by Sydney Avey
“I was in a meeting late today with Ralph Cordiner,” Roger announces.
“You mean Mr. Cordiner, the president of GE?”
“Yes, we were discussing a remodel of the building that involves placing artwork in the lobby and halls. He wants to get local people involved, so I volunteered you.”
“You did? That sounds like an interesting project.Thank you, Roger.”
“His secretary will call you and get you plugged in with a committee of employees who are working with the Palo Alto Art Commission.”
I’ve never done anything like this in my life. Part of the reason I went to work was to avoid participating in the community life of the Army posts. I never did fit into the extensive social fabric that formed the military weave. Most of the wives were from the southern part of the United States or from the Midwest. They regarded anyone from California with suspicion. My art school background cast me as bohemian in their minds, exotic and dangerous. I liked that.
I learned from watching my mother that you can play a part that makes it easier to get along in social situations. She played the part of a knowing observer of life, a raconteur who could always be counted on to help a group of legal professionals pass a pleasurable evening.
When I worked for the bank, no one cared a hoot about what I did in my off hours. On weekends, I sketched at the harbor while Valerie played in the park across from the marina. I put away my pencils after Henry died, but I think I lost my way long before that.
“I’ve lost you,” Roger says, as he navigates past the hedge and pulls the Buick into my driveway.
“I’m sorry, it’s been a long day.” I open the car door and then think to turn to him with the obligatory invitation to come in.
“I would, but not tonight. You pick a place for dinner on Saturday and I’ll pick you up at five.” And then he leaves.
I wander down my driveway in a trance and stand there for a minute. Cars go by and pull into driveways, children are playing in front yards, and the clink of dinner dishes being set on tables wafts through open windows. I open the mailbox and reach inside for a stack of mail. How will I get to work tomorrow? Tomorrow would not be a good day to tell Mr. Bradley that I will be unable to make it in, tempting though that is.
The neighborhood settles down around me and the crickets start up. In the house, I open a back window and the frogs in the creek join the evening symphony. I sit down at the kitchen table with the mail. Sorting the mail is a daily ritual. I search for the most beguiling piece to open first, and I find one: a Hallmark card addressed in a bold hand using a heavy ink pen. It’s not writing I recognize. The postmark is Bakersfield.
I tease the envelope open and pull out a condolence card. Under the embossed text of sympathy, words written in a shaky script float in front of my eyes.
Dear Dolores,
I am sorry to hear that your mother has passed. She was a remarkable and courageous lady. I hope you are well.
Iban Moraga
Is this my father? But the signature is not Alonso Moraga, it’s Iban Moraga. It’s an old man’s handwriting, so perhaps he’s a brother or cousin? He must be. I now seem to have relatives living only a few hours away. Surely it won’t be that hard to track Iban Moraga down. He must have heard about Leora’s death from Pilar at the Basque Relief Agency.
I’m exhausted. I turn out the lights and head for bed, where I spend a sleepless night imagining a tearful family reunion. An aging uncle introduces me to my father—a ranch hand struck by lightning while repairing fences, blinded and unable to write to me. No. A rich and noble uncle takes me to my father’s grave; he weeps as he tells me about his brother who died young, leaving a brave, pregnant widow who vowed to make her way in the world without help from the relatives who disapproved of the marriage.
It’s almost dawn when I finally fall asleep.
7 — Valerie, Bird in the Hand
H Valerie I
7
Bird in the Hand
I ’m ready to go. Yesterday I finished my packing and picked up my airline tickets from the travel agency for my trip to Barcelona. I leave today. Mother and I managed to make it through Christmas—she by working a lot and me by reading a lot. On Christmas Eve, she dragged me to Saint Matthew’s and on Christmas Day we saw Roman Holiday. After the holiday Mom and I had, I’m ready for a holiday of my own.
Thanksgiving and Christmas are always awkward because none of the women in our family cooks. Now that we are a family of two, it’s easier. My grandmother always wanted to go out to eat, but Mom and I didn’t have the heart for it this year. I’m not sentimental about holiday traditions, but where am I headed when I spend Christmas with my mother in a movie theater filling up on popcorn and Coke instead of Christmas dinner? Perish that thought. I’m headed to Barcelona!
Mother will be by in a few minutes to take me to lunch at Clarke’s and then to the airport. Peter was in a pout because he’s not driving me, but we said our good- byes last night. I don’t want to get on the airplane with a tear-stained face. If I think too much about how good it felt to be in his arms, to snuggle up to his chest and smell his skin, pungent and full of promise—a giggle begins in my throat, then spits like rain out of my eyes. Damn, Mom is outside.
“Where did you get that big dent in your car?” If we talk about her, she might not notice I’ve been crying. Her old Chevy has a new dimple in it, like she’s banged her car into something. Turns out I’m right. She ran up a curb and hit a post-office box in San Bruno. She seems accident-prone these days. We chat a bit and then I ask her what she was doing in San Bruno.
“Well, I want to tell you about that.” We’re pulling into the parking lot of the purveyor of the world’s yummiest hamburgers. “But let’s get a table first.”
The burgers on the broiler smell so fresh they must have been cows an hour ago. At Clarke’s you smell the beef, not the grease. The meat juices baste your chin; it’s like eating heaven on a bun. I am going to miss this.
I munch my way through my burger as if I were a ground squirrel digging to China while my mother goes on and on about the hours she is spending at the National Archives in San Bruno. I start to listen.
“So this library is where people go to research their families, and there are lots of records from the Central Valley. I’ve figured out that Iban is likely Alonso’s brother and that something happened that caused Alonso to disappear, but I’ve got Iban’s phone number now and I’m going to call him this weekend.”
I don’t know what she’s talking about. My mouth is full so I raise a finger to get her to slow down, but she barrels on.
“I found an item in a Bakersfield newspaper on microfiche about an incident that involved some sheepherders and some cattle ranchers. Iban and Alonso are mentioned, but the photograph is fuzzy and I can’t make it out, so I’m going to call Iban and ask him. Or maybe I will get in the car and drive to Bakersfield where he lives. But I will probably call first.”
“Whoa, whoa.” I put my hamburger down on the plate and wipe my chin with my napkin. “Who are these people?”
“My father and my uncle,” she smiles triumphantly. “Our family. I’m sorry, I’ve gotten way ahead of myself.” And then she tells me about the mysterious phone call and the condolence card.
This is not good. I had no idea she cared at all about the family history. I’m the one who cared. I never got anywhere with her when I asked questions, so when Leora got older and lost some of her defensiveness—not that my mother noticed—I spent a billion hours pulling bits and pieces of information out of her failing mind. That information I wove into the story that is about to be published in Spain, the country of my grandfather’s origin. It’s the reason I majored in Spanish literature and became fluent in Spanish—so I could think and write like a native. Leora’s story captivated me. My grandfather came from the Basque region, which has a fascinating history. But my grandmother was never as forthcoming as I would have liked. And now my mother seems to know more about it th
an I do. And less.
My mother pushes an envelope across the table toward me. “This came in the mail last week. I have an uncle Iban who is still alive. My father’s name was Alonso. I’m guessing he’s dead, but I’m going to find out.”
I’m not that worried that my mother will find out what happened to Alonso. I’d like to know that myself. What I’m worried about is that she will find out the big news that Leora dropped on me a few months before she died. My mother had a sister. From what I pieced together, that sister may actually have been my mother’s twin. What did Leora expect me to do with that information?
All I know is her name was Alaya. I based the sisters in my book on my mother and her phantom sister. If my mother ever gets a hold of my book, there are enough personal details in it that she’ll know I didn’t make the whole thing up. She’ll know that I knew something and that I kept that information to myself.
“Don’t you want to finish your hamburger?” My mother has finished her burger and filched all my pickles.
I fake a look at the big clock on the wall. “No, we really need to get going. I don’t want to miss my plane.”
“You’re right.” She stands up and reaches for her purse. “Let’s go.”
On the drive to the airport, I brace myself for questions. I’m expecting my mother to ask me how long I plan to be gone, what I’ve done with my student apartment, what my plans are for when I return—the whole drill—but she doesn’t. Instead, she starts in about this Roger guy that she’s having dinner with tonight.
“Roger, the guy who called you from work after Lita died? Roger, the guy who sent flowers to the memorial service? Who is he, anyway?”
“He’s my supervisor at work. He’s been a big help to me in trying to figure things out.”
“What kinds of things are you trying to figure out?” The juices from my burger are mingling with the juices in my stomach and it’s not a happy stew. “Should you be so cozy with your boss?”
“Well, you know my review at work was not what I expected, and I’m re-evaluating what I really want to do with the rest of my life. Roger is very good at asking questions that open up possibilities in my mind. But Father Mike is the one who really got me started examining the path I’ve been on.”
Suddenly I’m sorry I have an airplane ticket in my purse. And glad.
Mom runs a red light. Fortunately, her lapse in driving judgment goes unwitnessed. She’s chagrined though, and that gives me an opportunity to gain some control.
“Mom, I’ve asked Peter to check in on you while I’m gone, so be nice to him, okay?”
“Why on earth would you think I need to be checked on?” She is offended. “I’m not a pet poodle you’ve left home while you traipse through Europe.” She’s gathering steam. “Valerie,” she says sternly, “I have my own life. I don’t need to be ‘checked on.’”
“I know. I’m sorry.” And I am. It is more comforting to me to think about my mother’s routine days, going to work, working in her garden, living like a nun in the Los Altos bungalow she’s inherited, safe and predictable, than to think of her making weekend trips on Highway 99 to Bakersfield and returning, breathless with adventure, to the arms of some guy named Roger.
“So tell me about Roger.” Father Mike is not the man to worry about.
“There’s nothing to tell. He’s a friend.”
“Don’t you have any women friends?”
She thinks about that for a minute. “How funny you should ask. Father Mike asked me the same question. No, not really. But I’m working on that.”
We are at the airport.
“Honey, if it’s okay, I’m going to let you off at departures. I’m not confident I can find my way out of here if I have to park.”
But you are confident enough to meet a stranger named Iban. “That’s fine, Mom.”
I swing my duffle bag out of the trunk and hug her good-bye. “Thanks for the ride, Mom. I love you. Take care.”
Hours later, I settle into my seat and open my copy of Sexual Behavior in the Human Female by Dr. Kinsey. Seated next to a grandmotherly type with a knitting project on her lap, perhaps the title alone will deter unwanted conversation.
The book turns out not to be as engaging as I thought. As the plane rises into the sky, I close my eyes and think about what’s ahead. Professor Stegner has encouraged me to continue to write fiction, so I’ve been playing around with Lita’s story. In my Spanish saga of two young sisters raised in vastly different cultures, my grandmother makes a brief appearance—she’s what E. M. Forster calls a flat character. In the new piece I’m working on, I’m letting her have her own voice. These are her stories after all.
Lita tried her hand at writing about the court cases she recorded. You would think they’d be boring, but they were anything but. Love triangles, murders, Indians, thieves, gallants, and fallen women. My grandmother was like the Charles Dickens of the Wild West, weaving morality tales in which brave women succumb to folly.
She gave me a pile of her typewritten stories before I left for Stanford. They took a good deal of rewriting, but now I’ve got a collection of short stories I’ve written in Spanish packed away in my duffle bag that I plan to put under the nose of my publisher. I’ve edited Lita’s memories and come up with some great yarns. Spanish readers love a good western, especially one set in California.
Those stories are gold. It was easy to extract what probably happened to Lita early in her life that gave her the strength to raise a child alone and the moxie to succeed in a man’s world.
I am a lot like my grandmother. She was an independent woman, very adventurous and passionate about life. She wouldn’t give up what she wanted for a man, like my mother did. Mother would like me to get married. She wouldn’t like to see me marry Peter though. She doesn’t seem to like him, but she doesn’t really know him.
The knitter in the aisle seat keeps bobbing her head and then jerking awake. I have to go the bathroom, but I don’t want to disturb her. So I concentrate on Peter and the foolish thing I did before I left. I let him give me an engagement ring. I was caught by surprise when a smallish diamond ring nestled in a velvet box arrived with the cheesecake at Rickey’s Studio Club. How could a girl refuse such a gesture? To the applause of the other diners in the restaurant, I let him slip it on my finger. I took it off this morning, wrapped it in tissue, and stuffed it into my wallet with my coins.
I turn a page in my book. As much as I cherish Peter, I would like to feel free to meet a romantic Spanish man, maybe fall in love and live in Spain for the rest of my life. If she had made a different choice, I’ll bet my grandmother would have been happy living in Spain. It is, after all, where we come from. Well, Lita came from Greece, but her apuesto pastor was a Basque.
If I don’t meet an apuesto Spaniard and I do come back to Stanford, I want Peter to be waiting at the terminal. I probably do love him, but he’s such a boy. Who knows what he will do with his life. If I become a famous author though, we could marry and he could do what he likes.
8 — Dolores, Catch and Release
H Dolores I
8
Catch and Release
Driving home, the void Valerie leaves in my life whenever she leaves the country begins to unnerve me. I don’t see her that much, but knowing she’s close by is a comfort. Father Mike said to think about making room in my life for people. We are created for community, he told me. Why I haven’t done this?
Trawling the past is like the catch-and-release fishing that Henry tried to interest me in—unsatisfying for me, at best, and very annoying to the fish. As the traffic whizzes by, I do it anyway—fish for memories. I pull one up, examine it briefly, then let it slither back downriver to school with my other fishy memories, a little scarred for the experience but intact. I see a friendless little girl dropped off at a circus-themed birthday party. She’s wearing a short trapeze-artist costume and enjoying the breeze on her knees. She watches the balloon twister who is dressed like a clown. She doe
sn’t know she’s friendless—well, she does now that she’s been caught and released.
Before this, she was just happy to be invited to the party. Now that she’s been examined and found wanting, her eyes have been opened. There are big fish and little fish in this river. She’s one of the littlest and she swims alone.
All this thinking about fish reminds me that I need to stop at the nursery and get some fish emulsion to amend the soil for my spring garden. I may be a little fish in lonely waters, but this year I’m going to cultivate a big garden. And I’m going to cultivate some new relationships. Starting with Iban Moraga.
I’ve been putting off the call all week. As I unlock my front door, the invisible hand of Father Mike pushes firmly on my back, urging me forward. I repeat his advice like a mantra in my head: To change your path, you have to sacrifice something in order to get something better.
This week I gave something up. I gave up all pretense that I will ever take a finance class or a management class. Now I’m determined to get something. I’m going to get the truth out of Uncle Iban.
An old man with a slight Spanish accent answers. “Iban Moraga?”
“Yes.”
“This is Dee Carter, um, Dolores Moraga. Leora’s daughter?”
Silence.
“Dolores. How are you? You got my card. I imagine you got this phone number from the same person who gave me your mother’s address.”
“Pilar.”
“Yes, Pilar. She is like the Bell Telephone operator for the Basques. She makes it her business to keep track of everyone.”
“How long have you been in touch with my mother, Uncle Iban?”
“Well, it hasn’t been easy. She moved around a lot in the early years. Every so often, she’d send me a photograph. You’ve grown up to be a beautiful woman, Dolores. And you have a lovely daughter.”
“You know a whole lot more about me than I know about you.” I was trying to keep the conversation free of emotion, but my hands are starting to shake. I plant my elbow on the table to steady the telephone receiver and glue my knees together.
