Night at the Fiestas: Stories

by Kirstin Valdez Quade

  Angrily, Margaret flung her brush at the canvas. It flipped to the ground, splattering the tile. She dropped to her knees, swiped the floor with her rag of turpentine, but the oil spread across the clay.

  IT HAD NEVER OCCURRED to Margaret that she might forget what the ocean looked like. She thought she would always see the water clearly in her mind’s eye, having always lived so near it. But now it eluded her. She found herself painting not water, but likenesses of water she had painted before, imitations of other artists’ renditions of water. One night she filled the stainless-steel kitchen sink and tried to make currents in it with her hands, watched the kitchen light waver against the sides.

  Outside, only darkness. Margaret leaned over the sink, closer to the window, trying to see past her reflection. Perhaps she should set the chair here, among the round hills and piñon woodland. The subject caught her, and for a moment she was pleased with the novelty of her idea, the unlikely twist.

  But here there was nothing to threaten the chair, just time and sun and occasional rains. Here mud structures took hundreds of years to wash away. Even the bodies of rabbits and coyotes killed on the highway didn’t rot and rejoin the earth, but shrank and stiffened. Here the problem wasn’t that nothing lasted, but that nothing disappeared.

  FOR THREE WEEKS Carmen was on time and never missed a day. Then one day she didn’t show. Margaret called her house and left a message. She vacillated between irritation—she’d come to depend on Carmen’s presence—and guilt over her irritation. Maybe something had happened to the diabetic mother.

  It was noon before Carmen arrived with her granddaughter Autumn in tow. “Sorry,” she said at the door. “No school today. I hope you don’t mind.” She turned to the girl. “You be good and don’t go touch nothing.” Autumn, wearing lavender platform flip-flops, jeans, and a pink halter-top, stood close to her grandmother. Her hair was pulled back so tightly it tugged the corners of her eyes, and the curls of her ponytail were stiff with gel.

  “What a day,” said Carmen. “Ruben’s got my car. His truck’s in the shop, and he has to go down to Albuquerque. But he’ll be back in time to get us.” She was already rummaging under the kitchen sink, pulling out bleach and sponges. “I got Autumn’s lunch here—” she gestured at a bag of Taco Bell on the counter. “She brought her Barbies, and she’ll be happy watching TV.”

  “Do you like art?” Margaret asked the girl. “Let’s see if we can’t get you some pastels and good paper. Come with me.”

  Autumn didn’t follow, just stood with her backpack on her skinny shoulders. She still hadn’t budged when Margaret returned, arms full of supplies.

  “We’ll set you up at the table.”

  As though she’d been waiting for permission to move, Autumn walked slowly around the living room, touching each picture frame lightly with one finger. “These are your grandkids?”

  “They are. Nine and eleven.”

  Autumn bit her lip. “Are they sisters?” Her teeth were small and sharp and slightly bluish, the color of skim milk.

  Margaret nodded. “They live far away now. In South Africa, which is a country in the continent of Africa.”

  Autumn examined another picture from years ago: Margaret and Charlotte in the kitchen, flour-covered, smiling up from their work of tracing maple leaves into piecrust.

  “That’s my daughter, Charlotte. She’s an only child.”

  “Like me,” said Autumn.

  Autumn spent the morning drawing page after page, frowning earnestly at her work. Margaret showed her how the pastels could be blended; soon Autumn’s fingertips were thick with green-brown waxy smears.

  Carmen spread newspapers and brought out the tub of silver polish and rags, then settled at the table next to the child with Margaret’s grandmother’s tea service, which hadn’t been touched in years. “Look at that. She’s gone and used up all your colors.”

  “That’s what they’re for.” Margaret wanted to give this child things, lifelike stuffed animals and educational toys. She wished Autumn were her grandchild. Her own were so assertive and articulate now, so at home in the world, absorbing it all—their private school, safaris, school vacations in Thailand and Indonesia—without a flicker of self-doubt. With Autumn she could make a difference.

  It was relaxing to watch the child work. Autumn tilted her head, considered, then bent back over the page. Her shoulder and whole arm moved with her hand. Soon the table was strewn with lush green landscapes that had nothing to do with New Mexico.

  “Autumn is lovely,” Margaret told Carmen.

  Carmen nodded, scouring the sugar bowl with her rag. “She’s my blessing.” At the sound of her grandmother’s voice, Autumn stood and put her hand on her grandmother’s knee, looked up at Margaret gravely. The child’s expression struck Margaret as one less of affection than allegiance.

  Margaret felt a sudden jealousy. She remembered holding Charlotte when she was tiny and asleep, that trusting limp weight against her chest, how she’d bend her neck over Charlotte’s, bury her face in the warm skin, wanting so much to merge with her again.

  BY SIX O’CLOCK, Ruben still hadn’t arrived. Carmen tried calling. “He must not got his cell with him.”

  “No problem, I can drive you.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be here,” Carmen said doubtfully. “I hope he’s okay.”

  Autumn rolled her eyes. “Daddy always forgets.”

  “I know—you and Autumn could stay here tonight! If you want. I have extra toothbrushes, anything you could need. We’ll have a girls’ night, eat pizza, do masks. Autumn, I can set up a real canvas for you in the studio.” Margaret’s pulse throbbed in her neck, and she could feel her head warming. With Autumn here, the day already had a holiday feel to it. They’d stay up late, drinking wine and laughing. She looked at Carmen. “If you want.”

  Carmen shook her head. “We couldn’t.” Her voice was uneasy.

  Autumn pulled on her grandmother’s shirt. “Yes! Yes!”

  “It’s just one night. At least have dinner. If you change your mind I can drive you guys home before bed.”

  While Margaret cooked, they listened to Autumn’s CD on the stereo—pop music sung by some blond girl in a tube top—and the three of them danced around the house. In the studio, Margaret had set up a new canvas and adjusted the easel so it was Autumn’s height. Soon Carmen seemed to relax. They stood around talking and laughing, drinking wine, while Autumn squeezed the bright acrylics onto a fresh palette—too much, but Margaret didn’t stop her.

  After dinner, Carmen dug through her purse for a bottle of pink nail polish. She propped her feet on the coffee table and buffed and painted her toenails. “Here,” she said, waving the bottle at Margaret. “I’ll do you.”

  Margaret sipped her wine and shook her head. “No. My toes look terrible. I’d hate for anyone to touch them.” She thought of her feet, long and pale, the skin thin and dry. An old woman’s feet.

  “You’re sure? I used to do hair and nails professionally.”

  Margaret hesitated, nearly changed her mind. Autumn was stretched on the carpet with Margaret’s oversized sketchpad, drawing intricate lines with a pencil.

  “If you wanted, you could do something with my hair,” Margaret said shyly.

  Carmen nodded. “Sit.”

  Autumn glanced up. “She’s really good.”

  Margaret sat on the floor between Carmen’s knees, and Carmen began to rake her fingers across her scalp. Autumn’s pencil scratched. After a moment Margaret allowed herself to relax against the couch, her whole body warm and electric with Carmen’s touch. She was drunker than she thought.

  “You’ve got good curl. I used to love giving permanents.”

  She remembered her friends at Mount Holyoke, winding each other’s hair in curlers at night, the smuggled bottles of rum they mixed with pineapple juice from large cans and drank out of their coffee mugs. It wasn’t the nights they snuck out with boys from Amherst or UMass that she missed; it was the nights th
ey spent in, intending to read, that instead unfolded in wonderful laughter and silliness.

  In college Margaret had slept with three boys: two boyfriends, the other the visiting brother of her roommate. Margaret liked sex, liked the intrigue, the playacting, the real passion that invariably caught her by surprise. She also liked the ultimate safety of it, orchestrated and anticipated and reviewed as it was with her friends. It was this intimacy, the intimacy with women, that had really mattered.

  Margaret shifted ever so slightly, leaned her shoulder into Carmen’s thigh.

  “What happened?” Margaret murmured.

  “Oh, I got away from it, and six years ago Reina Sanchez opened the salon by the gas station. Anymore, I have a heck of a time getting the energy to do my own hair.”

  AFTER AUTUMN HAD BEEN put to bed—both Carmen and Margaret had tucked her in—they sat in the living room petting Daisy and watching a late show. It was past eleven when the driveway light flicked on. Margaret went to the window and looked out. She could see Ruben backlit by the glow of the spotlight, a dark, unsmiling face in the driver’s seat. He wasn’t looking toward the house, but at some point in the distance.

  She backed away from the window, suddenly afraid of being seen. When the doorbell rang, she didn’t move to answer it.

  “Ruben.” Carmen sighed and rose to open the door, as if she lived here. Daisy trotted after her.

  Up close, Ruben wasn’t nearly as tall as Margaret had imagined, just an inch or two taller than she. His facial hair was scraggly and long, his teeth crooked and scummy-looking.

  “What’s wrong, hijito?” Carmen said.

  The remaining sensation of drunkenness washed away and Margaret felt sharp and dry and alert. “Come in,” she said politely, even though he was already inside and something was clearly wrong.

  Ruben looked over Carmen and Margaret’s shoulders, his head darting about in quick stabs. Margaret had imagined him handsome, disarming; she had imagined she might have to brace herself against his charm. Instead, she was repulsed. This was the son Carmen spent all her money on? This was the man responsible for half Autumn’s genes?

  “Where’s my daughter?” he said, head jerking. He moved into the living room.

  “Hijito,” Carmen said again, voice wary. “What’s the matter?”

  “Where were you? Where have you been?” His voice was whiny.

  Daisy began to yap foolishly. Over the noise, Carmen continued to step toward her son. “We’ve been waiting for you.” Her eyes were on something in his hand.

  With a horror that flooded her throat and extremities, Margaret realized Ruben was holding a gun. She’d never seen a real handgun before—shockingly solid and metallic.

  Margaret had the impulse to run to the child, asleep in the guestroom, and push her deep under the bed. The old childhood memories of hiding from her shouting father. Autumn must have the same instincts.

  “Where’s my fucking daughter?” He scratched at his neck as though clawing something out of him. “You been talking to that bitch Chelsea? The two of you keeping my daughter from me?”

  Margaret drew herself up. “You need to leave my house. You need to go.” She extended a hand toward the door, an absurdly formal gesture.

  But Ruben didn’t hear. He lunged at Carmen, the gun swinging at his side. “You stupid cunt bitch, trying to—” He stopped short without touching her, put his face right into hers. “Where’s my fucking daughter?”

  “I’m not keeping her from you, honey. We’ve been here, waiting. For you.” Carmen’s voice was imploring. She didn’t shift her eyes from her son’s.

  Without warning, Ruben lifted the gun, shot it into the ceiling, barely missing a recessed light. The crack stunned Daisy into silence, and they all stood frozen as the gypsum dust rained down. Then Daisy started yapping again.

  Margaret tried to think how far out the police would be. Ten minutes. Longer. Maybe a highway patrol would be near. Maybe not. They might have trouble finding the turnoff, navigating the dirt road at night. A lot could happen in that time.

  “I’m calling the police.”

  “Please,” cried Carmen. She did not shift her eyes from Ruben’s. “Please! He’s a good boy. He’ll stop.”

  Margaret looked wildly at the German knives lined up in the block on the kitchen counter. She remembered something she’d heard about knives being no good for self-defense because they can so easily be turned against you. She lifted her hands, looked at them: so thin, veins showing blue through her skin, the wedding band heavy and loose.

  Ruben’s voice rose. “You better listen to me. Listen to me, listen to me. You never listen to me.” He moaned as he spoke, as if in physical pain.

  “I’m listening, Ruben. I’m listening. Tell me what you have to say, and I’m listening.”

  “Don’t you fucking tell me what to do!”

  He was shaking, jumping, scratching at his neck, so there were red lines running down it. Margaret wondered if the skin might break. Margaret wondered if this was meth, if this was drunkenness, if it was a combination of the two.

  Margaret imagined the scene from outside, where she wanted to be: the house all lit up like a silent stage, the terrible drama going on inside. But the house couldn’t be seen from the road. And any shout would sound like the wail of a coyote.

  The car keys were on the counter in the kitchen. With her purse and her cell phone. Could she grab Autumn, grab the keys? It would take too long. There were too many open spaces in this house. It was all exposure and space. These were surfaces you could crack your head on.

  Daisy’s bark hammered off the high ceilings, incessant. Margaret longed to run to her, clamp her mouth shut, longed for her to shut up so she could think. “I’ll give you money,” Margaret cried, hands shaking. She swung her arm wildly. “Take whatever you want, just leave us . . .”

  Ruben turned fast, and Margaret shrank against the wall. “Fuck you,” he said, the words cutting. “I don’t want your money, rich cunt. Fuck you.”

  Give this maniac Carmen, give him Autumn. Negotiate. You can have them all, she shouted in her head. Just leave, just leave.

  “Calm down, hijito. Calm down.”

  He turned back to his mother. “Don’t you fucking get near me! You want to keep me sucking at your fat tits.” Sinking to a crouch, Ruben buried his head in his arms, weeping. The gun hung loosely from his hand. Carmen knelt beside him and touched his shoulder gently.

  Margaret’s courage returned. In a loud voice, so that she could be heard over Daisy’s panicked barking, she declared, “Get out now. I will not allow you to terrorize us.”

  Carmen whipped around, eyes savage. Her voice was quiet, cruel. “You leave him alone.”

  Whatever this was, they all understood it. Even Autumn. The terror and fury and love and whatever else was mixed up in it was theirs alone, and it was Margaret’s own stupid fault it was taking place in her house. She wanted them out, all of them, the little girl, too. She didn’t care what happened to them—they could tear each other limb from limb for all she cared—she just wanted them away from her. She wanted it all gone: the sun finding its way in, the dust sifting under the doors. Rattlesnakes. Coyotes and scorpions. God knows what else. Everything wailing, crying, howling.

  Daisy barked, sharp, relentless.

  Ruben rose in a sudden roar, grabbed the dog in his thick hands. “Shut the fuck up!”

  Daisy squealed when he threw her across the great room. Her body hit the window with a thud, dropped to the ground in a gray heap. The thick pane didn’t break. When she stood, her black eyes were open, glassy, and she breathed in quick shallow breaths.

  There was blood, just a little, in the fur at her ear. Daisy made her way unevenly toward Margaret, tags jingling, then stopped and tipped her head as if perplexed.

  Margaret made her move: swept Daisy into her arms, ran across the tile to the heavy door, pushed it open, and burst into the cold night. Point-seven miles to the road. Her feet tore on the s
tones of the driveway as she ran.

  After a time, she realized she was sobbing. She stopped and looked up the hill at the lit house, clutching the dog’s little body to her chest, her breath ripping through her. The scent of piñon was sharp and acrid in the cold air.

  Above, the bright window hung against the darkness like a canvas on a gallery wall, framing Carmen and her son. They were motionless, as minutely wrought as figures in a medieval miniature. His face was buried in her lap, and she bent over him, so close their heads were nearly touching, the two of them as destructive and unstoppable as any force of nature.

  THE MANZANOS

  MY NAME IS MY GRANDMOTHER’S: OFELIA ALMA ZAMORA. I am eleven years old and too young to die, but I am dying nonetheless. I have been dying since the day my mother went away. I’ve been to doctors—to the clinic in Estancia, and all the way to Albuquerque—but they take my temperature, knead my stomach, check my throat, and tell my grandfather the same thing: perhaps it is a minor infection or virus, one of the usual brief illnesses of childhood, and they see nothing seriously wrong. They don’t know about the ojo, the evil eye.

  There is no one left in this town who can cure me, so for now I sit at the edge of the yard, my feet in the road, turning a piece of broken asphalt in my hands, in case a stranger passes. Are you a healer? I’ll ask her. I think of how it will be when I find her, how when she lays her hands on my head I’ll close my eyes and feel the blessing pass through me like fire.

  I imagine this, knowing I can’t be cured, knowing I couldn’t bear to be.