by Amber Foxx
She’s better at thinking up healing rituals than I am. “Do you need another day or so?”
“I may need the rest of Florencia’s life.” Daphne sank into the other chair and looked down at the papers. “Could you take a look at this, too? Niall says, and I use his terms, that you don’t know ‘jack-shit about art.’ I’m sure you know a little more than that, but Florencia would want people who aren’t experts or scholars to find her interesting when she’s gone. You’re not acquainted with her, are you?”
“I met her once for around five minutes. And I helped Niall clear her house out,” and had a couple of psychic visions of her, “so I kinda know her in a weird way.”
“Believe me, that doesn’t count as knowing her. She’s a character. I want to see if Alan gets that across as well as her art.”
When the lawyer had finished reading, Mae took her turn.
Florencia Mirabal will be remembered as a ground-breaking Native artist and honored as one of the most influential women painters of recent decades, though she never wanted to be categorized as either. She made a point of defying popular expectations of American Indians and of women.
She was known for her flamboyant persona and her caustic wit as well as her refusal to conform. In a series of self-portraits, the face she showed the world was framed by neon colors. In the first she had hot pink hair, matching glasses and a necklace of pink stones. In the next, her hair, glasses, and jewelry were neon green. In the third and best known picture, her color scheme was cobalt blue, matching her hyacinth macaw who perched beside her. The hairstyles were different, and her face a little older in each image. This was her look over time, an expression of her character, not a stunt. In each portrait, she grinned as if something hilarious had just happened or made a face at her audience.
Mirabal’s rebellious streak carried her away from her native Acoma personally, emotionally, and aesthetically. Her marriage to Mescalero Apache artist Orville Geronimo while they were students at the Institute for American Indian Art was the beginning of a break with her family. The rift between Mirabal and her Acoma relatives widened when she divorced Geronimo and moved to Truth or Consequences rather than back to the pueblo.
In an interview in Native Peoples in 1995, when asked why she never returned home, she said, “My parents were difficult people. It’s always expected that daughters take care of parents, but I wasn’t about to give up my life for them. They were some of the last people to live full-time up on the mesa, with no electricity, no running water. Living there was like camping with people who drove me crazy.” Mae almost laughed out loud. She understood too well. And she understood about difficult parents, too. Her mother hadn’t spoken to her for over a year. “They never supported me emotionally or in any of my choices. It’s heresy to say this, because Indians honor their elders, but not all families can meet the ideal. I have no regrets, but my brother never forgave me.”
Despite her thirty-year absence from her homeland, it haunted her paintings. She often painted the ancient path from the mesa and the symbols of her culture, though in her own way. The blue and yellow pair of paintings in Mae’s vision of the gallery must have portrayed the path Alan was talking about. Not in the artistic tradition of Acoma, with its fine geometry and precise details, but in modern imagery, influenced more by Fritz Scholder than her ancestors.”
Mae read more about Mirabal’s art, but the discussion was over her head, full of additional references to artists she’d never heard of. The article concluded with a few final notes.
T or C friends say that Art Hop nights will be duller without her. Friends. That was a gracious stretch, making the word plural. Acquaintances, maybe, but Niall was her only friend. She is survived by her brother Severus Mirabal and her nephew David. Both declined to be interviewed.
“You done?” Daphne asked, when Mae looked up from the papers.
“Yeah. It makes me wish I’d known her when she was healthy. She might have been fun.”
“Fun but challenging. It takes someone as thick-skinned as Niall to really put up with her. Or someone like me who’s getting paid.”
“Orville loved her. I think he still likes her. But he’s got to be the most cheerful guy I’ve ever met. Maybe he could get along with anybody.”
“You know Orville, too? Not bad for someone who knows jack-shit about art. Orville does still care about her. He’s been to visit her. With an old medicine man. He brought her some strange music she really likes.”
“The old man did?”
“Yes. Healing music with drums and didgeridoo and all different kinds of flutes. It’s hard to describe—it sounds Indian, Aboriginal, and almost classical at the same time, and this man’s voice chanting—it’s got to be the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard. I’d ask you to use it while you heal me except it makes me see her hospice room.”
“That’s okay. I don’t think I’d concentrate too well. That’s got to be my boyfriend’s music.”
“Jamie? The guy Chuck met in Bullock’s? He writes that kind of music?”
“Yeah. I know he seems a little ... wound up, but he’s got a spiritual side. He hasn’t recorded any healing music for a while, but he still volunteers at the UNM hospital in Albuquerque. They have an Arts in Medicine program and he does some music for patients there.”
“He has a gift for it. It’s really helping Florencia. Please tell him how much she appreciates his music.”
“I will. I wish I’d known earlier. He was in Las Cruces all day today. He could have come to play for her.”
“Do you think he’d make another trip to come sing for her?”
“I think so. I can’t speak for him, of course, but he’s very kind. He likes to help people.”
“Thank you.” Daphne looked down at the papers. “I’d better get back to work on this. Did the story interest you? Make you want to get to know her art?”
“It made me want to see those self-portraits. And it made her interesting. I felt for her, with that family. But it’s funny—I mean, ironic. From what I know about her, she’s kind of like them herself. Difficult. And won’t forgive people.”
“You’re referring to Reno?”
“No. I was thinking about her nephew. Did he do anything, or is she mad at him just for being her brother’s kid?”
“As far as I know, it’s for being her brother’s kid. She’ll want him and Severus cut from the article. But how did Alan do with the rest?”
“I couldn’t follow most of the art stuff. I think the other people who don’t know jack-shit about art will like it better if the paper or the magazine runs a picture with it, maybe Florencia with blue hair making a funny face. If that’s how she wants to be remembered.”
“She probably does.” The lawyer smiled. “Thanks. I’d better call her now. We’ll reschedule my healing.” They stood and Daphne gave Mae another crushing handshake. “I don’t know when.”
Mae pictured Daphne smoking again after her commitment to quit. If she didn’t do it now, she might lose the courage, with all the stress surrounding Florencia’s impending death. Especially if Niall decided to talk to the lawyer about Reno’s possible thefts. “Let’s do it later tonight.”
“But I haven’t had my massage and—”
“What if you could book one at seven? Get one at the Charles and schedule the rooftop hot spring at eight. I bet they have space in their schedule this time of year. And I could do the healing in the water.”
“Does it have to be tonight? I’ll pay you for your time if that’s a problem—”
“That’s not why I’m pushing you. It’s because I know what it’s like to chicken out on something hard and I don’t want you to.”
“You—chicken?”
“Sometimes, yeah.” Mae had known within six months that her first marriage was a mistake, but it had taken her two years to end it. “Use the courage while you’ve got it.”
Daphne took her cigarettes from her purse, looked at them, nodded, and handed them to Ma
e. “Tonight it is. Call the Charles for me and I’ll call Florencia.”
With the darkening blue sky above, the rooftop enclosure was serene, and so was Daphne, fresh from her massage. Since the lawyer was so well prepared, Mae hoped the healing would be one of the clear and simple ones. The bathing suit she’d loaned her client bagged and rippled on her bony frame, but Daphne somehow looked healthier already. Mae got in the water with her, took a moment to prepare her mind, and then let her intuition and the crystal she held to Daphne’s heart guide her.
At first she sensed Daphne’s inner body as tangled lines of light and sent energy through the crystals to bring them into order. A vision emerged. A haggard Florencia was sitting in the lawyer’s office, wearing her beaded cap, fuchsia-framed glasses, and a dress that fit her as badly as Mae’s suit fit Daphne. “Yes, I’m sure, and yes, I’m compos mentis.”
“I’m not worried about your compos mentis, Flo. I just want you to calm down. If you’re angry while you make this decision—”
“If I don’t do it, I’ll stay angry until I die.”
Daphne moved her hands to her keyboard. She spoke slowly, her tone level. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Reno’s out. Make it simple. Niall and no one but Niall. He can give it to museums, he can sell it, I don’t care. But it all goes to Niall.”
The vision faded. Mae had seen the last lingering stressor that Daphne was afraid would make her smoke. She refocused into the crystals and the healing energy of the water. The lines of light untangled into a glow that grew brighter as the process completed itself.
It was only when Mae was walking home that she let herself think about Reno. He had been in Florencia’s will and blown it. Money. The Mustang. Maybe the house. She pictured him bringing the parrot into the studio through the back door, setting up the surprise. Why had he done it?
The gift might have been meant to make Florencia happy, but according to Misty Florencia had imposed rules on Reno, including a ban on talking about her family. Misty had also said that Reno complained about his teacher and about Violet. Was his affection for Florencia a fraud? Had he been a “vulture,” hoping to inherit? If so, he deserved her rejection, but if he’d loved her, she’d hurt herself as well as him when she sent him away.
*****
Jamie’s phone rang as he was maneuvering his instruments into the Fiesta after his show. It was a complicated process to get them all to fit, making him think of his injured van, hoping it came back looking new again. He closed the hatchback and answered the call. Mae—at this time of night? She was probably half-asleep, and yet she was thinking of him. A feeling like warm butterscotch bathed him.
After he let loose a flood of endearments and asked about her day, she told him about Lonnie giving Florencia the music.
“I asked Niall if she’d like to have you sing to her and she would. It’s getting hard for her to draw anymore, so she’s really unhappy. The music helps her a lot. Maybe when you come down to see me next week, we could go to Las Cruces and you could do that.”
The warm gooey feeling hardened into dread. Jamie had witnessed the death of a friend as a small child and had been present when another friend passed not long ago. He’d been shaken, emotionally and spiritually, and still had nightmares about the childhood trauma. Mae should have known better than to ask him to do this. “I play for people who need something to soothe them after surgery or during chemo. Not while they’re dying. Sorry, love, but I can’t do that. See someone die—y’know—I get fucked up. It’s hard to get my head right again.”
“You don’t have to be there the moment she passes. Just help her get peaceful.”
Jamie paused. Mae meant well. She wanted to help, and asking him to play for the dying woman was the way she could do it. “That what you want?”
“Don’t do it for me, sugar. If it’s too much, it’s okay. She’s got the CDs Lonnie brought her.”
If it’s too much. He was sure she hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, but her words made him feel small and cowardly. “Nah. Not the same as a live voice. I’ll do it. No worries.”
“Thank you, sugar. You’re a sweetheart.”
When she said goodnight, Jamie closed his eyes and pressed the phone to his heart, bringing her voice back in his mind. It was so good to hear her sound like she admired him. Saw him as the man he wanted to be. Could be. Would be.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Saturday afternoon, Mae heard a knock and a cheerful holler at her front door while she was on the phone with Jamie. She broke into his random ramblings. “Sorry—I gotta go now, sugar. Melody’s here for her first training session.”
“Give her a hug for me. And don’t—”
“Don’t start on that. It’s up to me and her. I love you.”
“Love ya, too. But don’t do it.”
They had managed not to argue for several days. Jamie had fretted over their prolonged time apart, but with his performances in Santa Fe and Albuquerque Thursday through Saturday and her plans for Art Hop with Melody, it hadn’t been practical to get together. She’d thought the break was healthy for their relationship and he had worried that it wasn’t, but they hadn’t actually fought about it. Mae said goodbye, uneasy that they’d almost broken their truce. There were lightweight fights with Jamie, and there were big ones. This had the potential for becoming a big one.
She let Melody in, reminded her to take her shoes off, and hugged her. “That was from Jamie.” Melody, wearing shiny black Lycra pants and a Mescalero five K T-shirt, was dripping sweat from her walk. “Great outfit. Zak seen you in it?”
“Not yet,” Melody grunted as she stooped to untie her sneakers. “He couldn’t come this weekend. His crew is getting ready to go out on a fire.” Mae got her friend a glass of water. Melody thanked her and gulped it down. “He was all paranoid about me seeing you this weekend without him. Not that he’d say so, but he watched me pack. He even helped me—and if you know Zak, that’s not normal.”
Mae went to her spare room and brought out an exercise ball and a mat. “Did you ever find out what he’s hiding from you?”
“Of course not. I ask him and he just throws Will at me.” Mae set the equipment down. Melody watched the ball roll to a stop. “That thing looks like my stomach.” She lay on the mat and looked at it sideways. “That’s what Zak sees, lying beside me. I don’t know how he could think Will wants me.” She sighed, attempted a crunch, and lay back down. “I can’t do that. My fat gets in the way.”
“It’s not a great exercise anyway, not with your bad back.” Mae sat on the ball. “I think we should talk before your workout.”
“About my back?
“Yes, but I’d concentrate better if we got Zak out of the way first.”
Melody propped up on her elbows. “Do you know something I don’t?”
“Not about him, no. And Jamie’s dead set against me helping you find out. He just told me not to—again. I kinda get it. It would be better if you two could talk. But can you?”
“Not really. We’ve been reading Jamie’s book. It has all these notes and highlights in it like he was studying for a test, which is really cute. We take turns reading it out loud in bed and do Jamie imitations. It cracks us up, but it’s totally useless. Real people don’t do communication exercises. They fight.”
“They sure do.”
“But you don’t have real fights. Just Jamie fussing.”
Mae shook her head. “No, we have real fights, too. He wants to move our relationship way too fast, and I want to go slow. I almost broke off with him for that.”
“You can’t break up with him.” Melody sat up, her tone urgent and her face creased with worry. “He’ll wait for you to be ready. I know he’s weird and he’s a pain in the ass, but he loves you so much.”
“I know.” Mae rocked the ball and looked down at her feet. “We may work that stuff out. I hope so. But that’s not all we’ve argued about. I told you my second marriage ended partly because of what I
do as a psychic. I thought Jamie was gonna be the guy who understood. But he doesn’t like the same thing Hubert didn’t: that I can find out the truth when people are hiding it.” She sought Melody’s gaze. “He wants me to leave Zak’s secrets alone no matter what Zak’s up to—and not because he thinks what I do is wrong the way Hubert did—but because I’d be doing it to Zak.”
“But you’d be doing it for me.” Melody turned over onto her hands and knees and pushed up to standing. “Jamie would have to understand that. I want you to do it. I planned to bring something of Zak’s for you to work with, but since I couldn’t, I brought something else. I left it outside.” She headed to the door. “I’ve had it up to here with Zak lying. If he’s cheating, I’m gone.”
“You’d leave him? You wouldn’t give him a second chance?”
“Come on. You almost broke up with Jamie for a lot less.” Melody went out to the porch, brought a plastic grocery sack inside, and set it on the coffee table. “Did you give your first husband a second chance?”
“I did. I shouldn’t have, but that’s because he was an alcoholic. Sorry—I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. You got sober. He didn’t.”
Melody lowered herself to the couch and fiddled with the bag. Her voice was quiet and strained. “It goes together. I quit cheating when I quit drinking. I would never, ever do that in my right mind. Those kids are his. But Zak can’t see that. He can’t let it go. And now he’s punishing me, making me think he’s fooling around. If it’s just an act, I get it. But if it’s real—I don’t deserve it.”
“Last weekend you sounded like you thought you did.”
“I’ve won a race since I said that.” She gave Mae half a smile that quickly faded, and resumed fidgeting with the bag. “And Misty broke up with Reno, and she’s happy. Will dumped Montana and she’s holding up. I helped her clean his stuff out of her trailer on my way here, while I didn’t have the kids to deal with, and she was glad to get rid of it. She didn’t cry once. If they’re that strong—and you are, with two divorces—I can be.”