“Do you see him?” she asked her grandmother. “¿El inocente?”
“No. But I feel his presence. Can you?”
“I feel something…”
Her abuela nodded. “And los cadejos?”
Bettina thought for a moment before answering.
“You know when someone is laughing, but making no sound?” she said. “They’re like that inside me. Like a tickle, or a happy thought.”
“Does their presence frighten you?”
Bettina shook her head. “But it’s a funny feeling, to have little mysteries living inside you like this.”
“We all carry mysteries,” Abuela told her. “Some are merely less hidden than others.” She looked out across the dry wash of the river, past the mesquite to the mountains beyond. “The next time you visit la época del mito,” she added, “you will not travel alone. I should have taken you a long time ago, but I was waiting …”
Her voice trailed off.
“For what?” Bettina asked.
“For when the time felt right.”
Bettina sighed. Sometimes it seemed as though her entire life was simply made up of waiting.
“When do you think Ban will realize that I’m a woman?” she asked.
Abuela smiled. “When you become a woman. You are still a girl, Bettina. Mi chiquita. Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up. Age will come to you soon enough. Never fear. There will be many boys in your life, many men. And much mystery, too. That is the way it is with women such as us with the bru-jería in our blood. But only the mystery stays with us.”
“All I want is a boyfriend. Like Ban. He’d be perfect.”
“Sí. And what does Ban want?”
Bettina shrugged. “I don’t know. I never asked him.”
“Perhaps he is ready for a wife and children. Are you ready to be a mother?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Do you think I should talk to him?”
“I think you should wait. The world is large with possibilities for those with patience.”
“But sometimes you have to do something,” Bettina said. “You can’t always just wait for things to come to you.”
“Of course not. That is where the wisdom comes in.”
“What wisdom?”
The wisdom you got from growing older, Bettina supposed, feeling like she was walking around and around in circles.
“The wisdom I share with you,” Abuela said.
Bettina studied the shrine for a long moment. She thought about how frightened she’d been in la época del mito, but how exciting it had been, too. Her life had changed this weekend, she realized. Now she had the children of volcanoes living inside her and she’d talked to a man who could change his shape. She almost laughed. Talked to a man who could change his shape? ¿Y qué tiene? Her Papa flew the desert skies on a hawk’s wings.
She turned to look at her grandmother, thinking of all the wisdom Abuela had to offer her if she could only be patient.
“I can wait for that,” she said.
4
Masks
Our job is to be an awake people … utterly
conscious, to attend to the world.
—NATIVE AMERICAN BELIEF
1
NEWFORD, MONDAY MORNING, JANUARY 19
Ellie checked her watch again. Almost nine and Donal still hadn’t shown up to give her a ride as promised. Nor was he answering his phone. It figured. Knowing him as long as she had, and having lived with him for part of that time, she knew exactly how untogether he could be about the simplest thing. But this was really pushing it.
It had been over an hour now while she sat with her parka close at hand, a packed suitcase and a box of art materials on the floor by the door, waiting for something, she began to realize, that wasn’t going to happen. Still, she allowed Donal another fifteen minutes before giving up and calling Tommy’s apartment. A woman answered the phone, startling Ellie. Tommy never had anyone over at his apartment, never mind a woman.
“Who’s this?” she found herself asking before it occurred to her how rude the question might seem.
“Sunday.”
“You’re kidding. As in his Aunt Sunday?”
The woman on the other end of the line laughed and Ellie realized that now she’d compounded rudeness with stupidity.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s just…” I didn’t believe any of you really existed, she’d been about to say, which would have only made things worse.
“You’ll be Ellie,” the other woman said.
“How could you know—”
“I’m psychic.”
She’d have to be, Ellie thought.
Sunday laughed again, a throaty, pleasing sound that woke a smile on Ellie’s lips.
“Don’t take me so seriously,” Sunday said. “The truth is, except for his family, I think you’re the only woman in Tommy’s life.”
“That’s not true,” Ellie said. “He knows any number of women.”
“Really?” Sunday replied. “Are you keeping secrets from your aunt?” she added, her voice growing fainter as she took the receiver away from her mouth. “I’ve just been told that you’re a regular Casanova.”
“Give me that,” Ellie heard Tommy say.
“What have you been telling your aunts about me?” Ellie asked when Tommy came on the line.
“Don’t you start,” Tommy growled, but there was no real anger in his voice.
“Easy does it, Romeo.”
Tommy sighed. “So what’s up, Ellie?”
“I was going to ask you for a ride up to Kellygnow, but now that I know you have a guest—”
“It’s okay. She was just leaving—weren’t you?” he added, obviously to his aunt. “What time do you have to be there?” he asked Ellie.
“There’s no rush.”
“I’ll be over in ten minutes or so.”
“But—”
She was too late. “Catch you,” Tommy said and the line went dead.
Ellie slowly hung up the receiver on her end and went to sit by the window where she could see the street outside her front door. She felt a little guilty for imposing on Tommy like this. He so rarely did normal things like visit with his family.
Just before Tommy arrived, she saw a dark sedan pull up in front of her building. The man who stepped out of it was plain-looking, with light brown hair and a business suit on under his open overcoat, but he had an official air about him that she’d come to recognize through working with Angel. Not a cop, but someone in the law enforcement community. Maybe a private detective or a process server. She wondered who he was coming to see in her building, then Tommy’s pickup pulled in behind the sedan and she turned away from the window to put on her parka and gather her things.
She had just locked her door behind her and was picking up the box with her art materials when the man she’d seen come into the building topped the stairs and walked towards her.
“Ms. Jones?” he asked. “Ms. Ellie Jones?”
Oh shit, Ellie thought, managing to keep her features schooled. What does some official type like this want with me? But then she remembered the threat Henry Patterson had delivered when he left her studio on Saturday morning and realized he hadn’t been bluffing. He really was going to take her to court.
“I’m afraid not,” she lied, giving what had to be a process server a sweet smile. “Ellie left for Florida yesterday. I’m just looking after her place until she gets back.”
The man gave her a suspicious look, but what could he do? It wasn’t like he was a cop with any real authority.
“When will that be?” he asked.
“Late spring. Can I take a message?”
“No, I’d rather talk to her in person.”
“Well, you’ll have to wait then. Say, can you give me a hand with that suitcase?”
“Well, I don’t—”
“This is great,” Ellie said, heading off with the box, acting like he’d already agreed to help. “You’re saving me a lo
t of time. When I agreed to put this stuff into storage for Ellie, I had no idea there’d be so much of it, you know?”
She paused at the top of the stairs. The process server gave her a considering look, then picked up her suitcase and followed her down to the street where they met Tommy coming in.
“Tommy!” Ellie said. “You’re on time for a change. And here I went and got this nice man to help me carry Ellie’s stuff all the way downstairs. Why did you say you wanted to see her again?” she added, turning to the process server.
“I didn’t. It’s…” He looked from her to Tommy, then set the suitcase down. “It’s not that important. If you’re talking to her, tell her I was by.”
“And who do I say the message is from?”
“It’s really not that important,” he repeated, almost mumbling now as he pushed past Tommy and beat a retreat to his car.
“What was that all about?” Tommy asked as they watched him drive away.
“I’m pretty sure he was a process server.”
“Well, he was some bureaucratic lowlife, that’s for sure. What did he want with you?”
“He never said, but I’m guessing the commission I blew off on Saturday really is going to press charges.”
“That sucks. How’d you managed to convince this guy you weren’t, well, who you are?”
“I don’t know. He even caught me coming out of my studio, but I just told him I was apartment-sitting and that ‘Ellie’ had left for Florida and wouldn’t be back until the spring.”
Tommy grinned. “I didn’t know you were such a good bullshitter. I’m going to have to be more careful around you.”
“Oh, please.”
Tommy picked up the suitcase the process server had abandoned. “Come on,” he said. “I want you to meet one of those aunts of mine who don’t exist.”
“Oh, god. You didn’t tell her that, did you?”
“No. But I could.”
Ellie’s heart sank, but Tommy behaved himself and the nervousness she was feeling faded almost as soon as they reached the pickup and she slid onto the seat beside Sunday Creek. Instead of the mysterious old wise woman Ellie had been picturing, all seriousness and pithy sayings and omens, Sunday was a cheerfully good-natured woman who looked a great deal younger than the forty-some years of age she had to be if she was one of Tommy’s aunts. Even sitting she was tall, a serene, broad-faced woman with lustrous black hair. And she had a wicked sense of humor. The whole way out on the drive to Kellygnow she had Ellie giggling with her stories of the rez and the characters that made up her immediate circle of friends and family.
It wasn’t until they pulled up in front of the big house at the top of the hill that was their destination and Ellie was about to get out of the car, that Sunday grew serious. She caught hold of Ellie’s arm and regarded her gravely.
“You will watch out for Tommy, won’t you?” she asked.
Ellie gave her a puzzled look.
“Don’t start, Sunday,” Tommy said.
His aunt ignored him. “I ask you because we can’t always watch over him, what with his living down here in the city so far from home as he does, but you’re close to him, and I know you care for him as much as we do.”
Ellie glanced past Sunday to where Tommy was offering up a “What can you do?” look, but it barely registered. Instead she was thinking how Sunday was right. She did care for Tommy. It wasn’t something she’d ever really stopped and thought about much, but he was like a big brother to her—a big brother she wanted to shake some sense into every once in a while because he could be doing so much more with his life than he was. But that didn’t stop her from caring for him.
“He doesn’t listen to me,” she said, returning her gaze to Sunday.
“That’s not news,” Sunday said. “He doesn’t listen to anybody.”
“Hello?” Tommy broke in. “I’m here, too. You don’t have to talk about me like I’ve stepped out of the cab.”
“The trouble is,” Sunday went on as though he hadn’t spoken, “this turn of the wheel’s taking us into a dangerous time, especially for Tommy, and it would help set our minds at ease to know you were using your medicine to protect him.”
“My what?” Ellie said.
“You’re talking to the wrong person,” Tommy told his aunt. “Ellie doesn’t know mamándá-gashkitówin ondji pate and thinks they’re pretty much both the same thing. Magic from smoke,” he added in English for Ellie’s benefit.
Sunday’s dark, serious gaze remained fixed on Ellie.
“Is this true?” she asked. “With the medicine as potent as it is?”
A strange prickling sensation went up Ellie’s spine, but she remained silent, not knowing what to say. The conversation had taken such an odd and unexpected turn that the ability to use language momentarily fled.
“You really don’t know, do you?” Sunday said after a long moment. “You have no idea how strong the Maker’s gift runs in you.”
She was talking about magic, Ellie realized. Talking about it, but not like Donal or Jilly did, as though it was some mysterious, distant thing. Sunday spoke of it as though it was an everyday part of life, the way she might discuss someone’s health, or the weather.
Ellie cleared her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I don’t really believe in that sort of thing.”
“Ah.”
Just that. No attempt to convince her otherwise. No cataloguing of extraordinary, mysterious occurrences followed with a “So explain that, then,” as Donal would do. None of Jilly’s sad, sympathetic looks, conveying an unspoken but no less understood “You’re missing so much.”
“It’s just not anything I can relate to,” Ellie went on.
“Of course.”
“I mean, it’s not real.”
Sunday smiled. “There’s no need to explain. But will you do this for me? Think positive thoughts of Tommy from time to time. Concentrate on his continued well-being.”
“But…”
“Trust me,” Sunday said. “It will be of great help.”
“Okay. I…”
Ellie glanced at Tommy, caught him grinning.
“It was so nice to finally meet you,” Sunday said.
Ellie returned her gaze to Tommy’s aunt, certain now that she’d been the butt of some obscure joke, but Sunday’s features were guileless, friendly. The curious prickle she’d felt earlier grew stronger, rising up from the base of her spine and spreading out along the roadmap of her nerves. It was a disconcerting, though not altogether unpleasant sensation.
“Um, me, too,” Ellie said. “I mean, it was good to meet you as well.”
“And thank you for humoring me in this.”
“Sure. Well, I should go.”
Sunday clasped one of Ellie’s hands between her own.
“Keep your strength,” she said. “And walk in Beauty.”
Whatever that meant. But Ellie nodded.
“You, too,” she said.
She slipped out of the cab, boots crunching in the snow when she stepped over to the bed of the pickup to get her box of art supplies.
“What was all that about?” Ellie asked as Tommy helped her with her suitcase to the front door.
“Aunt business,” he said. “Weren’t you expecting something like that—if they even turned out to be real?”
“I’d whack you,” she told him, “only my hands are full.”
“Don’t worry,” Tommy said. “My family lives in another world from this one. You’d probably have to be born into it to see what they see.”
“And do you see what they see?”
Tommy nodded, serious for a moment. “I guess,” he said finally. “When I don’t try to pretend that none of it’s real. Why do you think I stay away from the rez? The world’s complicated enough as it is without bringing the world of the spirits into the equation as well.”
That spine tingle grew stronger again, as though trying to tell her something. Tell her what? That everything she thoug
ht she knew about the world was a lie? As if. That was Donal talking.
Tommy put her suitcase down on the steps.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asked.
Ellie nodded.
“Do you need a ride home tonight?”
“No, but we’re on for the van run tonight, aren’t we? Would you mind picking me up here?”
“No problem. It should be a fun night. The weather forecast’s calling for freezing rain.”
“Lovely.”
“Don’t worry. I’m putting my studded tires on the truck this afternoon so we’ll use it if the driving gets too bad. It may not be legal off the rez, but we won’t get stuck. And if the weather’s so bad that if we do need them, nobody’s going to hassle us.”
“Okay. Tell your aunt I’ll think good thoughts your way.”
Tommy laughed and headed back to the pickup.
Ellie waited until he got back in the cab. Tommy and his aunt waved to her and she waved back, then Tommy was backing up, the pickup pulling away. Ellie returned her attention to the house. When she rang the bell, a tall, red-haired woman answered and welcomed her in. Ellie hesitated a moment. She turned to look at where the pickup was making its way back down the steep, icy incline, brake lights flashing red against the snow as Tommy tapped them to slow their descent. The weird prickling still whispered along the length of her spinal column, but fainter now, fading.
Her life, Ellie decided, had gotten much too complicated lately. Thankfully she had this project of Musgrave Wood’s to immerse herself in. With any luck, working on the mask would allow her to forget about everything: the potential lawsuits and strange buzzy feelings, the curious utterances of Tommy’s aunt and all.
2
Miki was trying to learn a Ben Webster solo when the knock came at her door. Staring at a section of Donal’s painting that she’d torn from the ruined canvas, she ignored whoever it was, just as she had the phone that seemed to ring every five minutes, and continued to play. The only thing that was keeping her sane at the moment was immersing herself in an impossible task such as this: trying to recapture Webster’s sweet tone on her button accordion. It kept coming up too Irish, like an air, instead of a sax solo. The problem, she knew, were the instruments, free reed versus blown reed. It was like banging in a nail with a rock. If d work, but a hammer was so much better for the job.
Forests of the Heart Page 23
