Isabel's Daughter

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  “Lindsey.”

  His laugh is like a dog’s bark, short and sharp. “She lies about me all the time. She’s my ex-wife. That’s her job.”

  “And Paul DeGraf.”

  The piercing blue eyes slide away, but only for a second. “He a friend of yours?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I guess that figures.” He exhales noisily, looking around the room. “Better find a place to sit,” he says. “Unless you’re comfortable on the floor.”

  It takes some doing. Things have to be moved, chairs brushed off, but in a few minutes we’re sitting. He pats his pockets till he finds what he’s looking for, a pack of menthol Marlboros. He extracts one, holds it between his lips, and lights it with a yellow disposable lighter.

  “I can tell you don’t approve.” He smiles and blows smoke directly at my face.

  I wave it away. “I really don’t care if you want to kill yourself.”

  “It’s gonna happen,” he says. “The only question is slow or fast. Now what do you want to know about Isabel Colinas?”

  “Anything you can tell me about her. How she looked and acted. What she was like.”

  “Well, if you want to know how she looked, just look in a mirror. The resemblance is amazing…. What she was like?” He flicks ashes on the floor. “Confident. Of herself. Her talent. She knew what she wanted and she planned to get it—”

  “And what was that?”

  He frowns. “What all artists want, of course. Money. Recognition. Respect.”

  “Love?”

  He looks at me. “I don’t think that was on her short list. Sex, definitely. Security, maybe. But love implies a certain loss of control, and Isabel was never comfortable with that.” He smirks. “She liked being on top.”

  “Were you in love with her?”

  He blows another stream of smoke at me before saying, “Oh, she was fascinating. No doubt about that.”

  I lean back in the chair and notice for the first time that there are radically different styles represented in the paintings stacked all over the place—so different that it’s obvious, even to someone like me with no knowledge of art. There are some landscapes that look nothing like New Mexico, all rolling green hills and tall, skinny trees. There’s one of roses lying on a table beside a bowl of oranges. There are pictures of saints having their heads cut off, Madonnas with almond-shaped eyes, and fat little Jesus babies. Somehow I don’t picture Tom Hemmings painting religious pictures.

  “DeGraf was very…protective.” His voice bites into my thoughts. “She tolerated it, but just barely. You could always tell when she was starting to feel claustrophobic.” He chuckles to himself. “She’d practically be hyperventilating. She’d pace sometimes or fiddle with her hair. Sometimes when she was supposed to be sitting for me, I couldn’t get her to be still.”

  “So why did she stay with him?”

  “I never asked. I assume it was because of what he did for her career. When she first came to Santa Fe, she was just another small-town girl with big ideas. She had very little training, and no focus. She was from some mudhole town up in Colorado. DeGraf polished her up a bit. Made the right introductions. Promoted her work. Gave her good advice. Artistic and financial.”

  “Would you say she was smart?”

  “She was intelligent enough, I guess.” He brings one foot up, propping it on the seat of his chair and draping his arm over his knee. “Although there was a certain naïveté.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “About the consequences of her actions. She’d run roughshod over people and then be genuinely surprised when they got pissed off.”

  He takes a long drag of his cigarette. “But I guess most artists operate that way—we’re kind of a self-absorbed bunch.”

  “What did you think of her work?”

  “Total waste of time. Fiber art.” His voice drips sarcasm. “Now there’s an oxymoron.”

  “So you don’t think she had any talent.”

  “That’s not what I said. She had talent, all right. Great color sense. She should have stuck to painting. And not those goddamned faggoty watercolors, either.” He rolls his eyes in disgust. “I tried to get her to try oils, acrylics. Something with some meat to it. But she was just as pigheaded about that as everything else.”

  “Why did you paint her as Malinche?” I ask him.

  “Her idea.” He smiles broadly. “She was fascinated with Malinche. Whore? Traitor? Sorceress? Healer? Lover? Survivor? All depends on whose version you believe. There’s not even any agreement on how she died. Some accounts have her dying of old age, some say it was a fever.” He looks over my head out the window. “Some even say Cortéz strangled her.”

  “And Isabel,” I say. “How did she die?”

  He crushes out the cigarette. The smoke leaves his nostrils in twin streams like a dragon’s breath. “Drowned. But I’m sure Paul can give you all the details.” He gets up and walks back to his easel.

  “Shit!” He picks up the palette knife and scrapes a glob of paint off the canvas, flinging it on the floor.

  Looks like our chat is over.

  “Thanks for the information.” I pick up my purse and head for the stairs.

  Just to the left of the door the picture propped on a shelf stops me. It’s a santo, one of the folk-artsy paintings of saints that are everywhere in New Mexico. This one’s a woman with a thin gold halo and the sweetly sexless face of a child. Her cheeks are rosy and her eyelids are delicately shaded under heavy black brows. But it’s the eyes themselves—huge, fawnlike, luminous brown eyes—so transparently emotional that you want to laugh, but somehow you can’t. The picture is painted on a round slab of wood, still light colored and oozing sap. One drop of resin on the face makes it look like she’s crying real tears.

  Hemmings’s voice turns me around. “Let me know if you’re ever interested in sitting for me.”

  nineteen

  Los Lobos blares out of Horacio’s boom box in the kitchen, and Juana’s rocking back and forth in time, lip-synching to “That Train Don’t Stop Here.” I smile. Music is a sure sign Dale’s not here. So all I have to do is show up, do my job, and go home. No hassles. The season will be over soon; I just need to hang on for a few more weeks. Then I’ll have time. To find a cheaper, smaller place. To decide what to do.

  “Hey, muchacha,” she greets me. “What’s happening?”

  Before I can answer, the door to Kirk’s office opens and he looks around the corner. “Juana, tell Horacio to turn that thing down. Avery, I need to see you.” Just like that. No good morning, no kiss my ass, no nothing.

  “Should I bring my notebook?” I ask hopefully.

  “Not necessary,” he says. I look at Juana, but her eyes are glued to the papers in her hand.

  Kirk shuts the door behind me and motions me toward one of the equipale chairs facing his desk. He sits down across from me and spends a full minute rearranging files, pens, laptop computer, carafe of water and glass.

  His face isn’t classically handsome, but he has a knockout smile, probably the product of lots of time in the dentist’s chair. A couple of times I’ve caught him alone with a mouth full of those whitening strips. His year-round tan is tasteful—not too dark—his brown hair carefully trimmed and groomed, and I would bet that he spends more on clothes than I do on food and rent combined. The overall effect reminds me of extruded plastic, but some people are into that.

  Finally he gets through farting around with his desktop.

  “As you know…” he clears his throat, “Avery, every year after high season, we…uh…we lay off our temporary staff. And of course, we generally are able to rehire them. Some of them. For Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year, some of course not till next spring.”

  Long pause.

  I’m getting a bad feeling, except I’m not temporary staff. I’m permanent, full-time staff. AKA, employed.

  “Well, this year, because of the…the economy and the state of…things, it’s unfortunatel
y become necessary for…unfortunately…more staff cuts…”

  He won’t even look at me. My heart dips into my jogging shoes, but my brain keeps thinking no, no, no. Like I could sway him through mental telepathy.

  “…you and Juana,” he’s saying. “And based on seniority, she has more…seniority, and…” He takes an audible breath. “And so, therefore, unfortunately I think, we’ve decided to actually…uh…cut your job. Effective immediately.”

  The bad news percolates through the silence, eventually penetrates my brain.

  “I’m truly sorry, Avery.”

  “Kirk…” I shift in the chair. “This couldn’t come at a worse time for me. My roommate’s moving to Albuquerque and I’m going to need time to find a new apartment, and how am I going to get anything decent to rent with no job?”

  “We—I’ll be happy to give you a recommendation—”

  “Landlords are always impressed with those.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s all I can do. And your two weeks’ severance, of course.” He gives me what I’m sure he thinks is an encouraging smile. “And you can always check back with us in November or—”

  I can’t help laughing, but it’s more like a groan. “Kirk. Come on. Once Dale gets rid of me, he’s not going to be hiring me back.”

  He fumbles in his desk drawer for the Dos Hombres envelope that contains my check. He holds it out to me, but I just sit there.

  “I’m sure you can get on with another caterer—”

  “Right. As you just pointed out, it’s the end of the season, for God’s sake. Nobody’s hiring now. Can’t I just—”

  “No,” he says. “You can’t. We just can’t afford to keep you. And, Avery…” He sighs painfully. “Can I be blunt?”

  I look at him in amazement. “You just fired me. How much more blunt are you going to get? Do I have dandruff? Bad breath?”

  “What you have is bad attitude.”

  “About what?”

  “The job, Avery. And then there’s your working relationship with Dale. Or lack thereof.”

  “That’s at least as much about his attitude toward me.”

  “There’s a certain amount of truth in what you say. However, the fact remains that Dale is—was—your boss. He and I are the owners of the company. Therefore, the onus was on you to make an effort to get along.”

  “He treats me like shit. No one should have to put up with that.”

  “You were free to leave at any time.”

  “But I needed the job, Kirk. Listen, what if I promise scout’s honor that no matter what Dale says to me that I’ll smile and say kick me again.”

  He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Avery. Really.”

  He offers the envelope again, and this time, I take it.

  Swarms of brightly dressed tourists, like exotic birds, hover around the Plaza. Indian Market’s already come and gone. The frenzy is building to its annual peak—Fiestas de Santa Fe, commemorating the return of the Spanish after the Indians threw them out during the Pueblo Revolt.

  I’ve always thought it’s like celebrating the return of the bad guys. Instead of Fiesta, they should call it The Empire Strikes Back. Even more tourists will pack into town for the Arts & Crafts Market, the feasting, the wine tastings, the pet parade, masses and ceremonies out the wazoo, and of course, everyone’s favorite, the burning of Zozobra—old man Gloom—who gets burned in effigy at Fort Marcy Park to the wild cheering of thousands of drunks.

  Speaking as someone who’s never trusted any mass display of sentiment, of course…but in Santa Fe, any excuse for a party is a good excuse. If I call around to all the caterers, I might be able to pick up a couple nights’ work, but that’s not going to pay the rent. With Rita leaving, I couldn’t afford the apartment long term anyway, but I was counting on having September to find another one.

  My feet have carried me faithfully back home, but I can’t make myself climb the stairs. I don’t want to see all her boxes stacked in the hall. I don’t want to hide in my bedroom—my bedroom that won’t be mine much longer. And I don’t want to talk to Rita. If she finds out I’m unemployed, she’ll hang around feeling sorry for me and guilty about moving, trying to be helpful and generally making me crazy.

  My truck sits waiting in the parking lot. I could throw my stuff in the back and hit the road. Just drive till I get tired, pull over and sleep, drive some more. Go someplace I’ve never been. Find a job. I can change my name, get some fake IDs. People do it all the time. Probably lots of people right here in Santa Fe aren’t who they say they are. And I don’t just mean the illegals. I’ve heard there are even some books that tell you exactly how to do it.

  Mr. Hanover, the social studies teacher in Florales, used to give me books all the time, old books that people threw out. He gave me one called The Great Imposter. About a guy named Ferdinand Waldo DeMara who had the ability to be anything he wanted to be. Or at least to convince other people that he was. He changed his identity, passed himself off as a college professor, a surgeon, a monk, and a prison warden among other things.

  For weeks after I gave the book back, I’d lay awake on my cot, feeling the cold dry wind through the chinks in Cassie’s walls, listening to the yipping coyotes, and thinking about how you could be whoever you wanted to be. You could invent yourself a whole new life whenever you wanted to. Just like Ferdinand Waldo DeMara.

  Except somewhere at the start of it, wouldn’t you have to know who you really were?

  Bettina seems glad to see me, if not terribly surprised. I’m a little ahead of the lunch-hour crush.

  “You off today?” she asks as I take a seat at a two-top in the corner.

  “Sort of.”

  She smiles. “Sounds like a story.”

  “Can I get a beer?”

  “Definitely a story. You want Dos Equis, Tecate, Modelo Negro—”

  “Tecate with lime. Please.”

  In a few minutes a young girl appears and sets down a sweating red can of Tecate and a cold glass. “Bettina say whatever you want. On the roof.”

  It takes me a few minutes to realize that my lunch is on the house. “All I want is some green chile stew and sopaipillas.”

  “Okay.” She smiles and goes back to the kitchen.

  I squeeze the lime into the glass and pour the golden liquid down the side. There was nothing in the refrigerator for breakfast this morning, so by the time I’ve drunk about half a beer, I’m starting to feel high. I’m also noticing that the place is suddenly packed and Bettina is nowhere in sight. The girl who waited on me is running around like a headless chicken, screwing up orders. I don’t think this is her usual gig. Except for the counterman, she’s the only one working the room and she looks close to tears.

  Back in the kitchen, a husky figure in new blue jeans and a white T-shirt under a long white apron is cooking ground pork with onions and peppers, rolling enchiladas, and frying sopaipillas. Bettina is chopping tomatoes at lightning speed. A whole basketful sits next to her cutting board.

  She frowns when she sees me. “Didn’t you get your food yet?”

  “You’re getting slammed out there. You need some help on the floor? I’m a certified professional.”

  She laughs. “If you want to sweat. Aprons are over there. Divide up the room with Felicia. Gracias, Avery.” She brushes her hair back with her forearm. “Miguel!”

  The guy at the stove turns around. “This is Avery. My brother Miguel.” Then she says something in Spanish I don’t understand.

  “Mucho gusto.” His short black hair is slicked straight up off his forehead, and his shy smile makes him look like a big Mexican teddy bear with a pencil-thin mustache.

  For the next three hours I run around delivering searing hot plates covered with blue corn enchiladas, tamales with mole sauce, tacos, stuffed sopaipillas, green and red chile, just like old times at Pete’s. Fending off lonesome cowboys and traveling salesmen, chucking babies under the chin in hopes that their
parents will leave a decent tip, cleaning up spilled Cokes, drying glasses just out of the rinse sink, adding little metal dishes of sour cream, green salsa, red salsa, sprigs of cilantro to the brown pottery plates, refilling ice tea and water, doling out more chips and salsa to soothe the ones who have to wait.

  For a brief interlude, I manage to forget that I’ve lost my job and my roommate, that I have to find a new place to live, that I’m attracted to a man who’s probably old enough to be my father, who was certainly my mother’s lover, and who may or may not know more than he’s telling about her death.

  So, Avery. Tell me the story.” Bettina brings two bowls of green chile and two glasses of ice water and settles into the chair across from me.

  First I take a bite of the stew, letting it sear my mouth and throat and bring the tears to my eyes.

  “Too long and depressing.” I take another spoonful of green, feel the pleasant sweat break out on my face.

  She leans forward. “If you don’t tell me, how can I help?”

  “You can’t help, anyway,” I say. “That’s not why I came. I just needed to get away for a little while.”

  She gives me an indignant look. “Of course, I can help. You come in here today and see that I need help, so you just get up and help. It’s what friends do for each other. But you must first tell me the problem.”

  I just keep eating and sweating, thinking about Ed Farrell’s description of Bettina’s green. “It’ll take the top of your head off” was what he said. That’s a pretty good approximation.

  “The problem is, it’s not just one problem. It’s a lot of problems—some old, some new…” I stop and fan the fire in my mouth.

  “So you begin with the oldest one.” Her tone of voice makes it clear that she’s not letting this go.

  “Okay.” I sigh. Take a drink of water, which of course just makes the chile burn hotter. “It’s my mother. I never knew her. She gave me up when I was born.”

  Bettina nods gravely.

  “So I just found out who she was.”