The Sheep Walker's Daughter

by Sydney Avey

  On my way out the door, I flash a brilliant smile at spider woman. Then I return to my desk and start organizing files and boxing up my personal items while trying to be inconspicuous. Roger is in the hallway conferring with Sally. It has been awkward, seeing him in the office every day after what transpired in his car a few weeks ago. In another month, we will fly to Bakersfield. By then I expect I will feel freer to enjoy his company. Hopefully he will feel the same way. Oddly enough, it never occurred to me to tell Roger I was planning to quit. Now he will hear about it before I have a chance to talk to him.

  Laura, music in hand and ready to practice, is on my doorstep when I arrive home.

  “You must be tired after working all day.” She follows me into the house and heads for the piano. “Just ignore me and do whatever you do to unwind after your day.” She sits down on the piano bench, uncovers the keys, and begins to run scales.

  I change into a pair of knit pants and a loose sweater, and go to the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. I pour one for Laura and place it on top of the piano. She smiles and nods, but continues with her warm-up. I sit down on the floor with a box of photos and begin sorting. I’m creating templates for collages that will help me tell my family story. I’m looking for a poetic visual effect rather than the prosaic documentation that scrapbooks contain.

  Any family history has holes in it. Like the words in a poem, a photograph can have many meanings. Perhaps encouraging the heart to see the questions instead of feeding the mind with the answers can produce a texture that is more truthful. Collage is the perfect medium for this kind of storytelling. It’s stories I’m after, not history.

  I’m absorbed in my task when Laura squats down beside me, the glass of Chablis in hand.

  “This looks like you,” she says, placing a freshly manicured finger—Hot Baby Pink, I’m guessing—on a blurry black-and-white photo with a crinkle-cut white border. It’s a photo I’ve been puzzling over. It appears to be me standing next to a man I don’t recognize. I look to be about eighteen years old in the photo. The clothes are odd. The girl is wearing a nondescript dress that I can’t identify as anything I ever wore. The man has his arm around her shoulder. Surely this is a photograph I would remember posing for, because that is most definitely my face. Or maybe it’s my mother. Maybe we did look alike. People say we did, but I never could see it. Maybe the man is her father. It doesn’t look like it was taken in New York, though. Maybe they were on vacation. Too many maybes; I turn the photo over and look for something stamped on the back to identify it. Nothing.

  “If that’s not you, it’s your twin,” Laura says.

  My mouth drops open and I look at the photo again.“I don’t mean literally.” She laughs. “They say everyone has a twin. Haven’t you ever had anyone say to you ‘I know someone who looks exactly like you’?”

  “Yeeesss.”

  “Do you have any sisters who look a lot like you?” “Not that I know about.”

  I’m not going to solve this one tonight. I put the photo in a pile I plan to take with me to ask Uncle Iban about. There aren’t many. Leora was not a picture taker. She didn’t hang on to many photographs either. There are a couple of baby pictures of me but no birthday photos, school pictures, or graduation portraits. I appear in only a few photos with my mother and different groups of strangers—attorneys posing at dinner tables for photos taken by hotel photographers; well-dressed women posing in front of art museums or civic monuments.

  “I should go. Fred will be wanting his dinner.” Laura stands and hands me her empty wine glass. “Thank you for this.” She stretches out her arm and sweeps the room in a dramatic gesture that takes in the art, the wine and the piano. “Your salon inspires me.”

  On her way out, she mentions the bridge game again. As much as I like the game, whiling away the afternoons playing cards seems far too decadent to this working girl, even though I won’t be working much longer. I decline.

  What will life be like when I no longer report to a job? Will I be allowed to continue consulting on art acquisitions for GE’s lobby when I’m no longer an employee, or is that a bridge I have burned?

  Despite the years I’ve spent dreaming of having time to pursue my art, the looming reality is frightening. I know how to do a job. I have no idea how to pursue a career in art. Leora pretty much convinced me it wasn’t possible. I wasn’t at Chouinard long enough to figure it out either. Too many years have passed since the offer of employment at Disney. The world of animation is now beyond my sketching ability.

  Roger is being slow to react to my defection. I hide out in my office, organizing my work and writing notes for Sally, who will be taking over my job when she returns from vacation. My two weeks’ notice is almost up by the time he finally strides into my office, shuts the door behind him, and sits down in a conference chair. I look up. He crosses one leg over the other, folds his arms across his chest, and leans back in his chair looking at me as if I were a recalcitrant child whose antics mystify him. Then he places both feet on the floor and leans forward, jabbing his index finger on my desk as if he were squashing a bug.

  “Why did you quit without telling me, Dee?”

  “You encouraged me to start thinking about my options. Why are you so surprised?”

  “Because I’m your supervisor and you should have come to me first.”

  He’s got me there. That’s the protocol—why didn’t I follow it? Because Elaine is right, office romance is a bad idea. This factored into my decision and I chose romance over the office. Once I cast Roger Russell in a romantic role, I ceased to think of him as my boss. I can’t get out of this office fast enough.

  “Roger … Mr. Russell … you are right. I should have discussed my plans with you.”

  He stops poking my desk and curls a fist under his chin, regarding me with a frown. The sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled to his elbows and I’m staring at the tanned skin of his forearms and the soft layer of black fur that sleeks across the hard muscle of his arms, muscle that wasn’t built pushing a pencil against a ledger at GE.

  Finally he says, “Dee, it’s just that I expected you to confide in me.”

  “Roger, I have confided in you. I hope I can continue to confide in you. Would you have told me to do anything different?”

  He is silent for a time. Then he shakes his head. “I will miss seeing you every day.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “But we’ll make up for it on the weekends.” He stands and slaps the palm of his hand on my desk. “Be packed and ready to go. I’ll pick you up Saturday morning.” Friday evening, when I should be packing for my trip to Bakersfield, I am sitting in Father Mike’s little office after vespers.

  “You told me to let something go. I let my job go. You said I could change my path. I leaped off the path and now I don’t know where I’m going. You said I should go after something I want. Well, maybe what I want doesn’t want me! It’s possible I’m not artist or girlfriend material. I’m staring into an abyss here, Father Mike.” I pull a tissue out of my pocket and blow my nose.

  He leans back in his chair and interlocks his fingers into the shape of a church. Thumbs crossed tightly against the doorway to his little chapel, he places the spire of his two pointer fingers against his lips.

  “I didn’t tell you to do it all at once,” he says. Then he laughs. “Dee, this is what faith is, being sure of what you hope for, even though you don’t see it. What is your biggest hope?”

  “Oh, God.” I slump in my chair. “That’s a start.”

  “Let me start with my small hopes, okay? I hope I haven’t made a mistake quitting my job. I hope I can make art make sense in my life. I hope I can continue to see Roger and see where our relationship might go without having things get all messed up.”

  “You are hoping to fall deeply in love?” “It’s not just Roger.”

  “I know that. Let me ask you a couple of questions.

  Do you have artistic talent?” ”Yes, but—”


  “Then it will make sense. Artistic ability is a gift from God. He will use it. Maybe not in a way you imagine, but in a way you will recognize and rejoice in. Roger isn’t a married man, is he?”

  “No! Of course not, at least not now. Maybe in the past? I don’t know.”

  “Good. Find out as much as you can about him … from him.”

  Out the high window of Father Mike’s little cell the sun is going down, glinting through the olive trees. The last of the faithful few have departed. Father Mike leans across his desk and gives me his famous, soul-piercing, listen up, soldier look that puts me on alert.

  “Here’s the most important thing, Dee. I want you to try this spiritual exercise.” His words compel me to sit up straighter in my chair. He reaches for the Bible that occupies a prominent spot on his desk and flips through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for.

  “I want you to assume there is a God. Ask Him to bless you. Ask Jesus to guide you. Ask the Holy Spirit to empower you. Then watch what happens.”

  “Where do you come up with this stuff, Father?”

  He slides the Bible across the desk and swivels it around in front of me, placing a meaty finger underneath a chapter title. With his other hand, he taps two fingers to his heart.

  “Read the book of Romans,” he says, “and listen.”

  My eyes follow to where his finger points. I nod my head and change the subject.

  “Roger is flying me to Bakersfield this weekend to meet my Uncle Iban, my father’s brother.”

  “Good.” He rises from his chair and packs some papers into his briefcase.

  “We are staying with a friend of Roger’s, on a ranch.” He looks at me, eyebrows raised.

  “All on the up and up, Father. Roger made a point to tell me that I will have the guest cottage all to myself.”

  10 — Dolores, Half Truth

  H Dolores I

  10

  Half Truth

  Roger and I lift off from San Carlos Airport in his Ercoupe.

  “This baby cruises at 114 miles an hour.” He is in his element, explaining aeronautical details with the passion of a small boy. “No rudder pedals—it’s like driving a car in the sky.”

  But it’s a small car; he’s allowed me only one tiny suitcase. My discomfort in the cramped quarters dissolves when I look out of the canopy above us and see puffy clouds waltz by. The bounty of the Central Valley is below us, welts and wales of rich dirt offering up cantaloupe and corn, strawberries and squash. It reminds me that my own garden lies fallow and neglected. I make a mental note to do a late-season planting as soon as I get back.

  I look over at Roger. He’s relaxed and happy.

  “Don’t you just love this?” he says, patting my knee.

  I doze a little until we begin our descent. Rising thermals catch us and now it’s more like a tango than a waltz. Roger has explained that we won’t be landing at Meadows Field. Instead, we are looking for a private airstrip on his friend’s horse ranch near Gorman. He’s flying low, spreading maps out on my lap, and scanning for landmarks.

  “Do you see a wind sock down there anywhere?”

  I try to imagine what such a thing might look like. In the distance I spot a stretch of road and an orange tube on a pole. There are industrial buildings at the end of the road. I point in their direction.

  “Is that what you’re looking for?”

  Roger leans over to look. “Good girl. That’s it.” He sets up for a landing, navigates a strong crosswind, and brings the little plane down. Frankly, I will be glad to put my feet on the ground.

  A Land Rover with the keys under the mat is waiting for us. We climb in and Roger turns to me. “Okay, Dee, I figure it’s about a half hour drive to where your uncle lives. You can drop me by the house and go on by yourself, or I can drive you to your uncle’s house. What do you want to do?”

  As tempted as I am to let Roger do the driving, I want to see Iban alone. Roger is happy to spend the afternoon with his college pal, so I drop him off at the door of a spacious ranch house and head for the highway. Just past the time I should have eaten lunch, I pull into a long driveway at the edge of Los Padres National Forest. It leads around to an inconspicuous house nestled in the trees. When I step up to the door, sudden fatigue feels like sandbags weighing down my shoulders. Am I doing the right thing?

  Before I can muster strength to knock, Uncle Iban opens the door. We stand there a moment, taking each other in. He is a spare man in a dress shirt and neatly pressed pants. Decades of sun damage map his face. Brown eyes sparkle from within deep folds of skin; he welcomes me with a loose-lipped smile. He stands very straight for an old man.

  “Dolores, what a welcome sight you are. You look just like your mother.” He grabs both my hands in his and shakes them. “Come in, come in.”

  The house is as neat as the man. He indicates that I should sit at the dining-room table, which is set for a meal. There are three place settings. The steamy sweet aroma of roasted peppers mixes with pungent basil, thyme and rosemary, and the weight on my shoulders lifts.

  “My dear, I had Pilar cook us up some menestra. We Basques do wonderful things with vegetables.”

  As if on cue, Pilar scoots out of the kitchen holding a hot bowl of stewed artichokes, peas, green beans, asparagus, Swiss chard, and ham. She sets it down before it can burn her hands. Pilar looks to be about Valerie’s age. She is wearing slim black pants and a black boatneck sweater with an Italian silk scarf wound around her neck. Her thick black hair is caught in a ponytail. Beautifully arched black eyebrows accent a sloe-eyed gaze that is friendly if a bit guarded. Iban also has these arched black eyebrows even though his hair has gone completely white. Perhaps it’s characteristic of Basque people.

  “Dolores, I asked Pilar to be here because I want you two to get to know each other.” He teases me with an elfish smile.

  I can’t imagine why he would want that, but it’s obvious he is fond of her. My stomach is grumbling. Iban chatters on while we all stand behind the chairs at the table, shifting our feet.

  “Pilar is the glue in our community.” He reaches over and pats her shoulder. “She knows all our stories.”

  “Then she knows more than I do.” I try to keep the petulance out of my voice.

  Pilar breaks the tension by pulling out her chair. Iban and I follow her lead and seat ourselves. “Let’s eat and then you two can talk while I clean up the dishes.”

  It puts me more at ease that she won’t be hanging around while I try to pry information from my uncle.

  The stew is wonderful and I’m completely drawn in by Pilar’s description of the Basque Festival in Bakersfield that she wants to take me to this evening. Everything about their culture is foreign to me.

  “Where exactly is Basque?” I direct my question to my uncle.

  “The Basque land spills across the Pyrenees Mountains and extends to the Bay of Biscay.” Iban chases a green bean down his chin and catches it with a hunk of bread. He sits up tall and puts his elbows on the table. “We Basques have our own language and customs that date back centuries.”

  Pilar picks up the conversation. “Many of our people came here to Bakersfield during the Gold Rush. But they come today because a repressive government denies us freedom.”

  “The Moragas have been in California for a long time.” Iban raises his voice and jumps right into the family history. “José Joaquín Maria Moraga went on expeditions with Juan Bautista de Anza. Did you know that he founded the Presidio in San Francisco? But I know that’s not why you are here today. You want to know about my brother, your father.”

  Pilar begins clearing the table and disappears back into the kitchen.

  “Let’s go sit in the living room, and I will tell you our story.” Iban settles into a leather chair and I take a seat on an ottoman facing him. He begins.

  “Alonso and I came to this country as young men. We missed the Gold Rush, but we found opportunities in the sheep business. People think a
ll Basques are sheepherders, but that’s not true. We do know sheep, but it’s not as big a business in Navarre because our country is so small. In America, the herds number into the thousands. The bosses couldn’t hire enough of us to tend sheep camps and herd the sheep in this valley. We did it for the money, so we could go back to Navarre and buy an apartment and set up a little business.”

  This part of the story is familiar. I studied California history, but I don’t want to break Iban’s train of thought. While I’m wondering when he will get to the point — what happened to my father — he jumps the track with his story.

  “Our countrymen made a good living supplying lamb for food, first to the miners and then to the people who came here for the oil. Basques are enterprising. With the money we worked so hard for, some of us bought land, became citizens, became ranchers or oilmen, and grew rich.”

  I look around Iban’s house. It’s obvious he was one of those people, but what about my father? Iban notices that I’m frowning and picks up his story.

  “It was not our intention to become shepherds, but it was the work that was available to us when we arrived. It was hard, lonely work that didn’t pay well, so you have to do it for years before you save up enough money. Dolores, let me tell you what it was like.

  “A man walks a herd of one thousand sheep up into the high country where they graze for months. When he’s in the high country, he has no contact with other shepherds. His job is to take care of his sheep and keep them safe from predators. Maybe he has a horse, but often not. He has a dog. He sleeps in a small trailer and has to figure out how to feed himself. The food was so boring, beans and no meat. I was lucky though, the boss liked me. Sometimes when he came to my camp to bring supplies, he would bring me a fresh chicken. Then I could practice my English.

  “The life suited me for a time. I read books and made plans about what I would do when I came down from the hills. I got two weeks of vacation every year that I used to take English classes so I could get a better job.