Shaman's Blues

by Amber Foxx

  “No. That was a guy who didn’t pay his rent. We only rent to artists, because of the studio space, but they aren’t supposed to be the starving kind. Anyway, he left that instead of money. Niall was, as he put it, royally pissed. If there’s a sculpture here he figures it should be a Niall Kerrigan, not someone imitating Alan Houser or Tim Nicola.” Catching Mae’s puzzled look, Marty said, “I wouldn’t know their work either, if it weren’t for Niall and living here, but that’s what he said. He says it’s ‘derivative,’ but it attracts renters so it stays.” Marty paused, admiring the sculpture. “I like it. She’s good company.”

  The stone woman in her smooth, curved wrap gleamed with orange highlights in the fading day.

  “I like her, too.” Mae took in the scent of the garden. “This smells wonderful. Maybe I’ll have to sleep out here tonight.” The two stone benches on the outside of the path looked long enough to lie down on, though sleeping on one would call for some padding. The adobe walls around the garden emerged from the building like soft brown arms, angling toward the carport, leaving a wide space in their embrace, but otherwise fully closed off from the street. “It feels nice and private.”

  “Not always. Some tenants have said tourists wander around and walk right in and look at the sculpture. Think it’s public art, I guess. Come on in. I’ve had the windows open.” His arm around Mae’s shoulders, Marty led her to the back door. “Apparently our tenant was gone half the time and just had people pop in and feed Pie. Must have been a new cat sitter since no one complained before. Our rental agent here thought Ruth would be a good tenant—old New Mexico family, established artist. She was having her own place remodeled and wanted to clear out while it was torn up. Never imagined she’d be ...” He opened the door, and a stench of smoke and stale grease, like old bacon and hamburger, hit them. “Like that.”

  They walked into the living room first, a long room the full depth of the house. From where she stood, Mae could see the front door. Food stains marred the coral-colored upholstered furniture, and dog hair clung in a thick mat to one chair’s seat, as if the dog had slept there. On the walls hung bright abstract paintings in colors that complemented the house, and the hair had even drifted to the tops of the frames. Rings and burns marred the wooden tables, and hair and dust bunnies clung to several of Niall’s smaller machine-parts sculptures. “I stocked up good on cleaning supplies, but,” Marty paused, “God, I’m feeling worse about this by the second.”

  So was Mae, but she didn’t want to rub it in for her father.

  Next, he took her into the kitchen, which looked out on the backyard. Orange-yellow dog hair floated in drifts on a red tile floor, snagged in the woven frames of leather-seated basket chairs, and formed thick pads of fur at the feet of a wooden table. Mae had expected bad, but this was worse. The layer of grease and splatters coating the walls near the stove spread to the turquoise and coral cabinets and black granite countertops.

  “I’ve mostly been dealing with the eviction and the lawyer,” Marty said. “I haven’t had a chance to do much else.”

  Mae sighed. The house in T or C had been so clean, even if simple and poor compared to this. She missed it already. “Daddy, I can’t believe how bad ...”

  “Sorry, babe.” Marty looked down, clearly embarrassed. “I’ve been airing it out. Pie won’t come out from under the bed. I had to feed her in the bedroom. Her litter box is in the laundry room, so I reckon she sneaks out when she feels safe. Or desperate. Poor old thing. All I’ve done so far is clean the litter and dump out ashtrays. Sorry.”

  Mae fought back the urge to complain. She’d agreed to the work. She was getting paid for it, and even if she weren’t, she had a free house in T or C. Marty deserved her help. “It’s still a pretty house. It’ll be real sweet when I get it clean.”

  “It will be. This is a special place.” Marty walked her to the studio, a large open room taking up half the house, with a skylight, a picture window facing the garden, and small windows that looked out the front and side, giving it extraordinary light even in the evening. “We had some good times here. Open studio nights, salons, all sorts of interesting folks coming by. Artists, musicians, poets, academics. Niall knew everybody who was anybody. We had quite the social life.”

  “Sounds like fun.” Mae tried to imagine it without food splashes on the walls or crumbs on the floor. The studio’s plain off-white walls and paint-stained cement floor looked naked. It needed someone to come in and make something in it—when it wasn’t stinking or dirty. “You miss living here?”

  “It was our first home together, but I’d say I’m more fond of the memories than missing it. Let’s take a look at the bedroom. That’s Niall’s masterpiece. And you can get a look at Pie. I’m hoping you can fix her up, as well as the house.”

  “You want me to heal her?”

  “If you can get hold of her.”

  They crossed back through the living room to the bedroom, at the front of the house. The walls were turquoise. The red Mexican folk art chests and chair were painted with birds and flowers in yellows and greens, and the ceiling was darker turquoise with little LED lights inset like stars. Mae flipped the switch to turn them on. “Niall did this?”

  “Yeah, used to drive me crazy.” Marty smiled up at the starry ceiling. “Romantic I guess, but you can’t sleep with it.”

  The sounds of traffic came through the open windows, distant, not annoying. The yellow curtains fluttered, and the scent of the juniper shrubs in the front yard wafted in, not quite overpowered by the smell of tobacco.

  “Crouch down and you can meet Pie.” Marty knelt, and then lay on his stomach, and Mae did the same. Under the bed, a small, longhaired cat with enormous eyes gazed back at them. She was what some people called a money cat, speckled like she was covered with gold coins on her dark fur. “Hey, Sweetiepie. You got a nice person with you now.”

  The cat cowered and drew back.

  “Dog must have been awful. Poor Pie. She was always skittish, but this is sad.” Marty sighed and pushed himself up to sitting on his heels. “You must be whupped. Ready for dinner and a walk?”

  “I am. Especially the walk.” A new concern about the house struck her as she got to her feet. “What if the tenant comes back?”

  “She did.” Marty stood. “We had the locks changed in the morning and she showed up this afternoon. She yelled, but she didn't have much in here, just a few clothes. I packed ’em up and met her at her hotel.” That explained why he had done so little cleaning. “She wants to take us to court for breaking the lease, but we’ll win. I took some pictures, and the cat sitter will testify how bad it was.”

  “She’ll leave me alone, then?”

  “Has to. Doesn’t have your number, doesn’t have a key, and nothing in here belongs to her. All the easels and folding tables and stuff in the studio closet come with the house. If you hear from a Ruth Smith, that’s her. Don’t deal with her.”

  “I can’t believe an artist would be such a pig.”

  “Go figure.” Marty walked to the bedroom door, turned off the lights, and Mae followed him to the front door through the living room. Taking his keys from his pocket, he slid one off the ring and handed it to Mae. “Yours. Keep it. This place is your inheritance, you know. Not that I’m kicking the bucket any time soon, but someday this is yours. Might as well get used to the idea.”

  They crossed the little wooden footbridge from the front walkway, took a right on Delgado, then a left on Palace, and Marty did his best to orient Mae to the city. She wanted to get to know it, and hoped to have a little free time to explore it.

  He took her to the downtown Plaza, explaining there would be free concerts on weekdays at noon and in the evenings, and that the art galleries nearby were free. How well he read her mind—and knew her finances. He recommended seeing the Indian craftspeople in front of the Palace of the Governors, the former residence of Spanish Colonial governors, now a museum, and offered her a handful of twenties for groceries and for
eating out until the kitchen was bearable. “There’s a little extra so you can to go to a few museums, too.’

  Mae took the money but held onto it, not putting it away yet. “Daddy, you’re already giving me a free place to live—you don’t have to do all that.”

  “You remember how I used to spoil you?”

  “I guess you did.” She tucked the bills in her wallet, touched, and a little embarrassed for some reason she didn’t understand. “Thanks. It’s a long time ago. I’m not used to it anymore.”

  “Get used to it again. I may get kinda carried away at first, I’m so happy to have my girl back.”

  In a café upstairs over the Plaza, they dined out on a balcony, watching the people below and enjoying the cooling air. As they relaxed with dessert and coffee after a somewhat fiery meal, Marty asked, “You gonna be all right all alone here?”

  “Actually, I’m looking forward to it. I’ve never been alone before.” At eighteen, she’d gotten married, and then divorced at twenty when the husband turned out to be a drinker she couldn’t save. She’d had to move back in with her mother and her stepfather. Then she’d married Hubert, and when they’d separated, she’d moved in with a friend in Norfolk. Not a single day with a place of her own. “I’m kind of excited about it.”

  Marty turned his cup in the saucer, his gaze on his hands. “Reckon you miss the young’uns, though.”

  “I do.” Their eyes met, and Mae was reminded that he knew what that pain was like. “It’s bad enough getting divorced again, but being a stepmother with no legal rights ...” She drank her decaf coffee, noticing how thirsty she was, as if the desert air sucked every drop of water out of her body. “Hubert says I can have them come out over Thanksgiving. Feels like forever, though.”

  “Try fourteen years.” He half-smiled. “Somehow you live through it.”

  “I know. Maybe the week in this house, instead of settling right away in T or C with you and Niall there, is what I need. To kind of jump-start me being on my own. I almost feel like I don’t know myself—like I’ve always been wrapped up in other people.”

  Marty leaned back in his chair and studied her. “You’re not as behind as you think. Took me ’til I was a lot older than you to get a handle on knowing myself.”

  “But I’m not dealing with something like coming out.”

  He laughed. “There’s other parts of ourselves we keep in a closet. Never know what you’ll find. The City Different is a good place to do it.”

  Mae wanted to know the best outdoor places to exercise, so they walked for an hour. In a long, narrow park along a dried-out river, he said there was a good trail for short runs that would eventually come out at another park. “Trail goes down into the trees, comes back out here, then back down in. You’ll see it in daylight better. Longer runs you could do the length of the park and back.”

  “I feel like I’m running while I’m walking right now.”

  “It’s the altitude. Makes you spacey, too, or it did me when I first moved here. Of course I was in love, might have had something to do with it. Folks say the high desert does a number on your mind as well as your body, though. Take it easy this week, give yourself some breaks.”

  “I will. But I’m ready for a run, even if I’m gasping.”

  They reached the intersection of Alameda and Delgado. Before they turned to cross to the other side of Delgado, Marty nodded toward the bridge over the empty riverbed. “Be careful under here. You might come up on the street for that part of the trail.”

  “What’s under there?”

  “Few rocks. Kind of dark. And homeless people sometimes live in the riverbed, not so much as they used to with the new shelter that opened, but they found a kid dead under the bridge back in January. Looked like he’d been living down there.”

  Mae thought of Kenny, and how that could have been him. “How did he die?”

  “Never was clear, looked like he’d hit his head somehow. Maybe fell off the bridge. Seems the kid was a runaway, no family around here.”

  Mae glanced back at the bridge. “That just breaks your heart.”

  “I know. Son of some friends of ours found him. His folks said it shook him up pretty bad.” Marty put his arm around her shoulders. “But it’s still a nice trail. Just watch your step there, that’s all.”

  At the house on Delgado Street, Marty checked every room to make sure no one had come in, since he’d left the windows open. “It’s a safe neighborhood. I’m just being your daddy. I hate to leave you, babe. But I know you’ll be fine.”

  “You’re not staying tonight?”

  “Can’t sleep on that nasty dog-hair sofa. Anyway, Niall needs me to help him get some stuff loaded and moved to a gallery in the morning. He’s got that big show opening tomorrow. Gotta get back. Call me if you need anything.”

  “I will.”

  She walked him to his truck, watched him drive off, and then sat on a bench in the garden, gazing at the sculpture and the sky above it. The statue was a peaceful companion, as if the artist had put a spirit into it. Away from the streetlights, the stars astounded her. She’d never known their brilliance or the vast number of them that hid behind the humid air of the east.

  Thinking to share the moment as a way to say goodnight to Brook and Stream, Mae took out her phone, only to remember it was too late to call them on the East Coast. The time difference would take getting used to, along with the altitude. She left Hubert a text message that she was sorry she’d missed the twins’ bedtime, sparing herself the pain of talking to him.

  Going inside, she locked up. The house still smelled bad, and even the sheets in the bedroom closet smelled slightly smoky. She put them on the bed anyway, showered and lay down. Odors and all, the solitude felt clear and spacious. She was truly alone, yet also safe. Someone who loved her knew where she was.

  Not like that poor boy who fell off the bridge. Was he on drugs, like Kenny had been when he was homeless? It was a low bridge with a thick railing, so it didn’t seem like a sober person would fall off it. There was no water in the riverbed. No one would jump off to drown himself. The only way a person would die was if he hit his head on a rock. He had to have been high or drunk to do that.

  Kenny was lucky to have his job, his tiny house, a clean and sober friend like Frank, a spiritual path—and apparently, Muffie. If she was still around. If his job would survive her absence. How could Muffie simply leave him and Frank like that?

  Adding to the troubling thoughts that spilled in on Mae at the edge of sleep, Sweetiepie mewed under the bed, but did not emerge. Poor thing. Mae wanted to heal her, but she had to lay on hands to do that. What kind of person was Ruth Smith, to let her dog terrorize Pie? To trash this beautiful house and leave it half the time without even cleaning it?

  The questions were exhausting. Mae couldn’t stay awake to sort them out, much as they bothered her.

  As she drifted off, she dropped into the psychic-vision tunnel. Sometimes the sight slipped in unwanted through objects Mae touched in a half-dream state, especially if she lay down with questions in her mind. When the tunnel turned to light, she saw a woman with narrow green-framed glasses, short dark hair spiked into yellow and red tufts, and a thick-waisted flat-chested figure clad in a sweat suit. She bent over a long table in the studio, cutting fabric. Mae felt as if she knew her, and yet she’d never seen her before.

  Mae woke abruptly. Was this Ruth Smith? It had to be. She’d been saturated in Ruth’s energy traces since coming into the house. No wonder the woman felt familiar. Everything, the bed included, was full of her, and Mae had been wondering about her.

  Not wanting to see the slobbish tenant again, Mae reached for her purse on the nearby dresser, took out her crystals, and tucked turquoise and aventurine under the pillow to protect her sleep from intrusions. She didn’t really want to know about Ruth. It had been an idle question. It was Muffie she was trying to understand. She had Jangarrai to check out, too, and Sri Rama Kriya and ascension, as well as a house t
o clean. That was enough.

  Chapter Five

  In the morning, Mae woke still tired, unable to sleep any later with the brilliant light that penetrated the closed blinds and curtains. The sun seemed twice as strong here, even indoors. She turned her phone on and walked through the living room toward the kitchen. Seven a.m., a good time to catch Brook and Stream. No, it was two hours later in North Carolina. The girls were in school. She had to remember to call on Eastern Time. Hubert wasn’t having them call her—not a good sign for the way the separation would work out.

  Pie, apparently on her way back from her necessary trip, dived under the couch at the sight of Mae. Not an encouraging sign here, either. Mae knelt and looked under the sofa into a pair of big staring eyes. “Come on, Sweetiepie. It’s safe now.” The cat cowered at the sound of Mae’s soft encouragement. So this would be the feeding station today. Somehow, she was going to have to heal the cat, but she couldn’t touch her yet. Strike two, and she hadn’t even had breakfast yet.

  Opening the refrigerator, she saw rows of soda and beer cans, and little tubs of doubtful leftovers, as well as slabs of sliming bacon and a brown, leafy blob that might once have been iceberg lettuce. She shut the door, not ready to face this sickening mess without coffee. The cabinets revealed only instant coffee with a dusty lid. There might as well not have been any. But if she didn’t touch the cleaning before she went out, that would be strike three.

  Mae started with a task she hoped would be easy. One room and two vacuum bags of dog hair later, she shut off the vacuum, too hungry and caffeine deprived to continue. In the sudden silence she heard her phone beeping and checked her messages. Roseanne had texted. “Still no Muffie. Good riddance. But bad for business. Will pay for search.”