by Theresa Weir
Shifting restlessly in the chair, she crossed her arms over the ache in her belly. Co-dependent actions or not, it was far, far better to stay here and make sure some young man didn’t die in his alcoholic stupor than go out there and face Luke, who knew her, who needed her, who would engulf her tonight if she went to him.
It was better this way.
Chapter 14
Luke went to the house a little before dawn broke and saw Jessie slumped in the chair. Her hair, mussed from their lovemaking, tumbled around her like a wild cape, chestnut and gold, with tendrils that clung to her porcelain cheek. Her feet were bare and reddened in spots from her run through the field. Below her sweater, he could see she wore no bra, and the gentle slope of her breasts, so vulnerable to other eyes, made him take a blanket from the couch and toss it over her.
His past drinking weighed heavily on him this morning. He had been a traitor to his people, to his family, to himself. But most traitorous of all had been his betrayal of Jessie’s need to believe in someone. He, unwilling to bear that burden, had retreated into a comfortable world where no golden eyes would ask more of him than he could give.
He wished fervently now that Daniel had taken this woman to be his wife, that when at last Luke had learned of his daughter and the woman he had never forgotten, Jessie would have been safely and securely married to his childhood friend. With Daniel, she would have faced no betrayal.
A knot of despair tightened in his chest as he went to the kitchen, looking for coffee. There on the floor was the youth from the night before, still passed out. At the table sat Mary, her face haggard, staring at the youth as if she could make him disappear. “There’s our witch,” Luke said. “Will it help, do you think?”
Mary shrugged and stubbed out a cigarette. “Joaquin is gone this morning. I’m so ashamed of him. He sat through our meetings, knew exactly what we were doing.”
Luke touched her hand. “The things they did weren’t serious. I doubt anyone will even press charges as long as they agree to stop.”
She shook her head, and the heavy earrings she wore swung against her neck. “Joaquin will pay for the sheep he killed. It’s the right thing for him to do.”
“That’s fair enough.”
“I’m going to send him to his uncle. If he works hard for a while, maybe he won’t be so bad.”
“Maybe.” Luke ducked his head to avoid her gaze.
“What else can I do?” she asked. “Maybe you know a little about boys going bad?”
Luke glanced at the dirty face of the youth. He sighed. “I do.”
“Tell me, then, what should I do?” Strong emotion sounded in her voice and she paused, lifting her eyes to the window and the vast expanse of mesas and fields beyond. “I have no more answers.”
“Maybe there are none. Maybe,” he said, raising his eyes, “you just have to let him fall.”
Mary measured his words for a long moment. “Maybe I do. But I’ll try his uncle first.” She straightened then, as if girding herself. “Let’s talk about the project. I want to tell you about some of the women who will be there today, so you know who you are talking to. They will listen, but you must talk to them in their way.”
In spite of his feelings that he was not the best choice for this job, Luke listened carefully. There wasn’t anyone else. He would have to do what he could—for Mary and the memory of his mother and for all the other weavers who deserved more than what they were getting.
When Jessie awakened, slowly, she was exhausted. And in spite of the clear morning, with its bright sunshine and blue sky, she felt a dragging sense of depression.
Almost everyone was gone already into town for the meeting, and she rushed through washing her face and changing her clothes, only going to the kitchen for a cup of coffee at the last moment.
The youth from the night before sat alone at the table. His long hair was tangled, but he’d washed his face and hands. He still smelled as if he’d been sleeping with goats, and his eyes were bleary red with his hangover, but Jessie felt a rush of relief, anyway. He was, at least, alive.
When he saw her, he turned his face away sullenly. Jessie hesitated for a minute. His mouth was vulnerable, very young, and she saw the wounded self-respect in his pose. She wanted to sit down with him, to talk. Talk some sense into him or make him feel better.
She wanted to tell him tomato juice would put back the vitamins he’d lost, and that a couple of aspirin would open the blood vessels constricted by alcohol. That was what gave him the headache that almost visibly pulsed around him—a lack of oxygen to his brain.
Instead, she poured herself a cup of coffee. “Mary has some aspirin if you want it,” she said.
He glanced up at her with an expression of such feral hatred, she backed away. “Are they gonna take me to jail?”
“I don’t know. Depends on what you’ve done.”
“I didn’t do it all.”
“Who hired you?”
“Told your boyfriend already—the Meeker Galleries.”
“What?” The string of Southwestern galleries, run by a rich family out of Albuquerque, had pretended to take a solicitous interest in the project. She sighed. “Terrific.’,
Luke came in through the back door, and Jessie glanced up guiltily. He looked haggard. “Jessie,” he said. “Good. I came to see if you were up.”
“More or less.”
He looked at the youth. “She tell you her hangover cures?” he asked without smiling.
The youth said nothing.
“Tomato juice and aspirin.”
Jessie lowered her eyes, painfully embarrassed.
Luke’s voice was bitterly ironic as he continued. “She’ll even tell you why it works if you want to know.” He shot her a veiled glance. “Right, Jess? You’re the expert on hung-over alkies.”
Jessie winced at his harsh words, but put her cup aside. “Let’s go,” she said.
“In a minute.” Luke leaned on the table, close to the youth. “You like waking up like this? You like comin’ to and not remembering how you got there?”
The youth’s chin jutted upward and his eyes turned to flat slits. “Get outta my face, man!”
Luke straightened. “It makes me sick to look at you. Go wash up. You smell like a goat.”
Appalled, Jessie almost protested—until she saw the fine tremor in Luke’s hands as he whirled away. As they stepped outside into the bright fall day, she reached for his arm. “Luke—”
He yanked away violently. “Damn it, Jessie, just leave it alone, will you? You don’t have to take care of me anymore.”
His words seared her. “Don’t take it out on me.”
“Why didn’t you come back to the truck?”
She looked away. In the rough pen, sheep bleated quietly and a goat, seeing the pair of them standing there, trotted over hopefully. “I don’t know.”
“I do.” His mouth twisted. “You were in there playing Florence Nightingale, right?”
Jessie swallowed, drawing back a little from the fury in his voice, the bitterness she had never heard before. It startled her into telling the truth. “I was afraid to be with you, the way you looked.”
“It’s easier to deal with a drunk, isn’t it?” His voice was dangerously controlled. “A drunk who can’t talk or get through to you, rather than a man who might really need you, who might really ask you to be honest.”
Jessie stared at him, clinging to the shreds of her collapsing defenses. “That’s crazy,” she whispered.
“Is it?” He stepped forward. “It was always easier for you to take care of me when I was drunk or hung over than when I was just loving you. You couldn’t take it.”
“You’re right!” she retorted, giving in. “I didn’t know how to love you the way you were. You were so good and so strong and so beautiful and I knew—”
It was this weakness in her that she feared more than anything else, something in her that didn’t heal people who were alcoholic, but encouraged their dise
ase.
In horror, she backed away from him. “I always thought that if you hadn’t been with me, maybe you wouldn’t have fallen over the line.” She struggled with her emotions, but too much had happened too quickly, and they were exploding out of her. Tears washed over her face. “And when I left you, you got sober, didn’t you?”
“Jessie—” he said, reaching for her.
She dodged, struggling to calm herself. “We have to get to the meeting.”
He grabbed her just above the elbow. “Wait a minute.”
“No,” she said violently and tried to pull away, but his grip was fierce and unbreakable. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“Too bad. We’re gonna get it all out in the open right now. You listen to me.”
Jessie sighed and turned her face away, letting him hold her elbow. Passive resistance, that was the key.
But Luke wasn’t having it. With his free hand, he took hold of her chin and turned her face gently but firmly to his. “Look at me, Jessie,” he said when she kept her lids lowered.
When she ignored him, keeping her gaze focused loosely on the white buttons of his chambray shirt, he warned, “I’ll stand like this all day if I have to. You know I will.”
In defiance, she closed her eyes. But when he simply stood there, she knew she would give in a long time before he did. His stubbornness was patient, hers impulsive. She raised her eyes.
“That’s it. Now listen closely.” He looked at her intently, bending his head toward her. “I’m an alcoholic, Jessie. I started drinking a long time before I met you, and I knew better. Sooner or later, I was headed for a fall. You being there didn’t make a difference one way or the other, except that you made me more comfortable when I’d get sick.”
She opened her mouth to interrupt, but he held up a hand. “You didn’t have anything to do with your mother, either. You know it, too, when you’re thinking clearly.”
Jessie shifted, trying to pull away in discomfort, but Luke held her steadily, firmly. “Are you finished?” she asked.
“No.” His mouth tightened for a brief instant, and he shook his head. “No child should have to go through what you did, Jessie. I know it hurt you and that there are things you’ll never get over, but I wish you could see yourself the way I do. I wish you could see how strong you are now. Even with that kid in there—”
“I didn’t do anything this time,” she protested in self-defense. “All I did was make sure he didn’t freeze. Anyone would do that.”
“No, not anyone. But that doesn’t matter. I can’t tell you anything—you have to work it out on your own.” He stepped closer and brushed the tips of his fingers over her cheek. “But I want you to know that I love you. You don’t have to do anything or act a certain way or pretend with me. Just being Jessie is enough.”
She swallowed and looked away, unable to bear the straight penetration of his liquid gaze.
“Jessie,” he said.
“I can’t do this, Luke.”
“We’ll stand here until you can.”
Reluctantly, she looked at him again.
He smiled softly. “There’s nothing I would like better than to be with you for the rest of my life, to have more babies and make love every night and eat supper with you.” He touched the crown of her head and smoothed a lock of her hair over her shoulder, his gaze following the movement of his hand. He took a breath and looked into her eyes again. “But I’m through giving you everything just to have you throw it back at me and run away. If you think you can come to me with a whole heart, then come. Otherwise, I’m gonna get on with my life.” Very tenderly, he bent and pressed a kiss to her lips, almost as if he were saying farewell. “It’s time.”
He let her go without another word and headed for the truck. After a moment, Jessie followed. They rode in silence to the meeting house.
Outside, Giselle ran in circles, playing chase with a gaggle of other children. With a start, Jessie realized how much freedom Giselle had here, under the watchful eye of so many. Everyone watched the children, from slightly older children to the old men sitting on a bench outside.
Still, to delay going inside for a minute longer, Jessie whistled. Giselle peeled away from the group. “Hi, Mom!” she cried, and hugged her.
“You look like you’re having a good time.”
“I am!” With another quick hug, she let go. “See you later.”
Jessie watched her go with a small sense of sadness. Giselle was no longer her baby. She caught Luke watching Giselle carefully, with no expression, and shrugged. “She’s growing up.”
He nodded, a distant expression in his eyes. With a pang, Jessie realized he meant it this time. The ball was in her court.
And she knew she would have to choose not to play. A vision of the future, dry and dun-colored as the desert, flashed over her imagination, giving her a hollow feeling.
Stonily, she went inside and took her place.
The meeting was oddly quiet. Luke gave reports to the weavers about the actual facts and figures of the project, fielding questions about specific numbers and various concerns. He also told them about catching Rudy in the act of smearing sheep blood on the truck and about Joaquin’s disappearance.
He spoke in Diné, his manner quiet and respectful. Jessie sat nearby, listening as a young man she didn’t know translated the words into English for her. After a few minutes, she realized she didn’t really need him to do that, and whispered as much. The language, suddenly, was clicking in to the point that she only missed a word here and there. She noted the fact with a distant sense of surprise. She’d been listening to it for seven years, after all. It was bound to connect sooner or later.
As hard as she tried to concentrate on Luke’s words, Jessie found her attention straying over and over again, lighting upon Rudy and Luke and her mother and the drunks in the street in Gallup.
But mostly, as she looked into the sea of women’s faces, Jessie thought of her mother. Why couldn’t she have been born to a woman like the ones in this room? Someone like that grandmother there, holding a baby close to her chest with the casual ease of long practice. Or that happy young woman over there, smiling and nodding enthusiastically as she listened, her bob swinging neatly at her shoulders.
Maybe if Jessie had had a real mother, someone to wash her hair and trim her fingernails and teach her to cook, she wouldn’t feel so adrift now, especially in places like kitchens and quiet discussions of women’s things. Maybe if she’d had a real mother, she’d know what to do in those situations.
With a little shock, she realized for the first time why her paintings were nearly all of women. She was painting mothers. Mothers canning fruit. Mothers laboring to give birth with the help of a gentle midwife’s motherly hands, mothers nursing daughters…
Even the newest one she’d conceived, the weaver that had stunned her, was Luke’s mother, the woman who’d raised such a powerfully gentle man.
Luke was right. Her trouble with the past went back much farther than the loss of Luke or even his drinking. It went back to the unresolved issue of her mother. In all those paintings, Jessie was searching for a mother to call her own.
She closed her eyes, feeling almost winded with the realization, unable to cope with yet another confrontation with her psyche. It seemed as if fate had conspired to force her to face her entire past all at once. And either it would break her, or she’d come out stronger.
At the moment, she didn’t know which it would be. Oh, she’d survive. There was no question of survival. But if she didn’t resolve the past right now, she was doomed to never being whole, to leading the same half-lost life she’d been living.
At the back of the room, the door swung open, spilling bright sunlight to the floor behind the folding chairs set up for the meeting. A whirl of children’s voices danced in and died as a man entered the room, giving Luke a signal.
Jessie glanced at him desultorily and realized Luke was wrapping up the morning session. In the
afternoon, they would meet again to go over some of the finer points, but first there would be a big lunch and time for talking in smaller groups.
Thank heaven, she thought. She really had a headache.
* * *
Luke avoided Jessie through lunch, which was served at long tables in the hall. He found Mary and sat down with her, aware that she was disappointed somehow in the way the morning meeting had gone. “It’ll be okay,” he said, trying to cheer her up.
She shrugged and turned her gaze toward the roomful of weavers and their families. “I don’t think we’re getting through.”
“What do you think will work, Mary? Help me out here.”
“I don’t know.” She frowned. “There must be something we aren’t saying, something important that we haven’t said. But I don’t know what it is.”
Luke swore mildly. He knew what part of the trouble was. Himself. Standing up to talk to all those elders, he had felt an imposter, haunted by the old ghost of himself, made flesh by the youth in the kitchen this morning. In spite of his pep talk to Jessie about letting the past go, he seemed to be having a little trouble letting go of it himself. “I’m going to take a walk,” he announced. “Maybe it’ll clear my head. If you think of anything, let me know.” Luke gazed at it for a moment, pausing at the door to roll a cigarette, then wandered out into the desert, trying to let everything go. Jessie, Giselle, the past—all of it. What mattered was those weavers and finding ways to assure them all would be well.
He walked toward a short bluff, hearing the sounds of the clustered people in the hall drop away until there was only Luke, the silence of the desert and the wide open sky overhead. Gaining the crest of the mesa, he sat down to admire that sharp blue sky and felt the color and space of it ease the coils of tension in his chest. The air smelled of dust and sage.
Below him ran a knot of children, chasing each other around a clump of prickly pear. Luke felt a quick worry that one of them would stumble into it, especially when he spied Giselle. Did she know how hard it was to get the spines out?
