The Pot Thief Who Studied Edward Abbey

by Orenduff, J. Michael;

  He handed the bowl to Glad, who took a small sip and handed it to Miss Gladys.

  “I’m going to wait just a moment till my hands stop shaking,” she said. Then she took a deep breath and a very small sip.

  Glad stepped beside her and took the bowl in his hands. They put their faces together, the corners of their mouths as close together as possible. They drank without spilling a single drop.

  During the spontaneous applause that broke out among all the patrons, I studied the bowl. I wondered if the two slight indentations in the rim that allowed them to drink without loss were traditional or had been pressed into the wet clay to make sure the happy couple could experience the good omen.

  Martin said, “You will keep your wedding bowl as long as you are together. When one of you passes into the spirit world, he or she will take the bowl filled with corn. Corn does not go stale in the spirit world. So when the other one joins you, you will eat the corn together.”

  After additional toasts, embraces, jests, blushes by Miss Gladys and funny stories about how Glad had courted her, everyone finally left except for me and ma femme. The first bottle of Gruet had been followed by three others. Even though six of us were sharing, Sharice and I were both a bit tipsy.

  “Maybe we should have a coffee to brace us for the walk downtown,” she suggested.

  “Good idea. I’d hate to be ticketed for walking under the influence.”

  After Angie brought two black coffees, Sharice squeezed my hand and said, “Dr. Rao called just before I left work. The needle biopsy didn’t capture enough to do an analysis.”

  “So after a diagnostic mammogram, an ultrasound and a needle biopsy, they still don’t know what it is?” I shook my head. “It’s like that Higgs boson thing that’s been in the news. It’s so small that it took them ten years to find one and just like in your case, they have no precise idea what it is. So what’s next?”

  “She wants to do another needle biopsy, but with a larger needle to capture a larger sample.”

  My needle phobia conjured up a device manufactured by Caterpillar. Probably a result of reading The Monkey Wrench Gang.

  “Well, the good news is we know you won’t need another mastectomy.”

  “How do we know that?”

  “Because they’re going to remove your right breast bit by bit with a needle.”

  She gave me a playful poke. “It’s not that small.” She bit her bottom lip. “I told her I didn’t want another needle biopsy.”

  I made no response.

  She sipped her coffee. “It’s very small. And there appears to be no involvement of the lymph nodes.”

  I nodded.

  “And,” she took another sip, “old memories die hard. I feel like I’m being dragged back to something I escaped. I’m not going back.”

  “So no more doctor visits?”

  “I’m not that reckless. I’ll go back quarterly to be checked. If anything changes, we’ll deal with it then.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “You think I’m being irrational? Sticking my head in the sand?”

  “Dr. Rao said ninety percent of all lumps like yours are benign. Going with that high a probability is hardly irrational.”

  “I’ll see her in three months. Meanwhile, I don’t want to think about it. And I don’t want you to think about it, let alone mention it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She changed the subject. “I can’t believe Miss Gladys is getting married. How old is she?”

  “It’s love, Sharice. The heart does not know age. Or color.”

  We were the only remaining customers. I’d been drinking. Both of which made it easier for me to overcome my inhibitions and slide off my chair and onto my knees.

  I took her hand in mine. “Marry me.”

  “You’re just saying that because of Glad and Gladys.”

  “No. I’m saying it because I love you.”

  “I know you do. But I suspect you’re proposing now because I mentioned the lump and you want me to know you aren’t going to abandon me if I get sick.”

  “You already know I would never abandon you. But it’s a moot point. I’m ten years older than you and men usually don’t live as long as women. The chances are greater you’ll be a widow than I’ll be a widower.”

  “If we don’t get married, neither of those will happen.”

  “Good point. So since one of us will eventually die and the other will be sad, we should make the sadness official by being either a widow or widower.”

  She laughed. “Marry me so that one of us can eventually be a widow or widower? That’s the worst rationale I’ve ever heard for marriage.”

  “I’m grasping at straws here, woman! Give me one reason why you won’t marry me.”

  She tugged me back up into my seat. She took a deep breath.

  “Remember I told you there was one more thing on my list of things I had to tell you?”

  “Yeah. It’s something about your father.”

  She nodded. A few sudden tears ran down her cheek. “I promised him I’d never marry a white man.”

  “That’s a relief. You were so secretive about it, I figured maybe he was a serial killer.”

  “Be serious.”

  “Why? Obviously you made that promise before we met. Now that you know how terrific I am, you can change your mind.”

  “It’s not that easy. He’s the one who asked for the promise.” She took a deep breath. “As I was growing up, he tried to teach me that happiness for a black person can be achieved only by a sort of emotional firewall between yourself and the white world. He interacts with whites, of course. And he is courteous with everyone. But he has never worked for a white man. He would never rent from a white landlord. And most of all, he would never allow his daughter to marry a white man.”

  “Do you think he’s right?”

  “If I did, I never would have dated you.” She gave me her candlelight smile. “And now I’m hooked. Look, I know prejudice exists. But you can’t wall yourself off from all white people just because some of them are prejudiced. You have to believe that prejudice can be eliminated. You believe it not because science or reason proves it. It’s more an article of faith. The first requirement for solving any problem is believing it’s solvable.”

  “So how do we solve this problem? How do we get your father to accept us as a couple?”

  “I’m not sure we can.”

  I hesitated then said, “He doesn’t know about me, does he?”

  More tears. “I’m sorry, Hubie. I hate that I haven’t told him. It feels like being disloyal to you.”

  “It doesn’t feel that way to me. I don’t want you to hurt your father. But you can’t keep us a secret forever.”

  She wiped her eyes and gave me a smile I hadn’t seen before, a little-girl timid one, crooked and beguiling. “You’re right. Especially because he’s coming here for Thanksgiving.”

  29

  It was late when we got back to the condo, so Sharice threw together a light meal.

  Farro—whatever that is—with all manner of plant products thrown in: shallots, tomatoes, parsley, edamame, walnuts and dried cranberries.

  I would have killed for some carnitas tacos.

  After we loaded the dishwasher and went to the loveseat for a nightcap of Gruet, she said, “We need to talk about my father’s visit.”

  “Now? He won’t be here for weeks.”

  “He’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow! You said he’s coming for Thanksgiving.”

  “Canadian Thanksgiving. Ours is celebrated the second Monday of October.”

  She must have seen the air go out of me.

  “It’s only for three nights—tomorrow, Saturday and Sunday. Then he flies back on Monday. Poor Dad. He’ll be in the air on
Thanksgiving Day, missing the Thanksgiving Classic.”

  “Which is?”

  “Back-to-back games in the CFL.”

  “Which is?”

  “The Canadian Football League.”

  “They play football in Canada? I thought it was hockey.”

  “Hockey isn’t a sport in Canada. It’s a religion. But football is also popular. Dad’s favorite team is in the first game, and he’ll miss it.”

  I figured I may as well learn something about the guy now that he was a topic of conversation, so I asked which team was his favorite.

  “The Montreal Alouettes, of course.”

  “What kind of a football team is named after a ballet maneuver?”

  “An alouette is a lark.”

  “Oh. In that case, I repeat the question for a different reason. What sort of football team is named after a songbird?”

  “When I was a little girl, they were called the Concordes.”

  “They were named after a grape? That’s even wimpier than a lark.”

  “They were named after the supersonic jet, not the grape. And you are hardly one to call any football team wimps.”

  “Au contraire. I’m a wimp and know it. But if I were a big, strong football player, I wouldn’t want to play for a team called the larks.”

  She was quiet for a few moments. “You’ll—”

  “I know. I’ll have to move out. You want me to leave tonight.”

  “Heavens no. That can wait until morning.” She gave me her seductive smile. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  You know the rest of that routine.

  30

  If you’re keeping score at home, your card should look like this:

  One EEO complaint

  One sexual harassment complaint

  One failure to post a trigger warning

  One unauthorized field trip

  One insubordination for telling students not to pay fees

  One request from police for my fingerprints

  One forced move from Sharice’s condo

  They say don’t sweat the small stuff. Which is good, because I also had two biggies:

  One lump in Sharice’s breast, which was evidently going to be more or less

  One student dead, possibly murdered

  After Sharice left for work Friday morning, I packed my belongings. She said I had to get everything out—clothes, toothbrush, razor, dog.

  Everything. I knew it was only three nights, but it felt final. And sneaky. Like covering up a crime. Which I guess was the way her father would view me living with her.

  As Geronimo and I walked to Old Town, I became angrier with each step. I toyed with the idea of marching back downtown after he arrived and confronting the racist old bastard. I know that’s harsh, but it’s how I felt. I wasn’t a suitable son-in-law just because of my skin color?

  Then I thought about all the injustices and slights he must have endured over the years because of his skin color, and I felt guilty.

  I decided not to march back downtown.

  But you already knew that. I don’t do confrontation.

  Geronimo was happy to be back at Spirits in Clay. I wanted to be with Sharice. He wanted to be away from Benz.

  After sticking his snout in all the nooks and most of the crannies, he took a nap, secure in the knowledge that no felines were within sniffing distance.

  I brewed coffee in my old percolator. It was awful compared to Sharice’s brew, but the bitter, burnt taste was reassuringly familiar.

  I ran my hand across the pine table. Looked up at the crooked vigas.

  The chamisa in the courtyard was blooming, the popcorn scent of its slender branches now mingled with the rotting-apple smell of its clumps of yellow fall florets.

  The scientific name is Chrysothamnus nauseosus. Whoever named it has a different idea of nauseous than I do. I like the smell. Of course, I also like the smell of clay baking in a kiln, so I’d be a poor parfumier. “Courtyard, the new cologne from Schuze Scents—hints of a fall afternoon in the desert with undertones of dried fruits and burning brush, attenuated by notes of creosote and coyote.”

  I was homesick, but I didn’t know it until I was home. I wondered if Sharice would consent to move to Old Town. I could volunteer to convert my studio into a walk-in closet for her. I could buy stainless-steel appliances.

  Then my thoughts turned from where we would be together to if we would be together. How difficult would it be for her to break the promise to her father?

  I needed to stop digging into the pit of melancholy. I decided to take a walk. Geronimo awoke when he heard the rattle of his leash.

  After a dozen turns around the plaza, I crossed to the south side of the plaza and entered Treasure House Books, where I chatted with John Hoffsis before buying another book by Abbey, this one a collection of essays. Hopefully none dealing with earthmoving equipment.

  I knew Abbey believed the degradation of the American Southwest was a crime against nature and was being exacerbated by growth. What I didn’t know was that this led him to oppose immigration. When the New York Times asked him to write an op-ed piece on the topic, the essay he sent was so radical they refused to print it.

  So much for airing the full spectrum of opinions.

  Abbey’s basic tenet was that there were already too many people in our country. Letting in others would only speed up the fouling of our air and the destruction of our forests. To those who sympathize with immigrants fleeing from dictatorial and dysfunctional countries like Honduras, Abbey suggested we stop them at the border, give them a rifle and a case of ammunition, and send them back home to clean up their own country.

  He wrote that essay a quarter of a century ago. I wondered what he would think about the 12 million illegal immigrants now in America.

  I wondered what I thought about them. I’m not political, so I had to ponder it. Search as I might, I could not find any opinion in my consciousness. I don’t know how to have a single overarching opinion that would cover 12 million people.

  They are individuals. I know maybe 20 out of that 12 million. One is a mechanic who works on my Bronco in his front yard and somehow keeps the old heap running. Another is the repairman at Tristan’s rundown apartment complex near the university. Another washes dishes at Dos Hermanas. One owns a bookkeeping service and does income tax returns.

  Yes, an illegal immigrant does tax returns.

  I’ve heard people say we’re not supposed to call them illegal immigrants. It might hurt their feelings. Those people obviously know even less about illegal immigrants than I do. Unlike many of today’s pampered Americans, illegal immigrants don’t have thin skins. They’re working like the devil and saving for a better life. They don’t have any time to waste worrying about what they’re supposed to be called.

  Which these days is “undocumented workers.”

  Nonsense. Melquiades Telles, the income-tax guy, is hardly undocumented. To begin with, he has a New Mexico driver’s license. My state is one of only ten that will grant driver’s licenses to illegal immigrants. Most of the others are places you expect—California, Nevada, Colorado.

  Oddly, one of the ten is Vermont. I guess all three of the illegal immigrants up there have driver’s licenses.

  Melquiades also has a business license and a tax-preparer number issued by the IRS. The man has more documents than I do.

  I know this because he did the tax return for another illegal immigrant—Gladwyn Farthing. Glad is illegal because he entered the country on a tourist visa and is running a business. An illegal immigrant from Mexico filing income tax returns for a tourist from England who is illegally running the business that is being taxed.

  Is this a great country or what?

  Then I remembered I was living with an immigrant. I was sure she was legal. I was no longer qui
te so sure about the “living with” part.

  31

  I walked to the university on Saturday and found Shorter ensconced behind the desk. Department heads work on weekends. He looked as silly behind that hulk as I would in the seat of a Caterpillar D8 bulldozer.

  But both his smile and handshake were warm, and I scolded myself for typecasting him just because of his Brobdingnagian desk.

  “For what we pay adjuncts,” he said, laughing, “we don’t expect them to put in overtime. What brings you here on a Saturday?”

  “An unhappy errand. I was talking with Detective Fletcher about Ximena. He told me the only two shots of her on the security video are of her standing with Alfred and then when she falls over. When I started to ask how the camera could capture those two things and not capture what came between them, he said I should ask you about it.”

  The smile evaporated as he sighed deeply. “I messed up, Hubie. I turned off the video camera when Ximena was ready to prepare herself for the plaster. You can’t blame her for not wanting to be videoed standing there naked. So I went to the gallery. Ximena and Alfred were there. I climbed up a ladder and switched off the camera.”

  “Why couldn’t Prather turn it off himself? Is he not talking to you?”

  He laughed heartily. It was good to see him brighten. “So far as I know, you’re the only one he’s not talking to.” He looked at the door and then back at me before adding, “Lucky you.”

  He thought for a moment then said, “I passed Prather in the hall as I left the gallery. He told me the plaster would be on in less than an hour, and I could go back then and turn the camera back on. He couldn’t do it because the camera switch is operated with a key. Otherwise anyone could turn it off, which defeats the purpose of having it. As department head, I have the only key, and departmental policy is that I cannot loan it out even for a few minutes.”

  “I wouldn’t call what you did a mess-up. I’d call it common decency.”

  “My mess-up was a delay in turning it back on. I returned to my office where I was ambushed by Jollo Bakkie, who tried to convince me she should be teaching painting. She does that several times a semester with what she seems to think is a new rationale that will convince me. The rationale is never new. It is merely reworded, as if she believes I am too dense to understand, and she needs to find the right words. I tried to cut her presentation short by saying nothing had changed. Hockley is senior. The course is his so long as he wants it. But she launched into her plea anyway. I tried to shoo her out even as she was talking. But she wouldn’t budge.”