“All are dangerous.”
Bettina shivered. She remembered the sting of potential danger hanging in the air when she had walked with her wolf through la época del mito, but she was sure he meant her no harm. They had been alone. There were many things he could have done, or tried, but the worst he had done was speak in riddles.
Nuala laughed without humor.
“I can see it in your eyes,” she said. “As I said earlier, youth considers itself immortal. You hear what I tell you. You understand the danger. But you are unable to conceive of it touching you.”
“No,” Bettina told her. “It’s not that at all. For lo menos …”
But Nuala wasn’t listening to her. She turned her back and carried her armload of wood into the shed.
“You will see,” she said over her shoulder. “In time, you will see. If you live so long.”
Bettina started to follow, to argue further, then shook her head. She wasn’t sure what the age difference was between Nuala and herself, but it was obviously enough for Nuala to consider her no more than a child, inexperienced and naïve. And just as obviously, Nuala was one of those adults who grouped young adults, teenagers, and children together in her mind and considered all of them to be deficient in common sense. Bettina had learned long ago that there was no use arguing with such a point of view. One could only carry on.
The housekeeper’s attitude towards el lobo and his compadres irritated Bettina as well. Granted, she didn’t entirely trust the wolf herself, but suspicion was not conviction. And when she considered how an outsider might view her father and the uncles from his side of the family, she was willing to give los lobos the benefit of the doubt. For now. She would be cautious, but then she was always cautious, Nuala’s comments to the contrary.
She understood how la época del mito could be considered dangerous—it was mostly unknown territory, after all, no matter how often one crossed its borders. But she wasn’t afraid of the unknown. She wasn’t afraid of death, either. She didn’t welcome its approach, she would struggle against it, but in her experience, those who feared death were those who believed it to be an ending instead of what it was: a change. A journey into the unknown much the same as the time one spent in la época del mito. The difference was, one did not normally return from the fields of death.
There were people who might disagree and point to ghosts as their proof, but ghosts were not spirits straying from la tierra de los muertos. They were those who had yet to move on from this world.
Eh, bueno. She would not let Nuala’s prejudices sour the day. The crisp, cold air, so different from that of the dry Sonoran Desert she’d called home, filled her with a heady sense of well-being. It was all still so new to her. The winter, lying thick and deep all around them. The snowy fields. The wind and the cold. The locals could complain, but it made the blood sing in her veins and she refused to lose the feeling of being so alive.
When Nuala returned for another load, Bettina acted as though the conversation the housekeeper had walked away from had never occurred. Instead, she chatted happily about the windswept lawn and the snow piled deep in drifts, Chantal’s offer to take her cross-country skiing and did Nuala think it would snow again tonight? Nuala gave her a considering look, eyes dark with la brujería, then shrugged, her gaze turning mild once more. As they continued to work, their differences fell silent between them, if not forgotten.
Later, Nuala went inside to begin dinner for the residents of Kellygnow. Salvador and Bettina finished stacking the rest of the wood, Salvador teasing her the whole time. He no longer wished to run away with her himself; instead, now he was trying to decide which of his nephews she should marry. Bettina laughed and shook her head at every suggestion he made. She followed him around to the side of the house where his old pickup truck was parked.
“Vamos a mi casa,” Salvador said. “You can eat with us. You know Maria Elena—she always makes too much.”
Bettina was tempted, but she shook her head. “I don’t want to impose.”
“Impose? How can you impose? You are like family.”
Bettina had no plans, except to read for a while, perhaps go for a walk later. Then she remembered how walking on the grounds had turned out for her last Saturday night. She was in no hurry for a repeat visit with el lobo.
“Entonces, gracias,” she said. “But only if you’ll stop at the market on the way so I can bring something.”
“What can you buy that Maria Elena hasn’t already made?”
Bettina shrugged. “A salad. Some fruit for desert.”
“Bueno. Only don’t buy too much.” Salvador patted his stomach, which was as flat as patio tile, and probably as hard. “I can’t afford to put on any extra weight.”
Bettina nodded solemnly. “I see what you mean.”
Salvador gave her a shocked look. He put his hands on his stomach, and stood straighter than he normally did, if that was even possible.
“¿Cómo?” he asked. “What do you see?”
“Nada,” she assured him. “Do I have time for a quick shower?”
When Salvador dropped her off at the house later that night, Bettina walked around back to the kitchen door, carrying the leftovers that Maria Elena had sent home with her. In one plastic margarine container was a leftover chile relleno and some refried beans. A smaller container held a serving of albóndigas—Maria Elena’s famous meatball soup. She wanted to put them in the fridge on her way to her room and it was quicker to simply go around the house, coming in by way of the kitchen, than to navigate her way through the warren of halls from the front door.
The sky was clear and riddled with stars. Snow crunched underfoot and the wind blew cold air up under her parka, making her shiver. She paused by the door. With her breath frosting in the air, she looked to the woods, wondering if any of los lobos were nearby. She could sense neither man nor spirit. Studying the shadows between the trees, her gaze was drawn to the light that spilled from the windows of the Recluse’s cottage, called to it as surely as the moths that fluttered against the screens in summer were drawn to the windows by the interior lights. Now that she had seen its inhabitant, it was impossible to ignore the witchy flavor her presence lent the building.
She should ask the woman if she had a brother, Bettina thought. A brother who was a priest.
Though what was more likely was that it had been the Recluse herself that Bettina had seen by the salmon pool. The Recluse, dressed as a priest. Or perhaps she’d only been wearing a collarless white shirt that had seemed like a priest’s garb in the dark.
Pero, Bettina decided. The priest’s identity wasn’t the real question at the moment. She was more curious about what the priest had been doing in la época del mito in the first place, and why hadn’t el lobo been able to see him. Or rather, why he’d pretended he hadn’t seen him.
She turned back to the kitchen door.
It wasn’t something she was ready to pursue at this time of night. It probably wasn’t even any of her business, but it nagged at her all the same, the way mysteries always did. Because there was something in the way the priest had looked at her that night—if only in passing—before his gaze continued down to the pool where that enormous salmon lay sleeping… the creature that el lobo had called an bradán.
Perhaps she should have asked Nuala what an bradán meant, while the housekeeper had been willing to talk this afternoon.
Bettina shook her head. Oh, yes. Bueno idea. And receive yet another lecture. No gracias.
Nuala meant well, Bettina thought as she opened the door and stepped into the warm kitchen, but a mystery lay thick around her, too. Of course, that was none of Bettina’s business either, though she’d never let that stop her before. Her sense of curiosity was too strong to let any puzzle remain unchallenged for too long.
“Ah, chica, chica” her abuela used to say. “If only you were as diligent with what I am trying to teach you as you are with your curiosity for everything else.”
Bettina clo
sed the door behind her and leaned for a moment with her back against its wooden panels. She could almost hear her grandmother’s voice.
jPresta atención!
Pay attention to this, to what is before you, not to every little whim and wonder the wind might blow your way.
“Te echo de menos, abuela,” she said softly. “I miss you so very much.”
6
Ellie wasn’t exactly thrilled about having to spend Saturday morning with Henry Patterson, a businessman who’d commissioned a bust of himself from her as a gift to his wife, but she didn’t see that she had much choice. Not if she wanted to keep him happy and collect her money. He was such a control freak—an exaggerated caricature of the sort of client she disliked the most. She supposed his type of person was useful in an office environment, get the job done and all that, though she certainly wouldn’t want to be an employee in that office.
Here, in her studio, his abrasive manner went beyond simple irritation.
He needed to be involved in every step of the process, overseeing all the various aspects as if he knew the first thing about sculpture, which of course he didn’t. The early stages when she was first building up a bust had been the worst. Yes, she’d told him. I need you here for this part of the process. I know there’s no likeness yet, but these things take time. If you’ll just be patient, I’m sure you’ll be more than pleased with the final results.
But patience, apparently, wasn’t one of Patterson’s virtues, if he had any, which Ellie had come to doubt. By his fifth sitting she found herself wondering why he was still alive. He was in his late fifties—surely someone would have strangled him by now?
After every session, he’d go on at great lengths to critique what she’d done so far, showing a complete lack of understanding as to the basics of art in general, never mind sculpture. She could have learned to live with his ignorance except that it was coupled with a pretentiousness that was truly unbearable; it took all her willpower to simply bite her tongue and kowtow—verbally, if not literally. Somehow she put up with his inane and uninformed suggestions as to how she could do her job so much more expediently, so much more professionally, if she’d only do this, and perhaps that, and certainly this. Never mind that none of his suggestions would work, because, you see, he knew a thing or two about art, little lady—”Don’t call me that,” she’d tell him, for all the good it did—and on and on he’d go, ad infinitum, ad nauseum.
All she could do was try to get through the sitting. She’d maintain a stiff smile and fantasize about telling him exactly where he could shove said sculpture. And how she hoped it would hurt.
This morning’s sitting was a complete and utter disaster. Bad enough that he hadn’t had time to sit for her the past week so that she’d had to work from photographs. But when he stepped through the door of her studio and saw what she’d done so far, he had the nerve to immediately begin haranguing her about how she was deliberately making the portrait as unflattering as possible. It was almost funny coming as it did from someone like him, where ugly would be a compliment.
He was a hog of a man, puffed up with his self-importance, which translated physically into a grossly overweight specimen of dubious manhood squeezed into a suit that must have cost a fortune, but might as well have been made of sackcloth for all the good its classic lines did him. She couldn’t believe he was complaining. Had he never looked in a mirror? She’d already made his nose smaller, tightened up the flapping jowls, and plied any number of other tricks to retain a likeness that would also be flattering.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said, keeping her temper in check with an effort, “but-—”
“Don’t you think for a moment that I don’t know what you’re doing here.”
“If you’ll calm down, we can—”
“You’re mocking me, plain and simple. This, this … thing” He pointed a fat finger at the bust, face red, sweat beading on his brow. “I suppose you consider it to be some sort of artistic statement, a bohemian criticism of the corporate world—is that it? The creative individual standing firm against the fat cats of big business. But you listen to me, little lady. So far as I’m—”
“How many times do I have to tell you?” she broke in “Don’t call me a ‘little lady.’ “
“Don’t you interrupt—”
That was it, Ellie decided.
“Look,” she said. “Just shut up.”
He blinked, small pig eyes widening with surprise. His flushed face grew redder, jowls quivering with outrage.
What’s the matter? Ellie thought. No one ever stood up to you before?
“If you’re this bothered by how the sculpture’s turning out,” she went on before he could speak, “I’ll simply return your deposit and we can call it quits. I’m sure we’ll both live happier lives knowing that we’ll never have to see each other again.”
He shook his head. There was a cold look in his eyes now.
“And leave you with this mockery of a portrait?” he said. “And let you display it in some gallery for all the world to see and laugh over? I don’t think so.”
Like anyone she knew would even know who he was. Like they’d care. Like she’d take the time to finish it.
Ellie shrugged. “If you don’t pay for it, you don’t get it.”
“I don’t think so,” he repeated. “I won’t be leaving here without it.”
“Jesus. Are you so cheap that you’ll pull something like this just to get it for the hundred bucks you put down on deposit? It’s not even finished yet.”
“I will have my deposit from you,” he told her in what she assumed was his boardroom voice. Cold, firm. No give. “And I will have that travesty of a sculpture, or you—” Now the chilly smile. “—little lady, can expect a visit from my lawyers.”
“Oh,” Ellie said. “Well, if you put it like that…”
She stepped over to the table and picked up her clay-cutting wire, a length of copper wire with short wooden dowels tied on either end. Pulling the wire taut between her hands, she laid it on top of the brow of the sculpture and with a quick downward jerk, sliced the face right off. The clay fell to the floor and she mashed it under her foot. Stepping back, she gave Patterson a sweet smile.
“Go ahead, fat man. Take it.”
“You—”
“And then get your sorry ass out of my studio.”
“My lawyers—”
“Send ‘em by.”
The cloud of rage that swept over his features was like nothing she’d seen before. The only thing that came close was the time that she and Tommy had been forced to hold down this raging schizophrenic in an alley off Norton Street, trying to keep him from hurting himself—and anybody else—while they waited for the ambulance to arrive.
Patterson took a step towards her, but she held up the clay-cutting wire, pulling it tight between her hands again.
“Don’t even think of it,” she told him, her own voice hard.
She watched him recover, watched him harness the red anger until it was only a burning coal in each of his piggy eyes.
“Now, that wasn’t smart,” he said. “You forget who I am, who I know. I can break you without even breathing hard. After today, the only commissions you’ll get are from the scum on the street to whom you’re so ready to lend a helping hand.”
So he read the human interest section of the newspaper and had seen the piece on her and the homeless man she’d saved the other night. Big deal.
“Guess I’m due for a change,” she said with more bravado than she felt.
“And you will hear from my lawyers.”
“Can’t wait. Here,” she added as he started to turn for the door. She shoved the lump of clay that had been his face towards him with her foot. “You’re forgetting something.”
He looked down, but he was so in control of himself now that when his gaze rose back up to meet hers, there wasn’t even a hint of rage left in his piggy eyes. His face was still flushed. Sweat still beaded h
is brow. But his features were calm, expressionless.
“Let me tell you something, little lady,” he said, smiling as she gritted her teeth. “I always come out ahead.”
Then he turned and left the studio, closing the door softly so that the lock engaged with only a very civilized click.
Ellie stared at the door for a long moment, then down at the now-unrecognizable face of her sculpture where it lay by her feet. Tossing the clay-cutting wire onto her worktable, she walked slowly over to her couch and sat down. The adrenaline rush that had propelled her through the last few minutes left her. She felt weak and a little dizzy, and her legs wouldn’t stop shaking.
“Shit,” she said softly. “Shit, shit, shit.”
What had she been thinking? Yes, he was an officious little prick—make that an officious fat prick—but now what was she going to do? She’d have to return his deposit. She might even have to return the deposits of some of her other clients if he really had the kind of pull he claimed he had. And he probably did. Hadn’t he gone on and on about sitting on the board of this and that company, how he owned this, was buying that. All the commissions she’d gotten to date had grown out of referrals. The last thing she needed right now was to have someone like Patterson bad-mouthing her to all and sundry. If her other commissions canceled out on her and also wanted their deposits back, she’d be in deep trouble.
Where would she find that kind of money? Everything she’d taken in had already been spent on supplies, rent, living expenses. And if she couldn’t get any more commissions …
“Shit.”
She looked across her studio at the line of portrait busts in various stages of completion on the back of her worktable. She felt like destroying them all, each and every one of them.
What was she doing anyway, taking all these commissions, doing work she didn’t even care about in the first place? When she compared them to the busts farther along the table of Donal and Sophie and other friends, it was like seeing the difference between night and day. That one of Tommy—she couldn’t wait to cast it. It was so individual, so Tommy. The commissioned portraits were all of a kind, almost interchangeable. Inoffensive and a little stiff, but safe. The ones of her friends, even the self-portrait, which she wasn’t all that fond of, were infinitely more interesting. Varied. Full of life and expression.
Forests of the Heart Page 10
