The Gifted Gabaldón Sisters

by Lorraine López

  “Okay,” he says. “I got her feet.” Together they heft Belinda over the rise and back into camp. Rennie cradles her like a baby while Rita raps on Noah’s door.

  The ambulance arrives just before the squad cars. Sirens howl through the woods most of the night. Rita answers the same questions again and again and signs her name after reading a deputy’s report of her statement. At the first pink streaks of daybreak, Rita finally tumbles into her bunk, nearly slipping into the delicious blankness of sleep when a memory jolts her. Belinda. That morning in the canteen. Rita sits upright, draws her knees to her chest. “What have I done?” she whispers so no one will hear. “What have I done?”

  Incredibly, the corps members taken that night by the police return to camp within a few days, wearing their khaki uniforms and riding out to work sites on the bus. Rita seeks out Rafe. The bus driver always seems to know the comings and goings in camp better than anyone else. She asks him, “Why aren’t those guys in jail?”

  “They made bail,” he says.

  “But why aren’t they kicked out of the corps?”

  Rafe shrugs. “They say it was just a party that got out of hand.”

  “What about Belinda?”

  “Went home,” Rafe says. “I drove her to the airport last night. She got early release.”

  After hearing this, Rita moves through the next day automatically, performing her work by rote and keeping her distance from the others. Jackie glares at her on the bus, but the others watch her warily. Andy’s nowhere to be seen. She hadn’t given his name to the police because she’s not sure he was there that night.

  When she returns from the work site that afternoon, she finds a note in her mail slot from Noah, the camp director, asking her to meet with him at once. On the way to Noah’s office, she spots Andy perched on the short fence before the men’s dormitory.

  “What’s going on?” she says.

  He looks past her toward the canteen and pulls a harmonica from his pocket. He brings it to his lips and plays, “Pop Goes the Weasel.”

  “Talk to me,” Rita says.

  The harmonica warbles: “Round and round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel.”

  Rita draws closer to him, her heart hammering her ribs. “You stupid, lying fool.” Her fist shoots out, and the harmonica flies, spinning to the ground.

  Andy teeters, nearly toppling backward, but he catches himself. Eyes narrowed, he fingers his jaw, where she’s struck him. She rears as if to lunge again, and he crouches behind the bars, his eyes round with alarm.

  “You know what,” she says, staring through him, as though he has vanished. “You’re nothing to me.”

  In his warm, wood-paneled office, Noah urges Rita to take a seat. She sits in the chair across from the vast desk at which he is seated. Noah, a round-faced man with wire-framed glasses and a mud-colored beard spilling to his chest, has the habit of bringing the tips of his index fingers together, as though working out abstract problems through this act of spatial resolution. Rita stares at these long, knobby digits, pointing each to each, as he suggests she’s misinterpreted what she saw that night at the pond.

  “All accounts suggest inappropriate behavior, yes,” he says. “Drinking while in camp is prohibited, true. Was this a party that got out of control? Absolutely. But did a crime take place? Hard to prove, definitively.”

  “What about Lupe?” Rita asks. “She saw what happened.”

  “She says she blacked out, doesn’t remember a thing.”

  “Well, then Rennie. You should talk to him,” Rita says.

  Noah shakes his head. “He’s been transferred.”

  “What?” Rita doesn’t trust her hearing.

  “He asked for a transfer after this unpleasantness.”

  “Unpleasantness? Belinda was drunk, helpless. She begged them to stop!” Rita’s voice rises against a dizzying wave of disbelief.

  Noah puts a finger to his lips, shakes his head. “This is bad, Rita, bad for the corps, bad for all of us. False allegations can destroy lives, destroy our good work.”

  Rita sputters, “But these aren’t false —”

  “I know you like being in the corps,” Noah says, his index fingers meeting once more. “You believe in our work. So this is hard, Rita, but I have to ask you to transfer or resign your service. Even if you believe what you witnessed was a crime, no one will back you up. If this ever goes to court, the defense will make you out to be a troubled and vindictive young woman. This will only ruin lives and reputations, especially your own. My advice: let it go and move on.” Noah draws his fingers steadily apart.

  Rita shakes her head. “I can’t do that.”

  “Then you force my hand,” Noah tells her. “I’ll draw up a separation order.”

  Rita rises, grasps the camp leader’s desk, and leans in. “You can’t fire me.”

  “We can’t keep crew members who destroy camp unity.” He pulls a folder from his desk, holds it before his face. “Thank you for stopping by,” he says.

  “You’re as fucked up as those guys who raped Belinda,” she tells him in a low voice. “And you know it, too.” Rita glimpses a framed photo of Noah’s wife and baby on his desk. Her own face is reflected in the glass, a holographic image superimposed over their smiling faces. She remembers her anger at Belinda in the canteen, what she said as she stormed off that morning. Rita cups a hand over her mouth and backs out.

  Hurrying toward the dormitory, Rita plans to take change from the knotted sock and call Bette. Who else can she tell? Her cheeks burn when she thinks about telling her father. She slips into the dorm, grateful it’s mealtime, no one around to see her packing. Rounding the bunk, she stumbles over a length of metal —a crowbar. Her lockbox has been ripped from its metal brace. “No!” she blurts, thinking not just of her savings, but of her few keepsakes —letters, photos, the one picture she has of her mother as a young girl. All of it gone. She longs to take the crowbar to the windows and mirrors. Her knees wobble, and she places a palm on her bunk to steady herself. The blanket feels wet. She lifts her hand to her nose and sniffs —urine. Rita’s gaze travels from the bed to a heap of her clothes, also drenched and reeking. Nothing to pack, she scrubs her hands in scalding water and heads out to find Rafe hosing mud from the tires.

  “Can you take me to town?” Rita doesn’t have a clear plan, except to get away.

  Rafe stands to regard her. “Sure, get your stuff while I finish here.”

  “I don’t have anything.” She holds up her hands, blinking hard.

  Rafe looks away. “Come on then.” He crouches to turn off the faucet and coil the hose. “You got someone there you can stay with?”

  “No.” Rita climbs into the warm bus.

  “You know,” Rafe says, sliding into the driver’s seat, “me and my sister have an apartment in Sebastopol. I think she’d be okay with it if you want to stay with us for a while.” He turns to give her a warm look. “You got the bad end of it, didn’t you?”

  Rita plans to stay with Rafe and his sister, Maya, just a few days, but those days turn into weeks, then a whole month. Rafe and Maya don’t seem to mind, as long as Rita helps with housework and rent, which she does, after she finds a job in a Realtor’s office. In a few months, she saves enough for her own place. Rafe offers to drive her around to look at rentals in the evenings and on weekends. They plan to meet for this purpose one afternoon at a café near Rita’s work. But Rafe is half an hour late. As Rita finishes her iced tea, he rushes in. “Sorry, I got hung up.” He slides into the booth. “A couple of those boys went missing —Jackie and that other little shit, that pretty-boy rich kid.”

  Rita’s pulse quickens. “What happened?”

  “Went on a hike last night and didn’t come back. They got a search party going now. I had to take a bunch of volunteers out there to look for them at the last minute. The place is crawling with reporters and TV cameras and shit.”

  “Really,” Rita says, keeping her voice calm.

&
nbsp; “Yeah, I talked to one of them who asked if I knew that rich punk was serving in the corps because he and his friends assaulted some girl out in Marin, same as what you told me happened to Belinda.” Rafe frowned, shook his head. “I said I didn’t know about that, and the guy went off to interview someone else. You know it was Andy’s old man that made bail for those guys that night. They were going to drag Andy into it, say it was all his idea. So some lawyer drove out in the middle of the night.”

  “What?” Rita’s not sure she can trust her hearing.

  “Yeah, turns out he really is a rich little son of a bitch, telling the truth all along. Nobody believed him. That’s all.” Rafe shook his head. “His old man’s sending out some helicopters and shit, and someone said the FBI is on the way.”

  “Do you have to go back?”

  “Hell no. I’m off the clock.” Rafe picks up the menu, scans it. “After what happened to you, I don’t care if they never find those punks. Do you?”

  Rita shrugs, her heart thrashing so fiercely she’s sure he can hear it.

  “Another thing I found out,” Rafe says, “old Belinda was connected and connected. Brothers, uncles, cousins —all veteranos, bunch of big shots in Eme.”

  “Eme?”

  “You know, the Mexican Mafia.” Rafe sets the menu down and nods. “I bet they took care of those boys, but good. They aren’t too likely to turn up alive. I’d be very surprised if they ever find the bones.” Rafe looks into her eyes. “What do you think?”

  Rita thinks of her last day at camp, Andy and his harmonica. She clears her throat. “There’s a duplex just south of here that I want to see before it gets too dark, okay?”

  “You really don’t care about that boy anymore?”

  “Why should I?” Rita says. “He’s nothing to me.” He’s nothing at all, now.

  Rafe reaches across the table and clasps Rita’s hand in his. Though she’s startled by this gesture, Rita is more astonished by the unexpected familiarity of his touch, the warmth of his skin, and the strength in his long fingers.

  SUBJECT: FERMINA/CHILDBIRTH

  WPA: 7-14-38 —DC: HMS

  July 12, 1938

  Words: 568

  FLOWERS BUDDING

  Two years after Decidero’s birth, Fermina was again with child. This time, Yrma was furious. She threatened to throw Fermina out to scavenge with the coyotes. Inocencio, though, hoped for another son to help with the farm. He convinced Yrma that he and Decidero would not be able to manage the work on their own, as their herds of sheep and cattle multiplied and the crops flourished.

  But after childbirth, no one tore this newborn from Fermina’s arms to dress in stiff lace and prop on embroidered pillows. Fermina’s second child was a girl. The Gabaldons refused to baptize her in the church. They didn’t even give her a name. Fermina called the infant Shiamptiwa (Hopi for flowers budding). Her pink face reminded Fermina of tightly bundled petals waiting to be coaxed open by the sun. When Fermina sniffed Shiamptiwa’s fragrant scalp, the fine black hairs tickled her nose, and she grew dizzy, drunk with love. She swaddled Shiamptiwa to her chest as she worked and slept curled around her at night, her full breasts ready whenever the baby stirred.

  Once after waking to feed Shiamptiwa, Fermina heard voices from the main bedroom. Yrma and Decidero rarely spoke to one another during the day, let alone late at night, so this alarmed Fermina. With the suckling baby in her arms, she crept to the hall leading to their bedroom. Fermina put her ear to the door to hear Yrma’s low, persistent voice. She was telling Inocencio that he must take the baby away. She knew of a place, an asilo de huerfanos. It was not too far. Her voice buzzed on and on, like a hornet trapped under glass. Inocencio remained silent for a long while, but finally he grunted assent.

  The next day, Fermina, the baby bundled on her back, stole away to visit Lucinda Aragon, a neighbor who was reputed to be a bruja. Aragon sat in a chair outside her house, puffing on a pipe. Fermina repeated what she had overheard, and Aragon told Fermina of a woman named Concha Gallegos, who lived near Santa Fe. Fermina knew Concha, who had grown up in Rio Puerco. She was a friendly girl whose plump face creased into easy smiles. La bruja explained that Concha married well, but had no children of her own. She took in those no one wanted. Concha fed and treated these children well. “Bring me a she-goat with milk,” Aragon said, “and I will take the baby to her.” So it was that Fermina’s second child vanished, along with a brown-and-white spotted nanny. When asked about the disappearance of the goat, Fermina shrugged. No one mentioned the baby.

  Over time, Fermina learned that Shiamptiwa had been renamed Patricia by Concha, who bought a piano to teach the children to play. Those who had known Concha in Rio Puerco clucked their tongues at the extravagance in having the expensive instrument shipped west just so children could hammer on it. Sin sentido, they called her, senseless and wasteful. Many years later, Fermina heard that Concha Gallegos de Obregon’s children had contracted influenza, dying one after another, along with her husband in the bitter winter of 1918, all but la Patty, who never married and still lives near Santa Fe, as of this writing, where she looks after her mother and teaches neighborhood children to play the piano, which she is known for loving so well.

  11

  SNAPSHOTS FROM THE MOTHER

  ROAD —THE GABALDÓN SISTERS:

  1983

  NEEDLES, CALIFORNIA —SOPHIA

  “Just whose stupid idea was this,” you say for the second time since Barstow, leveling your gaze at the back of Loretta’s head, her long dark braid. She’s driving Woody, your father’s old paneled station wagon, the one he bought after the red-and-white finned Impala died over a decade ago, the one he’s about to give away (maybe to you) because he couldn’t trade it in for “a shoeshine,” he said, when he bought his new Buick earlier this year. “July in Needles,” you say, fanning your five-month-old baby with the Triple A map. The raspberry flush suffusing his cheeks would alarm you if not for the sweat beading on his scalp. He’s not feverish, just goddamn hot. “Need-less, California,” you say as the car whooshes down Broadway past boarded-up storefronts, abandoned motels decorated with whitewashed truck tire planters that hold only dust and weeds.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Needles,” Rita turns to say, “or this trip.” In fact, Rita flew from Northern California to L.A. especially for this journey. She’s more anxious than any of you to find out what Fermina meant by her cryptic promise. Your story is you’re just along for the ride, eager to get away from your hot apartment and your job at the women’s shelter day care, which Aitch attends free of charge, if just for a week. True, you’re curious about Fermina, the gift business and whatnot, but you’re not freaked out about it, like Rita, who now says, “I only have one week of vacation, you know, not ten years. So what’s really stupid is not taking the interstate, instead of this Route 66 bullshit.” But the rest of you know this is not about compulsion to return to work; Rita just misses her boyfriend, Rafe.

  “It’s the Mother Road,” Loretta says as she brakes for an old man shambling across Broadway with a grocery cart. He’s barefoot, whiskered, and raving. He stops, midcrossing, to shake a bony fist at the sun.

  “John Steinbeck,” Bette reads from a guidebook in the back, the rear seat that faces backward —her window view: the receding ribbon of blacktop parting scrub, yucca, Joshua trees, and date palms —“first named this ‘the mother road, the road of flight —’ ”

  “Mother fucking road,” Rita grumbles.

  Bette continues thumbing through the guidebook Loretta brought, until she groans and flings it over the seat. “Remind me never to read in the car.”

  You redouble your efforts to fan Harold Jr., whose name you’ve shortened to Aitch, so as to avoid association with his absent idiot of a father. “Turn up the air conditioner, tontas. We’ve got babies here.” Oblivious of the flapping Triple A guide, Aitch snores in the car seat beside you, and two-year-old Elena, also flushed and dozing, is strapped into a safety seat
next to his.

  “Can’t do it.” Loretta shakes her head. “The car will overheat.”

  “Then open those windows all the way.”

  Rita scrolls down the glass, as does Loretta, after a pause, so she won’t look like she’s doing what you’ve asked. A warm gust flash dries your perspiration, and you sigh.

  “Where’s that tape?” Rita asks.

  Loretta tilts her chin toward the floorboard. “In my purse.”

  Rita rummages in the bag and extracts a flat box, which she opens. “How come you never mentioned this before? I can’t believe you just forgot about it until now.”

  “I never forgot,” Loretta says after a pause. “I just didn’t have a chance to play it back after the day I made it. It’s a reel-to-reel. Those are kind of obsolete now.”

  “Where’d you find a thing to play it on?” you ask.

  “My roommate’s boyfriend is a musician. He had one.” Loretta made the tape twelve years ago —an interview with Nilda in which she mentions a woman who wrote a book about Fermina’s life. This journey taken together to find the author of that book, and to celebrate Nilda’s birthday in Río Puerco, is Loretta’s plan. The trip is the only gift she wants from you and your sisters —no party, no gifts —to commemorate her graduation last month from veterinary school. Since Nilda turns seventy-two at the end of this week, you’ve unanimously agreed to “kill two birds with one stone.” Though you all manage to visit Nilda once every few years, you usually fly out on your own or travel in pairs, so this is the first time all four of you are making the trip together.

  “What’s her name again?” Bette asks from the back.

  “Heidi,” Loretta tells her. “Heidi Schultz Vigil. She lives west of Santa Fe. I phoned her son for directions.”

  You have few memories of Fermina, who you once thought was your fairy godmother, though you remember her more than your mother. “What’s on the tape?”