A Black Place and a White Place

by Patrice Greenwood

  It was the red-headed guy from the dining hall. He grinned. I looked away.

  The trail crossed a wide, dry riverbed that made me grateful we were not here in flash-flood season, and climbed up the far bank onto a steep hillside. A makeshift wooden ramp, perhaps twenty feet long and covered with asphalt paper, offered dubious assistance for reaching the top of the hill. Tony went up it like a mountain goat. I climbed more slowly, not trusting the footing on what felt like a forty-five degree incline. I was grateful that my boots had a decent tread, or I’d have been slipping.

  Tony reached out a hand as I neared the top, and squeezed my fingers as I joined him. “You good?”

  “Yes,” I said, adjusting my hat, annoyed that I was slightly out of breath. I climbed up and down stairs a lot during business hours, but that long, steep slope was more than I was used to.

  “Good,” Tony said.

  The trail continued upward at a much more reasonable slope, went over the shoulder of the hill, and twined down the far side. Here, away from the river bed, the landscape was more dry, with mostly piñon and juniper. Anything deciduous looked dead at this season.

  Through many more ups and downs, we gradually ascended the mesa. I kept expecting to reach the usual flat-topped bluff crowning cliffs of sandstone or maybe basalt that defined my idea of a mesa. Instead, the trail ran along spines of rock so narrow I had to concentrate on my footing and not give in to the temptation to glance at the surrounding landscape. One wrong step would mean a tumble down a steep, rocky decline.

  At the top of one hill the trail diverged, offering a choice of spines to traverse, and a flat space ten feet or so across where we could stand and rest a moment without risk of vertigo. I looked up at the cliffs to the east, much higher yet than where we stood, a medley of reds, oranges, and golds topped with a dark fringe of evergreens. The bluff toward the north that terminated in Chimney Rock was mostly white, probably composed of tuff that had once been volcanic ash rather than the rich, organic mix of sandstone that had once been a sea-floor.

  I pointed toward the white mesa. “Makes me think of the White Place.”

  Tony gave me a look. Though I couldn’t see his eyes through his shades, the eyebrows displayed skepticism.

  “O’Keeffe’s White Place. One of the places she liked to paint. It’s more to the east, though, I think. But the rock looks similar.”

  “Oh. Are we going to go there?”

  “We could. It isn’t part of Ghost Ranch, but it’s not too far. If we have spare time we could drive over.”

  Unlike the Black Place, which was over a hundred miles to the west and not easily accessible. It might even be on private land. The biography told of O’Keeffe and a friend driving across country in O’Keeffe’s Model-A Ford to camp in solitude at the Black Place. That was decades ago, of course, but I had the impression it was still not reachable by developed roads.

  Tony glanced at the white mesa and took a swig from his water bottle. Reminded, I drank from my own. My father’s hiking advice from years ago echoed: always hydrate, even if you don’t think you need to.

  “Which way?” Tony asked, indicating the branching trail.

  One branch headed eastish, toward the spectacular cliffs, diving steeply and then ascending again. A couple of ridges over I saw three people hiking that way. I looked along the other branch, which was more level and ran southeast. To the south was Pedernal, and a little west of that I saw a glimpse of water—a corner of Abiquiu Lake.

  “Let’s try this one,” I said, preferring the trail that ran more horizontally.

  “Yeah. I think that’s going to connect us with the other end on the map.”

  Tony led off along the new spine. I refrained from admiring the view until we paused again.

  We had reached the broad, flat mesa top I’d been expecting. The ground spread before us, dotted by trees. A ramada stood perhaps fifty yards away, and a dirt road proceeded beyond it. This was the part of Matrimonial Mesa that was actually big enough to accommodate a wedding.

  “OK,” Tony said, nodding toward the ramada. “That must be where people get married. And that road probably connects with the entrance road.”

  I nodded and took a drink of water. “Would have been easier to get here by car,” I remarked.

  “Yeah, but that’s not the point.”

  “True.”

  Driving, we would not have walked across heart-pumping spines of rock, and the landscape would have had less impact through the windows of a car. Also, we would not have had any exercise.

  “I wonder who got married here first,” I mused. “The name must have been because of a wedding.”

  Tony shrugged. “Or a lot of weddings. But you’re right—‘matrimonial’ is a fancy Anglo word. I bet it was the original owner of the ranch.”

  I found myself feeling slightly offended, but let it go. I did have a partiality for fancy Anglo words.

  I strolled toward the ramada, curious. There was no information posted there; it was merely a shelter. Merely a suggestion. Sort of like our engagement—though being here, alone together, was making it all feel a little more real.

  I toyed with the idea of getting married here. The setting could hardly be more magnificent. I wasn’t really interested in a “destination” wedding, but this wasn’t Hawaii or Las Vegas, requiring an expensive hotel stay. Our friends and family could come here for the wedding and be home that night, if they wished.

  But was this stark place, this dusty mesa top, really where I wanted to exchange vows with Tony?

  He stepped into the ramada beside me, slipped his arm around my waist, and surprised me with a kiss.

  “Oh!”

  He grinned. “Just practicing.”

  “Well in that case, allow me to assist.”

  I wrapped my arms around his neck and invited a much more thorough kiss. Tony obliged.

  “Better?” he said after a moment.

  “Yes. But I think you should keep practicing.”

  4

  The sound of a car interrupted us, and we stepped apart instinctively, though it turned out the car wasn’t visible. Probably on the entrance road, down below the mesa.

  “We could walk back on the road,” Tony said.

  “Boring. Let’s go back the way we came.”

  “OK.”

  The sun was warm now, and I tied my superfluous sweater around my hips before we started back for the narrow trails. I had drunk more than half my water, so I began rationing it. Cautious sips. I was starting to get hungry, too. I’d be ready for lunch by the time we got back.

  Tsk. Should’ve brought some nuts, or gorp, and extra water. I could imagine my brother Joe frowning in disapproval.

  Well it was a short hike, and we knew that. And we weren’t the only ones out here. I dismissed phantom Joe back to New York, where he belonged.

  Oh. I’d have to invite him to the wedding.

  I grimaced. His visit at Christmas hadn’t been entirely fun. He’d shown some attitude where Tony was concerned, and while I’d told him in no uncertain terms what I expected in the way of courtesy, I knew that old habits, and old attitudes, die hard.

  Mom would have smoothed things over. I missed her, and wished she and Dad could have come to the wedding.

  “Getting tired?” Tony asked from behind me.

  “Sorry,” I said, picking up my pace. “I was wool-gathering.”

  Shaking away the sadness, I looked up toward the cliffs, their layers of red and gold brilliant in the morning sun. They were easier to admire from this direction, and I could see some of the ranch buildings as well. Other trails crawled all over the hillsides, every which way. I spotted half a dozen other hikers scattered across the mesa on various trails.

  By the time we reached the Staff House, I was ready for a big glass of something cold. We continued past it to the dining hall, where a few early-birds had lined up outside the cafeteria door, which was not yet open. In the dining hall itself, coffee and tea were always
available. We walked on toward our room, and I sighed gratefully to be back inside, out of the sun. I splashed some cold water on my face and brushed my hair, then changed my boots for more comfortable sneakers.

  A loud thump made me look up sharply. Tony was in the bathroom.

  “Was that you?” I called.

  He stepped out, frowning. “No.”

  A tinkle of distant laughter—a woman’s laugh—made the frown deepen.

  I tiptoed (as much as one can in boots) to the doorway of the second room. Outside the window on the south side, several people were listening to a tour guide. Two teens, a boy and a girl, were sitting at one of the patio tables, and the boy was leaning his chair back on two legs. Beyond them, a thin woman with straight, cropped auburn hair and a dour expression looked in through the window at me.

  I pulled the door closed. Henceforth, I’d keep the curtains in that room drawn. I glanced toward the window by our bed. Those curtains were closed, but now I felt self-conscious.

  “We must make the bed,” I said.

  Tony gave me a quizzical look. “You never just throw the covers over it? Even on weekends?”

  “Humor me,” I said, fluffing my pillow.

  With two of us, it was easy to tidy the bed. I didn’t insist on its being picture perfect, but as it was the most comfortable piece of furniture we had, I preferred that it be presentable. When I was satisfied, I picked up my purse and cautiously opened the door. The walking tour had progressed to the library, up the road. Tony and I locked our room and headed for the dining hall.

  The line was now moving, and delicious smells were emanating from the kitchen. Lunch was green chile cheeseburgers, with a veggie burger option. I chose the real thing, and added a salad from the salad bar. Out on the condiments table were two kinds of dessert: chocolate pudding and Jell-o. There was also a soup bar in one corner of the hall that smelled interesting. Wishing there were trays, I served myself a bowl of tortilla soup and promised myself a dessert later. With hands full, I looked for a place to sit.

  The football fan and his family were at the far end of the hall, near the wall of river rock. I could hear Football Fan’s voice over all the other conversations in the room. He was debating the relative merits of the Texans and the Cowboys with the same middle-aged Anglo guy, who today was sporting a Cowboys T-shirt and a ball cap with an American flag on the front, worn backward over his buzz-cut.

  Suppressing a wince at the violation of flag etiquette, not to mention everyday etiquette, I looked at Tony. “Want to sit outside?”

  “Sure.”

  He opened the nearest door for me and I found a shady seat at one of the picnic tables on the long, south-facing portal. In summer time it might be too hot there at midday, but in January it was pretty pleasant. It was also blissfully quiet; the few other people outside kept their voices low.

  Tony sat across from me. I glanced at his orange Jell-o and quirked an eyebrow.

  “Don’t judge,” he said, and spooned up a bite right then.

  “I’m not. Childhood favorite?”

  “Oh, man, we lived on the stuff. Mama made two batches every day in summer time.”

  Jell-o was cheaper than ice cream. I kept that reflection to myself.

  Tony had two sisters. I pictured his mother, a young widow, with two teens and an almost-teen to feed. It must have been tough.

  I went back for a tall glass of iced tea, and picked up a bowl of chocolate pudding on my way back.

  “Do you think your mom might like to do my hair for the wedding?” I said, as I settled in again.

  Tony, who had just taken a huge bite of his burger, chewed thoughtfully for a while. “I know for a fact,” he said when he’d swallowed, “that she’s hoping you’ll ask.”

  “Oh, good. I didn’t want to presume, but I thought ...”

  “Yes. And don’t even suggest paying her. She’d be offended.”

  “Well, OK.”

  The cheeseburgers were tasty enough, though not as good as Blake’s. The soup was excellent. I ate my salad and drank my tea, enjoying the view and the peaceful atmosphere. Apart from the voices of those around me, the chatter of the birds in the trees, and the sound of an occasional car going by on the ranch road, it was beautifully quiet here. I felt myself relaxing. Something tight in my gut—of which I hadn’t been aware—was slowly unwinding. It felt good.

  I had finished my burger, salad, and soup, and was ready for pudding. “Think I’ll get some coffee,” I said. “Want anything?”

  Tony shook his head, mouth full of Jell-o.

  “Be right back.”

  I collected our empty dishes, leaving my pudding behind. Dropping the plates at the dishwashing window, I walked over to the coffee and tea station and encountered Mrs. Football Fan, who was browsing the teabags, pulling out each drawer and inspecting the bags in foil pouches, though the drawers were labeled with the varieties they contained. She was dressed in tight jeans, a pale gold sweater, and a long overshirt printed with black and white zig-zag designs in a vaguely tribal-looking style. She glanced up at me, and I gave her a smile.

  “Not your favorite brand?”

  She did a slight eyeroll. “Not even close,” she said in a low voice. It wasn’t a mumble; her diction was perfect, reinforcing my impression that her education had included substantial “polish.”

  “I’m a tea drinker, myself, usually, but coffee sounded good with chocolate pudding.”

  She turned an interested look on me. “Tea drinker?”

  “Yes,” I said as I filled a mug with coffee. “Actually, I brought a little kettle and some loose tea, so I could make it in my room.”

  “I wish I’d thought of that.” She sighed as she selected a teabag, put it into her cup, and added hot water from the coffee machine. Steam rose from the cup, a good sign—most coffee makers didn’t get water hot enough to brew tea.

  “I could make you some, if you’d like,” I said. “I brought plenty. I’m Ellen, by the way. Ellen Rosings.”

  Again the appraising gaze. “That’s kind of you,” she said, and set down her cup to offer a hand. “Lisette Roan.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking hands. Her grip was feather-light, her skin soft and a bit cold. I noticed her manicure was perfect: a subtly-frosted plum.

  “Is this your first visit to New Mexico?” I asked.

  She hesitated briefly, then said, simply, “Yes.”

  “Well, I hope you’re enjoying it. And I meant it about the tea. I’d be happy to make you some.”

  “Perhaps later.” She gave me a brief smile, then picked up her cup and walked toward the back of the hall.

  Standoffish, or just shy? I knew I sometimes gave the impression of snobbery when I was simply feeling timid. I took my coffee back to the portal, where Tony was looking at his phone.

  “Expecting a call?”

  He looked up as I resumed my seat. “Nah, just killing time.”

  “You’re not bored, are you?”

  “No.” He put the phone down and made a show of admiring the view.

  I ate a bite of pudding. It was made fresh, not spooned from a can, and tasted as wonderful as chocolate pudding could be without being pot de crème. A sip of coffee complemented it nicely.

  “Good food here,” I remarked.

  “Yeah. Not fancy, but good.”

  A burst of shouting from inside the dining hall had Tony on his feet in a second. He went to the nearest window, then his tense stance relaxed.

  “It’s that guy—”

  “Football Fan?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Tony remained at the window, still on half-alert, listening. The voices argued on, but at a lower volume. Finally a stomping tread preceded the emergence of the guy with the execrable flag hat, his face nearly as red as the stripes, from the door at the end of the hall. He continued to the road, where his angry steps raised little puffs of dust.

  Tony’s eyes narrowed as he watched, and I wondered what he was th
inking. Determining the likelihood that the guy was armed? Evaluating risk of violence?

  Sympathizing?

  I sighed, turning back to my dessert. The coffee was now lukewarm, and I drank a big swallow before it got any colder. I savored the last of the pudding, then got up to take my dishes inside.

  Tony came back to the table. “I’ll get that,” he said, taking the pudding bowl and stacking it with his empty Jell-o bowl. He held out a hand for my coffee cup, but I kept it.

  “I’m getting seconds,” I said.

  Tony frowned, opened his mouth, then shut it again and headed into the hall, keeping in front of me.

  Oh, my. Was this chivalry? Kind of gave me a warm feeling.

  I glanced toward the back of the room. Football Fan has settled down, now that his shouting partner was gone. No doubt everyone in the room was relieved.

  I glimpsed his wife—Lisette, I reminded myself—saying something to her son, who was seated beside her. Too far away to read her expression, but her body language was tight, controlled.

  I fetched myself a half-cup of coffee and gulped it down, since Tony was waiting on me. I wanted the caffeine, because I felt inclined to take a siesta, and I knew we didn’t have time.

  “When do we need to check in for the tour?” Tony asked as we headed back to our room.

  “Twelve forty-five.”

  Roughly half an hour. The bus would pick us up at the Georgia O’Keeffe Welcome Center by the Abiquiu Inn. The drive over there wouldn’t take long; we had a few minutes to relax. I sat on the bed and glanced at my phone in case there were any urgent messages. There weren’t, so I put it down and lay back. Then I got up, went to the Room of Many Chairs and closed all the curtains before returning to the bed.

  Tony took out his phone and looked at it, then glanced at me and put it back in his pocket. He started pacing the room. I watched him for a minute, then decided to offer him some diversion.

  “Want to go a little early and look at the gift shop?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  I collected the tickets I had printed out, tucked them into my purse, and decided to leave my sweater behind. It was a pleasant day, and we’d be inside for a lot of the tour. My long-sleeved shirt would be warm enough.