No one was going to come along with water in time to save him—with the last of his strength he pulled the shotgun up beside his face. Now the drumming was so loud it deafened him and he no longer heard the voices; he felt the gusts of wind grow stronger until tiny pebbles stung his face and hands.
At first he feared the odor of rain in the wind was another hallucination, but a crash of lightning and thunder shook the ground beneath him.
He drank and drank, then tore a rag from his shirt for a wet compress on his eyes; it seemed like he slept for days before he drank enough water to need to urinate. After the storm passed, the sun came out and warmed him. He drank but oddly he wasn’t hungry; he recalled the strange mountain dining hall tables of food without any desire for it. Instead he lay on his belly, his back to the sun for hours as he looked into the clear shallow pool of rainwater that collected on the flat stones. How magical water was—shifting its form endlessly, embracing the sunlight with little rainbows above its surface.
He was grateful his kidneys weren’t damaged by the long thirst. During his army years he heard stories of agonizing death—burns, impalement, and poisons—but dying of thirst in the desert haunted all the troops. Now he had to agree; he got so weak toward the end he couldn’t even lift the shotgun or pull its trigger. Gradually he regained his strength; when he pulled himself up to lean against a boulder, his denim pants slipped down around his knees. He looked down at himself and realized the past weeks and then these last days had whittled him away; he felt himself and found only skin and bones.
He was dozing when the odor of horseshit woke him; when he pulled the damp rag from his eyes he saw blurred blue outlines but there was no mistaking the rifles; he was surrounded by soldiers. They had orders to find a black soldier AWOL from Fort Huachuca. Candy told them his name and where he came from; the sergeant listened but was not convinced. They’d tracked him from Tonopah after reports a black man stopped there. Candy pointed out he was too old to be the man they sought, but they handcuffed and loaded him onto a mule anyway.
He asked for food and they gave him hardtack—as much as he wanted; the flat hard biscuits tasted far better than he remembered from his army days. Later when they camped for the night, they brought fried salt pork, but after a few mouthfuls he felt his stomach turn, and he was able to finish only the hardtack and boiled coffee. They took the long way around; all the way to Tucson he tried to eat the fried salt pork they offered him, but the mountain ordeal weakened his stomach, and all he could tolerate was hardtack and flapjacks.
♦ ♦ ♦
Indigo marked a dot in her notebook for each day that passed after Hattie left, but even when there were forty-six dots, there was no sign of Hattie. Sister Salt stole a peek over her shoulder and realized she was counting days until the white woman returned. Didn’t Indigo remember how white people came, claimed they’d stay, but then later they were gone?
Sister hoped the woman never came back; yes, she was kind to Indigo and generous to all of them. But Sister felt uneasy whenever the woman came around; she knew the woman thought about taking Indigo away for good—she could tell by the expression in Hattie’s eyes whenever she looked at Indigo.
Before she left on the mail wagon, Hattie promised Indigo to write in care of the trading post if she was delayed. Indigo wanted to see if there was a letter. The weather was changing; it was overcast and windy that morning, and Sister didn’t want to take the baby out in the dust. But Maytha and Vedna came along with Indigo to buy more sugar to make beer.
The trader’s wife barely skimmed the surface of the bushel basket where mail for the Indians was kept, but said Indigo had no mail. Indigo knew Hattie preferred small fancy sheets of paper with small matching envelopes, which might easily slip to the bottom of the basket. Indigo stayed put in front of the counter, and after a while the trader himself asked if there was something else she wanted.
“I know she was going to write,” Indigo said.
“Oh. Her,” the trader said and shook his head. He looked at Maytha and Vedna, who held sacks of sugar, waiting patiently for Indigo.
“Someone better tell the girl. Those society women come out from back east, interfere, and then they leave and never write.” He turned his back to them and shoved the basket of mail back in its corner. Indigo’s heart pounded so loudly she hardly noticed Maytha’s hand around hers; she didn’t cry until they stepped out into the dust and grit driven by the cold gusts of wind.
When the girls returned from the trading post, Sister saw streaks down Indigo’s cheeks, where fine dust stuck to the tears. Despite the monkey’s somersaults and the parrot’s screeches to be let out, Indigo went straight to her bed. Sister was so angry at that white woman tears filled her eyes, and she could not stop herself.
“She’s not coming back!” Sister used a loud whisper not to disturb the little grandfather’s nap. Both twins nodded solemnly at Indigo.
“She’s really nice—”
“She’s really generous, too,” Vedna interrupted.
“But the thing is, Indigo—”
“She wasn’t lying—”
“No! She means well, poor thing.”
Sister Salt angrily shook her head. Maytha and Vedna hurriedly wrapped themselves in their shawls and took the axes to go cut kindling above the riverbank while the sisters worked things out. They were expecting guests later that evening and the twins didn’t want the party spoiled with arguments or tears from Sand Lizard girls.
Indigo sat up on her blankets; the little grandfather was wide awake, propped up in his bundle, listening and watching everything. Good, Indigo thought, let him see how his mother-granddaughter repays the kindness and generosity of a stranger.
“I notice you eat the food she brought; you see by the light of the lamps and oil she brought,” Indigo said.
“You sound like a white girl! Listen to yourself!”
“Listen yourself! You’re the one! You hurt feelings without a second thought just like white people!”
Indigo watched the little grandfather’s eyes move from one to the other as they argued, but could not tell whose side he was on. Sister said even if Hattie came back this time, and the next time, someday she wouldn’t come back.
How do you know?
Stories Grandma told, about a long time ago. People worked for the Mexicans for money, and bought their food and clothing. For years these people were wealthy, but one day the Apaches came and killed all the Mexicans and took all the sheep and the goods. The people who got rich working for the Mexicans began to get hungry. Crops were meager that year so the people with corn traded a handful of corn for a handful of silver coins; before long the rich were poor like everyone else.
As Indigo listened she realized her sister was right; Hattie couldn’t live there and she couldn’t come month after month or year after year. Grandma Fleet did use to warn them to remember other locations of water and places of shelter, just in case something happens—as it happened to Mama, or to Grandma Fleet, who didn’t wake up.
The baby did not seem to mind but the argument upset the monkey and parrot; it was too windy to take them outside, so she let them out of their cages to quiet their noise. Sister Salt frowned but said nothing as long as Indigo stayed right there with them to stop any mischief. Sister was afraid the pets might bite or scratch the baby, but Indigo was confident they wouldn’t harm him. She could not be so sure about the tubs of new beer—both the parrot and monkey liked to perch on the rims of the tubs, and she caught the parrot nibbling at the orchids on the window ledge.
Fortunately she stopped Rainbow before much damage was done—he peeled some green skin from two or three leaf tips. The orchids became everyone’s favorites because they put out fragrant white-winged blossoms for weeks since the fall equinox, just like Edward promised. They had survived Indigo’s anger—tossed and dumped from their pots—and even neglect; their stick-shaped leaves stored water like a cactus, and the flowers lasted weeks.
How stran
ge to think these small plants traveled so far with so many hazards, yet still thrived while Edward died. Grandma Fleet was right—compared to plants and trees, humans were weak creatures. Indigo wondered how Grandma’s apricot trees were. The shallow sandstone cave at the spring above the old gardens was a perfect place to keep the orchids when the hot weather came next year.
She had been thinking of the old gardens more and more. She didn’t tell Sister or the twins, but the other day, while she and her pets were weeding the garden and keeping the birds off, two or three of their flooded-out neighbors came and began to pace off the perimeters of the garden and set marker stones at each corner. A few days later the Indian preacher from the flooded church came with some others to look at the new fields planted next to theirs. The Indian preacher looked right at Indigo and even from a distance she saw his anger. Of course their beans and peas were already blossoming, and their amaranth was tall, while the crops in the new fields had barely sprouted. The twins said it didn’t matter that the flooded people planted late because white churchpeople sent them a wagonload of food once a month.
Maytha and Vedna returned around sundown after the wind died down; not long after, the guests began to arrive with their bedrolls and bundles of firewood. The little grandfather was awake and Sister asked Indigo to watch him on his blanket while she helped the twins serve gourds of beer outside. As it got dark, Linnaeus curled up next to Indigo on her blankets and Rainbow climbed on top of his cage and tucked his head under his wing to sleep.
The argument with Sister left Indigo exhausted. She did not remember falling asleep, but when she woke the sun had been up for a while but so had Linnaeus and Rainbow. She forgot to shut them in their cages before she fell asleep and now both of them were gone. Indigo could see where the monkey played with the empty beer gourds and the parrot chewed off the gourd rims soaked with beer. They found her notebook and scattered her color pencils, but none were chewed. The orchids on the window ledge were untouched.
Sister was asleep with the little grandfather in her arms, and the twins slept outside with the guests, but Indigo woke them. Had they seen the monkey and the parrot? No. They rolled over again—even Sister didn’t care.
She walked among the sleeping guests and the campfire burned down to white ash but saw no trace of them. If only the weather had been colder, they would not have wandered out of the house. She felt the panic rise up her spine. Linnaeus would be killed by the neighbors’ dogs, and poor Rainbow torn apart by an eagle or a hawk. She had to find them fast.
Indigo ran to the garden. Around the pea plants she found parrot-shredded remains of pea pods, and neatly opened bean pods—the work of the monkey fingers—all freshly picked; good thing the girls didn’t come down to the garden very often. They left the garden to Indigo now that they had guests nearly every night.
The parrot and the monkey were probably in the amaranth now because it was tall and thick enough to hide them; she called their names as she waded into the thick stands, shoulder high in some places. The amaranth grew all the way to the back boundary of the field where they set their horsehair snares for rabbits; maybe she’d find them trapped. But the web-like snares were empty, and her heart began to pound in her chest as she realized the two had gone into their neighbors’ gardens, where the plants were smaller and more tender.
As she stepped over the low sandy ridge that formed the boundary, she saw the damage at once. Limp, wilted pea and bean plants were strewn all around; in the rows of beans closest to the road she spotted them side by side; the monkey had both fists full of baby plants; the parrot worked rapidly, tasted only the tendrils, then dropped the rest. The monkey picked the seedlings more carefully and ate all but the roots.
“No!” she called out. “Stop that!” They both looked at her calmly and went on with their feast until she reached them. Linnaeus looked up at her with big eyes and extended a fist full of bean seedlings to her, and Rainbow waddled over and grabbed hold of the hem of her dress with his beak to climb onto her until she lifted him to her shoulder. They were so dear; she loved them so much, she couldn’t bear to scold them; how could they know these plants belonged to the neighbors?
Quickly she removed all the evidence she found—torn plant remains and any parrot and monkey tracks she saw. She looked around but saw no one and hurried back to the house; she hoped the neighbors would blame ground squirrels or sparrows for the missing seedlings.
♦ ♦ ♦
Hattie did not intend to stay in Albuquerque so long, but there was little the bank officers there could do, except advise her to contact her New York bank directly. Though she was low on funds she hired a lawyer, Mr. Maxwell, to make sense of what the bank had done when Edward over-drafted the line of credit. Mr. Maxwell was an older man, whose announcement that he was a widower left Hattie feeling uncomfortable, especially after he sent a dinner invitation to the hotel.
The wait for a reply from the bank in New York left her sleepless with anxiety; she never bothered to ask about liability if the line of credit were somehow exceeded. At the time of the wedding her parents quarreled over the sum released from the family trust; her mother wanted to retain half the sum until the birth of a child, but her father’s generosity prevailed. The remainder of the trust was just enough to see her parents through. How clearly she recalled her father’s pride as he persuaded her mother Hattie was a bright educated young woman who deserved to dispose of her legacy as she saw fit. Oh misplaced trust! Her father’s and hers!
As the weeks passed, she regretted her promise to Indigo. She could not get back to Road’s End in thirty days as she thought; a dozen letters and telegrams were sent and received over the bank account.
It was much colder now in Albuquerque and she wished for the warm boots and clothing she’d left behind when she moved from New York. She waited until the sun warmed the air around midday for her walks down Central Avenue; fragrant piñon fires scented the crisp air; she hoped Indigo and the girls had enough firewood. Road’s End was much farther south and at a lower elevation, so the winter was milder. The hotel clerk commented it usually wasn’t that cold in early December.
Most days it was too cold to walk all the way to the old town square and the church, but now she slipped in the back of the church behind the pews to warm herself. She passed the holy water font by the door, and ignored the crucified Jesus in the center of the altar; instead she stood in the alcove with the statue of Mary with the baby Jesus in her arms. How false they seemed after the terra-cotta madonnas in Laura’s black garden. My Mother, my Spirit—words from the old Gnostic gospels sprang into her mind. She who is before all things, Grace, Mother of Mythic Eternal Silence—after months in the oblivion of its shallow grave, her thesis spoke to her. Incorruptible Wisdom, Sophia, the material world and the flesh are only temporary—there are no sins of the flesh, spirit is everything!
Though she declined his invitation to dinner, the lawyer worked diligently on her behalf. Since her loan was secured by Edward’s interest in the meteor ore venture, Mr. Maxwell, the lawyer, suggested they go to the crater to see for themselves what the mine might be worth. Hattie was adamant about avoiding any contact with the Australian doctor, and the lawyer assured her he would take care of everything.
The train arrived in Winslow in a snowstorm the morning before Christmas. While Hattie got settled in her room, Mr. Maxwell made inquiries around town and learned the Australian doctor had not been seen for weeks. He left behind two small crates of rocks, which the hotel manager seized for the unpaid balance the doctor owed.
It became her practice to first unpack the box of carved gemstones to arrange them on a bureau or bedside table where she could see them. Given the least backlight, the gems had an almost magical translucence. How she envied the timeless space they occupied while mortals stumbled along in disgrace. She was weeks late to see poor Indigo! If the lawyer was encouraged by what they saw at the meteor mine site, Hattie planned to try to sell her entire interest to him for a mode
st sum—enough to provide for Indigo and to take her to England to Aunt Bronwyn.
Christmas morning was sunny, but as the snow melted, the roads in and around Winslow became nearly impassable. They were the only guests in the hotel dining room for Christmas dinner, but the hotel manager and staff were quite hospitable; perhaps they hoped Hattie or the lawyer might want the crates of rocks and pay the bill.
The following morning Mr. Maxwell hired a buggy complete with a heavy wool rug to cover them during the drive to the meteor crater. The snow was not deep but transformed the plain and the low hills and mesas beyond. The view from the crater rim dizzied Hattie, and the sharp winding trail into its depths unsettled Hattie’s stomach and gave her a headache. What had Edward’s last letter said about a meteorite fragment buried as if it were a baby? She wished she had stayed at the hotel—too much of Edward and the Australian were still here.
No one seemed to be at the mine site at the bottom of the crater. After a brief inspection of the machinery, Mr. Maxwell doubted much of the money went toward the purchase of new mining equipment. The only new piece of equipment was a giant spring-loaded cutter used to slice open the meteor irons; beneath the heavy sharp blade Hattie saw piles of fragments left over from poor meteor irons guillotined to reveal any diamonds or precious metals. Nearby, other crates of meteor irons awaited the blade.
The mud and standing water at the bottom of the crater lapped at the edge of the wagon road. The drilling rig and other equipment looked old and poorly maintained; Mr. Maxwell pointed out the hoses and pumps and speculated the shaft constantly flooded. While he walked around the ramshackle tents and shed, Hattie directed the driver to load the two crates of meteor irons into the buggy.
Gardens in the Dunes Page 56