Owen's Daughter

by Jo-Ann Mapson

  This position includes free board in our newly renovated bunkhouse and boarding/feed for up to two horses of your own.

  To apply: Call for appointment. Bring a résumé outlining skills and provide a minimum of three references. Tell us why you want to work with horses and children to young adults.

  Thank you for your interest in Reach for the Sky. Visit our website to learn more about our programs and other available positions.

  Didn’t that sound like a terrific job? Margaret thought. You couldn’t find kinder employers than the Vigils, and there was a bunkhouse to stay in—she remembered the casita on the Starr ranch down to the tiniest detail. The picnic-style wooden table, mismatched salt and pepper shakers, a deck of cards, always a yellow bottle of horse liniment or a roll of Vet Wrap nearby. The bleached cow skull that hung on the wall was the real thing, not something you paid a decorator hundreds of dollars for. The blue tack box chest at the foot of Owen’s bed was always latched tight. She never once peeked inside it, but she’d always wondered what he kept in there. Pictures of his family? His father’s tools?

  She remembered the careful way he made his bed every day and the worn Indian blanket he used as a bedspread. She could still hear the mattress springs creak their accompaniment while they’d made love there, when they were trying to keep their tryst a secret from Peter. She could almost feel the roughness of Owen’s hand against her skin. The scar on his face. The secrets he carried, including the one he’d left her over: I hit a man with a pool cue. I’m pretty sure I hit him so hard he died. I have to go away for a while so I can come back here and be Bill Sampson, not Owen Garrett.

  But he hadn’t returned, had he? Not even for his horse. Then Peter went straight from high school to Gallaudet, and, needing company, Margaret had moved to Santa Fe and lived her life, such as it was, never putting herself in the position of being asked out on a date. She painted, tended her aunt, sold prints, and, except for the Vigils, kept to herself. Verbena Youngcloud’s rug in the doctor’s office had brought back so many memories. She should look for Verbena, even if it was just to thank her for being such a good friend all those years ago and apologize for not keeping in touch. Margaret sat down at her small easel and started painting a new watercolor that would reproduce beautifully, appear ordinary, and offer a springtime garden, a birdbath with a bird perched on the lip, or something equally pedestrian. Maybe a cow skull on an adobe wall, she thought. Those sell out quickly.

  She worked, mulling over memories, until she heard a car pull up next door at around four thirty. Moments later, the phone rang.

  “Margaret?” Glory said before Margaret had time to say hello.

  “Glory? How’d it go?” In the background she heard kids playing, Sparrow fussing, and dogs barking, but somehow Glory was an island of calm in the middle of it.

  “Joe went out of his mind. You’d think I’d brought about world peace instead of getting accidentally pregnant, for the second time.”

  “So you’re going to have the baby?”

  “Of course. If I can keep it.”

  “You’ll keep it.”

  “If I have to stop working, or be on bed rest, if it turns out anything like when I was pregnant with Sparrow . . . well, that’s why I’m calling. I’m going to need your help. But only if you’re up to it, okay? We fully intend to pay you a little each week.”

  “Oh, hush. You know I’ll be glad to pitch in however much you need me to. Tell me what you want me to do. Babysit every day? Make supper?” It was so exciting that Margaret could hardly wait to start. “This is going to be so fun.”

  “Now don’t you make me cry, Margaret Yearwood. Right now I am held together with tissues and hormones. So your son arrived out of the blue? What’s that mean? Good news, I hope.”

  Margaret looked out her window. A blur of white zoomed by the forsythia. “Glory, she’s back! The albino hummingbird.” She stretched the phone cord as far as it could go to follow the bird’s path to the crook of her redwood tree. “I wonder where she’ll make her nest this year? I hope it’s in my tree.”

  “No fair. You had her last year, so this year it’s my turn.”

  “You make it sound like I bribed her. It’s up to the bird.”

  “Can we forget the bird for a second? None of this is why I called. On the way home from school Aspen told me that you’re not well. What’s wrong?”

  All it would take was two letters. It would be such a relief, having it out in the open. But if she told her neighbor before she told Peter, he’d probably be furious. She took a breath and looked for the hummingbird, but she’d flown out of sight, probably gathering the tiniest of twigs to build her thumb-sized nest. Maybe she’d already built it. After age fifty, Margaret simply could not cry and still have a productive day. “I meant to tell Peter first,” she finally said, “but I haven’t found the right time.”

  “Margaret, you’re scaring me.”

  “It’s only MS.”

  The phone cord seemed to gather weight under all that silence.

  “Only? Margaret, no. That’s serious.”

  “This is why I wanted to tell you in person, Glory. It’s not even noticeable except on the MRI. Very early stages.”

  “It sounds bad enough to me. What is the prognosis?”

  How did she answer when she didn’t even know herself? “I’m fine right now. It was a shock to hear, initially, but really, there’s nothing major going on.”

  “When will Peter be home? I want to meet him.”

  “I suppose when he’s hungry. He’s gone to the stable to ride Red.”

  “Joe just left for the stables. I’ll call and tell him to look for Peter. Come on over and bring the dog. I’ve got blackberry scones in the oven, and yesterday I made sweet-potato dog treats. Now that I have permission to get fat, we’ll eat butter and sugar and carb out.”

  Margaret laughed. “I’ll be right there.”

  Dolores smiled as she drifted from one yard to another. The hummingbird had done exactly as she asked. Now it was time to check in on the writer up the street.

  Chapter 6

  Friday evening, they arrived in Santa Fe. On the stone steps in front of Sheila’s casita, Owen stopped behind Skye and whistled. “Canyon Road. This is prime real estate. I had no idea your mama had got this rich,” he said.

  “Well, that’s the positive outcome of getting married five times,” Skye said.

  “Five?”

  “Okay, four so far as I know, but with Mama, anything’s possible. She isn’t exactly talking to me at the moment.”

  “What did you two fight about?”

  “Does it matter?”

  There were two doors, the carved wooden screen door, painted with hummingbirds and hollyhocks, and behind it another door, this one made of old wood that looked as if it could have been part of a pirate ship a century ago. “It’s not all that fabulous, Daddy. Do you know what a pied-à-terre is?”

  “Some kind of ballet dance?”

  Skye burst into tears. “Gracie was going to take ballet lessons,” she said.

  “And one day soon, she will.”

  “I thought for sure she’d be at the Trailer Ranch.”

  “I know,” her daddy said. “We’ll find her. Tell me more about the peed-off terrier.”

  She sniffled and rubbed her eyes. “It’s pronounced ‘pee-yayed a tare.’ It’s French and means a little place, a temporary stop.”

  “I like peed-off terrier better.”

  “Well, don’t ever let Mama hear you say that. She’s so proud of having a home here.”

  “For the record,” he said, “I was just trying to make you laugh. Think any movie stars live around here?”

  “Doubt it. There are much nicer houses in Hyde Park, or on Museum Hill, or in Tesuque.” Just saying the name reminded her of the man who’d paid for her to turn her life around. There had to be some way to thank him. Although Milton, her old boss, wouldn’t be happy if Skye showed up.

  The lock wa
s fussy, and after much jiggling of the key, she was ready to scream. “What in the Sam Hill is the matter with this thing?”

  “Probably a third generation, copy of a copy,” Owen said. “Hand it to me. When I worked for Rabbot’s Hardware in Blue Dog, I used to cut keys. Sometimes the originals were so worn the duplicates required some handwork filing to get them to talk to the lock.”

  Skye had stopped crying, but she’d probably start again. Where was Rita? How could she just leave with Gracie like that and not tell Skye where she was going? Apparently tears had a mind of their own, because here came a new flood.

  “Darlin’,” her dad said, “if I was you, I’d go to bed early and get a good night’s sleep. You’re gonna need it for tomorrow when we get to work looking.”

  Skye, twisted up with all kinds of emotions, flung some meanness his way. “Well, I’m not you, am I?”

  “True enough.”

  “I’m sorry.” The last time Skye had cried like this, she was looking at a plastic stick that showed two lines, indicating she was pregnant with Rocky’s child.

  “Here is why I know women are the stronger species,” her dad said. “When it comes to a woman and her child, she will hike through quicksand to get to her. And you will do that, too. Albuquerque was just a starting point. You’re stronger than you think. Joe Yazzi used to say that the reason only women were allowed to have babies was because they could cry, whereas men just got constipated and broke things.”

  Skye dropped her duffel bag on the porch. “If I was looking for profound truths, that old hermit Indian wouldn’t be the person I’d turn to.”

  “You’re awful hard on a guy who’s been my friend for many years.” He finally got the lock to turn. “There we go. We need to get some WD-40 in that thing. Probably a market would have it.”

  Once the lock finally gave, Skye pushed ahead of her dad to go in first. “I have to pee,” she said, blazing past him. The house smelled like some horrible Christmas candle had mated with dryer sheets. She opened the bathroom window before she sat down to pee. Although she was proud of her sobriety, and her dad’s, it was unfortunate timing. One of them needed to take the edge off, which would make everything go easier, particularly in a five-hundred-square-foot house with one bedroom and one bath. Even a half tab of Oxy would sure hit the spot right now. She wondered if the bottom of her purse had one.

  “Wash up and get ready for bed,” her dad called out to her. “I’ll see if there’s anything to eat.”

  Though it wasn’t very late, Skye took his advice. She stripped down and turned the shower on as hot as it could go. She cycled through vague memories of her early childhood days. When she was a toddler and her dad gave her baths, he always made sure to put in bubble-bath powder. Just like Gracie, she’d never wanted to go to bed, either. She was always afraid she’d miss something. There had to be a reason parents poured cocktails and put on music once the kids were in bed. Gracie fought sleep so hard, sometimes Skye had to rub her back for an hour.

  After her shower she dressed in a pair of her mother’s silk pajamas and found a matching robe. La Perla. Navy silk with gold trim. Wow, that had to cost a week’s worth of groceries. Her feet were too big for her mother’s slippers, so she put on fuzzy socks and walked out to the main room to look around. She’d been here only once before, and that time she happened to be a little bit drunk. Okay, maybe a lot. And she might have thrown a couple pills in the mix, too. But Mama was hard to take sober.

  Her mom had yelled at her in front of the other guests, saying Skye had ruined the housewarming by showing up “altered.” Skye had known that the only way she could go to the party was “altered,” and Mama was plenty “altered” herself, on gin and tonic, and said so.

  The place was small, but everything in it was high-end. The floor—red Saltillo tiles with small blue ones inlaid at the corners—had been scattered with kilim rugs. The adobe walls were stark white. A weathered, rustic console table piled with leather-bound books sat in front of an Indian rug on one wall. Sheila didn’t read, so the books must’ve come via a decorator. A Moroccan-style light fixture with amber glass panes hung over one of those pigskin tables that made Skye cringe: Come sit at my dead animal skin table! There was a wall mirror framed in some exotic scrolled wood, and the typical Santa Fe paintings you’d expect to see: a giclée Miguel Martinez Latino Madonna, a stunning Frank Howell grandmother print, and one of the clouds rolling in over the prairie. There was an original painting, too, of an old Victorian house in the middle of nowhere.

  Not one inch of this place had escaped Sheila’s relentless decorating. It was too perfect. No rough edges. Skye let her eyes stare off into the middle distance while her dad puttered in the kitchen end of things. The appliances in the kitchenette, a Bosch dishwasher and Viking stove, sure were a waste: Sheila did not cook. There were two sets of cupboards, too, and a butcher block that looked as though a family in Brooklyn had been chopping pastrami on it for generations. Skye bet her life it had been used only as a place for Mama to set down her Louis Vuitton purse.

  “There’s soup, beans, and some of that instant rice that tastes like glue,” her dad said.

  “Soup,” Skye responded, and sat on the couch, the weariness from crying hitting her hard. She might fall asleep before the soup was hot.

  Their first stop had been the Trailer Ranch in that part of Albuquerque that made Skye wish she had a concealed-carry permit. Turned out Rita Elliot hadn’t lived there for months, and no, they didn’t have a forwarding address or recall if she had a little girl with her. There was rap music booming, and a few of the residents were giving her a look she didn’t like. Their uniform seemed to be wife-beater undershirts and baggy pants hanging halfway down their asses. They sported those metal chains hanging out of their pockets, as if whatever they cuffed to inside the pocket was potentially fatal. Another group of vatos stood around a different trailer, smoking cigarettes, making her want one. Their movements were jittery, as if they were high on something, probably crystal meth, which made Skye feel superior since she’d never tried it. Rocky smoked it occasionally. She’d met people at Cottonwoods who’d done crack for years. Their brains were emptier than a Halloween pumpkin, their teeth yellow and broken. Once they found out the Trailer Ranch was a dead end, Skye’s dad had hustled her back to the truck, locked the doors, and driven that hour-long drive back to Santa Fe in forty minutes flat.

  She watched him appraise his ex-wife’s cozy little second house while the soup heated. He walked around the room, exploring. The Moroccan lanterns. A Yei be chei Navajo rug on the wall, the figures clutching cornstalks. He inspected an old Chief’s Phase blanket that looked faded and worn, as if it had weathered over a few hundred years. “I hope your mama didn’t pay too much for this,” he said, “because it’s a fake.”

  “So long as it looks good, I doubt she’d care,” Skye said.

  “I have to say, I feel a little sorry for her, always trying to make her life appear important by cluttering it with things.” His eyes lit on the painting of a house, and he walked over to inspect it. He shook his head. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”

  “What is it, Daddy?”

  He turned to her, his face stricken. “I’d recognize this farmhouse anywhere. It’s on the Starr ranch, in Blue Dog. I spent a couple of years caretaking from the bunkhouse on that property.”

  “What are you saying? Mama bought the painting to make you mad?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing of the kind. It’s a coincidence.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Daddy. I can tell by your face it’s a lot more than that.”

  “Just seeing this triggers so many memories.”

  “Is the soup ready? I’m beat.”

  Her dad poured soup into mugs and brought one to her. They sat at the pigskin table, using paper towels for napkins. Skye blew on her spoonful and then swallowed. Nothing had ever tasted this good. Her dad drank his from the mug.

  “Life in Blue Dog was peaceful unt
il the day Maggie Yearwood moved in. I’d thought I was done with women.”

  “Ew,” Skye said. “Is this story going to have old-people sex in it?”

  He walked over to the painting, took it down from the wall, and brought it over to the table, where the light was better. “She painted this.”

  “Mama? Seriously, she can’t even get her eyeliner on straight.”

  “I wasn’t referring to your mother,” he went on. “I was referring to Margaret. She must have painted this after I left. What a great mom she was to her insolent, teenaged son. She put up with more than I ever would.”

  “Daddy, you make her sound like a saint.”

  “She was, so far as parenting that selfish son of hers. He punched me in the mouth once.”

  “Did you hit him back?”

  “Nope. He needed to hit me.”

  “This is crazy. How could a painting by Saint Margaret end up here in Mama’s house? That’s Lifetime movie material.”

  “You know how New Mexico is. The small-town vibe.”

  She laughed. “Did you just say vibe?”

  “I’m not that old, Skye. Go on to bed. We can continue the story tomorrow.”

  She set down her mug. “I’m not tired anymore. Tell me now.”

  After her father laid out the details—what year it was, how long he lived there, the motley sheep he kept—Skye could picture Margaret hanging laundry outside and smell the fresh hay in the wind. Somehow, the painting of the weathered house seemed full of the whole, lonely story. Margaret’s dog, Echo, who’d gotten knocked up by three-legged Hope on the first day Margaret arrived at the Victorian farmhouse that was too big for her. Her deaf teenage son, Peter, who refused to live there with her. The day Owen left, asking the deaf kid to care for his horse but getting a knuckle sandwich instead. Owen leaving before Echo had even whelped her pups. When Skye’s father finished the story, he rubbed Hope’s head, paying particular attention to the ears.