She blinked at him. “Well, some folks say they hear voices outside the house at night. But I’ve never heard them.” She looked at me. “Don’t worry, nothing dramatic’s ever been reported.”
“Oh,” I said. “Good.”
Tony gave me an amused glance. “Think the Captain’ll be jealous?”
I shot him a repressive look, and tucked the map into my pocket.
We returned to the car for a drive that was extremely short indeed. In fact, we might as well have walked, but it was better to park close to our room, which turned out to be on the north end of the Ghost House. The south end was lit by a bright porch light illuminating a charming courtyard inside an adobe wall. A hand-carved wooden sign on the portal labeled it “GHOST HOUSE” in spooky lettering, and another sign nearby announced, “ALWAYS OPEN.”
This gave me dubious feelings about our privacy. However, the door to our room was around the other end of the building, unassuming and easy to overlook. It was guarded by two gigantic cottonwoods, and marked with another hand-carved sign that said “STEP DOWN” (no handicapped access, apparently). The imposing keypad lock was the only comparatively modern-looking thing about the place. Tony punched in the code, and we carried our bags inside, dutifully stepping down the four inches from the threshold to the floor.
We found ourselves in a small bedroom with a double bed, on which two sets of towels had been left. Adjacent was a tiny bathroom. A wooden dresser stood against the wall opposite the bed. I opened a second door to the left, hoping for a closet, and instead finding another room, similar-sized, containing nine mismatched straight-backed chairs and no table. The chairs were obviously stashed here for storage purposes, although they were arranged in a circle around the room and could have been used for a small meeting. This room had two windows overlooking the walled courtyard to the south and the road to the east, and a small kiva fireplace in one corner, its opening blocked by a particle board insert. No fires allowed, probably at the insistence of some insurance company. Both rooms featured fairly simple and rather dated Southwestern décor, and were haunted by that familiar dusty smell that inhabits old buildings. A polite note on the dresser reminded us that there was no maid service.
A bit rustic, yes.
There was an ancient tube television in the room with the chairs, which surprised me, as the website had indicated there were no televisions. A small sign taped to the bottom of the box stated that DVDs were available from the library, and I saw that the TV had a built-in player. Curious, I switched it on, and was rewarded with a screen full of snow.
“You want the top two drawers or the bottom two?” Tony called from the bedroom.
“Top, please.”
I went back there to stow my clothes in the dresser. I had brought a nice dress for our fancy dinner on Sunday. I found a hook on the back of the bathroom door and hung it there. Once I was unpacked, I sat on the bed and lifted the curtain to look out the window, the bottom of which was barely two feet above the level of the ground outside; the building was partially bermed into a hillside. Or maybe the hillside had gradually begun to swallow the old house. Through the window I saw the bases of the two cottonwoods, and just beyond them, a deer, grazing contentedly, bathed in moonlight.
“Tony!” I called, sotto voce.
He joined me, and we watched the deer until it ambled away, hidden by the trees. Bright lights marked other buildings to the east, and the moonlight illuminated the road that led to them. I took out my map and identified the Agape Worship Center, the Library, and the Dining Hall, where we’d be served the breakfast that was included with our room, and additional meals for a modest fee.
Perhaps the most interesting thing about this place was the silence.
Santa Fe wasn’t a booming city, but it did have traffic noise and whatnot at a low level most of the time. Ghost Ranch, well away from the highway and miles from the nearest village, was absolutely still.
I liked it. The feeling took me back to summer camp, where I’d first encountered the vast quietude of New Mexico’s mountains. There’d been a river running past our cabin at camp; I could almost imagine hearing it, though there was no river here.
Tony went into the bathroom. I stretched out on my back on the bed and closed my eyes, listening to the quiet. After a moment, a high-pitched yipping, in multiple voices, commenced in the distance, barely audible. A thrill went down my spine; this was a sound I hadn’t heard in years. Coyotes, greeting the moon.
That took me away from summer camp and into the national parks, camping out with Joe and our parents. The coyote calls had sent me crawling into Mom’s sleeping bag, shivering at the alien sound.
Tony came out of the bathroom. I opened my eyes and sat up, gesturing for him to be quiet and listen. He did so, while the ancient plumbing settled down. After a minute he smiled slowly.
“Like on Tio’s ranch,” he whispered.
I nodded understanding. Tony sat next to me and slid his arms around my waist, nuzzling my neck. The skirling cries stopped, then after a minute they started up again, farther away, just on the edge of hearing.
Tony started kissing my neck, and I stopped hearing the coyotes.
Light, indirect and muted, disturbed my sleep. Gradually I woke to an unfamiliar space. Smells of not-my-laundry soap and old-building conflicted with the comfortable smell of Tony. I relaxed, enjoying the warmth of his embrace, letting go of the puzzling place until eventually I remembered. We were at Ghost Ranch.
Tony was awake, I realized. He was holding too still to be asleep. I slid my hand under his shoulder, which set him in motion, kissing me hungrily, sliding limbs languourously. He unceremoniously moved me where he wanted me, then made delicious love to me until we were both sated.
I became aware of a bird singing outside, somewhere nearby. Tony’s stomach gurgled as if in reply.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Mm-hm.”
I kissed his collar-bone, which happened to be within reach. He kissed my forehead, then rolled out of bed and plodded into the bathroom. I heard the shower turn on.
Sighing contentedly, I stretched, then got up and fetched my robe from the dresser. The air was chilly, making me wish I’d thought to bring slippers as well. I pulled on a pair of socks (I’d brought extras of those), and peeked through the curtains, looking for the bird, but didn’t spot it.
I showered while Tony dressed, then we walked up the dusty road to the dining hall for breakfast. The view beyond the (admittedly rustic) buildings was spectacular. To the north, a high mesa ended abruptly, with a pair of stone pillars of white rock, carved by wind and rain, standing just to the left of the main cliff. One pillar was a bit larger than the other. I was certain that every male who saw that pillar had specific thoughts about what it resembled, hopefully private. Tony kept his private, for which I was grateful.
We’d been directed to enter the dining hall by a small door on the north, which turned out to lead to a cafeteria style food line. We turned in our breakfast tickets and helped ourselves to scrambled eggs and toast. There was also oatmeal, cold cereal, and a yogurt bar. The food wasn’t fancy but it looked fresh and well-prepared. Emerging into the dining hall proper, Tony and I discovered a long, tall table bearing assorted condiments, where we ladled green chile sauce over our scrambled eggs. We found seats at one of the long dining tables set diagonally across the room, each formed from three or four large rectangular tables. Except for the diagonal placement, this arrangement also rang summer camp bells.
The room was big enough to host a couple hundred people, I thought, though not all of the space was filled, and stacks of chairs and folded tables against the wall at the far end implied a full house was not expected. The dining tables currently set up would seat at least fifty, but there were nowhere near that many in the hall. There might not be that many visitors here in January.
The east end of the hall featured a massive floor-to-ceiling wall of river rock, which totally overshadowed the actually-not-sma
ll fireplace set into its center. To the south, the cinder block walls were interrupted at intervals by tall windows that let in a flood of daylight, softening the otherwise industrial look of the hall. Interspersed with the windows were several doors leading out to a large covered portal, where picnic tables provided extra seating. Too cold now, but might be nice at lunchtime.
“I didn’t see any napkins,” Tony said, putting down his plate next to mine. I gestured toward the paper towel racks at intervals along the table.
“Oh,” he said. “A bit rustic.”
“Yeah.”
“Coffee,” Tony added, and got up, making a beeline for the drinks counter against the kitchen wall. Racks of mugs and glasses stood beside a variety of machines for dispensing juice, water, and of course, coffee. I waited until he got back, then went over to investigate the array myself.
No tea, no milk. Very rustic. But wait—there was cold cereal on the cafeteria line. There had to be milk.
I looked around until I spotted a second, smaller drinks station in between two of the windows on the south wall. This had a coffee machine and a small refrigerator with cartons of milk (including non-dairy milk), half-and-half, and cream. On the other side of a partition were a rack of mugs and a small metal chest of drawers, like a modern apothecary chest, containing a fairly decent selection of teas, albeit in teabags. Conventional black teas, chais, herbals—not bad, but I had brought a small electric kettle and some leaf tea with me, so I could make myself a decent cuppa later on. I would have to borrow a mug from the dining hall, as there were none in our room. Meanwhile, I opted for coffee with a generous dollop of cream.
Tony was tucking into his eggs when I returned. I was hungry, too. I spread jam on my toast, looking around the hall at the other visitors.
There were perhaps two dozen of us, not counting those still in the cafeteria line. Most were Anglos, and most of these looked like out-of-staters. Something about the way they carried themselves, and the way they dressed, just said “not New Mexican.”
The handful of Hispanics, on the other hand, were probably locals. Maybe some were employees of the ranch. Some wore casual business attire, others wore jeans and denim or flannel shirts, making them look more like ranch hands.
I noticed two men sitting together—a white guy with curly red hair and a stubbly beard, and a younger, wiry Hispanic guy. Both were dressed in jeans and long-sleeved, western-style shirts. The white guy caught me looking at him and leered back. I glanced away.
A family seated in the next row of tables to ours—mother, father and son about ten or twelve years old—were the only African Americans in the hall. The mother caught my interest; her casual clothes were rather stylish, and she moved with a grace that said “finishing school.” Her son was slightly pudgy and glued to his phone. The father was large, equally pudgy, and loud. He wore a leather tour jacket with “Texans” across the back in wide, block letters, with a logo resembling a stylized, red-white-and-blue bull’s head. I’d never seen that logo, but then, I didn’t follow football. If I hadn’t observed them interacting, I would not have paired him with his elegant wife, who shot him a repressive glance as he complained about the lack of televisions in the dining hall. The large cluster of diamonds set in gold flashing on her left hand attested to her husband’s prosperity, if not his taste.
Or was I wrong in assuming it was his prosperity, and not hers? I had trouble imagining why an elegant and independently wealthy woman would marry such a man. An elegant woman in need of support, however . . .
“I give ’em two years, tops,” Tony said, mopping up the last of his chile with a piece of toast.
“Oh?” I was surprised by the comment. Tony didn’t often voice such opinions.
“He doesn’t respect her. Want more coffee?” He stood up, mug in hand.
“No, thanks. I think I’ll make some tea back in the room.”
“We’re hiking, remember.”
“I remember.”
“When’s the studio tour?”
“After lunch. One o’clock. Shall we do the walking tour, if we’re back in time?”
“Mm.” He sauntered off toward the coffee urn.
I glanced at my watch. Not yet nine, and I wouldn’t mind waiting to hike until it got a bit warmer. I could take or leave the walking tour.
Loud, male voices drew my attention. The black dad was in a quasi-friendly dispute over football with a broad-shouldered white guy in a crisp, green-and-white Western shirt and jeans that looked new. Not caring much about football, I carried my plate and mug to the dishwashers’ station and joined Tony.
“I think I’ll go back to the room and make that tea.”
“I’ll come with you,” Tony said. “We can look at the trail map and pick out a hike.”
He chugged his coffee in three impressive pulls, then took the mug to the washing counter as we passed on our way to the exit. Reminded that I needed a mug, I darted to the coffee bar to snag a clean one. The football dispute was getting louder and less friendly. The nattily-dressed white guy had somehow increased his shoulder breadth and begun to resemble a bull, and his gaze was becoming a glare. The “Texans” fan grinned and kept goading, enjoying the other’s irritation. I glanced around, looking for the elegant wife, but didn’t see her or the son.
Outside, the only argument was between a couple of jays up in the cottonwoods. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Maybe the Abiquiu Inn would have been worth the extra expense. I hadn’t counted on fellow guests making life uncomfortable. Wasn’t this the sort of place one visited to get away from things like football?
Back at the Ghost House, Tony got out the hiking map while I made tea. I chose to do this in the Room of Many Chairs, where my kettle and tea things would be out of the way. The only electrical plug was the one into which the old TV was plugged. I unplugged it, skeptical of the integrity of its gently-desiccating cord, and plugged in my travel kettle, which I’d filled from the sink. I chose a chair with a solid wood, mostly-flat seat to serve as my table, on which I arranged all the tea things.
I had brought two kinds of tea: Darjeeling and Assam. I went for the Darjeeling, wanting something lighter after the coffee. I poured a mug, added a bit of sugar, then covered the teapot with a cozy and carried my mug to the bedroom, where I joined Tony on the bed, which was still unmade.
Oh, yes. We’d have to deal with that. An opportunity to create policy for future shared housework.
“This is the trail for Chimney Rock,” Tony said, pointing at a dotted line that meandered off westward on the map. “I assume that’s the big rock pillar we saw. Might be a bit steep.”
“Shall we hike in the other direction?”
“Okay.” He peered at the map again. “Interesting name on this one.”
He pointed to a trailhead that on the east side of the map, labeled “Matrimonial Mesa.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, of course, we must hike there.”
Tony glanced up at me with a grin. I leaned back and sipped my tea.
“We could elope,” he said blandly.
“Nat would throttle me. She’s already designated herself my substitute parent. She’s looking forward to making a big fuss.”
Tony grimaced slightly.
“And then there’s Gina. She’s my maid of honor, and if I skip out on her, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“It was just a thought,” Tony said. “I’m gonna change my shoes.”
I fetched myself a second cup of tea, then watched while he put on a pair of battered hiking boots. “Did Angela tell you she’s going to be my bridesmaid?” I asked.
“Uh-huh. Thanks for asking her. She’s jazzed.”
“She called me something ... mieta?”
“Probably ‘manita’.”
“Yes, that was it. What does it mean?”
“It means sister, kind of.”
“I thought sister was hermana.”
“Yeah, manita is kind of like sister and best buddy r
olled into one.”
“Aww!” I felt myself blushing. “I’m honored. I really like Angela.”
“She likes you too. You done?”
I finished the last swallow of tea. “Yes. Let me wash up.”
“You remember your boots?”
“Yes. Both kinds.”
Hiking boots for this morning, boots with a heel for the trail ride. I didn’t have actual cowboy boots, but I had some high-rise leather boots with a half-inch heel, which was the important thing. A heel to keep the foot from slipping through the stirrup, and a shoe sturdy enough (one hoped) to protect the foot should a horse’s hoof happen to come down on it.
Ah, summer camp memories! I was happy to recall being told that horses actually dislike stepping on humans. (Too squishy.)
When I had tidied and put away my tea things, I put on a pair of thick socks and my hiking boots. Tony, impatient to go, began scrolling through something on his phone. I grabbed a sweater; stuffed my phone, wallet, and keys into the pockets of my jeans; and picked up my water bottle and hat.
“OK,” I said, joining Tony by the door.
We stepped out into a beautiful morning. The early chill had faded, and the sky was a brilliant turquoise above sandstone cliffs to the north, and east, and the more distant bluffs to the west. To the south, beyond the highway and Abiquiu Lake, was the mesa called Cerro Pedernal, made famous by O’Keeffe’s many paintings of it.
Birds chattered and argued in the trees as we headed back toward the dining hall, then struck east across an open field. I put on my hat—a plain, round, brimmed one of black straw—to ward off the bright winter sun. Tony had donned a Capital High Jaguars gimme hat and shades. He pulled the hiking map out of his back pocket, and consulted it to learn where we needed to go to find the right trailhead.
The map showed only the start and end of the Matrimonial Mesa trail, and they were some distance apart. Who knew what might go on between them? The starting point was behind a long, dorm-like building marked “Staff House” on the map. As we headed around one end of it, a man in a western shirt, chaps over jeans, and a cowboy hat came out of one of the doors.
A Black Place and a White Place Page 5