by Sydney Avey
My short-lived art career was a trick I played on Leora. One day I announced that I’d been accepted at Chouinard Art Institute and off I went. She paid the bill grudgingly. This was not how she had imagined things, but it did get me out of her hotel suite, a relief to both of us. It had pleased her that I could amuse myself with a pencil and sketchpad. It fit our lifestyle. It was a cheap and portable pastime—but not a way of life, as she would tell me often.
It certainly was a way of life, one I regretted leaving and deeply missed. What Leora meant was that it was not an acceptable way of life to a single mother looking to unburden herself of a teenage daughter who was outgrowing the confines of their migratory nest.
But this is exactly what Father Mike told me not to do. I need to put down the litany of my mother’s sins and pick up my sketching pencil while the light is still good. Artfully arranged in front of me is the altar of objects I’ve removed from Leora’s nightstand: the brass bell and the framed photo of Leora and Valerie. I spill the Anglican beads around them. Then I move toward the table to adjust the frame. The photograph is askew, revealing something behind it. I take the frame apart and discover what looks like a postcard.
The evening fog is moving in. I close the front door, turn on the floor lamp by the davenport, and sink into the softness of its pillows, pondering the front of the postcard. It is a picture of a grassy valley with mountains in the background. Sheep graze in the distant foothills. The largest animal wears a brass bell. Sky dominates the setting. It would be a lovely but boring picture were it not for the dominant image in the right foreground. A large workhorse stands over a smaller horse reclining on the grass, feet folded under its young body, head facing the distant mountains. The standing horse seems attentive to its young charge—and protective. There is a breathtaking intimacy in this scene.
I turn the postcard over. There are words scribbled in pencil on the back. They are hard to make out, but finally I do.
Ardi galdua atzeman daiteke, aldi galdua berriz ez.
And a translation.
The lost sheep may be recovered, the lost time cannot.
And a signature.
We are fine. Al
The postmark indicates the card comes from somewhere in Spain. The message must be from my father. The Moragas must have come from Spain.
I’m puzzling over my discovery when the phone rings. I’m not paying much attention when I pick up the receiver.
“Hello, Mrs. Moraga?” The voice is female, with a slight accent.
“No, this is Mrs. Carter. Mrs. Moraga is … was … my mother.”
“Has something happened to Mrs. Moraga?” The voice sounds genuinely anxious.
“Who is this?”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Carter. My name is Pilar Ibarra. I’m calling from the Basque Relief Agency in Bakersfield. Mrs. Moraga has been a very generous donor to us over many years, but it’s been some time since we’ve heard from her.”
“Miss Ibarra, my mother passed away last month.” “Oh no, I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Carter. May I offer condolences on behalf of our agency? We truly did appreciate the years of support your mother gave us.”
This is awkward, but I have to ask. “Miss Ibarra, to be honest, I was not aware that my mother was at all interested in your agency. May I ask what kind of work you do?”
“Of course.” Pilar launches into a lengthy description of the history of the Basques, their troubles during the civil war, and their migrations to Idaho, Nevada, and California’s Central Valley. Something about this has an oddly familiar ring. It sounds like the subject of Valerie’s thesis. Could Valerie have known about these people?
“Thank you, Miss Ibarra.” To extricate myself from the conversation I add, “If you would like to send me a brochure on your agency, I will consider making a donation in memory of my mother.”
“Thank you so much! And, Mrs. Carter, we would love it if you would visit us in Bakersfield. We have a large Basque community here. We have a festival every year that attracts people from all over California.”
I mumble something and ring off. Then it occurs to me that I didn’t ask the question I should have. Why was my mother interested in the Basques—so much so that she donated regularly for years to their cause? But I know the answer.
Sunday morning I stand on Mrs. Dold’s front porch after she returns from church. When she catches sight of me, she moves slowly to the front door.
“Come in, Dolores,” she says in the slow, breaking way that elderly women speak. I adjust my quickstep tempo to her slow waltz shuffle as I follow her into the kitchen, watching the little blue and yellow and pink flowers on the old cotton house dress she’s changed into swish across her broad backside. Cinnamon, cloves, and apples are boiling in a pot on the stove. The mouthwatering aroma blends with the sharp smell of a recently lit gas stove. She’s making batches of apple strudel.
“You’ll wait until my strudel is out of the oven.” She has just taken over my day. “I’ll fix tea while we’re waiting and we’ll have a nice visit.”
Why don’t I come over more often? She’s alone all day in this house, but she doesn’t seem lonely. She keeps busy with crocheting, writing letters to her sisters in Germany, placing orders from her seed catalogs, and amusing the neighborhood cats—a parade of regulars who like the German songs she sings as she pours cream into the collection of chipped pottery bowls she lays out for them.
She tells me about Mewsie’s new kittens, Truman’s abscess, and the soaking poor Felix endured when the nasty next-door neighbor turned a hose on him.
“Cats pee in gardens, what are you going to do?” she says. Then she extols the improvement in her own Gertie’s sleek coat due to a daily dose of cod liver oil. I wait for her to take a breath and then I jump in.
“Did my mother ever talk to you about my father?” I study her face for a reaction, but there is none.
“Your mother was not one to dwell on the past.” She gets up and goes to check the strudel baking in the oven.
“Actually, she talked a lot about the past. In her last years, she told me stories about her travels with the court after I went to Los Angeles, but she never said anything about her years in the Central Valley.”
“Oh, I don’t think she spent a lot of time there. Your mother didn’t like farm country. She much preferred the coast.”
“My father was a farmer?”
“I don’t know what he was. She never talked about him to me. We talked more about her days in New York, because I came through Ellis Island too.”
“My mother came through Ellis Island? I thought she was born in the United States.”
“Well, she was very young when she came over from Greece. She had no memory of the old country. She always said her life began when she first saw the Pacific Ocean.”
“Do you think my father was with her then?”
“No.”
I’m beginning to badger her. It was this way every time I questioned my mother. No matter how I broached the subject of my father, her mood would sour instantly and I would pay for it in invented lists of chores or long afternoons of silence. Best to let it go, but I can’t this time.
“Was his name Al?”
“His name was Alonso. That’s all I know, really.”
She cuts us both a slice of strudel and comes back to the table with two plates of flaky pastry nestled under a thick glistening sauce that enfolds the tender apple slices. “Many of us have left a past behind that we don’t want to talk about. This is such a wonderful country. You should look ahead, Dolores. You are young. You don’t have your mother to take care of anymore. Valerie has her own life. Find a good man and get married again.”
My mother didn’t do that. She was very young when she was left alone with me. She could have married again.
“Was my mother really married to my father?”
“Of course she was married to your father.”
“How do you know?”
“I know, Dolores
. This won’t get you anywhere. Let your mother rest in peace and go live your own life.” She pats my hand and then goes into the other room to retrieve her latest piece of crochet to show me.
I start back across the street toward home, but end up walking around the block to settle myself down. I take long steps, swinging my arms, filling my lungs with air scented by honeysuckle vines. Why do I care so much? Ask the big question, Father Mike said. Okay, God, here it is. Why did the connection break? What else did I lose when I lost my father? It’s not what Leora lost or threw away that concerns me. It’s what I lost that I want to know.
6 — Dolores, Letting Go
H Dolores I
6
Letting Go
My old Chevy is making a noise I don’t recall having heard before. I pull into my parking space at work, lift the hood, and look at the engine. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but soon my coworkers arrive and form a consultative circle. Could be a bad spark plug, says one. Or a loose fan belt, says another, who joins me under the hood. Roger walks up and mingles with the head shakers.
“Dee, when was the last time you changed your oil?”
It’s just like a man to assume I don’t maintain my car. I’ve been the sole maintainer of all motors, gadgets, and parts for years. I did not expect all this attention when I put my head under the hood, but I might just as well have raised my skirt and showed some leg, for all the commotion. Mr. Bradley walks by and frowns, and our little party disbands and heads into the building.
My performance review is today and I’m preparing myself to be upset. Mr. Bradley does not like me, that is clear. When I show up in his office, his secretary gives me a fleeting wisp of a smile and nods her head toward his closed door. He is ready for me. Elaine returns to the task of putting a new roll of paper in an adding machine as I enter the sanctum and sit down in a chair with an unusually deep seat. I am a fairly tall woman, but I’ve sunk so low into my chair that my knees have popped up. Like an awkward Alice in Wonderland my feet barely touch the recently vacuumed carpet. Mr. Bradley occupies a leather executive throne that creaks and rolls each time he shifts position. It’s distracting.
“Dee.” He opens a manila file folder and runs a finger down a page only he can see. “You’ve been with us, what? Three years.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“And …” It is obvious he has not reviewed my record. He closes the file and levels his gaze at me. “I’m just going to tell you what I think, Dee. I think you are in the wrong line of work.”
My heart starts to thud as I picture myself in a Depression-era bread line. But as always, I use what I know to take command of the situation as best I can. I take an invisible deep breath, lift my chin, and sit still for a full minute. This makes Mr. Bradley fidget.
“I can only assume, Mr. Bradley, that you have something in mind.”
The man has ignored the list of my accomplishments that Roger and I worked up. I’m in no mood to listen to his personal grievances, so I execute an end run.
“And frankly, Mr. Bradley, I’m glad to hear it. I think I’ve made many contributions to Accounts Payable—you have the list—and I would welcome a new assignment.” This is risky. I give him my perkiest smile.
“Ah, a new assignment isn’t exactly what I have in mind, Dee.”
I have underestimated this man. “I’m putting you on probation.”
My self-confidence plummets, but I rally. “You’ve never indicated you are unhappy with my work, Mr. Bradley.” I pull myself to the edge of the chair so I can straighten my spine, not an easy feat because the scooped seat has molded me into a hunchback.
“It’s not your work, Dee, it’s your commitment. I have big expectations of you. You are exactly the kind of woman we would like to see move into a supervisory role one day, but you seem to have other priorities. You have to be prepared to make sacrifices if you want to grow with us.”
“Sacrifices.” I nod my head thoughtfully. “Beyond staying late, working through lunch, taking work home …” He stops me by holding up his hand.
“You miss the point, Dee. A woman with less experience could do your job. You haven’t made any effort to learn new skills to make yourself more useful to us. We aren’t about just doing the same job over and over, we’re about improvement. Now this is what I’m looking for in the next six months. Take some courses in accounting and contracts. Something just may open up for you. In the meantime, I want you to start training Sally on the invoicing.”
“You’re giving my job to Sally?”
“I didn’t say that. But we need someone who knows how to do your job when you take time off, like you do every time you have a death in your family.”
“Well, that’s not much of a worry, Mr. Bradley. I haven’t got much family left.”
“Well, I’m sorry if I offended you, Dee, but there’s no need to be impertinent. I think we’re done now.”
I get up to leave and he adds, “Oh, I forgot, you will be getting your cost-of-living raise, so don’t worry about that. Take my advice and in six months your record will be clean.”
I force myself to say “Thank you, Mr. Bradley.” I walk past Elaine with flies of anger buzzing loudly around my head. Am I about to have a stroke?
Roger finds me in the employee lounge.
“You look pale. It didn’t go well?” He pours himself a cup of coffee and sits down beside me. I give him all the details.
“Dee, that’s not all bad, you know.”
“He’s going to give my job to Sally,” I hiss at him through gritted teeth. “How is that not bad?”
He cocks his head and looks at me. He raises an eyebrow slowly, expecting me to answer my own question. “We both know you are overqualified for the position you have. You are doing the work of a bookkeeper. You are better than that.”
His words thrill me and scare the hell out of me at the same time.
“Let’s take a break and go for a walk, Dee.”
We walk down the tree-lined boulevard on Page Mill Road next to pastures where well-groomed horses graze, the sun glinting off their muscled bodies. Hoover Tower looms in the distance. It’s deceptive, this quiet Valley of the Heart’s Delight. The barons of industry who created this landscape imagined themselves to be gentlemen farmers, I suppose. It looks like they achieved a perfect balance of agriculture, education, and industry, but the agriculture is vanishing fast.
We walk in silence and then I begin to talk. I’m talking mostly to myself, and Roger is listening.
“The truth is …” I look hard at the truth. “The truth is that I like the safety of my job, but I don’t like my work. I have never liked this work. I don’t know how I got on this path or why I’ve stayed so long.” What has possessed me to reveal so much of myself to my supervisor? Roger makes no comment; he just listens as I barrel on.
“I don’t hate the work. It satisfies my need for routine. I seem to have a high tolerance for boredom. That sounds just awful.”
This is more than I have ever said to Roger about myself and my feelings. I’ve revealed very little about myself to my coworkers. At this moment, though, I want to reach out to this man so I keep going.
“Do you know, I once had a job offer from Walt Disney? He invited me to be part of a team of illustrators he was putting together in a new art studio. My job would have been to sketch backgrounds, landscapes for the action. It sounded so exciting and fun.”
“Why didn’t you take it?”
“I married Henry, and his career became my career. I was an Army officer’s wife, keeping things going while he was away, raising our daughter, supplementing our income with whatever jobs I could pick up that were acceptable to the Army brass. Being a bank teller was acceptable.”
“But you hated it?”
“No, I didn’t hate it. I didn’t mind the work, especially when I worked in the city. The financial district was a beehive even during the war, everyone coming and going, working together to keep things in good
repair and growing.”
“All to the feed the queen,” he mused. “Who was the queen, Dee?”
I am silent for a minute. “I suppose it was the American Dream—peace, prosperity, and happiness.”
“Were you happy?”
“Except for the fear that Henry might not come back from the war, I think I was. I never doubted we would win, that we would recover and rebuild. I felt a part of that.”
“And now?”
“I don’t feel part of anything meaningful. When Henry deployed to Korea, I moved out of the city to take care of my mother. Henry died overseas. Valerie became a permanent fixture at Stanford. Somewhere in there, I lost my life.”
We walk back to the GE building through the parking lot, pausing for a moment by my car. Roger folds his arms across his chest and looks at me.
“Let me ask you something. Do you still sketch?”
“Funny you should ask. I haven’t for a long time, but I’ve recently started to again.”
“We should go back in now.” Roger thumps his hand on the trunk of my car. “We haven’t finished this conversation though. What say we go to dinner one night this week?”
I’m torn between embarrassment at having talked so much about myself and curiosity about where the conversation might lead. “I’d like that,” I say, in my best approximation of a professional tone of voice.
We head back to our desks. My anger, frustration, and fear over my review have subsided to a low-level fever that will require treatment but not hospitalization. My energy is returning.
My car won’t start when I leave work in the evening. Roger hears me calling a tow truck from my desk and offers me a ride home.
“I live in the opposite direction you do.” I’ve heard he has a house in Redwood City. “I can catch a ride with Sally.” I look over at her empty desk. “We have things to talk about anyway.”
“She left at noon for a dentist appointment and then she took the rest of the day off. I think you are stuck with me.”
We supervise the towing operation and then I walk with him to his late-model Buick. “Mmmmm, still has the new car smell.” I’m trying to keep things light.