The Sheep Walker's Daughter

by Sydney Avey

  “Ralph is pioneering a new decentralized management system.” Roger places his elbows on the table and tells me more than I want to know. The gist of it is that he will help design the financial part of the new system and then move back to the Bay Area and be a guinea pig. But that’s not all he is trying to design. He barely conceals his excitement as he tries to express his concern over how we will manage a long-distance relationship.

  “Dee, how about you take over the lease on my apartment while I’m gone? That will give you six more months to decide what you want to do.”

  He seems very pleased with himself for figuring all this out—such the manager he is. He assures me that regular trips back to the Bay Area are in his contract and that we will continue to see each other. He’s about to steer the conversation in the direction of defining our relationship with a pledge of exclusivity, but I’m not sure whether he intends for this to reassure me or him.

  “How about I don’t take a lease on your apartment. I have some plans of my own, and they don’t include an apartment in Palo Alto, unless I could rent your second bedroom to store my stuff.”

  The assumptions Roger is making amuse me. The man who assumed his first wife would be happy in a cramped apartment while he was growing his career; the man who assumed his wartime lover would follow him back to the United States with their son; the man who swore he would never again make assumptions about what a woman wanted is still a man after all. The assumption that a woman will make a man the absolute center of her life dies hard.

  He begins to apologize, but I stop him.

  “I should have told you what I’m planning, but there just hasn’t been time.” He is at the wheel of my new Bel Air, which I insisted we test drive in the mountains this evening and he agreed, but only if he could drive. He drives slowly on the curvy mountain road we have all to ourselves at one in the morning. The headlights chase the leaves that blow across the road. A storm is brewing.

  “Marianne and I have been talking. She thought I did a great job of managing the co-op while she and Dick were in Europe. She wants to open another co-op in Carmel, and she wants me to run it for her.”

  “Dee, that is an amazing opportunity.” This man gets more points for what he doesn’t say than what he does say. He doesn’t say, “But what about us?”

  When I announce my plan to Valerie, her first words are “But, Mom, what about Roger?”

  “What about him? He’s going to Connecticut. I’m going to Carmel.”

  “Yes, but he’s coming back to live in Palo Alto in six months. You’ll be in Carmel. How’s that going to work?”

  This comes from the girl who ditched Peter because she didn’t want to be a camp follower? I say this out loud.

  “It’s not the same thing,”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, I couldn’t travel all over the country and do my work.”

  “Who says you would have to travel? Lots of baseball wives stay home while their husbands are on the road.”

  “Yeah, you did that, and it wasn’t such a great marriage.” She claps her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry I said that, Mom.”

  “No, you’re right. Your father and I made the best of a bad situation. Two wars, assignments to posts I thought were too remote. We made it work, like lots of Army couples do, but it wasn’t ideal. The Army comes first for a career officer. I didn’t realize when we got married that it would be Henry’s career.”

  The truth is, I wanted Valerie to have a stable home. I hated being dragged from hotel room to hotel room by a mother who didn’t concern herself with my future. I wanted Valerie to have a good education, not be uprooted in the middle of a school year every time Henry got new orders. These thoughts are a revelation to me, but what comes out of my mouth next is even more startling.

  “Valerie, I didn’t know what I wanted out of life. I ended up in jobs that didn’t suit me. But it’s working out. The bank and GE were my boot camp. I picked up skills that will help me manage an art co-op—business skills that other artists don’t have but need to be successful. I can work in an environment that I love, I can do my art, and I can live in one of the most beautiful places on earth.”

  “So you’re giving up Roger?” my emancipated daughter asks me in a small voice. “I like him.”

  “I’m not giving him up. Like you, I’m leaving the door open.” I give her a wink.

  Roger and I did not have the “where is this relationship going” conversation before he left for the East Coast. I moved my boxes into his spare bedroom and he sublet his apartment to a coworker who was getting divorced. Our agreement is that we will share the details of our new lives in letters and a once-a-week phone call.

  On Saint Valentine’s Day, I give a fond last look at the casita in my rearview mirror as I drive away. My first stop is Lundy Lane. Driving slowly past the vacant lot, I’m surprised to see that Valerie hasn’t wasted any time. In the two months since she’s been in possession of the Moraga place, she’s had the lot cleared of brush and debris. If a small tract of land could have a facial expression, this one would be beaming with hope.

  I park the car down at the end of the lane in front of Laura’s house and walk up her driveway. Fred will be at work so this is a risk I can take. Laura spots me from the kitchen window and throws open the front door. She smiles even more broadly when she sees the parting gift I have in my hands for her. We sit on her front-porch swing and she unwraps the collage I have made for her. It’s the first one I’ve done that isn’t about Leora.

  “Oh my gosh, Dee!” Music notes cut from an old songbook form leaves in an orchard of trees. Somehow the piece sings with the movement of an afternoon breeze. Laura moves a finger over the signature: Dee Moraga. My nom d’artiste. “I own a Dee Moraga!”

  She laughs and we hug. Laura promises she will come and visit me in Carmel, but how can she disrupt Frank’s routine like that?

  My last stop is St. Matthew’s.

  “How will that work?” Father Mike asks me when I describe the new path Roger and I are walking.

  “I’m not sure. It does sound like a Hollywood movie, doesn’t it?” I look for a way to change the subject. I don’t have to look very far. “Father Mike, I want to thank you for advising me to get Valerie involved in the Bakersfield deal. I have a feeling some good will come of that.”

  Father Mike is looking thoughtfully out the window over my shoulder. He spots my new car parked in view of his office, packed with boxes of my art supplies and a couple of suitcases. He returns his gaze to my face. “Dee, I wish you could see yourself.”

  “I see myself every day in the mirror.” I’m having to get a little too artful with the Revlon pencils and pots. I don’t like spending time on my face that I could be spending on my collages.

  He raps his knuckles on his desk. “We’re both getting older, but the little lines I see in your face—and, my dear, they are little—are from work and wisdom, not worry and resentment. You’ve done well, working all this out.”

  “It’s not completely worked out.”

  “True— you don’t know whether this new arrangement with Roger will keep the spark going. You don’t know whether Alaya—joy—will ever return.”

  That’s a new thought. I always assumed that if there was to be a reunion, it would have to be initiated by me.

  “Dee, keep asking the big questions. Keep seeking truth in your art and your life. Keep knocking on the door.” Father Mike is nodding his head. He can’t resist a sermon. He picks up his Bible and holds it in front of me. “This business of knocking—it’s in Matthew and in Revelation. Dee, I believe that the doors to our hearts can malfunction. Our Lord opens doors to understanding, but only if we keep the hinges properly maintained. You might say that our faith hinges on knowing what we hope for and believing it’s there for us.”

  He chuckles over his pun, then sets his Bible back down and beats on his chest with vigor. “Prime that pump you have in there with love for God and compassion
for others, and for yourself. God will help you do that; understanding will come.”

  “‘Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.’ Hebrews eleven, verse one,” I say, nodding my head.

  His eyes widen and his face breaks into a smile. “You’ve been reading your Bible!”

  He gets up and comes around his desk to envelop me in a big Father Mike hug. Our chests and bellies bump in a way that affirms deep friendship, and my eyes sting with tears.

  “You give me courage, Father Mike.”

  “We all need a lot of that in life, don’t we?”

  26 — Valerie, Ospatu

  H Valerie I

  26

  Ospatu

  D riving through the Central Valley is like living in a Salvador Dali painting—endlessly odd. This road goes on forever. Ridges of brown dirt whizz by me and I’m in danger of falling asleep. I have to slap myself several times. Not a good idea to count the sheep I see grazing alongside the highway. Mom’s old Chevy is holding up pretty well though.

  I tune the radio looking for a Spanish station to see if I can find local news; it’s not the Spanish I learned, but I can make it out. Flipping the radio dial for more interesting listening, I come across a fuzzy station broadcasting something regional. I’ve been doing a lot of study lately on the Basques. I’m pretty sure this broadcast is in Euskara, the Basque language that went underground when Franco came to power. Of course, I don’t understand a word of it. I tune to a pop station and crank up some Smiley Lewis. I’m awake now.

  I park on the street by the Wool Growers Café. Pilar has suggested that we meet there for an early dinner. A lovely girl who looks like a Spanish version of Audrey Hepburn walks out the front door and meets me on the sidewalk. She thrusts out her hand in greeting and shakes mine warmly.

  “Are you hungry? I should think so after that long drive, unless you stopped somewhere for a burger. I hope not, because I have a treat for you.”

  “I stopped for gas. My body was too numb from the drive to do anything but keep going so I just grabbed some peanuts and a Coke to keep myself awake.”

  “Oh, I know. I drive up to Berkeley about once a month. I’m working on a PhD in social and cultural anthropology.”

  Pilar puts an arm around my shoulder and guides me into the restaurant. My eyes adjust to the dark interior. A well-stocked bar runs the length of the restaurant on one side and homey tables and booths cozy up to one another on the other side. The walls are crowded with photographs of families, civic groups, and homesteads. The head of a ram eyes me from over the cash register that sits on the bar. It’s that awkward time of day when staff is just beginning to arrive to serve the evening meal.

  I turn my attention back to Pilar. “I’m starting work on a PhD in Spanish literature. What’s your field of interest?”

  “How Basque culture gets transmitted in the diaspora in the U.S. It’s a huge topic. There are Basque communities thriving in many states, California, Idaho, and Nevada to name a few. It’s a daunting task.”

  “I’ll bet. My dissertation is on the influence of the Spanish Civil War on Spanish literature.”

  “An equally absorbing project.” As we head for the booth that Pilar points out, we are greeted by a young woman about our age. “Valerie, I’d like you to meet my friend Mayie. She and her husband opened this restaurant just last year.”

  Mayie smiles broadly and clicks her tongue. “You are in such luck! Roasted lamb is on the menu today.”

  Pilar gives her friend a playful shove. “Roasted lamb is on your menu every day!”

  It’s not long before plates of food begin appearing, and Pilar and I dig into the best meal I’ve ever eaten. Mayie plunks dish after dish down in front of us. A bowl of beans and a bowl of sauce appear with a tureen of vegetable soup. Pilar instructs me to ladle the beans and salsa into my soup. The bartender, Mayie’s husband, sets an unlabeled bottle of red wine down on our table. Then pickled calves tongue, beets, cottage cheese, blue cheese, lettuce, roast lamb, bread, baby onions, and corn parade across the table. A honey taste lingers on my tongue; the fragrance of the meal oozes from my pores.

  “We Basques are very enterprising,” Pilar tells me. “In a few years, we won’t be herding sheep, we’ll own the herds. We’ll be serving lamb in the restaurants we own and selling our wool to manufacturers. We’ll travel back to Euskal Herria to connect with our families. The big question is, will succeeding generations value that connection …”

  “Or will they secede emotionally and not care; I know …”

  “Precisely. We have a motto, Ospatu, Hezitu, Betikotu. Celebrate, Educate, Perpetuate.”

  People are starting to fill up the tables around us. Once again, the restaurant door squeaks open and bangs shut. Before I have a chance to look over, a young man has slid into the booth next to Pilar. He reaches over to an empty table next to ours and grabs a clean fork. Then he stabs a piece of lamb off Pilar’s plate and stuffs it into his mouth.

  “Yum!” he says, winking at me.

  “Ander!” Pilar appears more glad to see this young man than offended by the theft. “Valerie, this is my little brother, Ander, and I apologize for his rudeness.”

  He reaches across the table to shake my hand. “Andy,” he corrects his sister, “and I am very pleased to meet you.”

  Andy isn’t so little. He’s well over six feet tall and gorgeous. If this is what Lita experienced when she happened into town, it’s no wonder she didn’t get out without my mother in tow. Something churns inside of me. I turn red, pull my hand out from underneath the table, and offer it to him.

  “What are you two yakking about?”

  “Important stuff,” Pilar says. “You can stay and listen or …”

  “No, I have to get out to the ranch to see about the horses.” He smiles at me. “Will I see you later?”

  “I’m going to take Valerie over to Noriega’s after dinner,” Pilar says.

  “I’ll drive back in to town and meet you there later, then.” He pulls his long legs out from under the table and lopes off. He wears the Bakersfield uniform, a plaid Western shirt belted into a tight pair of jeans adorned with a huge silver buckle, worn cowboy boots, and a black cowboy hat.

  “Don’t let that getup fool you. My brother is a newly minted attorney. Despite the hat, he’s one of the good guys. He represents our interests at the Farm Labor Bureau.”

  Mayie brings us coffee and a custard-filled cake. Then the conversation shifts. “I have an offer on your house in town that I want to talk to you about,” Pilar says. “A little background first though.”

  She launches into a detailed account of the influence the oil companies have had on land development and specifically on housing. I can’t imagine what this has to do with the sale of my uncle’s house. My thoughts have wandered off to an evening in the company of the delectable Ander Ibarra when Pilar says, “… and so the oil company and the sheep men are symbiotic—sheep keep the grass cut, which makes it easier to get to the oil.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not following. What deal?”

  “Union Oil proposes to buy your uncle’s house at a very good price.”

  “Why would they want it?”

  “Good corporate citizenship. Their plan is to donate the house to the town for a Basque Cultural Studies Center.”

  “You are kidding.” I think about that for a minute. “Do I detect the handiwork of Pilar and Ander Ibarra in all of this?” I laugh.

  “You do. Here’s the deal. We will form a board of directors and take proposals for study projects. I would really like to see someone come in and take oral histories from the families that have settled here.”

  “Celebrate plus educate equals perpetuate.”

  “Exactly right.” Pilar looks delighted. “And I’d like you to serve on the board of directors.”

  “You aren’t expecting me to live here, are you?”

  “Of course not. You are a world traveler. This will be
a piece of cake for you.” Pilar forks a final bite of cake into her mouth, gulps the dregs of her coffee, and pushes herself away from the table. “Let’s go; there’s work to do.”

  On the way out, she says to Mayie, “Wonderful as always. Please put that on my tab.”

  She drives me to the edge of town and parks the car in front of a nondescript structure, the value of which must be in the land it sits on, adjacent to town.

  “What’s this?” We get out of the car and stand for awhile on the cracked sidewalk in front of an old house with peeling paint. A train moans in the distance. “I thought my uncle lived in a retirement community on some forested property out of town.”

  Pilar explains that this is the first of many houses my mother’s uncle bought when his fortunes turned. This one he kept as an investment. Apparently, real-estate development is in the blood.

  “We’ll need to raise money to do some renovation, hire a director, and start some programs,” Pilar says. “The house is small, but it will be perfect for our purpose, at least to start with. What do you think?”

  “I’m on board.”

  “And your mother, what will she think?”

  “I think she will be fine with this idea.”

  After I check into a motel and freshen up, Pilar and Andy pick me up and we head over to the Noriega Hotel. The Noriega is an ostatu, a Basque community center of sorts, located across the street from the Southern Pacific railroad tracks for the convenience of the men who drift into town looking for work. They rent rooms upstairs and eat their meals downstairs at a long table in a dining area next to the bar. Andy is surprised that I recognize the towering jai alai court that runs the full length of the hotel. I tell him about Elazar.

  “You have a famous relative,” Andy says. “I’m impressed! Some lively games happen here too. We’ll be sure and get you out to one soon.”

  I flush at the thought of sitting close to Andy on the bleachers. I breathe him in, sun-bleached cotton, tanned leather, sweet hay, and desert sage. I have a strong urge to draw my hand across the plank of his shoulder, to tease my fingers through the black hair curling on his warm brown neck just above his shirt collar. Forcing my gaze to the rows of bottles shelved behind the bartender, I follow Andy and his sister over to the padded stools in the cocktail lounge where we find a perch among the chatty patrons. Eavesdropping on their conversations, I gather these are Basque people and other immigrants, Portuguese and Armenians, who live in the surrounding neighborhoods. The bartender makes a graceful swoop at the neck of an unidentified bottle of red wine and drops it in front of us with two glasses, nodding at Andy who lifts two fingers. He’s a whiskey man.