Outwardly nothing had changed. Chicken-wire mesh still covered the small, murky windows. Sand-filled tires weighed down the snowy roof. The basketball hoop fashioned from a hubcap was still nailed to the dead-tree backstop Owen had helped Joe put together the summer before, when they played one-on-one in the cool evenings until it was too dark to see the ball.
He found Joe around back, kneeling in the snow, his face to the ground. He made himself walk over slowly, crouch down, and give his friend time to notice his presence.
“More than a little cold out here, brother. Want my jacket?”
Joe turned his panicked face and looked past him. “I dug a hole past the white stuff. Still can’t get to them. They’re trapped. Earth’s humming with murder of the Old Ones, Owen. Holy People down there in the cold. They don’t like winter, Owen. Got no blankets to keep warm.” His eyes were filled with true concern.
“Well, let me have a listen.” Owen put his ear where Joe’s had been. He heard the crunch of snow and felt the stinging wetness on his ear, nothing else, and was a little sorry to have to tell that to Joe. “Nobody much cares for winter, Joe. Let’s go inside and get you something hot to drink. When’s the last time you ate a meal?”
“Can’t eat when so many go hungry. Got to find a way to feed everyone.”
“Where’s Lightning? You turn him loose in this snowstorm?”
“Possessions weigh a man down. Rode him to town, gave him to Verbena’s Minnie at Rabbott’s, walked back. She always liked that mule.”
“Well, Minnie knows as well as anyone Lightning’s yours, Joe. We’ll go and fetch him back in a few days.”
“Nah, she can keep him.”
They could argue about that later. “Got your truck running yet?”
Joe shrugged.
“What will you ride into town? How you planning to move your sheep this spring?”
Joe thought it over for a minute. “Man shot my dog, Owen. He was only sitting where I tied him. Not doing nothing wrong. A big old bullet took out his shoulder, blew it away just like Jimmy Tso’s over to Bai Thuong.”
Owen helped his friend to his feet. “That was a terrible thing. The man will have to answer to his own Higher Power someday. Take some comfort in that. You know what? You ought to get yourself another dog, but maybe one that isn’t mostly wolf. Maggie’s found herself a nice companion in her boy’s Echo. Hopeful finds her attractive. Maybe we can arrange to get you a pup out of her this spring.”
“No. Never can tell when a white man might shoot his gun.”
Owen gripped his friend’s shoulder. “I’m telling you, that kind of thing is rare. Think about it and let me know. You feel like spending a day or two at my place, tending ewes? I got a cupboard full of Campbell’s soup. That cocoa mix with the little marshmallows you like. Hot shower.”
Joe looked toward his snow hole, not wanting to give it up. “My people been hungry a long time.”
“They’re inside Grandmother Earth, aren’t they? Have a little faith. She’ll direct them to the corn eventually. They can melt snow for water.”
Joe looked at him uncertainly.
“We’ve done it, haven’t we, that time we got stuck up in the mountains?”
“Yeah, but—”
Owen took off his jacket and wrapped it around his snow-dusted friend. “We’ll stop by the clinic, stock you up on your medicine. You got to keep taking them pills, Joe, then these memories won’t grab hold of you so hard. You listening to me?”
Joe wiped his face, where tears washed the full, dark cheekbones women found so irresistible. “What I’m talking about, my people, happened a long time before, didn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“And my dog?”
“Years back.”
Joe looked surprised. “It don’t feel like years. I can still hear him barking at me to get up. When do I have to go back to the army?”
“You’re in Shiprock, New Mexico, Joe. Vietnam is miles away from here. You don’t ever have to go back. That nonsense is over and done with. We got us a pile of presidents come and gone since then. None of them much good, either.”
Joe said, “They need a woman to run this country.”
“That’s right. Think Verbena Youngcloud might be interested?”
Joe shrugged.
“Come on. Can’t you just picture her, moving her sheep down Pennsylvania Avenue, turning them loose to graze on the White House lawn? Cooking up frybread for the Secret Service suits?”
The men laughed as snow continued to fall on their shoulders. Joe began walking toward the hogan. “Owen, I take them pills. But when I feel good, I think, What’s the point?”
“That’s understandable. We all put a leg down off the wagon now and again, just to test the ground underneath our wheels. You got to remember to climb back on again when the ground starts getting shaky. Will you try that?”
“Yeah.”
Inside the cabin, Owen helped his friend pick up the accumulated mess, return the strewn bedding to the blue-ticking mattress and crumpled clothes to the cardboard box that served as his dresser. They rehung the tattered American flag that time and previous episodes of confusion had sullied, and with chilled fingers tacked it into the rough beams. The only things untouched were the shoeboxes of herbs, each cellophane packet carefully organized according to potency and desired effect. Owen thought about the tea Joe had concocted the day he saw Maggie for the first time. Some kinds of medicine were unquestionably good, he thought, wondering with what exactly his friend had spiked his tea. He’d never pass judgment on Joe, remembering that he’d nearly fallen off the wagon himself a few nights ago, fear and despair embracing each other in his psyche, coming up with a dozen good reasons why alcohol was the only salve left to soothe his fear. The nearest bottle was next door, so that’s where he’d headed. Instead he ended up between the precious thighs of Maggie Yearwood. Therein, he knew, lay the difference between himself and Joe. Eventually, even if it was dangerous, Owen would seek out the company of others when he found himself stuck in the dark places. Not Joe. Joe bellied up to shadows and phantoms. Bought them drinks. Listened to their answers, no matter what nonsense they fed him. He’d give a try to whatever they suggested, and every time, they’d abandon him, leave him facedown in the nearest puddle, his dog bleeding to death in the middle of traffic.
Maggie was quiet until they’d cleared the gravel road. As soon as they hit asphalt, she started in on Owen. “All right. I’ve waited long enough for you to tell me. What’s in the little packet Joe handed you? You told me you didn’t mess with alcohol, I assumed that meant you left drugs alone, too.”
Owen patted his shirt pocket. “You know better than that. Joe fancies himself the great herb doctor. He made us a holiday tea, raíz del macho.”
“What’s it supposed to do?”
Owen took the packet from the pocket of his Carhartt jacket and set it on the dashboard of the Landcruiser. “Nothing. It’s just a drink.”
“With a name like macho?”
“I didn’t say I planned on sneaking it into your food.”
She smiled and met his eyes, then looked out the window. “Good. Because you know you don’t have to.”
How women had changed in the last few years. No doubt about it, straight talk was a timesaver. It made a man shy, though, wondering if he should just be sitting there grateful and happy, or if there was some modern kind of etiquette expected for dishing it back. Owen drove carefully through the winding roads and hoped they wouldn’t encounter any closed passages. They might make Santa Fe before suppertime. He wanted Maggie Yearwood hungry when they hit town; there was nothing better than feeding a hungry woman, one who wasn’t too shy to eat. If a lady relaxed enough around you to satisfy herself with meat and potatoes, when you hit the bedroom, look out.
“Whatever are you thinking about?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you smile that wide since the day your dog deflowered Echo.”
He pulled a blank express
ion. “Eating. You like regular American cooking? Meat, potatoes, salad that looks like a salad?”
“Owen, you seem to know what I like very well. If it’s not raw and there’s hot bread alongside it, I’ll probably have a long-term relationship with it.”
He grinned. “The way you put things, Maggie. Sometimes I wake myself up laughing.”
Even off-season, they had to stand in line at the Red Cloud Café, but the blue potatoes mashed with cream cheese and nutmeg, and Mom’s “regular” meatloaf, were worth snow, damp socks, and a forty-mile hike any day. Here they served up the food family style, a mixing bowl of steaming potatoes, a milk pitcher of gravy, brick-size slices of meatloaf studded with diced onion. A king-size bottle of ketchup sat on the tabletop, the kind you had to stick a knife in to get it to pour out. The dessert tray held equally large portions of cherry and apple pie, and a hefty bowl of Indian pudding swimming in maple syrup. Those Maggie declined.
“I’ve been here before, once, but I was smart and didn’t eat. It’s going to take me two days to sleep off this meal.”
“No, it won’t. You’ll brighten up where we’re going next.” He took her hand beneath the table. “Trust me.”
“I do.”
Whether he was worthy or not, he knew she meant it.
It was a small bar-restaurant off the Canyon Road, lit by luminarias and a battered wooden sign. Centuries ago the road had been used as a footpath by Indians. Now it was the main drag of an art colony, and the small adobes and shacks had been converted into trendy storefronts and high-priced galleries. Come summer, you’d be lucky to move a car down the road for all the people crowding through.
They parked and hiked in from Paseo de Peralta, taking small steps in the snow.
Inside the bar each of the patrons cherished the same wonderful secret: Before last call a celebrated flamenco dancer would take the stage in her white lace, rose-covered shawl and give them the souvenir of her dance. If you were in Los Angeles, Chicago, or New York City, you would pay upwards of fifty dollars a ticket for the privilege of watching the woman move. Here, in her hometown, off-season, she came by to try out new routines on old friends, who bought drinks and left a few dollars in the musicians’ tip jar. The lucky few who heard the whispers and rumors knew enough to keep the information to themselves, but as soon as she took the stage each of them turned selfish, staring at her as if for the brief time she was on stage, they owned her, from the dark, chiseled Indian face tucked inward to the flowing embroidered cape covering her perfect muscular shoulders.
Owen ordered two coffees spiked with cinnamon and settled Maggie and himself at a table in the back of the bar, where shadows kept them anonymous.
This past week was the best he could remember living through in a very long time. Waking up next to Maggie, breakfast with Verbena, and hugs from her grandchildren. Two day’s honest work, then some time off. The challenge of driving in snow in a car built for it, a bellyful of good American cooking, and now this tall woman next to him, her thigh grazing his. He said, “Cold weather brings up your color. You look so darn pretty, I’d kiss you if we were alone.”
“Kiss me anyway.” Then she took hold of his shoulder, pulled him close, and kissed him—a serious kiss, one he felt all the way down to his socks. Before he could respond, the bar band struck up a Paul Zarzyski/John Hollis tune, homage to the flamenca duende who would follow their act. The kiss had him all knotted up. Much as he wanted to, he didn’t take her hand and hurry her out of there just yet—certain things needed savoring as much as good food took time to digest. The motels would still be there in two hours, all those clean sheets and Gideon Bibles with the stiff spines in the drawers nobody opened. He watched Maggie’s face soften in the atmosphere of the rough music, its sentimental lyrics take hold of her heart and give it a tender caress, making her forget everything from that viper-tongued son of hers to the bad mood she’d worn a few nights back like army boots.
Before she came to Blue Dog, he figured her life had to be like something out of one of those slick decorating magazines Minnie Youngcloud loved to pore over on her lunch break. He imagined sofas covered in pastel fabrics, thick white carpet, fragile china vases full of fresh flowers, everything in such good taste a man like himself wouldn’t feel comfortable taking a seat anywhere. The most he knew of taste was a meal at the Red Cloud. Sure, he admired the craftsmanship of Molesworth furniture, and could spot a decent weaving and name its region, thanks to Verbena, but he knew he would never possess the means to own either in his lifetime. Sometimes the detours you took decided the larger issues—and there wasn’t any turning back. They were two completely different people, their common ground a few acres in Blue Dog, New Mexico. Both had pasts they’d tried to leave behind; both enjoyed themselves in bed; and no two ways about it, both had children who were troubled.
Sara Kay was deaf, in her own way, and he’d been the one to foster that silence. He saw her in his mind that coltish year she turned thirteen, her chest starting to bud out. One minute she was loving up to her horse, the next she was applying warpaint to her eyelids, strutting across the living room in a way that made him leave the too-small house and go muck stalls for relief. Her attention-getting was more like asking for directions, but when she voiced the questions he wanted to run. What do I say when a boy asks me to the movies, Daddy? Am I old enough for dating? Help me find the way—some of the answers were within him; he just was too sidetracked with cattle and malt liquor to handle her growing up so quick. There were opportunities galore for talking. When they were in the barn, grooming horses, trimming hooves, or he was standing at the arena fence, telling her she better start leaning into her horse earlier around that second barrel or she’d never shave a second from her time. He’d been a poor excuse for a husband, drinking and gone so much. He wasn’t much of a daddy either. When Sara was little, her diapers needing changing, that day-to-day stuff seemed like such a nuisance. Now he saw all of it was precious.
Maggie took mothering as serious as world peace. They hadn’t talked about what she’d told him a few nights back—her deaf son—what was there to say besides how sorry you felt, and what a crying shame it was? That the boy had lived after the illness was more of a miracle alone than you dared hope for. It’d be natural enough for him not to handle the change well. No one could wake up to silence and not have trouble. Teenagers were the most listening breed of creatures ever created. Music, gossip, schoolwork, their ears were lower to the ground than Joe Yazzi’s, wanting messages that might help them grow up different from their sorry folks. Riverwall School—the buff-colored adobe walls behind the chain-link fence—he’d driven by there dozens of times on his way home from Santa Fe, never giving it more than a moment’s thought. He knew Maggie wanted more than anything to see her son, but only if he wanted to see her. Well, it was coming up Christmas season, the time for milagros if there ever was one.
An expectant silence came over the room as soon as she stepped from the shadows onto the stage. He recognized the musical arrangement, tres alegrías. Three Hispanic gentlemen plucked guitars to accompany the dancer. She slid onto the wooden stage and dropped her embroidered cape. Beneath it, her bare shoulders and brown back underscored the animal nature of each person sitting in the room. It was impossible to watch her suddenly expose a taut thigh from beneath the rough cloth and not feel the echo resonate in your own sexual being. Owen rested his hand on Maggie’s knee. After a minute, he felt her hand press his, urge his fingers higher on her leg. When she touched him like that, he understood what she was saying. That place he wanted to go would once again be his comfort before this night was over.
He wasn’t about to let Maggie pay for any of this trip, so they were staying at the Ocotillo Motor Court, one of those early fifties motels designed to outwardly resemble forts, complete with free steam heat and complimentary fresh-brewed coffee in the office. The off-season bargain rate was twenty-nine dollars a night, affordable if he cut back a little on his next month’s food
budget. Other than a trucker already tucked into his bed for the night and two Winnebagos who’d apparently had it with RV camping, the place was empty. Owen laid his money down on the Formica desktop and took the key to room twelve, which was located around back, off the busy street. He drove the Landcruiser around to their parking space in front of the door, painted that peachy pink trimmed with aqua.
“Home for tonight,” he said as he opened the door. The shoebox of a room smelled musty and chill. It sported a double bed with a graying chenille bedspread, one terrible painting of a mother brushing her daughter’s hair, and a partially cracked full-length mirror on the wall opposite the bed. Maggie immediately turned on the wall heater and sat down on the creaky bed, rubbing her hands together.
“I can go get us some of that fine complimentary coffee,” Owen joked nervously. “Or maybe if you hop in the shower it might warm you up. Let me go turn it on, get it hot for you.” He started for the bathroom, but she caught his hand.
“Sit here with me a minute.”
He looked down at the worn carpet. “Sorry it’s not the La Fonda, Maggie. I don’t have the dinero to keep you like you ought to be kept.”
She stroked his face. “Will you hush?”
“Well, I know that’s what you’re used to.”
Her auburn hair was kinky from snow dampness, and she pushed it away from her face. “Fancy hotels, chocolates on your pillows, the little pleat they make the maid fold into the toilet paper—you think I need that? When it comes right down to what you get out of a hotel or a motel, there’s not much difference. We’ve got the bed, haven’t we, the only thing we need for sleeping.”
Blue Rodeo Page 14