Trust Me

by Richard Z. Santos

  “And now the Apaches,” she said with an air of finality.

  Jan’s eyes caught on something over Charles’ shoulder, and her energy drained away. Diana Salazar had walked in. Brief, unpleasant surprise flashed on her face when she saw Charles and Jan—only to be quickly folded and put away.

  “Well, Charles,” Salazar said. “You know how to make the social rounds, I see. Hi, Janice.”

  “Hello, Diana. Don’t worry. I’m keeping my hands to myself.”

  “Jan was going to tell me about the paintings,” Charles said.

  “Another time, perhaps. I’ll leave you two to discuss your work. I will take that dinner date soon, dear.”

  Jan tilted her head gently and made her way deeper into the gallery, now looking much older and more unsteady on her feet.

  “You meet the most interesting people, don’t you?” Salazar asked.

  “When will Mrs. Branch arrive?”

  “Which one?” Salazar flicked her eyes at Janice’s back. “You were just speaking with the first.”

  Charles almost spilled his champagne. “Jan? Janice? At Olivia’s show?”

  “Janice goes to everything.” Salazar’s voice had a touch of disgust. “Small town, lots of people do, but she comes to stuff like this to get under Cody’s skin. It works. She’s about the only one that can do it. Not even the current Mrs. Branch has that effect on him. You speak with her long?” Salazar did not look at him when she asked.

  “No, not really. She asked about the airport, but I didn’t say anything. She said her name was Chávez.”

  “She took back her family name after taking Cody’s first million or so.”

  The questions, the smiles, what had Janice wanted from him?

  “With that red hair she doesn’t look like a Chávez,” Charles said.

  Salazar nodded very gently and took a deep breath through her nose. It was her talking-to-a-child face. “Yes, well there are all sorts of stories out here, aren’t there?”

  Charles grabbed another glass of champagne off a passing tray.

  SIXTEEN

  OLIVIA AND CODY sat in the back of the town car. She looked into a small mirror, too nervous to even see herself, but needing to keep her hands busy. Cody wanted to wait until the right moment. He would stare at the doors, clock the people going into the gallery, then, when he was ready, they would make their entrance. Olivia waited.

  Finally, he grunted and reached for the door. She stepped out of the car, holding the loose fabric of her dress in one hand. She would not let Cody ruin tonight.

  Some of these paintings had traveled to Chicago and back with her. Others started as sketches she had first drawn in high school. Her first show by herself would also be her last as Olivia Branch. The paintings were good. Most of them. She knew maybe three or four would have been left out of a show at an impartial gallery, but she had earned this. Selling a few canvasses tonight would be enough to get another show on her own.

  Cody muscled through the gallery door ahead of her.

  “Okay, okay folks. Make way, the artiste is here.”

  A circle formed in the middle of the gallery. Cody lifted Olivia’s hand and walked her into the center.

  For a second, and only a second, she felt like it was her show. Like these people were here to see her and her work. Then, Cody slithered his arm around her waist and pulled her against him with a comic oomph. She crawled inside herself and set up a fence thin enough that no one could see.

  “Can she throw that paint around or can’t she? I can’t understand a damn thing about them,” Branch yelled. “But people like what she does, so I tell her to keep pumping them out.”

  She looked down at her shoes. From that angle, only the tips were visible under the long, black dress. Most of her paintings were black, and she wanted to look like she could glide right into the canvas.

  The crowd laughed, looking so pleased under the soft lights. She knew her photo op smile looked convincing because she had years of practice. Olivia took a step forward, and Cody’s arm caught for a second on her waist.

  “Thank you so much for your support,” she said.

  The crowd went silent, maybe surprised the wife could speak.

  “I’ve been working on these paintings for a long time. They’re about me. They’re about New Mexico. And that means they’re also about each of you. I want to thank Morningrise Gallery for helping me select the right canvasses and for giving me this chance. Thank you for being here.”

  The crowd clapped. Olivia smiled. Most of them were strangers but that was fine. They were here and they would look at her work, and her work would curl up somewhere inside them, and that was the point.

  Cody disappeared into the crowd. Olivia saw Jan leaning against a table in the corner, a little drunk, and not even trying to hide her disgust. She saw Charles towards the back, looking like he’d seen his crush holding someone else’s hand. She avoided eye contact with both of them.

  Olivia had resolved not to let herself get stuck in conversations that were actually meant for Cody. A lobbyist wanting to talk about reforming commercial zoning laws, she thanked him and walked away. An accountant talking about the services he could offer, she thanked him and walked away. A reporter wanting an update on the airport, she thanked him and walked away. Each dodged conversation made her feel better than the last.

  Only a handful of people seemed to really engage with the paintings. Olivia basked in their time together, luxuriating in conversations about brush strokes and her inspirations. She gave these people everything. Whenever Mallon came over and delivered a message from her husband—almost always a call to join in a conversation that could make him money—she dismissed him in favor of a curator, an art collector and even a few lost tourists excited to be speaking with a real, live Santa Fe artist.

  In Española, Olivia was always the girl who could draw better than everyone else. Her dad worked two jobs, three if you counted drinking, so Olivia had time to herself. She filled sketchbooks, designed the yearbook cover, the homecoming banners, dance posters, all the little graphics that gave her school an identity. Back then, she had no idea nights like this were even possible. She thought artists drew cartoons for the newspaper and, if they were lucky, designed fast food cups. Andrea’s mom showed her this world existed and spent years convincing Olivia she could make it. She looked around the gallery. This is what making it looked like, she supposed.

  Olivia checked in with the gallery owner. They had sold three paintings. Not a huge splash, but three was her goal.

  Charles was still in the corner. She took pity on him.

  His eyes went too wide, his smile too big as she approached. Olivia paused, tilted her head a fraction of an inch, just enough to send a warning. Charles wiped his mouth. For this to work, to even come close to working, they needed to be strangers.

  She touched her glass to his. “There’s so much champagne in this city, I love it.”

  Charles glanced around the room. “So am I living in your guest house? Your party cottage?”

  She laughed, a loud social laugh.

  “He writes me a check, a big one, and I get to play house. Most get rented out to tourists, but you’re stuck in that one. Sometimes, I have a little party before they go on the market. Kind of thrilling to think about families from California moving into a house that a few days earlier was filled with my drunken, debaucherous friends.”

  “Well, there’s no family there now, just me.”

  “Just you?” She smiled. “And your wife.”

  Charles folded one hand over the other, hiding his ring. His eyes darted around the room, and Olivia knew he was scanning for Cody or Diana. He was still a flirt who enjoyed playing the game more than the victory.

  “I don’t know how to do this. Everyone’s watching you,” he said.

  Olivia made eye contact with a different gallery owner over Charles’ shoulder, gave a big-toothed smile and twinkled her fingers at him.

  Charles marvele
d. “You used to hate crowds like this. Now, you’re really good at them. That wave. That was meant for someone you have no intention of actually speaking with.”

  “It was the person who Cody pressured into showing some of my paintings a few years ago. He hated them, and he was right, most of them were crap.”

  “Your husband’s quite the patron.”

  “Watch your tone,” Olivia warned. “We can talk about everything my husband is and isn’t, but not here.”

  Olivia noticed Jan push away from her table in the corner and make a straight line their way. Time to cut Charles loose.

  “I see my husband speaking with the governor of San Miguel Pueblo. I imagine I should put in a good word. I do hope you’re enjoying the property.”

  Charles nodded. “It’s lovely. You’ll have to tell me more about some of the architecture, the design details.”

  “Yes, maybe soon. I do have a key.”

  As Olivia turned away, Jan, stinking of the liquor she had been slipping into her champagne glass, brushed her arm. Was it a warning? Or a signal that she had her back? Maybe both.

  Olivia avoided Charles the rest of the night. They had connected. He was interested. God help her, she wanted to see him again too.

  SEVENTEEN

  AFTER LEAVING THE PIG, Gabe went home and stashed the money in a bowl in a kitchen cabinet. It was not much money. But it was a start.

  He tried calling some friends, but no one answered. He left voicemails asking for work, but after three calls, he got embarrassed and wished he could go back and delete the messages. As the day wore on, Gabe paced around the house and only felt calm when he sat at the card table in Micah’s room.

  He tried to squeeze out another sentence in his letter to Micah. There were too many unanswered questions. Did Dad find peace at the end? Where was his mother?

  Gabe shook his head. He needed to get out of the house.

  He remembered Rose’s text message. The thought of calling her back made him nervous. A tight, fluttering drum beat behind his breastbone, which he could not blame on the cancer.

  Gabe spent ten minutes standing next to his bike, smoking cigarettes and looking at her orange living room curtains. It was dusk before he got up the nerve to knock.

  Johnny answered the door. Rose’s kid had bulked up and was taller than Gabe but with a thin joke of a mustache.

  “Mom, your stalker finally knocked,” Johnny announced over his shoulder.

  He returned to a recliner and un-muted the TV, leaving Gabe in the doorway. Rose came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.

  “We heard your bike, you know. I thought you’d leave after a few minutes but Johnny said you’d knock. Now I owe him five bucks. Thanks a lot, Gabe.”

  She waved him in. On the TV, someone in a white lab coat was pointing lasers at a skeleton.

  “Wait, should I go to my room?” Johnny asked without taking his eyes off the TV. “I can, you know, if y’all are going to be gross.”

  Rose threw the dishtowel at his chest. “Such a smartass. What do you think, Gabe? Should he go? Are we gross?”

  Gabe tugged at his jacket. “No, no, I’m just swinging by.”

  Her house was small and overflowing with furniture and lamps. He loved it. Religious paintings covered one wall: an angel tilling a field for a praying farmer, Guadalupe appearing to men on horseback in the mountains, adobe churches that radiated light into the desert. On another wall, there were photos, mostly of Rose and Johnny with the kid’s father popping up here and there, looking more strung-out in every picture.

  They sat on a couch angled away from the TV. Gabe’s back was to the screen but he could see the light flicker over Rose’s face. His whole life, Gabe had always thought he was comfortable anywhere, with anyone, but now he was fidgeting. Johnny sat in his recliner, looking like a dad ready to strike if Gabe tried anything.

  “So, how’s your week been?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she said. “We went out to dinner tonight. That was nice.”

  “That’s good, real good.”

  Johnny muted the commercials, sinking the room into silence. When Gabe exhaled through his nose he thought it sounded like a tornado. He made eye contact with Johnny, but both turned away.

  Rose smiled and rubbed her hands together as if they were aching. She kept running her thumbs over her fingertips, nails painted bright red.

  “Want something to drink? Think I’ve got some beer.”

  Gabe nodded and followed her through an archway into the kitchen.

  He whispered, “Hey, Rosie, you know there’s no way I would have acted that way last night if my head was right. I’ve been trying to do something for my kid, and it’s running me raw.”

  “You were dark, mean.”

  “Today’s different. I’m starting to see how I actually want everything to be. I got some news that changed how I…”

  “Oh my god!” Rose screamed. “Johnny, the news. Show Gabe the news video. I can’t believe we forgot.”

  She rushed out of the kitchen and play-slapped her son on the shoulder. “Show him already.”

  Johnny rustled in his pocket for his phone, the action reminding Gabe of the teenager with the knit cap digging for his wallet.

  “It’s like you’re two different people,” Rose said. “That’s why I forgot. Like, the one on the news was someone else, and you’re just you.”

  “Man, I figured you’d already talked about that,” Johnny said. “It’s some funny shit.”

  Rose pushed a finger into the side of Johnny’s head. “Funny stuff. I said ‘stuff.’”

  Rose smiled at Gabe. “Have people been giving you a hard time about this?” He shook his head, not knowing what she meant.

  Rose laughed and bounced up and down like a kid. “Why didn’t you say you were on the news? Someone could have pulled it up at Angie’s.”

  “I just forgot. I’ve had a lot going on.”

  “Did you find it?” she asked. Johnny nodded.

  “Okay, well, you know the interview they ran last night and this morning?”

  Gabe smiled at Rose’s happiness. “No,” he said with a laugh. “There were reporters at the site, but I didn’t know what was happening.”

  “Okay, well come look at this. I went and bought the paper today because it was so weird.”

  She turned to a side table near the door and pulled a newspaper out from under her purse.

  Geronimo’s Bones Found in Secret New Mexico Grave?

  There were pictures of the pit where the bones were found and of serious men standing in a line on the construction site.

  “I was there when they found the bones.”

  “Yeah, I know, everyone knows. They mention you in the paper. They say you guys dug up Geronimo. On the news, they said the Apaches want the whole land. That it’s theirs.”

  He scanned the article.

  “Am I in trouble?” he asked. “Are these guys going to come to me to pay for this?”

  Rose shook her head and kept smiling. “No, no, no. That’s someone else’s problem. Johnny, explain how this video thing works.”

  He turned towards Gabe and Rose and sighed like he was explaining water to a fish.

  “Here, look, I found a video that combines all three. I don’t even know when someone had time to do this. The remix has only been up for a few hours.”

  Gabe started to sweat. People had been talking about him, looking at him.

  “Wait,” Rose said. “Let me get us our beer.”

  “Mom, can I have a sip of yours?” Johnny yelled.

  “A sip!” Rose said from the kitchen. “You hear that, Gabe? Boy thinks he’s slick and pretends he just wants a sip.”

  She walked back in with two beers and handed one to Gabe.

  “Go get your own,” she said to Johnny. “I’m not serving you beer until you get a job.”

  Johnny scrambled out of the recliner and into the kitchen. “Only one,” Rose said after him. “You sure move
fast when you want something.”

  Gabe pictured Johnny and Micah watching TV, slapping each other on the arms at the funny parts. Did Micah drink beer yet? That was a thing a father should know. Johnny would be the older friend that intimidated Micah. The kind that handed him a beer, then laughed when the kid hated the taste.

  “Okay.” Johnny sat back down. “So the news only showed like two seconds of your interview. Then, late last night, the station posted the entire interview to YouTube. The extended cut or something, you know?”

  Gabe did not know.

  “And . . .” Johnny smiled and cleared his throat. “It’s pretty funny, you just seem real freaked. And that shit took off. People all over started watching it and commenting. Like from around the world. Everywhere. Then, someone, you know, remixed it. You. Remixed you.”

  “Show him,” Rose said. “Poor guy looks like a ghost.” She put her hand on Gabe’s arm.

  “Right.” Johnny handed Rose his phone. “Just hit play. But don’t read any messages I get.”

  Johnny turned back to the TV, and Rose pulled Gabe into the corner. She touched the screen and the video started.

  It was him. At the construction site, hunched over his bike, but he was boxed in by the logo for the station and his name. Along the top of the screen were the words: “Geronimo’s Secret?” The first clip lasted just a second. He looked scared and all he said was “Luna. I’m Luna.” Then it cut to other interviews and a reporter explaining the story.

  There was another second of black, then it was the full recording.

  No wonder the news only showed him saying his name. Nothing else made any sense. He made a joke about shouting Geronimo when you jump out of a plane. Then he mentioned being high on the reservation with Jefe. Then, after a mention of Geronimo, Gabe curses and peels out. For a second, the camera pans to catch him speeding away like a criminal. It was less an interview and more a crazy man rambling and answering questions no one had asked. Gabe worried Micah had seen this.

  Rose looked concerned, like the surprise party had given the birthday boy a heart attack. “Okay, so that was bad, but trust me, this next part’s good.”