“Hola, dude,” said the gringo kid behind the wheel. “You going to the santuario?”
Mister climbed onto the seat, breathing in the odor of pot. “Hola. No, man. Not today.”
“Cool. I’m headed that way, but I’m not committed to it, you know? I’m on spring break, so it’s like, whatever.” Tufts of reddish hair grew beneath his dark dreadlocks. “My name is Jason, but everyone calls me Catbird. What’s your name?”
“Jason,” said Mister.
“Wow, that’s random,” said Jason Catbird, and Mister fell asleep.
• • • • • • • • • • •
In the dream, Abuela was alive. She had been released from that tall concrete building. He tried to explain that he had been meaning to visit her there—had tried once—or was it twice? But the security guy in the parking lot wouldn’t let him through the gate.
“You forgot about me,” she said.
“¡No, espera! Remember when I got in that one time?”
“I was cold. I was waiting for you. You never came.”
“Perdóname, Abuela, but I’m here now.”
“It’s too late. I’m dead.”
“You are not dead! I forgot about you in that terrible place, but you got out. I was getting ready to come for you.”
“I’ve been dead for a week now.”
11
Interview with Yolanda
Bird-headed Humans
Archuleta: Okay, I think we have the tape recorder going. It’s Friday, April thirteenth, 2001. We are at the county attorney’s office. Attending are myself—I’m Bob Archuleta, county attorney—and Ellyn Walkingstick, Yolanda’s probation officer, and deputy sheriff Ernesto Vigil, and detective Felix Wetzl, from Santa Fe. Oh yeah, and Yolanda. Yolanda Mondragón is our witness.
Mondragón: Hola.
Walkingstick: You’re not supposed to say anything yet.
Archuleta: I’ll tell her that. Don’t talk until I tell you to. Yolanda Mondragón is here pursuant to an investigative subpoena, which was issued.
Vigil: Bob, I don’t think you’re supposed to say Yolanda’s name. She asked for due process.
Archuleta: Cut. Would you shut the fuck up, Ernesto? We ran the paperwork on her, okay? This is going to take the whole goddamned day if—
Mondragón: Con permiso—
Walkingstick: Can it, Yolanda. Mr. Archuleta, the tape is running.
Mondragón: That’s what I was going to say.
Archuleta: CUT! … but the truth, so help you God? … Is this thing running?
Vigil: You hit it with your knee.
Archuleta: Okay, let’s backtrack for a minute. Yolanda, you were telling us under what context you were acquainted with Mister Romero.
Vigil: You skipped her background.
Archuleta: Would you like to take over here, Officer?
Walkingstick: You got to say that she’s not arrested with the case. That it’s drunk and disorderly on another matter. The fight with her boyfriend.
Mondragón: That asshole is not my boyfriend.
Archuleta: Okay, I think we cleared that up for the court. Let us proceed. Yolanda, please tell us how you know Mister Romero.
Mondragón: He murdered my brother.
Archuleta: I mean, before that.
Vigil: (Inaudible)
Archuleta: Ernesto, when you get a law degree, you can tell me how to run my witness interview. Yolanda, was Mister ever your boyfriend?
Mondragón: ¡Shale carnal!
Archuleta: Excuse me?
Walkingstick: She said, no way.
Mondragón: Pocho ese Cocoa Puffs. Vendidio.
Walkingstick: Brown on the outside, white on the inside. You know, the cereal.
Vigil: She don’t mean that, Bob. She has a lot of problems. Single mom, on probation, and now this. Yolanda, you act like a lady before I crack your face open.
Archuleta: Go on, we’ll cut that out later. Yolanda, describe your relationship to Mister Romero.
Mondragón: It was like, whatever.
Archuleta: How are we on time, here? Okay. Yolanda, did you … you know, uh, Ellyn, help me out here.
Walkingstick: Relaciones sexuales.
Archuleta: Yes, thank you.
Walkingstick: As her probation officer, I’m not allowed to—
Archuleta: Christ! You people! Go on, Yolanda. Talk to the tape-recorder. I’m going to get a cup of coffee.
Walkingstick: When he gets back, tell him that story you told me about the Tears of Christ. That’s a good story.
Archuleta: Cut! I heard that. Don’t counsel the defendant. Okay. We’re rolling.
Mondragón: It was like, the three of them—Mister, Tomás, and Rocky—all glommed together. Before Rocky, it was Mister and Tomás.
Wetzl: Can you be more specific about who was with whom in these relationships?
Mondragón: No, they were just like, all glommed together.
Archuleta: When did the relationship between Tomás and Rocky begin?
Mondragón: Yo no se. The point is—HELLO—I not included. Except this one time, when Tomás wanted to take her out, and Mister went along, so he had to bring me too, to keep her from going for him. So I said, yeah, okay, whatever. I mean, he was good looking, and my friends were all hot for him. They were like, Mister Romero wants to go with you? I was like, no; he asked me out, okay? ¿Cuál es el problema?
Archuleta: Where did the four of you go on this date?
Mondragón: In the middle of nowhere. They were looking for a rock called the Tears of Christ. It was a rip-off.
Wetzl: Please elaborate.
Mondragón: I was being so used. It was like, obvious. I could have worn a big sign: TRAMPA.
Archuleta: Tramp?
Mondragón: You speak, like, no Spanish?
Vigil: It means decoy. Quack quack.
Mondragón: I changed my outfit like fifty times. I’m like, what if Mister doesn’t like me in blue socks? Twelve years old. So, I’m walking to the car, and Tomás goes, here’s the prostitot.
Walkingstick: That jerk.
Archuleta: Cut.
Mondragón: So Mister checks me out—but this Rocky chica is, like, I don’t know, God or something. She’s driving a jacked-up piece of yonque her loser dad won at the casino. I’m in the backseat with Mister, but it’s like I’m not even there.
Archuleta: Did you have sexual relations with him?
Mondragón: No, but when I got home, I masturbated.
Wetzl: Is she being sarcastic?
Walkingstick: I can’t tell.
Mondragón: I was THERE. That’s what you don’t get. I was this HUMAN PERSON. It should have been Tomás and Rocky and Mister and Yolanda. I was like, nada. Back then, when I was a little mojo changing my socks, I could have loved somebody. Now I got three kids with two different deadbeat dads. Every Saturday afternoon I get rolled up for shoplifting.
Walkingstick: Don’t share that.
Archuleta: Yolanda, do you know where Raquel O’Brien is?
Mondragón: Gosh, let me think. Nope.
Archuleta: Please think very carefully. This is important. Finding Rocky may lead us to the person who killed your brother.
Mondragón: You are so high.
Archuleta: Thank you, Yolanda. Thank you very much. Cut.
12
Good Friday
April 13, 2001 (afternoon)
Shields
Mister woke up in Española, a two-lane town of souped-up trucks crawling from the rehab to Super Wal-Mart. Pilgrims crowded the shoulder of the road, walking with their crosses, pushing the sick and elderly in wheelchairs, carrying the tired children. A freshly painted sign read: SANTUARIO WALKERS THIS WAY.
“Hit?” asked Catbird, who was steering with his elbow while he lit a joint.
“No, thanks.”
“Right on. I need to cut back myself. Hey, are you Indian or Mexican—if you don’t mind me asking.”
“Green light,” said Mister.
&
nbsp; “I’ve got some Indian blood in me, from a great-great-grandmother. Maybe a great-great-great. She was supposed to be a princess—weren’t they all? Nobody’s like, hey, my great grandmother was a Navajo prostitute. No offense to your people. Mom’s Irish. Catholic, like I said. Maybe you were sleeping. I was telling you my life story, and I looked over, and you were like, dead.” He took a drag of the joint and flipped off the driver on his bumper. “So, where are you headed?”
Mister looked at the lineup of police cars escorting the walkers to Chimayó and sank down in his seat.
“Ever heard of a monastery in Abiquiu called Christ in the Desert?”
“Oh, dude,” said Catbird. “My roommate? Last spring break, when the guys in my dorm were heading down to Guadalajara to see girls fuck donkeys, his mom takes him there. I was like, rein me in.” He shook his dreads at the wonder of it.
“There are a lot of cops around,” said Mister. “Ever been arrested?”
“Knock on wood,” said Catbird. “Hey, if you’re worried about the doobie, I hear the cops are pretty cool around here. They’re all glomped onto the walkers anyway. New Mexico is one religious state, man. No offense. Are you going to the monastery?”
“I was thinking about it.”
“Yeah? My roommate, Dave, said they have like no communication with the outside world. No phone. No tower. Nothing but like, space. They have this rule of silence, where you can’t talk to anybody? People wear little wooden signs around their necks that basically say, ‘Ignore me.’ I strongly suggest you run your tape down before you go out there. Because it’s like, you know, death. Dave bought a bag from me before he went—big pillow. Anyway, I guess it’s better than rehab. You can probably catch a ride up that way if I let you off at Wal-Mart. I don’t know though, man; the roads are pretty empty up there.”
“So, are you a hopper?” asked Mister.
The boy’s face went white. “Okay. All right, then. Let me just pull over here and let you out.”
“Don’t do that,” said Mister in a low voice. He was surprised at how calm he felt, how easy it was. “I asked you if you are a drug dealer because there are a lot of cops around, and I don’t want you to get caught.”
“Man, you are a cop, aren’t you?”
“No,” said Mister. “I just killed a man, and I’d like to stay away from the cops.”
“That’s funny,” said Catbird. The jugular vein pumped in his neck, and his voice grew high. “You’re witty, dude.”
“Turn here,” said Mister, and Catbird slammed on the brakes and swung north onto Highway 84. They drove along the Rio Chama, with the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to the east, and the Jemez Mountains to the west while Catbird fiddled with the knobs of a broken car stereo and made nervous attempts at conversation.
“Wow,” said Catbird. “Great scenery.” He slid Mister a sideways glance as he lit another joint. “That’s fucking amazing. That you killed a guy. What did he do, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“He was a friend of mine.”
The smoke filled the cab of the truck. “Hit, man?”
“No, gracias.”
“Ha, that’s funny. Hit man. Ha ha. Listen, if you want to talk about it, that’s cool with me. I’m wide open.”
“I don’t.”
“Way cool, dude. Just forget I’m here.” Catbird took a swig from a carton of orange juice. After a moment, he started to whistle.
They passed through clusters of trailers and ramshackle adobes: San Jose, the San Juan Pueblo, Hernandez, Chamita. Mister cracked his window to let out some of the smoke in the car, but the sickly sweet smell of pot and fear filled his nostrils.
At the foot of Black Mesa, in a little town called Chili, Catbird stopped for gas at a place where this girl he knew worked.
“I sort of know her,” he explained on the porch while Mister read the sign: LUJAN TRADING POST—1948. Inside, past the thin, black-eyed man at the cash register, a young woman stood over a stove.
“Two Frito-pies,” said Catbird.
“I’m fine,” said Mister, looking away.
“You broke?”
“At the moment.”
“Make it three.”
“¿Caliente?” The girl smiled, showing her white teeth. “Hot?”
Catbird got that red stain all over his face again, poor fuck couldn’t even flirt, so Mister winked at the girl.
“Foni-boys,” she said, shaking her head. A thick, shiny braid ran down her back, tied off at her rump. The boys watched studiously as she tore open three bags of Fritos, dumped them on paper plates, and scooped one ladle of steaming chili over each pile.
“Él spicy?” She waved her fingers in front of her lips, laughing. “Está piquante?”
“Tell her, mucho caliente,” said Mister shooting a glance back at the padre behind the cash register.
“Dude, I can hablar español.”
“Say something to her then.”
“Like what?”
“Say, ¿Es verdad que las mujeres hermosas son cocineras terribles?”
She giggled. “¿De qué hablas? Tú estás loco.”
“Man, what was that?”
Mister scooped the Fritos and beans into his mouth with the plastic fork and pretended to think about it. He swallowed, and took a sip of coffee. “She thinks you’re cute.”
“Me?”
“Sí, señor.” The cash register drawer clanged open.
“Maybe I’ll hang out here for a while,” said Catbird.
“He wants to marry you,” Mister told the girl in Spanish. Behind him, he heard the father’s stool scraping the floor. He figured Catbird would stick around for awhile, so he went outside to hitch another ride. If Catbird had any ideas about turning him in, he’d be too busy with the girl and her papá. At least there hadn’t been a WANTED poster.
13
Fax
Power Lines
TO: Taos County Sheriff’s Department
C/o Deputy Ernesto Vigil
FROM: Layton Scroggins, patient 261987, La Vida
del Sol Inc., Albuquerque, NM
DATE: April 13, 2001
RE: Witness Statement. Reference file 9140031b/Mister Romero.
My mother named me Layton, but I go by the name Chief because that’s what God started calling me when he put me to work on this project. I am not at liberty to reveal everything we’re doing; suffice to say that the world as we know it is going to see some big changes—sooner rather than later. We’re not talking the state of New Mexico here, or the United States, or North America, or even planet Earth—we’re talking BIG. Frankly, it may be too much for us.
When I moved up to Taos from a little town in Texas whose name I don’t care to disclose, I planned to retire. I already had a trailer set up on my own little sand pile on the mesa with two lawn chairs out front and a generator to keep my Mountain Dew cold. The generator set me back, but I found the trailer at the dump—it never ceases to amaze me what people will throw away. I wasn’t exactly what you’d call rich, but I had my monthly check from the government, and when funds got low, I’d hang around my girlfriend’s house until she remembered to feed me.
I was not born a shaman. Back in Texas, I ran a little swine company with a junkyard out back. When business was slow, I fixed lawn mowers. I was not a rich man by any means, but I liked to stay busy. Then one day Creator told me to put all that away.
He said, “Chief, the world is about to see some big changes, and I need your help. I want you to build a sweat lodge and use it to teach people how to pray.”
“Well, all right, Father,” I said. “How much should I charge these people?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“Now Creator,” I said, “I’m happy to do this work for you, but I got to eat, don’t I? I got to pay the light bill. What am I supposed to use for money?”
He said, “Chief, you go down to the VA office and get an application for PTSD claim, title 38, Code of Federal Regulations, section 3.304(f).�
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I said, “That’s post-traumatic stress disorder. You have to be crazy to get one of those checks.”
He asked me if I was sitting there talking to an empty lawn chair.
I had to admit I was.
“All right then,” he said. “Go down there and tell them that.”
So I went down there and saw one psychiatrist for about five minutes and another one for about four minutes. The last one just read the notes of the first two and put me on the payroll.
After that I went to the library and got some books on the Native American traditions. I went to college just long enough to get a couple of girls in trouble. Right about the time I learned the world is round, they threw me out on my head, but I always did like to read. After I had read everything they had on the shelf at the public library, I started asking the librarian to get me books on interlibrary loan. She didn’t mind at first, but after a while she got tired of me.
One day when she was being real bitchy, I told her that I know how women feel because I was on the moon myself once—for four days. See, Creator wanted me to have the whole human experience. I felt bitchy and terrible. But I’ll tell you what I told her—that was only four days. A man has to suffer from his sex drive every day of the year. That kind of turned her off, but like I say, we wasn’t friends to begin with. One day she told me that I should stop reading all these books and go talk to the Native Americans myself. She knew one by the name of Earl Night.
Actually his Blackfoot name was Koko, which means night, but he said you were asking for it if you walked around Texas with your hair in braids calling yourself Earl Koko. The Blackfoot are Plains Indians, and Earl never did tell me how he got out to God’s country. He ran a little white-water rafting business, but his real work was in the sweat lodge.
I was blowed up in the war. The first time I sat in the lodge with Earl Night and the doorkeeper brought in that red rock I yelled, “Let me out of here!”
Earl said, “No.”
I said, “You let me out of here before I take that pitchfork out of your hand and stick it in your face.”
Creator said, “Be nice, Chief.”
The Indians kept bringing in those glowing red rocks and saying, Take-ee-mata, which means Thank you, Grandfather.
The Ghost of Milagro Creek Page 11