“And what do you mean by that?”
“I mean you. You're also denying reality. Ever since you got sick, you've been lying there and acting shocked that you have an ulcer and feeling sorry for yourself. You've been pretending you were never sick before, when you know that just isn't so. And you've been making Nick and Carlota and me miserable. You've got to face facts, Mama-and one of those is that you'll have to take better care of yourself in the future!”
Mama's eyes grew wide, and then she looked down at the covers. Her mouth began to work, and her roughened fingers squeezed together spasmodically.
My anger evaporated. I felt sorry for her, sorry I'd hurt her, and I wanted to take her in my arms and pet her and tell her I didn't mean a word of it.
But I had meant it-as much as she'd meant what she'd said about Dave and me. We'd both needed to say what had been said.
Tears began to slip down Mama's cheeks. Horrified, I turned and fled before I began to cry myself.
TWO
When I left the hospital, I automatically drove toward the museum. But as I waited in a long line of left-turning cars on Route 101 near the central district, I calmed down long enough to take a good look at what I was doing.
I've always been ruled by a tyrannical work ethic, and when I'm upset, I plunge into one chore or another to take my mind off my problems. But this was supposed to be my vacation, and in spite of that I'd already been in to the office once. Today I'd resolved to stay away from the place, and now I reaffirmed that promise to myself. I'd go for a drive instead and try to sort out my feelings about the unhappy events of the last few days. Probably part of the reason I'd flared up at Mama was because I was overworked.
I twisted the wheel of the car to the right and shot out of the turn lane into the path of an oncoming van. Its driver leaned on the horn, and in my rearview mirror, I saw him shake his fist. I made an apologetic gesture with my hand, and he shook his head and mouthed the word “women.” But when I moved into the right-hand lane, he passed me and waved.
I followed 101 as it looped around the business district, then got off on Milpas Street and drove up into the hills, following Foothill Road and looking at the nice houses. I thought about my own house and how I really should call some painters. I wondered if I would ever be able to afford to move away from the old neighborhood, buy something higher up with a view; then I wondered if I even wanted to do that. If I had more money, I'd probably just remodel the kitchen and bathroom, maybe build a deck….
Of course I wasn't fooling myself. I hadn't really come up here to lust after the real estate. A mile or so ahead. Foothill intersected with San Marcos Pass Road. And that route would lead to Las Lomas.
I don't normally like to just drop in on people, and I hate for friends to drop in on me. But I sensed Sam Ryder was the type of person who would welcome a surprise visit. Besides, I didn't intend to stay long; I just wanted to ask him a few questions, one of which was where Arturo Melendez lived. Then I'd stop at Arturo's and ask him if he'd like to make the promised pilgrimage to the ruins of Rancho Rinconada de los Robles. While we were there we could discuss a possible showing of his paintings at the museum.
When I arrived, the village once again looked deserted, but its small dwellings and unkempt square seemed more pleasant to me today, as any place will once you know good people who live there. I parked in front of Sam's house and followed the path through the weeds to the porch. Apparently he had heard the car because he came to the door before I knocked.
I started to apologize for not calling first, but he waved the words away and asked if I'd brought Quincannon's report. I gave him the papers I'd found at Mrs. Manuela's and explained about the others being locked up at the museum, where I'd promised myself I wouldn't go today. Sam didn't seem to care that the report wasn't complete; he took the papers in his hands eagerly and motioned for me to come in.
The desk under the front window was messier than it had been on Sunday, and there were file cards strewn all over the floor. Sam had a big smudge of black ink on his chin, and there was a pencil stuck into the tuft of curly red hair above his right ear. He looked up from the report, wrinkled his nose at the room, and took me into the kitchen.
“It's not going well today?” I asked.
“No. I just don't care what the Russians and French did to the Oregonians. Ever since you were here on Sunday I've been haunted by visions of Don Esteban Velasquez and his artifacts.” He patted the report and set it down on the chopping block with obvious reluctance.
I said, “Me, too. That's why I'm here. I need some professional advice.”
He motioned toward the director's chair I'd occupied on my previous visit. “Glad to help. You want a beer?”
“If you're having one. But I don't want to keep you from your work.”
He got out two Budweisers and held up a glass, looking at me questioningly. When I shook my head, he popped the tabs on both cans and handed me one. “The work will keep. It's fourteen to zip in favor of the Russo-French team, and frankly I'm bored with the game.” He sat down in the other chair, propping his feet against the chopping block, and added, “Thanks for not insisting on elegance. I hate to wash glasses.”
I said, “I should have stayed to help you with the dishes the other night.”
“That's okay. I can always count on Arturo for the washing up.”
“Speaking of him, one of the things I wanted to ask you is where he lives.”
“Diagonally across the square, three doors down from Dora. It's the little log cabin with moss growing all over the roof.”
The idea of one of my people living in a log cabin struck me as amusing, and I smiled.
Sam raised an eyebrow.
“Ethnic incongruity,” I said.
“Yeah, I know what you mean-he'd look funny in a coonskin cap. What else did you want to see me about? This report?” He motioned at the chopping block.
I summarized what was in the report for him and told him that I hoped there might be more pages in existence. “Is there anyplace that you know of where the files of that detective agency might have ended up?” I asked. “Or is there any organization that could tell me what happened to Carpenter and Quincannon?”
Sam ran a hand over his chin, smudging the ink streak even more, and finally said, “This was a San Francisco agency, right?”
“Yes.”
“Offhand, I can think of three places you could try: the California Historical Society branch in San Francisco, the California History Room of the public library there, and the Bancroft Library in Berkeley. But I'd say you're more likely to find the files of a defunct San Francisco business at one of the first two. I know the librarians at both; if you use my name and identify yourself as director of your museum, they'll be more than willing to help you.”
He got the names and numbers and told me to use the phone on his desk. I cleared off a space where I could set my notepad in case I needed to write anything down and then called the California History Room at the public library, billing the charges to my home number. As Sam had said, the librarian was very cooperative and took down what information I had; she said she'd call back within the hour. Next I tried the Historical Society; they had a computerized filing system, and after only a few minutes, their librarian told me there was no information on Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services.
I decided to wait for the reply from the public library before investing in a call to Berkeley, and Sam and I spent the time drinking another beer and speculating on John Quincannon: what he had been like, how long he had lived, whether he had ever found the Velasquez artifacts. When the phone finally rang, it was my call from San Francisco. The librarian told me she had been able to locate the materials I'd requested. There was a great deal of material from the files of Carpenter and Quincannon, including rough notes for the specific report I was looking for.
What other kinds of materials were there? I asked her. Was there anything of a personal nature, about
the detectives themselves?
There were some diaries and private correspondence, she replied, and there might be a photograph or two. Of course I'd be welcome to look at anything they had. Did I plan to come to San Francisco to study the documents?
I hesitated. The trip would take a couple of days, and I didn't feel right about leaving town while Mama was in the hospital-especially since I would have to spend time cosseting her in order to make up for my earlier harsh words. “Is it possible for you to copy the documents and send them to me?” I finally asked.
Now the librarian hesitated. “This is for the Santa Barbara Museum of Mexican Arts?”
“Yes. I'm director there.”
Apparently she didn't see anything odd in an art museum requesting that type of historical information, because she said, “Normally we only perform such services for cardholders, and we'd need prepayment, but I think we can make an exception in your case-especially since you were referred by Sam Ryder.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” Then, even though it was overstepping the bounds of courtesy, I added, “Do you think you could send them Express Mail?”
Again she didn't balk at my request, but merely agreed, saying I'd have the copies tomorrow morning and that an invoice would be enclosed.
I went back to the kitchen and flopped down in the director's chair, toasting Sam with my beer bottle. “Success. She'll put copies of the reports in the mail tonight, express.”
“That means that by tomorrow we'll know the end of the saga. Will you bring the papers up here-all of them, including the first ones you found?”
“Right away. We can read the new ones together.” I looked at my watch. It was nearly three. Suddenly a flat feeling stole over me, the kind you get when you're anticipating something exciting and then realize how long it's going to be before it happens. Sam must have felt the same way, because he sighed and stood up, looking gloomy.
“Time for the Russian and French aggressions,” he said.
“And I think I'll go up to the ruins of the pueblo and commune with the spirits-if any are left there.”
He followed me to the front door. “Were you planning to ask Arturo to go along?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“He told me you had mentioned doing that. He seemed to be looking forward to it.” Sam's eyes held a gleam-the same gleam my mother's get when she thinks some man might be interested in me.
I decided to ignore the insinuation and only said, “I'm looking forward to it, too.”
After promising a second time to bring the documents up to Las Lomas as soon as they arrived, I said good-bye to Sam and started across the square toward Arturo's log cabin. The day was warm and sunny, the air redolent of spring blossoms and new-mown grass. In the far corner of the weedy, overgrown area, a woman and two small girls squatted on the ground; they had cleared a patch and turned the earth, and the woman was showing the children how to plant seeds. I watched for a moment as they carefully measured out the contents of the little paper packets and placed them in the furrows, patting the dirt over them with chubby hands. I'd done the same thing as a child, and the wait until the first green shoots poked up into view had seemed unbearably long-much as the wait for Carpenter and Quincannon's files did now.
When I was halfway to Arturo's, I saw Gray Hollis come out of Marshall's grocery store clutching a paper bag that showed the outline of a liquor bottle. He walked with his head down, feet scuffing the hard-packed earth, and as he came closer I saw that his chin was stubbled, his hair greasy, his clothes dirty and wrinkled. Hearing my footsteps, he glanced up; his eyes widened in surprise, and then he nodded a curt greeting and kept on going.
I'd known men like Gray Hollis before-some of my relatives and their neighbors in the East L.A. barrio-who had been beaten down by disappointment and poverty or shattered by the loss of a loved one. They'd worked hard at destroying themselves, sinking lower and lower until one day they hit the stony bottom. Then their lives would go one of two ways: Either they'd pick themselves up and start putting themselves together, or-like my cousin Tom, the one who was now getting out of prison-they'd wallow until some final disaster finished them off. I wondered how soon Gray would hit that bottom and which way he would then choose.
As I crossed the street and started along the opposite side, I saw Dora Kingman in her garden. She was standing just behind the picket fence, one hand shading her eyes, looking at Gray's retreating figure. When she saw me, she let her hand drop and gave me a slight, nervous smile. “Elena, how are you? What brings you here?”
“I dropped in on Sam, to give him some documents and ask more advice about the research I'm doing into the Velasquez family. And now I'm on my way to ask Arturo if he wants to go up to the old ruins with me.”
Dora frowned. “I think I saw him ride out of town on his motor scooter about an hour ago, but he might be back by now. I don't see everything that goes on.”
Not everything, I thought, but most things that concern Gray Hollis. “Well, I'll stop by his place anyway.”
“Yes, do that. Arturo needs friends; it would help him overcome his shyness if someone took an interest. And when you pass by here again, I'll give you some tomato seedlings. They're quite hardy this year, and I've got more than I need.”
I thanked her and continued down the street to where the log cabin stood under a sycamore tree. It was only about twenty-feet-square and looked primitive, with its rough, peeling bark and overgrown roof, but there was a plastic bubble skylight protruding from the mossy vegetation. Like most artists, Arturo might be on the edge of starvation, but what money he made was invested in the practice of his craft; I'd never known a painter yet who would skimp on acquiring the necessary light.
Dora had been right about Arturo not being home. When he didn't answer my knocks, I gave in to my natural nosiness and went along the side of the cabin and peeked in one window. It was curtained in blue-and-white-checked material that looked like it had once been a tablecloth, but there was a space where the two sides didn't quite meet. Through it I could see a rough pine table covered with painting supplies and an easel that sat directly under the skylight. There was no canvas on the easel, although there were a number of them in varying sizes turned face to the wall. To one side was the edge of what looked like a wood stove, but otherwise I could tell nothing about the interior of the cabin. Probably Arturo lived spartanly; most good artists I knew seemed to care little about creature comforts; the work was the all-important core of their existence.
I turned from the window, realizing I was being as nosy as Dora Kingman, and started back toward Sam's house, where I'd left my car. Fortunately Dora had gone inside, so I wasn't obligated to accept any tomato seedlings, which-hardy or not-would surely die from my inattention. The mother and daughters had finished planting their garden and were observing it with satisfaction, hands on hips, the girls' stances miniature replicas of the woman's. Gray Hollis was nowhere in sight. When I got into my car, I could hear the reluctant tapping of typewriter keys from Sam's front room. I started the VW and drove out of town, leaving Las Lomas to its daily business.
THREE
The ruins of the church of San Anselmo de las Lomas reflected a white-hot glare in the afternoon sun. As I approached the stark adobe wall, I waded through the knee-high wildflowers, smelling their oddly bitter fragrance. It was hushed there on the hill; the only sounds were an occasional birdcall and a constant, reedy whisper as the wind blew through the leaves and tall grass. It had been warm in the village, but now I felt a chill in the air and gripped my bare arms above the elbow, trying to insulate myself.
I rounded the rear wall of the church and stopped by the crumbling foundation, once again attempting to picture the building as it had stood in 1846. The other day, by narrowing my eyes and viewing the scene through the haze of my lashes, I'd been able to raise the walls and bell tower and the cross crowning the red-tiled peak. Today, however, that didn't work; all I saw were the blurred outli
nes of the church's lonely remains.
A gust of wind swept across the foundations, rippling the vegetation that carpeted the cracked brick of the church floor. It tossed the tall grass in the adjacent graveyard, revealing the weathered granite tips of a few stones. Unbidden, the haunting words that Quincannon had found on the scrap of paper in Luis Cordova's dead hand echoed in my mind: “Mas alia del sepulcro … donde Maria.…”
I said them aloud, hearing their compelling rhythm, feeling their shape on my tongue. Released into the silence around me, they reverberated hollowly, and I clutched my elbows tighter, suddenly afraid, as if the words themselves had a dark, magical power. Then I started toward the graveyard.
The largest of the stones-cracked granite crowned with a dirty marble crucifix-marked the resting place of Don Esteban Velasquez. I knelt and brushed aside the thick blades of grass and foxtails so I could read the inscription: EN ESPIRITU ADMIRABLE. Great in spirit.
Several feet away from this stone was another, simpler one: Padre Urbano, UN HOMBRE BUENO Y RELIGIOSO. The date of death on the stone was the same as that on Don Esteban's. There were other graves, also plain ones, with inscriptions such as CRIADO FIEL-faithful servant-and TRABAJADOR BUENO-good worker. And there were two tiny markers, telling of the early deaths of Juan Gerardo and Manuel Nicolas Velasquez-Felipe's brothers, whose names had been inscribed in the family Bible. These reminders of days when many of one's sons and daughters did not survive to adulthood were finely carved, each topped with a marble angel whose chipped, upturned face was meant to inspire hope of a better life mas alia del sepulcro. I stood staring from one to the other for a long time, the haunting phrases once again pulsing through my brain.
Donde Maria … None of the stones that I had looked at marked the resting place of a woman named Maria. Nor had I found the grave of Felipe Velasquez. Mrs. Manuela had said her father had died when she was quite young, before she and her mother moved to Santa Barbara. It would seem logical for him to be buried here, among his family and servants. I began wading through the weeds, examining the remaining stones. There was still none for a Maria, but finally, on the far right-hand side where the wrought-iron fence leaned at a dejected angle, I found Felipe's: a plain marker, plainer than Padre Urbano's, engraved with only the name. There was no date of birth or death, no inscription extolling the good works he'd done in his lifetime.
Beyond the Grave jq-2 Page 15
