At her feet Echo nudged her head against Margaret’s ankle for the third time in as many minutes. Lately the dog was behaving strangely, demanding affection, turning her nose up at food, making beds for herself all over the house. Margaret thought about reaching down to lift her up into her lap, then petted her instead. It wasn’t Echo’s fault—things had turned lonely when everyone went back to their lives. The dog missed not only Peter but her three-legged pal as well. After reaching down, Margaret’s hands felt impossibly heavy, and she knew that eventually she was going to be faced with the prospect of hauling them back up to the table—it all seemed like so much trouble.
In the living room her painting things stood gathering dust. She’d made herself finish the landscape she’d begun just before Christmas. Three cottonwoods growing along the banks of the Animas River, their winter-bare branches precisely rendered in shades of gray and black. But when the painting was done, those trees and rocks had somehow developed sharp, accusatory angles, and all the energy she had for painting anything else seemed to crawl into a dull hibernation.
Above the mantel her two weavings hung side by side, a pairing of presently passing life and the ancient past. On the left the secondhand remnant of an anonymous weaver whose work had come to rest in a trendy beach-town junk shop a thousand miles from home, the forty-dollar price tag hardly an indication of its worth. To the right hung the smoke-damaged pictorial. When she’d first unwrapped it in her kitchen Christmas night, it had seemed priceless. Now, whenever her eyes accidentally came to rest on it for longer than a second, that promise of a man planting his crop seemed like a cruel joke, both he and his horse destined to stay trapped in the yarn until it rotted. She wondered again what it was the weaver envisioned the man putting into the earth—corn, beans, or some tired relationship? There the weaving had failed to inform. Nothing bloomed in February, anyway—the short month seemed like it didn’t even need to be here at all—some twenty-eight-day write-off invented to balance the calendar.
The wall on which the weavings hung was otherwise bare. There was certainly room for a third weaving. Margaret had considered hanging Verbena’s “false start” there, but all arrows and business, the small rug seemed too warlike an omen, so she left it upstairs in a drawer.
Outside she heard the perpetually loud muffler of Joe Yazzi’s approaching clunker truck, which ran about as infrequently as Margaret’s desire to eat whatever she’d fixed herself for dinner. How about that—a rotten day like this, some decent mail, and now a visitor—things were looking up. Abandoning the full cup before her, she went to her front door and opened it, not bothering to wrap a jacket around herself against the cold, and waved to him to come on in. Echo flew out, barking.
The well-bundled Indian got out of his truck and went to the passenger side, wrenching the dented door open. Verbena Youngcloud emerged, hands stuffed in her coat pockets, a scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face. Two visitors.
Joe retrieved a large cardboard box. “Idaho potatoes,” he said when he was within speaking distance. “Government commodities. Big suckers, tasty and free. Got so many I’m thinking, might as well share ’em. Great for cooking. Keep all winter long if you don’t let ’em freeze. Everybody likes potatoes, right, Verbena?”
“She could use five or six on skinny body,” Verbena answered. “Lose any more weight, her breasts disappear.”
Joe laughed. “Never have to worry about Verbena beating around the bush.”
Verbena unwrapped the scarf and pointed to Echo, who was digging furiously in the snow. “Something don’t look right with that dog.”
The truth was, nothing had looked right with anything since New Year’s Eve. “She’s off her food this week. Here, girl,” Margaret called, but the dog took off running at her words, straight to the fence line to bark at Ruby, the only ewe Margaret wouldn’t let Joe take when he parceled out the remaining sheep he didn’t want for himself. Once they got into it, RedBow would get stirred up as well, and between the galloping, barking, and worrying, Margaret was plain worn out dealing with animals. “Joe, help me catch her and I’ll keep her inside. Probably like everybody else, she’s just anxious for some warm weather. You two want some coffee?”
“Coffee,” Verbena repeated, walking past her into the house. “Good idea.”
Inside the house Joe set the dog on the floor and got down the cups. “This blue cup’s my favorite.”
“It’s got a chip in the rim. I keep meaning to throw it out.”
“Nah, that just makes drinking from it a challenge. Now, blue is a spiritual color. You can take comfort in blue, the same way turquoise is a healing stone.” He reached into his flannel shirt pocket for a cellophane bag. “Anybody for tea?”
Verbena held firm—she wanted coffee. But maybe Joe’s tea and out-of-state potatoes were what was necessary to turn this gray day sunny. Margaret dumped her cappuccino down the drain. “Why not?”
“Where your sister at?” Verbena asked.
“Back to work. Nori delivers a paper at some medical conference every year about this time. She’s in Paris, France, ‘the City of Light’.”
“You been there?”
Margaret nodded her head. “When I was twenty-two, on a student visa. I can’t remember it too well.”
Verbena smiled and sipped her coffee. “Big fancy place, Light City?”
Joe squeezed the cheesecloth packet of herbs into the teapot in front of him. “Probably they got more streetlights than downtown Blue Dog or something.”
Margaret smiled. “I do remember that the light seemed to shine differently—onto people, buildings, trees. And that it cost around twenty bucks for one not-very-well-cooked pizza.”
“Man, that’s a lot of money.”
“I thought so too, Joe.”
Verbena frowned thoughtfully. “Maggie. You go Paris, then twenty year later, forget all about. Kind of like love.”
Margaret pushed her cup forward toward Joe for a refill. Verbena Youngcloud, master weaver and legendary lover, at least according to her own stories, had a train of thought unlike anyone else on earth. “Honestly, Verbena, I can’t see how Paris and heartbreak connect.”
“Well, quit thinking like white woman, maybe you figure out.” She shoved her chair back from the table and got up. “I make Joe bring me along because today I wake up and something say, Time for me see Maggie’s paintings. Well, where’s them paintings hiding at?”
“Right there, in the living room, hiding behind themselves.”
As Verbena walked over, Margaret shot Joe a hard look tempered with affection. “Thanks, old buddy. Remind me to return the favor someday.”
He threw up his hands. “Hey, Verbena decides on doing something, no skin can refuse. She’s my elder, and I got to respect my elders or else—”
“I know, I know, you’ll piss off the powers.”
Joe smiled. “Well, when I say it, most white people believe it.”
In the living room Verbena began turning canvases over and laying them out for inspection. Margaret stood behind her, chagrined at the pitiful inventory emerging: From her initial sketchbooks filled with Conté crayon scribblings of rocks and flowers she had leapt onto gessoed canvas attempting portraits—whatever was she thinking? Here was Peter, his features slightly skewed—one eye too large, the pierced-earring holes studding his ear looking torturous. Then, without provocation, she’d gone on to attack nature, sanitizing Owen’s sheep in a pasture never that green, feathered out what she didn’t know of Red’s musculature with her brushes into a vague prettiness, the end result being some kind of astral cloud-horse who, on seeing this saccharine portrait, would have sought out his own shotgun. Finally Verbena came to the painting of the cottonwoods. “Hmm.”
“What does ‘hmm’ mean? Good? Terrible?”
Verbena ran a fingertip over the spidery painted branches. “Not terrible.”
Margaret felt a small inward sag of relief. “When I finished that one, I thought it was time to
quit.”
Verbena picked at a glob of acrylic paint, dried to hardness. “Why you think about quitting?”
“Because I tried to make something beautiful out of what I saw in those trees, and it didn’t turn out anything like that.”
Verbena let the edge of the canvas go, where it fell against its less successful brothers. “That what you trying do, paint everything beautiful?”
“Well, in a way, I guess. Art certainly should uplift, or question the known….” She stopped, realizing that for all her schooling, despite these past months, she had no idea what art should or should not do, except the niggling awareness that her own wasn’t performing at all successfully.
“You want Verbena opinion on painting?”
Margaret nodded. “Absolutely. I respect your work so much.”
Verbena turned the cottonwoods painting over so the trees showed again. “Safe.”
“Excuse me?”
“You paint good, safe tree here. No scary bark catch your skin on. No dead branch, smelling bad. No one strong branch to save yourself from drowning on, either.”
Safe? At first, she thought she hadn’t heard her correctly. Then, glancing at Joe, who was finding his chipped blue cup more fascinating than ever, she realized she had indeed heard the weaver, in her own way, tell her what she needed to do was to quit painting. Inside she felt herself falling into a dark place she thought she had been building handrails and stairs out of all these months. After a minute she found her voice. “Am I that bad?”
Verbena’s dark eyes held her steady. “Go to Santa Fe. Painters selling there don’t paint this good.”
“Then what is my problem?”
The Indian woman pointed a finger, chest-high. “Heart made up of dark and light. Them paintings got no dark heart in them. No light either. False start, always better put away. Sometimes it better not to do a thing than do and not care about it.”
But she did care—more than anything, she had hoped to find in those brushes and paints something of her own to nurture when everyone and everything was gone. “You’re saying I should quit.”
Verbena waited a minute before answering. “Listen. Now, my Minnie, she could be weaver. Why not? In her blood to weave. Mother, grandmothers, way back, all weavers. But she got no heart for the wool, no wanting in her fingers. Better she run cash register down to Rabbott’s than pretend.”
That stung. “I didn’t think I was pretending.”
Verbena’s face softened. “Ah, Maggie, put aside feelings! You trying so hard, got it all mess up. Just stop painting until you hear it call you back. Then start again.” She patted her hand. “Now let’s go drink more of that fine coffee you make.”
Margaret tamped the aching down into the sore spot where it found immediate company. “I have half a loaf of cinnamon bread from the bakery. It’ll mold if someone doesn’t help me eat it.”
“Some bread would be good,” Joe said, too cheerfully.
She watched her friends finish their drinks and listened as they shared several recipes for which Idaho potatoes seemed essential. She heard their words and hers echo hollowly in the kitchen.
“Sure do miss that old white man,” Verbena said. “He make me laugh, just like first man I marry.”
Joe shushed her. “Maggie don’t want to hear about that right now.”
“Well, that is stupid way of thinking. Pain of losing don’t go away when you tell it to. Remembering is best way to grieve.”
“Sorry, Maggie. Verbena, ain’t we better get going? Remember, you got business in town with Benny Mota.”
“Don’t boss me, we can go in minute.” The old woman pinched off a piece of her bread and held it out to Echo, who skulked around the table, then pressed herself against the woman’s legs. “Better feed this dog, Maggie, or when her time come she have too much pain.”
“What time? What are you talking about?”
Verbena bent down, felt the dog’s belly, and ran one of the dog’s teats between her thumb and forefinger. “Pups,” she said. “While yet before she deliver.”
“Puppies?” Margaret sputtered.
“Feed her some government potato, potato good for mother dog.”
“It’s been nearly two months since Owen left—and he took the dog with him. How on earth could Echo be pregnant?”
Verbena smiled. “Sometimes they come into heat out of season. Minnie had terrier one time, he got so obsess with his grandmother that dog in permanent state of ready. Mostly though, the bitches go into heat weird time of year. Who can say? Too much light, not enough, spending all time with one dog. Sometime it almost seem like they fall in love.”
“What am I going to do with puppies in February?”
“Well, for starters, keep ’em warm. She’s frail-boned little dog, but probably only got one or two in there at most. Put notice in library. Folks’ll ask for one. Pups won’t be looking for homes till spring. Everybody get baby fever in spring. All but three of my babies born in February on account of spring feeling so good.” She fed Echo another piece of bread. “Cute in the face. You’ll find homes.”
At the door Joe transfered his hat from hand to hand, looking down at the floor before speaking. “Say, listen. I been thinking. Maybe I’m ready now. Maybe I can take one of them puppies off your hands.”
Puppies. Margaret, still in shock, could only manage a nod.
Daily Margaret followed Echo from room to room, trying to hunt down her potential choices for labor spots. She left bureau drawers open, not caring about the mess a dog could make of her good sweaters, created towel nests in the laundry area, which was the warmest spot in the house, hoping the dog would sensibly opt for comfort and cleanliness. Equitably Echo ignored them all. Nights, Margaret swore it seemed like she hardly closed her eyes, listening for the scrabble of toenails against hardwood floors. There wasn’t any time to feel bad about Verbena’s words when Peter’s dog could go into labor at any moment. She sleepwalked around the property feeding the animals in the daytime, keeping Echo in sight. As she opened the front door at two in the morning and stood there watching the dog survey several spots that deserved her urine, Margaret told her, “Don’t start getting used to this treatment.”
But she fed Echo carefully. One night she cooked up a rice-and-lamb casserole, the meat chopped finely, and when it was cool enough, set down a small bowlful on the kitchen floor. Echo dug in, as if she found this dining a distinct improvement over canned dog food. Watching her son’s dog eat, for the first time in a long while, certainly since Verbena’s visit. Margaret Yearwood felt useful again—needed in a way that had begun to seem obsolete.
“Come down to Embers,” Joe Yazzi insisted the following week, a slightly warmer Thursday. “It’s enchilada night. I’m sure getting tired of talking to myself.”
“You’re a ladykiller, Joe. Go find some pretty girl and buy her supper. Then take her dancing.”
“Ah, them town girls are looking pretty gray this time of year. I need me a tall, good-looking dinner companion. One who can listen to my troubles, and one who don’t throw up after she eats.”
“You have troubles?” Margaret hesitated, looking over to where Echo lay sleeping in her newly purchased dog bed, lined with imitation, machine-washable fleece. “I’m happy to listen, Joe, but I’m nervous about leaving the dog. What if she has the puppies while we’re gone?”
“She ain’t looking too ambitious sleeping there. We’ll be gone an hour. Nothing going to happen in one hour.”
But sometimes all it took was a brief passage of time to change an entire life. In the few short hours she’d left Peter at home with his fever, he had slid into a coma. In less time than that, Owen had disappeared. Margaret said, “I don’t know.”
Joe put one boot up on her kitchen chair. “Look, I wasn’t going to say nothing. But when I hear from Lulu Mantooth she ain’t seen you since Christmas, I figure it’s time to come pry you loose of this house. It’s a nice house, Maggie, but you need to get out of here some
times, breathe some car smoke, talk to strangers.”
“Great—now everyone downtown is talking about me?”
“Just Lulu and that guy Jim who runs the copy shop and Minnie who’s sure you got to be out of coffee filters by now. Come eat. I want to ask you about your sister, anyhow.”
Warning bells started ringing like windchimes in a full gale—now she had to go to dinner. She said a silent prayer, hoping that Joe wasn’t becoming interested in Nori, the only woman she knew who could out-story Verbena Youngcloud when it came to the subject of men and love. She bent down and gave Echo a scratch under the chin. “You stay tucked into bed and don’t start anything until we get back, you hear?”
Echo rolled over, showing her now-plumper belly, wanting and receiving a few gentle strokes from both people.
At Embers Joe tore into his enchiladas hungrily while Margaret toyed with her bowl of tortilla soup. The grated cheese on top sat there in a lump she knew her stomach would perceive as solid rock, so she spooned it out of the bowl and set it on the saucer, alongside two slightly wizened decorative olives.
Between mouthfuls Joe said, “Been wanting to talk to you about something a while now.”
She put up a hand. “Not about him, Joe. Trust me that I’m dealing with it in my own way, okay?”
“Oh, hey, this ain’t about Owen at all. This is about your sister.”
Margaret winced and set down her spoon. “I thought you were just trying to get me out of the house. If you tell me you’re thinking seriously of getting romantically involved with Nori, I swear I’ll scream the walls down.”
“Why? Because sometimes I fall off the wagon? I paid that man cash money for the dog, Maggie. I got me a thirty-day token in my pocket from AA, and in a week, I’ll have me two of them.”
Blue Rodeo Page 29