Isabel's Daughter

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  A couple of the women I knew from my old days at the house were making pretty good money doing telemarketing. But I could never do that—sit and call people who don’t want to talk to you and try to sell them things they don’t need? No thanks.

  Life just kind of stumbled along, day by day, and happiness wasn’t something I spent a lot of time thinking about, one way or the other.

  By the same token, leaving Albuquerque wasn’t something we planned either—it just happened. After five years, working at the diner was getting old. Rita was between boyfriends and I hadn’t had a date in recent memory. Our apartment building was falling apart and the landlord never wanted to do anything but the bare minimum maintenance, so we were already looking for a new place, but rents had gone up a lot. And taking one class a semester at the university had started to feel like being on a treadmill.

  So one night when we were killing a six-pack and the TV was broken, we started talking about making a change. Going somewhere new. Somewhere interesting. Sort of exciting. Romantic.

  We were sitting there on the couch, and we looked at each other and both of us just said,

  “Santa Fe.”

  PART THREE

  santa fe

  May 2000

  fifteen

  Wednesday’s a cool, bright morning. Too bright. Which means I forgot to set the alarm clock and I’ve overslept.

  I turn my head to see the clock. Shit. It’s 7:30 and I’m supposed to be at work at 8:30. I can still manage, but I’ll have to push it. I shower and dive into my clothes, hurry down the stairs, and jaywalk across Guadalupe, turning toward the river.

  A few of the homeless are starting to stir in their sleeping bags as I cut through DeVargas Park, past the skateboard area, empty and quiet at this time of day, the NO GRAFFITI sign that taggers have plastered with their art.

  My eyes drift over the groups of men sitting on cement picnic tables, drinking coffee out of Styrofoam cups and eating their breakfasts of Twinkies and Taco Bell burritos, waiting for the unemployment office to open. They occupy these same tables almost every day, sometimes whistling or hooting when women walk by, sometimes too busy explaining to their buddies how life as we know it could be perfected if marijuana was legal, or you could buy beer with food stamps. In my mind I’ve nicknamed them the Bench Boys, and I try not to look at them as I walk by, for fear of inviting return scrutiny.

  Crossing at Don Gaspar, I jog left, then right to walk in the shade along the river, and something—maybe the swing of long dark hair down her back—makes me turn my head to see the woman striding away from me toward the Plaza. She turns onto West San Francisco, disappearing around the corner.

  Without any conscious decision, I jump blindly off the curb, and a horn blares, accompanied by a squeal of tires as the driver hits the brakes.

  “Sorry.”

  I yell it over my shoulder, not really seeing him or the car or the annoyed looks of the hungry tourists as I shoulder my way through the line outside Pasqual’s. I whip around the corner after her and stand for a minute. It’s early and the stores are still locked, but the window-shoppers are out. I pass a man and woman dressed in identical khaki Bermuda shorts, plaid cotton shirts, and navy sweaters knotted around their shoulders, looking at a window display of jewelry. The woman raises her head, meets my gaze with mild curiosity, then goes back to the silver and turquoise.

  I walk slowly along West San Francisco to the corner of the Plaza, peering in every window. I know I’m going to be late for work, but I can’t make myself walk any faster. I keep seeing the long black hair flying out as she disappears around the corner.

  Isabel’s dead. End of story.

  Except I’ve lived in New Mexico long enough to suspect that the mere fact of death doesn’t necessarily prevent someone from walking the streets with everyone else.

  Dale looks at his watch when I come in, but he’s on the phone murmuring, “Of course, Mrs. Renaldi,” so all he can do is give me the mal ojo. I put my jacket on a hook, sit down, and get busy deciphering the scribbled notes Kirk tossed in my in-box.

  When Dale finishes his phone conversation, he plants himself in front of my desk.

  “You’re ten minutes late, Avery.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re always sorry. I’m writing it up this time and it’s going in your file.” He’s chewing on the side of his face, looking exactly like the weasel that he is.

  “Let me know if you need help with the spelling,” I mutter after he stalks away.

  A few minutes later he’s back, tossing a manila folder down next to my keyboard. “Site survey this afternoon at Chris DeMarco’s.” I have the sense that he’s grinding his teeth. “Don’t—I repeat—do not be late. And it better not take all afternoon.”

  About the 1000 block of Canyon Road, the shops and galleries start to give way to homes—the kind of places I’d buy, if money was no object. Mostly old adobe estates, behind long brown walls. DeGraf’s other gallery, the Buena Vista, is out here, in a rustic wooden building that used to be a stable. A screwbean mesquite partially shades the gravel courtyard where two hitching posts still stand.

  I’m curious. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I just want to see what he’s got there. And since I happen to be in the neighborhood for a site survey at DeMarco’s house over off Acequia Madre, I might as well walk by the Buena Vista. I don’t even have to go in. I can just look in the window. He probably doesn’t go there much anyway. It’s sort of away from most of the Canyon Road action.

  What I see through the window surprises me. Santos and milagro crosses and sacred hearts, Hopi kachinas and Zuni fetishes, Navajo weavings and those funny painted chickens, primitive sculptures of women with swollen bellies and males with huge penises. Masks and beadwork, pottery and baskets. Not exactly the sort of art I associate with DeGraf. I duck inside, leaving my sunglasses on.

  A woman with frizzy red hair and a diamond stud in her nose sits behind a small, elaborately carved desk, eating a bagel and making notes on pages in a binder. When I walk in, she looks up briefly, pegs me as someone with no money, and goes back to the notebook. “There are two more rooms straight back,” she says. “If you have any questions, let me know.”

  “Do you have anything by Isabel Colinas?”

  This gets her attention. “Uh—yes, we do.” She lifts off the chair, brushing crumbs off her black knit dress.

  “Don’t bother. I just want to see them. Are they in back?”

  “Yes. The second room. If you decide you want a closer look, call me and I’ll unlock the case.”

  In spite of the aromatherapy oil burners stationed at intervals, the place smells like its past—mellow wood and long dead grass and the ever present dust. I imagine that I can hear the squeak of saddle leather, the horses snorting and stamping in their stalls. Suddenly a huge black horse appears in a shaft of sunlight, startling me so that I grab blindly at the nearest display case, knocking off a stack of brochures.

  This brings the redhead running.

  “Sorry, I just…” I squat down to pick up the brochures, “lost my balance.”

  “Please don’t touch the displays.” She leaves me with a disapproving frown.

  I stick one brochure in my notebook, replace the rest on the case, and continue toward the last room thinking of Driver, Will Cameron’s horse. It was a trick of the light. A scrap of memory. After all, he’s the only horse I’ve ever met. Still, I can’t take my eyes from the long shaft of yellow sun where the horse—where I imagined I saw the horse. I walk past it gingerly.

  All the way at the back, inside a glass case that runs the entire length of the back wall, I find what I’m looking for.

  The Isabel Colinas collection. I take off my sunglasses.

  The first item is a white umbrella collage called Pieces of the Sky, each pie-shaped section is a different kind of sky—a rosy sunrise, clouds heavy with snow, the towering anvil-shaped thunderheads, summer high-desert cobalt, pale lavender twi
light, black midnight with a quarter moon and scattered stars.

  Next to that sits Walk a Mile in My Sneakers, a pair of black high-tops, the canvas uppers covered solid with beaded rainbows. There’s a quilt called Tribute to M.C. Escher, an intricate pattern of fish lifting from water to become birds in flight. There’s a tiny jacket, called Coat of Many Colors. Overlapping circles of different blues and a few white clouds form a backdrop for fantastical multicolored birds.

  The last item, at the far end of the case is a square of black cloth with ragged edges, obviously an unfinished piece. In the center is a hummingbird, embroidered with hundreds of “loose” stitches that have exactly the textured look of feathers. The threads on the green head and ruby throat even glint with a metallic sheen that mimics the iridescence of a hummingbird in the sunlight. Amalia used to say that chuparosas, hummingbirds, were messengers from the spirit world.

  “Any questions I can answer?” The redhead is standing next to me.

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  She consults her watch. “Ten after two.”

  “Oops.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I have an appointment, and I’m probably going to be late.” I turn to look directly at her, and I see the little jolt when she notices my eyes. I smile as I make my way between the displays in the direction of the door.

  Isabel was right. Startling people is fun.

  Most Saturday mornings Rita works, so I usually walk over to the farmers’ market to buy our food for the week. I could drive, but I really don’t like driving in Santa Fe. Both natives and tourists drive the narrow streets like traffic laws apply to everyone but them. The sun-strafed yellow Toyota pickup truck that Rita convinced me I couldn’t live without sits in its parking space behind Alma’s most of the time, while I walk everywhere.

  At the train station, I cut through the gravel parking lot. SUVs rumble past, raising clouds of dust. Behind the little depot building, a guy wearing baggy denim overalls and a long gray beard is hosing down a big yellow-and-red diesel engine. I keep walking, past the faded railroad cars from the New Jersey Central and Santa Fe Southern marooned on a siding in the weeds, paint peeling, windows boarded up, the inexplicable warning sign stenciled on the end of each car, DO NOT HUMP.

  At the far end of the parking lot in the long shadows of trees and umbrellas, crowds of people mill around the stands of the Santa Fe farmers’ market. It’s packed this morning, like every Saturday morning, everyone trying to get their shopping done before the temperature rises and the dust becomes a curtain hanging in the air. My first stop is the concession stand in the back for more coffee and a poppyseed pastry that crunches sweetly between my teeth. I stand eating and listening to a woman in a long skirt playing a guitar and singing Spanish folk songs.

  Drifting with the crowd, I stop at the organic farm stalls to buy pencil-thin asparagus and white-tipped French radishes and fat, sweet Nantes carrots. At Sweetwoods Farms I sample a couple of sheep’s milk cheeses before I choose one to take home.

  “Buenos días, señorita. Are you well?” Señora Castillo greets me with solemn formality at her tiny table covered with boxes of powders, bottles of syrups and tinctures, bags of teas, and little jars of salve. Over her head is a board hung with all kinds of dried herb bundles.

  “Buenos días, señora. Yes, I’m well. How are you?”

  “I am well.” She rubs the mole on her cheek.

  “And your sister? Is she well?” These two women, Señora Castillo and Señora Garcia run their herb business out of a family home in Galisteo, bringing things to market during the season. Señora Garcia looks ancient—white haired and so stooped over that she has to look up at people from the corner of her eye—even me. Señora Castillo is younger, although not by much, but she gets around better. They both wear heavy black shawls over dark dresses, no matter how hot it is, and no matter which one is manning the booth on a given day, we always have the same conversation.

  “Yes, she is well, also. Would you care for some tea?” She offers me a white paper cup like the ones you pee into at the clinic. “Today is amolillo. The finest. Very sweet. My brother, he dig the roots in Colorado on El Dia de los Muertos.”

  My favorite part of this ritual is that I’m learning the Spanish names for all the herbs. One whiff of this new tea confirms my hunch that amolillo is what Amalia called palo dulce and Cassie called licorice root.

  “You put with miel, with honey, to help coughing,” Señora explains. “Chew the root for quit cigarettes.”

  “It’s very good,” I tell her. “I’ll remember that if I need a cough medicine. What I need today is manzanilla and cenizo and toronjil.” She hands me a large bag of chamomile, a smaller one of purple sage. She opens an old tea box and painstakingly measures out enough lemon balm to fill the small-size bag. Then she loads all my purchases into my cloth bag, takes my money, and tells me to go with God.

  I’m standing at the Cloud Cliff Bakery table trying to decide if I can afford a loaf of purple walnut sourdough, when a heel grinds down on my ankle.

  “Oh, shit. I am so sorry. You know, there are some days when I shouldn’t be allowed out in public.” The pleasantly raspy voice is vaguely familiar. A hand on my arm. “Are you okay, honey, or will I be hearing from your lawyer?” She sniffles loudly.

  It’s Lindsey, the woman who was with Paul DeGraf at the party.

  When I turn around she recognizes me immediately. “Oh, hi. It’s Avery, right? How are you?” Before I can open my mouth to reply, she’s talking again, picking up speed as she goes.

  “Listen, I’ve been meaning to call you. Well, not you personally, but your company. I’m having a party in September, and I loved what you did for Paul, and I hope you guys aren’t all booked up already, but do you think you could check on that for me?” She sniffs again. “God, this dust is making my allergies go crazy.”

  “It’s hard to say without calling the office. I’m working a party this afternoon. If you want, I could get back to you after that.”

  But she’s already rummaging in her big leather saddlebag of a purse, pulling out scraps of paper and a hairbrush full of blond hair, a checkbook in a red-and-black woven cover, a wallet with the leather strap ripped off, a pack of Virginia Slims, a Bic lighter. Finally her hand emerges clutching a cell phone. She thrusts it at me. “Here, why don’t you give them a buzz right now.”

  The thing is smaller than the palm of my hand, and I fumble with it till it opens to the key pad, dial the office. Juana answers and after a few minutes of back and forth, we book Lindsey Hemmings for the third Friday night in September.

  Hans and Eva Klein are from Sweden or Denmark or some such place. All those northern Europeans love the American Southwest in summer. I guess they’re so tired of long, dark, bitter-cold winters that it can’t be too hot as far as they’re concerned. They like to have parties from two to six P.M. Outside. They stand around in their jeans and long-sleeved shirts and matching leather vests, grinning like hogs in shit, puzzled that everyone else is close to heatstroke, especially those of us who are cooking and serving. I feel like I’ve lost ten pounds in sweat.

  It’s nearly eight when we finally get the last of the chafing dishes and beverage tubs loaded into the van for the trip back to the kitchen, and I crank up my truck and cruise down Old Santa Fe Trail. The western sky is an explosion of orange, blue, and gold, and I catch myself thinking of Cassie. How she and I sometimes sat on the portal in the evening, watching the colors bleed out of the land and into the sky, drinking cowboy coffee with lots of sugar and that nasty canned milk.

  When I pull into the parking lot behind Alma’s, there’s a strange car parked on the other side of Rita’s Plymouth. A black VW Beetle. Looks like I get to meet Rick Soler.

  The apartment is dark. I flip the hall switch and look around. A man’s corduroy jacket is tossed over the arm of the couch, a dark, narrow tie neatly folded on top of it. A pair of runover loafers sits just under the coffee table.
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  I throw my purse on my bed and head for the bathroom. Rita’s bedroom door has never closed properly. I think it’s warped or something. No matter how hard you pull, it doesn’t shut tight. Now through the inch-wide opening, I hear the unmistakable soundtrack of lovemaking. She’s moaning softly. The bed creaks rhythmically.

  I scoot back to the living room, where the sounds are faint, but still audible. I pull on a county fair sweatshirt that’s folded on top of a stack of clean laundry, pour a glass of red wine in the kitchen, and take it out the sliding glass door.

  Some of the supports are missing from the rusted railing of our postage-stamp-sized balcony, and the whole thing is wrapped in chain-link fencing, so I don’t lean too heavily on it. The leaves of the cottonwood rustle in the breeze like dark rain.

  The back door of Alma’s is open, and I hear Linda and Alma laughing as they clean up the shop. I picture them sweeping the hair into piles on the floor. Black, fine, straight hair. Red hair thick with henna. Bleached blond hair with split ends. Blue hair like fake fur. Music from the radio drifts up to me. I can’t make out any of the words except mi corazón, my heart.

  Light floods the living room behind me, and I turn, blinking in the glare.

  Rick Soler. Wow. One order of tall, dark, and handsome; hold the tall. He looks around as he’s rolling up his shirtsleeves, spots me out on the porch. An Anglo would be quick with a stupid grin, a wave, an outstretched hand. Rick Soler just stands there, watching me till I step inside. When he does come toward me, extending his hand, he moves with an athletic grace, as if he’d be equally adept at dancing or fencing.

  “I’m Rick. You must be Avery.” His voice is warm and pitched low. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”