“I know Barbara Lewis,” Mary said, breaking a cornbread muffin in two. “Went to school together. Valle Escondido High, class of sixty-eight.”
“Really?”
“Barb was always real shy.” She spread butter on the muffin and took a generous bite before speaking again. “She fell in love with Archie Lewis our sophomore year. Married him while she was still in high school. Had three kids, waited on that man hand and foot. Spent fifteen years doing that routine before Archie decided his secretary was a better deal.”
She paused a minute to offer both of us more stew. Drake picked up the bowls and carried them to the stove for refills. I urged Mary to go on with her story.
“Candy was her name.” She said it in a way that suggested uttering the word might give cavities. “She’d been a gangly little thing as a kid, then went off to Albuquerque to secretarial school and came back polished as a diamond. Went right to work in Archie’s car dealership. The girl must have known what she was doing. She was pregnant and married to Archie, in that order, before most of the town knew she was back.”
“And Barbara?” I prompted.
“Barb was devastated. I swear she cried for months without stopping. She wallowed around that house, wearing this old cotton housecoat and never going out. I’d stop by to check on her and it was always the same. His picture was still on the shelf, some of his sports gear still in the garage. I think she was convinced that one day he’d see what a mistake he’d made, and he’d walk back in, suitcase in hand.”
“Obviously he didn’t,” Drake commented.
“Nope. When he and the chick had their new baby, the local paper ran a real cozy picture of the three of them. Extremely bad taste, if you ask me, considering the size of this town and the situation.” She sniffed quickly. “I think that was Barb’s turning point.”
We had cleared the dishes by now and carried our coffee cups to the large sofa in front of the fire. Drake and I sat close together in one corner, while Mary took the matching print chair beside us.
“The next time I saw Barb,” she continued, “she said she was on her way to Albuquerque. She came back a different person, in more ways than one. She had a new hairstyle, a new way of doing her makeup, and a whole new wardrobe. But the changes went deeper than that. She and I had lunch together one day and she told me she was taking charge of her life. She was getting a job. Archie had been good enough with the child support money but Barb didn’t want anything to do with him. Said she could support her own kids.
“The next thing I knew, she’d landed a job at the bank. Without any experience, I’m not sure how, but she did it. Worked hard, too. She kept pushing for the next higher position, until she became manager.”
“I heard she’s pretty hard on her people,” I commented.
Mary shook her head sadly. “Yeah, that was the biggest change of all. Shy little Barbara Lewis apparently becomes this tiger lady on the job. It’s weird, you know. I’d think she’d understand how it is to work your way up through the ranks, that she’d have a little sympathy for the underlings.”
What about on a personal level? Has your friendship survived?”
She smiled somewhat indulgently. “I understand a lot of things about people,” she said. “Barb has built walls around herself, protective walls. I think, along with some others probably, that she’s gone a bit too far with it. But she needs those walls right now. She went from being the most vulnerable kind of person to being so tough she’s almost non-human. In time, I hope she’ll find a middle ground somewhere, a place where she can be independent and still find room for love in her life. People need that, you know—independence and love.”
Drake’s arm around my shoulders didn’t move an inch, but Mary’s words struck home.
Chapter 14
“What does this damned expense report mean!” I screamed.
“Don’t yell, Charlie. Please don’t yell anymore.” I was sitting at my desk and looked up to see Ron standing before me. His hair was white, his face wrinkled. I looked down at myself to find my own hands liver-spotted and wrinkled, my waist thick and my breasts saggy.
“Charlie?” Drake touched my shoulder and I awoke.
“I think you were having a bad dream,” he whispered.
My eyes flew open; my breath came fast. Soft moonlight filtered through lace curtains. Drake was beside me, pulling the handmade quilt around my shoulders. Rusty’s tags jingled in the corner of the room.
“You okay?” he asked again.
“Umm, yeah,” I groaned. “I just had a weird dream” A piece of a dream, actually, a fragment of a hidden fear that I’d grow someday into the lonely, grouchy old office witch. I didn’t tell him that.
He pulled me into the warm curve of his shoulder. His breathing became soft and regular within minutes. My mind whirled with unspoken thoughts for an eternity.
We both awoke with the daylight in the unfamiliar room. It was still early. He rolled playfully toward me and I wondered how much the strange bed would squeak. An hour later we snuggled once again into each other’s arms, remembering that Mary had said breakfast was served at eight.
Our Texan housemates had come back last night around eleven, obviously disappointed with the night life in town. I could hear one pair of them now, shuffling around in the next room. Rusty curled into the corner bed that Mary had brought for him. He had ignored our lovemaking and seemed content enough with the status quo. We decided we could stay snuggled in for ten more minutes, then share a quick shower and still make it to breakfast.
Coffee smells drifted up the staircase as I walked down to let Rusty out. A large urn, flanked by a tray of mugs, and pitchers of sugar, creamer and artificial sweetener stood on the sideboard at one end of the large dining room The two other women guests, no less perfect looking than the night before, sat in the living room. One of the husbands carried bags toward their car.
I heard our bedroom door open, so I poured two mugs of coffee, fixing one to Drake’s taste. He appeared in the doorway a moment later.
“You folks leaving today?” I heard Drake ask Marvin Connors.
“Yeah, how about ya’ll?”
“No, we’re staying the weekend,” Drake told him.
“Well, you have fun,” Marvin replied. “We got a schedule to keep. Frankly,” he said, only slightly lowering his voice, “I find this place a little too quiet.”
I handed Drake his coffee and we both turned toward the kitchen to see if we could give Mary a hand.
“No,” she insisted, “you’re guests. Besides, everything’s ready. All I have to do is put it on the table.”
Drake didn’t wait for permission. He picked up a large pitcher of fresh orange juice, which he handed to me, then reached for the tray of covered plates Mary had just stacked on the counter.
Mary smiled as her turned toward the dining room. She nudged me. “That one’s a keeper,” she whispered. She pushed through the swinging door. I took a deep breath before I followed.
“Breakfast is ready,” Mary announced to the other four guests. They pried themselves out of the deep sofas. Mary took the pitcher of orange juice from me and began filling glasses. Drake held my chair for me. Marvin Connors had practically leapt for the chair at the head of the table, leaving his wife standing. Drake circled the table and held a chair for her before taking his own seat. I smiled at him and squeezed his knee under the table.
I had hoped Mary would join us for breakfast, but as hostess it wasn’t part of her duties. She busied herself back and forth from the kitchen, bringing more juice and a basket of warm flour tortillas. Breakfast was huevos rancheros, a favorite New Mexico concoction of tortilla, beans, eggs and cheese. The tradition is to drown it in either red or green chile sauce, which Mary thoughtfully left to each guest’s discretion. Drake and I both smothered ours in green chile, while the Texas guests dribbled on spots of red.
“So, Charlie, when do you usually get to Dallas?” drawled Jean Braithwaite.
“
Excuse me?”
“For your spring shopping?” she answered. Sensing a blank, she fumbled “You do come to Dallas for your spring wardrobe, don’t you dear?”
Spring wardrobe? Right. I bought a new pair of shorts at Penney’s last May, I think.
“I’m afraid not,” I told her.
She and Bobbie Jo exchanged incredulous looks and that conversation dropped flat. The husbands took up the slack, though. We heard all about how Marvin and Bob had bought this little oil business and by virtue of their incredible business smarts had built it into a “real good little operation.” They each had a lake house at Lake Texoma and took ski vacations together in Red River, and of course they liked to turn the ladies loose in Dallas a couple of times a year to “buy themselves a few pretties.” As if we hadn’t noticed them, Marvin pointed out the matching Rolexes. I stifled a yawn, not too successfully, and noticed that Drake’s eyes were glazing over.
Mary broke the monologue by asking whether anyone wanted more food, juice or coffee.
“Excuse me,” I said, “I better give Rusty his breakfast.”
Drake stood up too. “Maybe I should help.”
We both collapsed in giggles as soon as our door was closed.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said, when I could catch my breath. “Maybe I should have a makeover at Elizabeth Arden. Then I could re-think my image at Neiman Marcus.”
“Don’t’ you dare,” he said, pulling me on top of him. “I like you exactly the way you are.”
The conversation deteriorated into a series of long kisses, until we hard a car start up out front.
Downstairs, Mary had cleared the table and was stacking plates in the dishwasher.
“No, you’re not going to help again,” she said just as Drake opened his mouth to volunteer. “Here, get another cup of coffee and pull up a chair at the kitchen table.
“What do you have planned for the day?” she asked, once we settled in our seats.
“I’d like to ask some more questions around town,” I told her. “I feel like I’ve been goofing off a lot. Although, this being Sunday, I may have a hard time finding the people I need to see.”
I told her we’d tried to find Barbara Lewis at home the previous day, with no luck. “It looked like she’d gone out of town.”
She finished the dishes and dried her hands on a towel.
“Barbara would probably be back this afternoon, even if she was out of town. Work tomorrow, you know. I could call her for you if you’d like.”
I thought showing up unannounced would more likely net me some unrehearsed answers so I just told Mary I’d think about it.
“Did you know Cynthia Martinez?” I asked.
“Just slightly. She used to come out here and buy eggs from me.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and joined us at the table, letting out a groan as she sat. “I kept chicken when I first moved out here, you see. But it was a hassle. The winters up here in the hills get pretty cold. I lost the whole batch of ‘em the first winter. The next year I tried again but it was a lot of work and not much reward. People are too lazy to drive this far out for a dozen eggs, especially when they can just pick them up at the supermarket in town. Doesn’t matter that fresh eggs are so much better.
“Anyway, Cynthia used to come out. She has some family up the road from here so she was driving up this way anyhow.”
“Did you get friendly with her?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. Friendly, but not close, you know.”
“Did she talk about wanting a baby?”
“Constantly. She was pregnant, too. Last spring, a year ago. Yeah, that’s the last time I had any chickens. She was so careful, too. I mean, she really watched everything she ate. Part of the reason she came here for eggs, because mine have never been tainted. I remember one time she came by and had this terrible headache, you know, so bad that she was kind of squinting her eyes shut. I offered her some aspirin but she wouldn’t have it. Because of the baby. Even Tylenol. Wouldn’t take that because she said she was allergic.” She held her hands around the coffee cup for warmth. “Yes, that woman was careful.”
“Did you ever hear rumors that her husband beat her?”
“No!” Mary seemed genuinely surprised. “Of course, we weren’t that close. Cynthia was cordial but she didn’t open up about the baby. She wouldn’t have told me anything bad about her husband.”
“The doctor seemed to dismiss the idea entirely,” I mentioned.
Mary tightened up. “Hmpf. Those doctors in town. Couldn’t get me to one of them for anything. I see an herbalist when I need some little cure.”
“What if something really serious came up?”
“Well, if I found out I had cancer or something, I’d go to Santa Fe or Albuquerque. Not here.”
“Why not?”
“Hell, I went to school with Evan Phillips. Babysat for Rodney Phillips when I was in junior high.” She chuckled good-naturedly. “I guess I’d just have a hard time undressing for either of them.”
“What else can you tell me about the town or the people?” I asked.
“Oh, gosh, I don’t know,” she answered. “I’ve been here so long, nothing about this place seems unique to me. You want history about the town, you could try the library or the museum.”
“There’s a museum here?”
“The Miner’s Museum. It’s down on Potts Street, about a block off the plaza. Just drive down to the plaza, northwest corner, then wander. You can’t miss it.”
I couldn’t imagine what a museum exhibit would have to do with the Cynthia Martinez problem, but I’m a sucker for learning about old stuff. Besides, it would be a way to kill a few hours before we tried once again to drop in on Barbara Lewis.
“Would it be a problem for Rusty to stay here while we go to town?” I asked.
“Not a bit,” she assured me. “You take as long as you want. He’s a good boy and he gets along fine with my two.”
The temperature rose by several degrees as we descended from the cool mountain valley into town. Cars lined the main street, the thickest clump of them outside the Catholic church. They radiated outward from that hub, parking down side streets as well. Another cluster surrounded Rosa’s Cantina. We headed for the plaza, where we had no trouble finding a parking place. Drake took my hand as we strolled the quiet street, glancing in shop windows.
From each corner of the plaza, narrow winding side streets radiated out like threads raveling off a patch of cloth. I had no idea which corner was northwest but we were in no hurry and the plaza wasn’t that large. We wandered until we found it.
The Miner’s Museum was packaged in a small wooden building skirted by a wooden plank sidewalk. A narrow shingled roof, supported by sturdy wood poles and braced by an honest-to-goodness hitching post extended over the walkway. Based on the scars in the wood, I guess that the hitching post had, at one time, been functional. A small plaque beside the door announced that the museum was supported by donations and gave the hours. It was due to open in ten minutes so Drake and I settled onto a weathered wooden bench beside the door.
Precisely eight minutes later we saw the man approach. Somewhere around eighty years of age, he walked with only a slight stoop in his shoulders and an almost lively spring in his step. His pure white hair showed pink scalp beneath and his lips formed a straight line that angled downward at one corner.
“Howdy.” The single word came out of the low corner of his mouth.
His watery-looking eyes sparkled and the straight mouth opened into a grin full of perfect dentures. He pulled a key attached to a bright green plastic key ring from his pocket and aimed it toward the lock on the ancient doorknob.
“You folks waiting on me?” he inquired. Again, the words came from the corner of the mouth. He grinned again when we nodded.
“Well, come on in,” he invited. “Just take me a minute to get the lights turned on.”
We stepped inside as he held the door wide. His gnarled hand fumbled for a switch on
the wall somewhere out of sight behind the door. Fluorescent lights flickered a moment before they flowed steadily. The walls of the small room were weathered wood, like they’d been taken off an old bar somewhere. Doorways to our left and right led to other unseen rooms. In front of us stood a desk with a none-too-discreet sign stating that admission was free but that a donation of two dollars per person would be appreciated.
“Now, just a minute here and I’ll get this all ready for you,” the old man mumbled.
He patted the wall in the darkened room to our left, searching for the light switch. After about six or seven pats the room lit up. Shuffling across to the other dark room on the right, he repeated the procedure. Then he made his way slowly to the desk and sat heavily in the chair behind it, breathing deeply. He pulled the center drawer open and bent his white head low, eyes and hands searching the contents for something. At last he pulled a white plastic-encased card from the drawer and pinned it laboriously to his shirt pocket. Bart Johnson, Miner’s Museum, was hand lettered in wavery black ink on the name tag. When he had straightened it to his satisfaction Bart looked back up at us.
“The tour is self-guided,” he said. “There are displays in both the side rooms. Just take your time.”
Drake had pulled a five dollar bill from his wallet and told Bart to keep the change. The old man grinned again crookedly. I glanced at Drake as we entered the room on the right and he winked at me.
The chronology of the little museum was a bit confusing, as it didn’t seem there was much method to the displays. One wall held a collection of mining tools, mounted at interesting angles with nails on the wooden wall. A small cart with railroad wheels stood in the corner, filled with dirt and rocks representing the loot they used to haul out of the hills.
The opposite wall was covered with framed photographs and small hand lettered signs outlining the history of the mining days in the valley. I was surprised to learn that gold and silver had been among the big finds here. Photo groups of men in dusty overalls, solemn faces caked with black, showed that the life wasn’t an easy one. There were few women in the pictures.
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