Indian Affairs (historical romance)

by Parris Afton Bonds

  He caught up with her. “I don’t think you are. Is he a good man? Good to you, I mean.”

  “Very.”

  “Then, you must not love him. I think you love . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “If it were me you loved, I’d take you and Jeremy and sail to the ends of the earth, to Christmas Island or — ”

  She raised her palm, stopping his rush of words. “Alas, I’m married,” she parried, but not hiding her discomfort with the conversation.

  They walked on, passing a cornfield, the tassels of yellow-green stalks fluttering in the breeze. She began to cough, and he waited until the spasm passed to say, “That’s not the problem. You’re in love with Man.”

  “What?” She halted to whirl on him. “Whatever would make you say such a preposterous thing?”

  “Is it? Is it preposterous?”

  “Of course, it is.” She sputtered. “The idea — ”

  “When you are near him, you become subdued. You — ”

  “Subdued?”

  “Softer, then.”

  The adjective shot through her. Pierced her like an arrow. “You’ve lived too long at this high altitude, Henri Genêt. Man is my friend. Is that so hard to comprehend?” Well, that certainly isn’t my highest truth. Man is much more than that. Man is my lover. At the thought, muscles deep behind her groin quivered with overwhelming, leg-weakening desire. She almost clutched at Henri’s jacket in order to stand upright. She didn’t understand this staggering need. With Brendon, after sex, she had been surfeited. Not needing or desiring him afterward. But with Man, the wanting was there always. Wanting. Wanting. Relentless wanting of him.

  Henri shrugged. “If you scratch a cynic, you find a disappointed idealist.”

  Was Henri disappointed in her? She knew she should be disappointed in herself, having this outrageous affair, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret her actions. What she would have missed out had she not opened herself to Man’s lovemaking!

  Silence accompanied her and Henri on the rest of the walk to her adobe home. Henri would have left, but, when she realized Jeremy was gone, he helped her search.

  “He was still asleep when I left.” She tried to keep the panic from her voice. “He wouldn’t leave without letting me know where he was going first.”

  Neither of them said anything else, but by unspoken accord they both headed first to the well, then toward the acequia. In the warm months, it ran full, providing the water needed for field irrigation. Children were known to wander off and . . . she didn’t let her mind finish the thought.

  Like the well, the acequia water was cool, clear . . . and empty, thank God!

  “Maybe he went to look for you at Peg’s.”

  “Maybe.” Oh, God, I hope so.

  They followed the irrigation ditch to Peg’s estates, keeping an eye on the flowing water all the way. Twice, she gave the Los Gallos doorbell a frantic whirl before Marta answered. Peg sat in the library’s Rainbow Room, by the mullioned window, catching up on a popular new murder mystery. She looked bewildered as they hurried in, then concerned as Alessandra explained.

  “I haven’t seen him, Alessandra.”

  Neither had Jose.

  Tears welled, threatening to spill over onto Alessandra’s cheeks. She wanted a cigarette in the worst way. Or better yet a drink. “Where could he have gone? He always tells me,” she said for the hundredth time.

  Tony entered the room. He calmly assessed the consternation on their faces. “What happening here?”

  Peg rose from the banco and crossed to him. Seeing the two together like that. Alessandra perceived a white energy rising off them. She had to shake her head, to clear it of its silly vapors.

  Laying a hand on his chest, Peg said, “We can’t find Jeremy anywhere, Tony.”

  A wide grin erupted on his round face. “Jeremy go see Man.”

  “Man?” Alessandra asked. “Whatever for?” She would have guessed Jeremy didn’t like Man.

  Those blanket-covered shoulders shrugged. “You go see.”

  Alessandra was already hurrying from the house, when Henri caught up with her. “Why don’t we take the truck? It’s stubborn, but if I can get it going, it’ll save us a little time.”

  She nodded and turned with him toward the carriage house containing Peg’s Ford and his aged truck. After only a little cranking, the top heavy Auto Blanche rattled onto the dirt road, past banks of thorny, snow-white wild plums, past a little hawk perched upon a cedar fence post. Purple flowers bloomed on the alfalfa. Gradually, the sights, sounds, and activity ebbed her fear. All was right in the world . . . at least, for now.

  Drumbeats led the way for her and Henri. They found the two beneath the vital shade of Man’s ramada. Man, sitting on a cottonwood stump, whittled a hard plum branch, the makings of a drum stick. Sitting cross-legged, Jeremy concentrated on the frame drum he beat in a muffled, heavy, slow pattern.

  At her approach, he looked up and grinned. “Hi, Mom. Man is letting me beat his drum. Listen!” He performed the 4 – 2 – 2 ponderous rhythm again. “It’s the bear. Hear the bear?” He speeded up the rhythm and laughed. “The bear is dancing now, Mom.”

  An image of a lumbering, dancing circus bear flickered in her mind, and she grinned despite her desire to throttle her son now that she knew he was all right.

  Man looked at her. “The West beat is home of bear. Color black. Your autumn . . . and female life force.”

  Henri squatted next to Jeremy. “Now if I retrieve my mandolin case from the pickup, we’d make quite a band.”

  Jeremy’s gaze questioned Man. “Can Henri play, too?”

  Man’s gentle smile encompassed Henri and her. She couldn’t take her eyes of Man. It was like trying to look away from a bonfire or a full moon. Realization struck her. When he wanted, Man allowed others to see his soul. Then he becomes extraordinary. Regardless of public or private moments, he seemed always centered within himself, apart from the hectic flurry of others around him. She felt chastised by her all too quick judgment of him the day before. Who am I, a certified gin guzzler, to condemn Man’s use of peyote?”

  “Everyone play,” he said, his smile triumphant. “Play is good.”

  Henri directed a glance at Jeremy, then slid her a questioning look. She nodded, and he said, “Then I’ll go fetch the mandolin.”

  “What do we learn next?” Jeremy asked Man.

  “Will you teach me, also?” she said impetuously.

  Laying aside his whittling, Man motioned for her to sit beside her son. Awkwardly, she arranged her skirts so that she sat cross-legged like Jeremy. Man picked up another hoop drum. Wormtrails, knobs and all, had been deliberately left in the rough outer shell. He set the drum before her then hunkered down, hip to hip beside her.

  “We play ‘Come To Me.’ This attracts and draws in good life force.”

  “Show me how to put my hands,” she said and then wondered what was taking possession of her, prodding such a flirtatious request.

  He looked steadily at her, then shifted to kneel behind her. His arms encircled hers, his large hands clasping her wrists. Her breath hitched. Oh, God, his supportive warmth surrounding me, uplifting me, is as close as I’ll ever get to heaven. She was sexually enthralled with this man. “Drum is hit first at top,” he said in his intoxicating voice, “then center, last at bottom. Top, center, bottom. Top, center, bottom.”

  His smell was clean, as fresh as the flowing acequia nearby, his skin scented with sweet grass and cedar. At first, she sat stiffly, conscious of his hard body enfolding hers, from chest to crotch. His muscular thighs, as large as tree trunks, aligned with her softer, more slender ones.

  Mandolin in hand, Henri stopped to watch them, his mouth slightly open.

  Top, center, bottom . . .

  She beat her song with a deep undercurrent of emotion. A feeling of tremendous energy flowed up from her core to be released in her hands. The drum was a very large animal, trembling under her touch. Its beat to
ok possession of her. Its husky, throaty voice called to her.

  Top, center, bottom.

  Come to me.

  Top, center, bottom.

  Come to me. Come to me.

  Chapter Eight

  Alessandra paced the plaza’s boardwalk. Its wooden slats thudded ominously beneath her tread. Occasionally, she nodded at a passerby, but her thoughts tiptoed around Brendon’s pending arrival.

  She shot a quick peek at her reflection in the window of the Miles Boyer Grocery. Her scarlet kid tammie looked askew, but it could be the window’s wavy glass. Nervously, she arranged her black wrap-over skirt so that the buttons aligned down the left side, checked the seams of her silk stockings, adjusted her black kid gloves.

  So much depended on convincing Brendon.

  “Jeremy,” she called. He played tag with that Potts kid, running too close to the manure wagon used to clean the streets. Moments before she had just insisted Jeremy put on his best brogues. “Shit,” she murmured, then chuckled softly at her inadvertent pun.

  She’d have to approach Brendon about Clyde’s father and the BIA guy, Burke. But one battle at a time. She shivered, despite the heat, then shivered again as the stage, an open touring car trailing dust, drove into the plaza and halted before the Columbian Hotel and Bar, where a sign advertised Hoffman House Pure Rye and a calendar featured Winchester Rifles.

  Brendon was the vehicle’s sole passenger. Her mouth curved into a semblance of delight, and her legs mechanically took her to greet him. Oh my, she had forgotten how handsome and debonair he was! She waited until he descended from the stage.

  “Brendon! Darling!”

  He doffed his Panama straw hat and swept her against him in a fierce embrace. “God, I’ve missed you, Ali!”

  She drew back at his hand that groped her breast beneath her the v-line of her dress. “Brendon, everyone is — ”

  “Damn the provincials,” he murmured but released her.

  She kissed his shadowed jaw, wondering at her lack of pleasure in his touch, lack of desire for his kiss. Where had it gone? No, when had that pleasure, that desire, vanished?

  Perhaps as early as four years ago when he teased her after she, a member of the Washington suffragettes, waited first in line to vote. One of her many small defiances. Because she had not the courage nor the strength for any larger openly confrontations with her family.

  He had taken advantage of the opportunity by giving an interview to an on-the-spot reporter. “Women don’t know how to think with their minds. They think with their emotions. And they will vote with their emotions.”

  Or perhaps it had been earlier, when she was in her eighth month of pregnancy. As short as she was, she had looked like a behemoth. Certainly not attractive enough to remind him of his marriage commitment he had so easily ignored.

  At the present moment, she was mildly surprised he kissed her at all, considering she had detected a reluctance prior to her coming to Taos, a reluctance due to his fear of contamination by her.

  Only then, did he notice Jeremy, shuffling toward him. His brow furrowed like a dark cloud lowering over the horizon. “Jeremy?”

  “Yes,” she said and hurried on. “Jeremy’s been attending school here while I heal.”

  Brendon’s expression one of utter astonishment and disbelief, he rounded on her. “You brought him here without consulting me or your father?!”

  Jeremy halted some feet away, fearful of his father’s wrathful countenance.

  She shrugged as if Brendon’s question were of little consequence, but her stomach was churning. “You don’t consult me when you make decisions. Besides, he’s receiving an excellent education in national affairs here. He’s learning there’s more to America than its capitol.”

  She had been counting on the knowledge that Brendon was too well trained to make a public scene. His fist clenched his straw hat brim. His expression turned dark and thunderous. “Don’t you realize Citadel policy dictates the necessity of schooling at Foxhurst? Otherwise he won’t be accepted!”

  “Darling, we can discuss this later.” She inclined her head meaningfully toward Jeremy, standing at a respectful distance.

  “Discussion isn’t necessary,” Brendon muttered. “Jeremy returns with me.” Above all, he was civilized. “I can’t believe you did this,” he muttered. Then, “Hey, young man! Give your father a handshake.”

  Clumsily, Jeremy stuck out his hand.

  “No, grip it hard, son. Like a man. The Citadel won’t stand for any of this sissy stuff. Before you know it, you’ll be saluting. You ready to return to the good life?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Everyone is eager to meet you,” she interjected. “Tomorrow night, a party is being hosted in your honor by the Martinez family.”

  “Mexicans?” Brendon reached into the stage boot and hoisted out his traveling bag.

  “They’re Americans, darling. Friends of Peg’s – ah, Mabel Dodge Luhan. You remember her. Her family is in cereal and banking.” That last detail should resurrect his interest. She slipped her arm under his and guided him out toward Kit Carson Road. “My home isn’t far, a little over a mile.”

  “A mile!”

  She flashed a warm smile of admiration and despised herself for her insincerity. “Nothing for someone in your peak condition.” She was not talking from the heart, as Man would. Fear twisted her tongue.

  His consternation abated. “I must say you’re looking great yourself, Ali. Not at all so near death. From what that Luhan woman telegraphed, the pneumonia had — ”

  “Peg. We call her Peg. I . . . I seem to recover more quickly here . . . from such inconvenient . . . illnesses.” She would not tell him about Man’s drum-healing vigil. She didn’t want to share something so mystical and have Brendon belittle it.

  “Mom, can I go with Clyde? He’s got burros we can ride — ”

  “Not today. Your father just arrived.” She didn’t want to be alone with Brendon. Not yet.

  “Damn, that mountain is overwhelming!” Brendon looked up at its misty, sun-shattered granite face. “Makes you feel like it’s bearing down on you.”

  “Not me. I feel secure beneath it, as if it’s a living thing, watching over me.” She knew she sounded defensive and elaborated. “The Indians call it Sacred Mountain . . . or Mystery Mountain. It’s said to be full of gold and silver, but they protect it from the miners who would dig out its bowels.”

  “Dad, you’ve got to see the Pueblo first. It’s real swell.”

  Before he could snipe at her son’s enthusiasm, she quickly said, “The Pueblo’s different, not up to Washington’s standards, Brendon. You must be worn out. You can see it another time.”

  “Oh, it’s not far, Dad. Just down the road.” Jeremy already tugged him toward Paso del Pueblo. “You gotta meet Man.”

  “A man?”

  “No. Man. That’s his name. Manuel Mondragon. Sometimes, he comes to visit Mom. He’s a medicine man, isn’t he, Mom?”

  Her gaze swept her son’s freckled face, checking if his expression was intentionally troublemaking, but it was guileless.

  Beneath the shade cast by the brim of his Panama, Brendon’s features evidenced a frown. “You haven’t been going to see one of those charlatans, have you, Ali?”

  “No, no.” She smiled brightly. “But the Indians do know a lot about herbal remedies. Things like that.”

  His eyes searched hers. He knew her too well. Sensed her discomfort. “I think I would like to see the Pueblo, son. See how the primitives live.”

  “Brendon,” she remonstrated, “it’s going to be a long walk to the Pueblo and then to my house.”

  He seemed almost to delight in her barely concealed agitation. “That’s all right. I’ve been sitting all day in that damned rattletrap of a car. I swear we hit every pothole between Lamy and here.”

  “But my energy isn’t back to — ”

  “Damn, but it’s hot!” He cut her off. Shimmering haze rose from the dry, baking g
round. Perspiration moistened his upper lip. “Doesn’t it ever rain here? Everything looks brown and scorched.”

  Jeremy tugged at his sleeve. “I started the rain, Dad.”

  “What’s that nonsense?” He ruffled his son’s hair. “You started the rain?!”

  “No, I really did. Man told me—”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting this Man.”

  “It’s rained only once since winter’s snow fall,” she said hastily with a hard little laugh. “I got caught out in it, remember?”

  “That’s right. I forgot.” He patted her arm. “That wasn’t too smart of you, Ali.”

  She said nothing, refusing to let him put her on the defense again. Why can’t he see the high desert as I do? How can I make him understand this great, silent emptiness has been waiting for me forever . . . as if I’ve been moving toward it since the day of my birth?

  Sensual memories took over. Each day the whispering, billowy sand greeting her softly with its faint rustle. The mysterious charm of its mountains beckoning her to penetrate farther and farther into the misty inner folds of their unknown infiniteness. Seducing her to lose herself there. The jutting peak, waiting to fulfill her.

  Before she knew it, they had covered the distance between the plaza and the Pueblo. The feathery outline of the Pueblo, at last, came into view. The mindful walk Man demonstrated, teaching awareness of the lizard scuttling through chamisa or the dust rising from footfall . . . this was totally absent in Brendon’s brisk, purposeful strides.

  Frowning, Brendon looked around the Pueblo, its compartments ascending like a pyramid, and its kiva, the circular, soft adobe walls and its singular ladder. His fingers flicked toward the holy spot. “Queer. Damned queer, Ali.”

  ‘Mystical’ was the only word in her mind. The kiva nestled there like a womb in the dark, gentle earth. The female symbol of fertility, the Indian church. It perfectly juxtaposed the white man’s church with its thrusting phallic steeple. She loved this quaint, mundane realm.

  His gaze scanned the Pueblo’s inhabitants, so quietly yet diligently going about the duties of the day with obvious pleasure. “Yes, damn queer, these shapeless women all bundled up and the men lazing like mutts in the sun.”