered notably from the set of questions that prompt remembrance of ceremonies, folktales, and such, but I must stress that Fermina’s life story emerged whole cloth after the first few interviews. As a conscientious fieldworker, I would have been remiss in suppressing or omitting any of this valuable data. I will leave these materials in her care. If you have a change of heart, I believe she may still be willing to share the work with you.
Furthermore, I respectfully request placement for Pedro (“Pepe”) Gallegos, the young man who worked as my translator on the project. Though he is only sixteen years old, he is remarkably fluent in both Spanish and English, and he is a sympathetic listener who encourages subjects to speak their hearts. He is well trained and would make another interviewer an ideal assistant. You may have heard that his father was killed in a mining accident, and his mother and sisters depend upon his earnings to subsist. I cannot recommend him highly enough.
Thank you for the opportunity to work as a data collector and writer under the auspices of this worthy project.
Yours truly,
Heidi Marie Schultz
“Wow!” Sophie says. “Like, why couldn’t he have given you the letter before you guys talked to her?”
Loretta says, “Wonder what she means about divulging information about a leading family? Do you think that means our family?”
I shrug. “Maybe Pepe Gallegos knows. Do you think we can find him?”
“Se murió,” Rita says. “At least, that’s what Heidi said.”
“That was his father,” Loretta says.
The Gifted Gabaldón Sisters Page 23
