But her home was buried under ash.
They’d stopped talking and were staring at her, their faces mirrors of each other’s, in both appearance and gravity. “Mujer, I need to show you something else.”
He handed Malia the rock baby, then stepped over the hole in the threshold and left the house again as when he’d gone for the shovel.
Calliope glanced at Malia and the rock baby, feeling not grief—but revulsion and anger. If Bisabuela or the Spirits had guided her to this place, what was the joke? What was she missing?
Chance returned with another volcanic rock, larger than the rock baby in Malia’s hands, pocked with holes, more like pumice than basalt, and grayer, less black. It curved inward in the middle like a bean. Calliope sighed. Had he gotten it from the yard? A piece of landscaping? Was he showing her that the women of his clan had replaced Calliope’s baby with a garden rock? That this was a sick joke? Where had they buried her real child? Outside in the yard like an animal?
He said nothing, so she took the bait. “What’s this?”
“I found it in the back of Mara’s truck, under the tarp, when I went for the trowel.”
“Yeah, so?”
He sighed. “It was in the place I left your friend’s body, where she should have been.”
Calliope stared blankly, a numbness tingling her limbs and fingers. She stared from his inscrutable face to the rock in his hands, to the rock in Malia’s hands. “You’re telling me not only has my baby turned into a rock, but now Amy too?” She was shuddering with rage. She’d been right about him. He had been a trickster all along. His family was the Coyote clan, for good reason. “Has Mara turned into a rock too? Is that what you were going to say next? What about Eunjoo and I? Are we turning into rocks?” She shoved her hand into the air, mock inspecting it. “Just checking for signs of petrification. Does it look like frostbite? Or would I feel it coming on like flu?” She thought of Susana’s suicide note, turned to stone. But it couldn’t be. It didn’t make sense. It was a metaphor. Reina was a flesh-and-blood human like Amy had been, like the corn girl’s twin. Calliope had seen the sonogram. She’d felt two heartbeats. And rocks didn’t have hearts. She pushed the thought of the suicide note out of her mind. Focused instead on her anger and confusion.
Chance turned toward Malia, who handed him the rock baby. He spoke softly in Zuni and she shook her head. He spoke again, more persistent. She turned toward Calliope, her expression pained. Then she left the room without another word. Calliope wished they’d quit speaking Zuni in front of her—what secrets were they keeping from her? Chance set both rocks on a small table in the corner, then sat beside Calliope, legs crossed. She glared at him, her anger palpable between them. He sighed.
“Mujer, I know you’re in shock, and to say you’ve been through a lot in the past few days would be a gross understatement. I also know you’re a fellow scientist and that you reason with your intellect what you read in books and only believe what experiential data you find in the world around you when it fits into the mold of that intellect, those books. When it conforms to the process of those who’ve taught you how to think. You’re not of my people, and you don’t know our ways. So I won’t fault you for the disrespect you’ve shown, speaking to me that way in front of my mother, when she has just saved your life and your child’s.” He nodded toward the corn girl, and Calliope’s throat filled with cotton, the anger dissipating, clouding instead into shame. She wanted to apologize for speaking so harshly in front of his mother. She’d risked their facade of marriage and family by treating him as someone she mistrusted and derided rather than someone she loved. But before she could say anything, he said, “I need to tell you a story.” She closed her eyes and sighed. He wasn’t deterred by her apparent disinterest, but continued in his lilting storyteller’s voice:
“In Tewa, there once was a young woman who never wanted to marry and instead lived with her parents and helped her mother make water jars. One day while her mother was away fetching water and the young woman was mixing the clay with her foot, she put the clay onto a flat stone and stepped on it, hard, and some of the clay entered her. She became pregnant and gave birth. The mother’s anger at her daughter’s pregnancy ended when she saw what the daughter had birthed: not a regular child but a little water jar.
“The young woman cried and cried because he had no legs or arms, but after a time, the family grew fond of the little jar and found they could feed him through the jar mouth and soon he grew larger and could play with the other children, though he was a jar. When the snow came he asked his grandfather to take him hunting, and though the grandfather was reluctant, he gave in and took him down below the mesa where he could roll around to find jackrabbits. Soon Water Jar Child saw tracks and rolled after them, but when he found the jackrabbit, it began to chase him, and he rolled into a rock, breaking open.
“Out jumped a flesh child, glad his skin had broken. He had beads around his neck, earstrings of turquoise, a dance kilt and moccasins, and a buckskin shirt. He killed four jackrabbits before sunset.
“He came upon a spring where a man was fishing, and the man introduced himself as the boy’s father. The boy didn’t think he had a father because his mother had told him so. But the man took Water Jar Child to a village across the spring where many people ran to him and put their arms around him, glad he had come home. They were his family. He stayed there one night then returned to his mother’s home and told her everything that had happened.
“Soon his mother grew sick and died. The child went to the spring to find his father. And there he found his mother among the people of the village. He discovered his father was Red Water Snake and told the boy he could not live in the realm of humans so he’d made the child’s mother sick so she could come live with him. After that, they all lived together in the village across the spring.”
The rhythmic music of Chance’s story ended, and Calliope opened her eyes to the silence. She looked over at him to see whether he’d simply paused or was actually finished talking. When the silence grew unbearable she said, “That’s it?”
He nodded.
“So it’s the Tewa version of Jesus and Mary?” She could hear her Catholic mother’s voice drilling her on her prayers, the stations of the cross, readying Calliope for her first communion and then her confirmation, the last rite of the church Calliope had participated in, to her mother’s chagrin.
“If you believe there must be a Western counterpart.”
“Okay, biblical or not, why tell me this story? Are you saying I’m like the young woman? I’m no Mary, believe me. This was no virgin birth, Chance. Your story explains nothing.”
“Only if you believe story must explain anything, mujer.”
Her voice rising to an exasperated whine, she said, “You’re infuriating. Cut the Socratic bullshit. Why don’t you tell me what you think is going on or explain how any of this could make sense instead of speaking in riddles?”
“They’re only riddles if you don’t believe in the stories, mujer.” He wore an amused smile. “Haven’t you been following your bisabuela’s stories all along? Why say you trust something you’re going to fight at every juncture? If you believe the Ancient Ones, believe them.”
She had returned to New Mexico to prove Bisabuela right, that this was the Middle Place. That there was no land bridge. That the people had emerged from the earth. Right where they had said they’d emerged. Now she was at a Middle Place watching the earth perform incomprehensible acts of violence and recovery. The raw data was in front of her. Why couldn’t she believe?
“Where is my child? That’s all I want to know.”
Chance pointed with his chin toward the corner table. “She’s there. My mother pulled her out of you. Otherwise you would have hemorrhaged to death.”
“She told you she pulled that rock from me?”
He nodded again, held her hands in his. They were cool
against her overheated skin.
“Susana’s note. It wasn’t a metaphor?” She swallowed the cotton in her throat. What did it mean? How could she have birthed a rock baby? And why? “What does Malia say? And your Elders? Do they know what that light was? It started everything, I know it did. Whatever is happening, it’s because of that light. A nuclear explosion? Radiation? That light did this to my baby. It made her a rock.”
His face sagged, his smile disappeared. “I spoke to the Elders, yes. And I’ll help you make this right, mujer. For your family. I don’t know how much time I’ll have. But I made you a promise.”
“What happened with the Elders? Why is Malia so scared?”
“I killed two gods, mujer. There is no coming back from that.”
“But those monsters would have killed us.”
“Then I should have died with honor.”
She didn’t understand. He’d been saving their lives. Surely there was honor in that.
“What will they do? Punish you? How?”
“There’s a ceremony for atonement. And a sacrifice.”
His tone was so ominous her skin crawled. “Sacrifice? Like human sacrifice? I thought Zunis don’t …”
“It’s not like that, mujer. But I’m not a religious leader; I do not speak for my kiva. I’m sorry I can’t say anything more.”
“Not even to your wife?”
“In Zuni culture, women are not supposed to know the deeper ways of the religious ceremonies.”
“But I’m not Zuni.”
“Nor my wife.”
She pulled her hands away from his as if she’d touched an oven.
“Mujer, it’s not right, nor is it appropriate.”
“Help me up, please. I can’t stand this hot sand bed. I’m sweating like a pig.”
“That’s a misnomer. Pigs lie in the mud to cool down.”
“I know that. Do you have any mud?”
“You shouldn’t get up yet. The healing ceremony isn’t over.”
“I’m not Zuni nor your wife, remember.”
He looked like she had punched him. “How can you be angry with me?”
She shrugged, scrunched her face. “It comes easily.”
He took the baby from her arms as she propelled herself to her side, pushed herself up. He lifted her to face him. Sweat beaded her neck and breasts, her yucca-woven dress clinging to her body. She groaned with effort, her perineum and thighs still sore. The rags between her legs still damp with blood.
His voice thick, his breath hotter still against her skin, he said, “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’ve done wrong? What’s inappropriate?”
She wiped her forehead on her sleeve, his arm still holding her waist for support. “You’ve done something wrong? I thought you were lecturing me again.”
“I never meant to lecture you. I’ve only ever wanted to help.”
“Why? Why have you risked so much for me? You don’t owe me anything. You don’t …”
Her baby still in his arms, uncrying, he was kissing Calliope. Gently at first and then harder, pulling her body against his, firm. And she was letting him.
If she were honest with herself, she’d wanted this since he first began speaking, on the road to Silver City.
She was crying.
He pulled away, wiped her face. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
She sniffled. “Hormones.”
“Mujer, I’ve loved you from the moment you aimed that gun at me, and I knew you would never shoot me.”
“That’s a little twisted, Chance.”
“It meant you were brave. And strong. And kind.” He kissed her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. She closed her eyes and he kissed her eyelids.
“I can’t.” Her voice barely a whisper.
He stepped back, but she pressed her face against his chest. This couldn’t change anything. She couldn’t give up the hope of finding her family. Of showing Andres his child. And holding Phoenix. How could she stay in Zuni with Chance? He was right. It was wrong.
He kissed her forehead again, this time with the curtness of friendship, and handed her back the corn girl. “I’ll ask my mother to set up another bed for you, somewhere cooler.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“And we should rebury the child.”
“It’s not a child.”
“Whatever it is. We can break some traditions, but my mother won’t stand for an unburied stillborn. They bring curses, mujer. Whether you believe or not, she does. And this is her house.”
She nodded again, and he began reburying the rock baby.
“What about the other rock?”
“I guess we could bury it too.”
“Just put it back in Mara’s truck.”
He sighed heavily, his face creased with frustration. “Fine.”
Once he’d finished patting the threshold dirt down and replacing the wooden slats, he said, “Finish healing. I don’t know how long I have, but I’ll make sure it’s enough to find you your family.”
She could not tell him how deeply she hurt, how she wanted to stay with him like the young woman in the story, who’d gone to the village with Water Jar Child and Red Water Snake; she couldn’t. The young woman had died to get there.
And if Calliope was still alive, she had to keep searching. She wouldn’t leave her family the way her father had left his. She was stronger than that.
PART THREE
QUANTUM UNCERTAINTY
“As you go forward in your life
You will come upon a great chasm.
Jump.
It is not as wide as you think.”
—ZUNI PROVERB
THIRTY
BLOOD PUDDING
Calliope held the carved wooden spoon in the air and made airplane noises, whirring the bright orange heap toward the corn girl’s mouth. “Here come your mashed sweet potatoes just like Bisabuela used to make. Eat up.” She made yummy noises and pretended to eat the vegetables when the corn girl closed her mouth and refused. “Come on, stubborn girl. Eat. I’ll give you more peaches if you eat the sweet potatoes.” Malia’s home-jarred peaches were the corn girl’s favorite. Calliope took a real bite of the sweet potatoes. They weren’t quite as good as Bisabuela’s, but they were close. She scooped a spoonful of mashed sweet cornmeal, airplaned that toward the corn girl’s mouth. “Corn, mmmmm …”
“Our corn girl still refusing her sweet potato?” Chance put his rifle in a locked case above the long wooden table, moved to the bench Calliope straddled, kissed her temple, then turned toward the corn girl and kissed the top of her head. “Are you trying to frustrate your mama, Miwe e’le?” He called her corn girl in Zuni, the only two names she’d ever received.
“She’s eaten it for weeks but now she’s acting like I’m trying to poison her. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Even cornmeal she’s refusing today. And she loves corn.”
“Miwe e’le, you must eat your namesake. And stop stressing your mother out.” He reached for the spoon. “Here, let me try.”
“Oh, she’ll eat for you, Chance. She does everything perfectly for you.”
“She knows where her loyalties lie.”
Calliope laughed and relinquished the spoon. “Always ganging up against me.”
“Hey, I’m trying to help you.” He didn’t have to airplane at all, just swooped the spoon easily to the corn girl’s mouth, and she opened wide.
“I told you she likes you better.”
“She’s just playing sides.” He finished feeding her without further ado.
“Since you’ve got Miwe e’le under control, I’ll check on Eunjoo.” The little girl was supposed to be helping Wowo łashhi make blood pudding in the kitchen. At the counter, Wowo łashhi held a small pottery jar brimming with fresh blood and a large, half-
moon shaped terracotta bowl, the rim partially concaved from wear and stained from prior use, filled with sheep’s liver and stomach, along with ropes and ropes of mustard-yellow intestine. The old woman pushed the sheep’s stomach toward Eunjoo, who didn’t recoil as Calliope would have, but happily took the disturbing bowls in front of her to a wooden stool at the counter and rolled up her sleeves.
She asked, all smiles, “Want to help me empty the food from the sheep’s stomach, Phoenix’s mama?”
Calliope’s gut lurched, not only from the revolting task but from the name Eunjoo still called her, a name that shattered her every time. “No thanks, chica. I’ll leave the fun work to you.”
Eunjoo turned the stomach inside out and washed it until the water turned cream-colored. Calliope did help mix the stuffing, pouring cornmeal and salt into the jar of blood, then adding diced potatoes, chiles, and fat. She excused herself as Wowo łashhi and the staunch little girl each clutched clumps of the mottled glop and crammed it into the long, limp intestine like filling an empty pantyhose with playdough. Eunjoo and Wowo łashhi reminded Calliope of herself as a young girl cooking with Bisabuela, minus the stinky bloody smell. Eunjoo had made this mess many times with Wowo łashhi, and each time Calliope had helped the girl wash the clotted blood from under her fingernails.
Wowo łashhi called to Chance in Zuni, and Calliope understood that she was asking him to fire up the grill outside; she wanted him to broil the sausages. Calliope’s Zuni was very poor, but she understood more and more each day, often practicing with Chance in the evenings.
He came into the kitchen, Miwe e’le in his arms. Her face was stained orange and her clothes were covered in mashed sweet potato. Calliope laughed as he handed the corn girl over.
“Feeding the baby is serious business,” he said, kissing her cheek, perhaps as ruse to whisper in her ear, “I need to talk to you, mujer. After the barbecue.”
She nodded.
Aloud, to Eunjoo, he said, “Those smell delicious, little bird.”
Calliope wrinkled her nose at the strong smell of iron.
Trinity Sight Page 24