The Sheep Walker's Daughter

by Sydney Avey

  “For my little brother Alonso, this life was not so good. I guess he thought that the opportunities would come faster. He didn’t expect it would take years, saving pennies, denying pleasure. We saw each other once a year when we brought our sheep down and the boss took them to market. We always met up at the Basque picnic in Bakersfield. That’s where your father met your mother.”

  I sit up on the edge of the ottoman to encourage him to keep going with this part of the story.

  “Leora had taken a train out from the East Coast to look for work. She’d spent some time in Los Angeles with an aunt, but her dream was to go to San Francisco. She was on the train heading north when it derailed in Bakersfield. The railroad company offered to put the passengers on a bus or put them up in a motel to wait for the next train. The train ran through Bakersfield once a week in those days.

  “Leora thought she’d rather stay in a motel and wait for the train instead of being bounced through the desert on a bus. Our Basque picnic was a big event in town. She wandered over to see what it was all about. Alonso spotted her right away. A summer with the sheep had taught him that wolves are always watching; he wasted no time in offering the young lady his protection. That didn’t go over very well at first. You know, your mother left New York to escape the protection of a large family.”

  That does fit with what little I know about my mother’s history and character. I shift position on my perch, tucking one leg underneath the other. Pilar walks into the living room balancing a pitcher of water and some glasses on a tray. Setting the tray on a low table by Iban, she pours two glasses and hands me one. Then she sits down in a chair at the far end of the living room. Iban continues his story.

  “Yes, Leora had many older brothers who had their ideas about how an unmarried sister should conduct herself. Leora didn’t like any of their ideas. That’s why she arranged a visit to her aunt, knowing that it would be only a detour around her brothers on the way to her real destination. It wasn’t overbearing brothers or a derailed train that stopped her in her tracks though; it was Alonso.

  “He was a handsome man, my brother. He talked her into looking for work in Bakersfield even though she didn’t want to stay. She needed an ocean, she told him, and he promised her they would go to the coast as soon as he made enough money. They were married in the Noriega Hotel.”

  Iban pauses to drain his water glass. He seems a little out of breath. His forehead is shiny with moisture. His health is not as good as I first thought. He continues his story though.

  “Well, Alonso didn’t want to go back to herding sheep. He had a wife to support and a baby on the way. Leora wasn’t happy finding herself pregnant so soon, and Bakersfield was not the kind of town where a young woman could find anything other than menial work anyway. I was tired of walking the sheep up the trail too, so I started on a plan to get us out of the sheep business. I wanted to help my brother move his family to new pastures, where they might have a better chance to be happy.

  “This stretch of country was sitting on oil fields the likes of which you could not imagine. Knowing exactly where it was and getting the land rights to drill was the problem. The boss, he was smart. He helped the oil companies buy up land cheaply and then short-leased it back to folks. His family, they are all property managers for the big ranches now. In those days, all the land was under lease agreements. When a family had to sell a house, the oil company had first right of refusal. They owned the land. They’d buy the house for cheap and tear it down. Houses got to be in short supply. People didn’t really understand what was happening, but they knew that housing prices were depressed even though the shortage should have driven things the other way. Alonso and I got ourselves into the demolition business, tearing those houses down and letting the land just sit.”

  Iban stops here and wipes his eyes. Pilar goes into the kitchen to get more water for him. He drains another glass and hands it back to her. She puts a hand on his shoulder and he reaches up and pats it, almost as if he were drawing courage for what he is about to tell me.

  “Dolores, Basques are hardworking people who do what’s right, generally speaking. In this country, doing what’s right doesn’t always get you ahead. You have to do what’s smart. We thought the smart thing to do was to figure out how to get the oil out of the ground. I’m not so sure we were wrong about that. Oil made this valley rich.”

  Iban seems to be heading off in a direction I’m not interested in. I want to know what happened to my father. I shoot a glance at Pilar, who has retaken her chair in the corner. She sits patient and still, waiting for Iban to go on, and he does.

  “One afternoon we were tearing down a ranch house and some outbuildings that had been built on open grazing land. Rumor had it that a group of cattlemen had been forced off the land because the oil company wanted to do some drilling in the area. An angry group of drunken cowboys rode out and found the two of us pulling down a bunkhouse. The boss and his boys came riding up about the time the cowpokes started shooting. The boss raised his rifle and boom, boom, boom.” Iban makes a shooting motion with two long fingers. “Those three cowboys were dead.”

  “The boss didn’t want to bother defending himself in court over this, so he worked up a scheme where Alonso would take the blame. It was pretty far-fetched. Everyone knew that the Basques didn’t generally carry guns. But he offered my brother money for his family, money for passage back to Navarre where Al wanted to go anyway. He said that the whole thing would blow over and Al could come back. He promised me an office job with better pay, enough so I could send some money to Al.”

  “Why me?” Iban says, when I raise an eyebrow. “Because I spoke good English.”

  Iban tells me that Alonso had asked the boss if he could take his wife and daughter and the boss said he’d arrange for their passage. My father boarded a bus for New York believing Leora would follow. I’m not surprised when Iban tells me Leora opted for a train ticket to San Francisco instead.

  “When she left, she told me she didn’t think she would ever see Alonso again,” Iban says. “She planned to start a new life and told me not to contact her. Alonso made plans to return and look for her, but before he was able to make the trip, the United States closed the borders to Basques. They didn’t reopen them until a couple of years ago. By then, Alonso had died.”

  “What did he die of?”

  “He caught valley fever his first year in California. It didn’t bother him much at the time, but twenty years later he had a relapse. He developed an abscess in his lung that killed him.”

  Iban begins to rub his shoulder. Pilar stands, comes across the room, and kneels down beside him. Gently she says, “Your Uncle Iban caught the fever too. His case is milder, but it bothers him from time to time.”

  She takes one of Iban’s hands into her own and massages his palm. “Iban, I’d like to take Dolores out to the picnic now. She can come back tomorrow and you can talk some more then.”

  I dig my hand into the pocket of my jacket and feel for the photos I have brought with me. Then I look at the clock. It’s five PM.

  “I should call my friend,” I say. Pilar points me to the phone, and she and Iban talk quietly while I call the number Roger gave me.

  “Dee, I’m glad you called.” Roger sounds relieved. “It’s getting late and I was getting worried about you.”

  I explain what the plan is and ask if I can keep the car for the evening.

  “How about if we come out and meet you at the picnic? It sounds like fun.”

  I don’t really want to meet any more new people or have to explain anything to Roger tonight, but I can’t think of a good excuse to turn him down when he’s gone so far out of his way for me.

  Walking out to the cars with Pilar, I say, “My uncle seems to have done well for himself.”

  “Yes, he worked for the oil industry for forty years.

  They gave him a good retirement.”

  “Why do you know so much about him?”

  “It’s my jo
b, Dolores. The Basque population is small, but we keep close tabs on one another. I studied at UC Berkeley under an anthropology professor who is following the diaspora of the Basques in the Western United States. We have an ancient history that’s worth preserving. What you’ll see tonight, the singing, the dancing, the costumes, the language … that will speak to you in better ways than I can.”

  11 — Dolores, Whole Truth

  H Dolores I

  11

  Whole Truth

  W e drive to the fairgrounds in separate cars. In the parking lot, I see Roger getting out of a truck with a stocky man wearing jeans, a tooled leather belt with a massive silver buckle, a plaid shirt, and a cowboy hat. He gives Pilar a hearty wave. It does seem that she knows everyone for miles around. Roger introduces me to Xabier Mendoza.

  “Where is Maria tonight?” Pilar asks.

  “Babysitting the grandkids. They’re all sick.” Xabier and Pilar lead the way. Roger strolls beside me, hands in his pockets.

  “How did things go with your uncle?”

  “I found out that my father herded sheep, fleeced people out of their homes, and fled the country because he got involved in a shooting. He died in Navarre before the war. How was your day?”

  Roger is silent for a few minutes. Then he says, “Xabier told me a little about your father’s story. It didn’t sound like he knew what he’d gotten into.”

  “What? Everyone knows this story except me?”

  “Not the whole story. Xabier is an attorney who works on land-use cases. I used to wonder why you could drive forever through this area and see so few houses. I figured maybe it was all ranch land, but Xabi says no, it’s the land grab by the oil companies. People can buy and sell houses, but not the land the houses sit on. Value is in the land, not the house, so …”

  I wave my hand in the air and walk on ahead of Roger. My head aches and I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Roger trots to catch up with me.

  “Dee, what your father got caught up in was the animosity between the sheepherders and the cattle runners. He was pretty much an innocent bystander.”

  I shake Roger off and disappear into a crowd of people filling their plates with caramelized ribs that you have to wrestle off the bone with your teeth.

  There is so much wrong with this story, I don’t even know where to begin. It seems I can’t get a straight answer about my father without getting a whole history of the Basques. It doesn’t make sense to me that two people who had decided to build a life together would go off in two different directions and be content to never see each other again. That’s not something I would have done. Then it hits me. That’s exactly what I did.

  When the country wasn’t at war and Henry was posted all over the United States, how many times did I decide not to go with him? Other Army wives pulled their kids out of school, packed up their lives, and followed their husbands. Not me. I’d lived like a gypsy as a child and I was determined that Valerie would not live like one. Her home was in San Francisco. I could argue that I sacrificed my marriage for my child, but that wasn’t true either. Like Leora, I let my marriage go because I didn’t like the life.

  The barbeque is about finished and I move with the crowd toward an outdoor stage. Men in white shirts, black vests, and white pants with red bells laced around their calves stand in formation with women in red skirts, white blouses, and black aprons. The men wear red or black berets, the women white bandannas. Accompanied by the somber tones of a mandolin played by a young boy, the dancers move in intricate patterns as a flag bearer enters their midst. The flag has ribbons of white and green on a red background. The ceremony ends when the dancers fold themselves on the ground like supplicants and the flag bearer waves the flag gracefully over their bodies. Then musicians break out tambourines, accordions, horns, pipes, flutes, and drums, and the dancing begins in earnest. It’s very balletic; dancers jump and kick, twist and twirl. There are line dances, circle dances, and stick dances; some dancers hold arbors, some hold implements I can’t identify. They dance with joy but not abandon. Their steps are schooled. This is tradition being passed down.

  I have lived my whole life in sophisticated cities and towns on the Pacific coast, always aware of other cultures. The melting pot we call it, each ethnic group lending flavor to the stew we call America and losing some of itself in the process, but that is progress. What I see here does not fit that picture. This is an ancient culture that will not melt. They do not dance for their entertainment or mine, they dance for the preservation of a people. Few will ever set foot in Basque lands again, but they carry its landscape in their hearts. Pilar was right. This speaks to me. Somewhere I have people who are connected with this thrilling display of national pride. The stress of the day falls away, replaced by a yearning and a peace beating to the rhythm of a hunger and a satisfaction.

  In the distance, Pilar leaves Xabier and Roger chatting in a circle of men. She pushes her way through the crowd to find me.

  “I want to introduce you to some people.” I follow her to where the older women are sitting on folding chairs. “This is Dolores, Alonso Moraga’s daughter.”

  She places her hand at the small of my back and applies a comforting pressure. I’ve never heard myself spoken of as some man’s daughter. The women smile at me and chatter in a strange language that sounds like nothing I’ve ever heard. I try to identify it. Spanish—no, Welsh—no, Hungarian—no.

  “They are speaking Euskara, the Basque language,” Pilar explains. One of the women speaks to me in English.

  “I remember your pretty mother,” she says, “and you girls.”

  “You must be thinking of someone else,” I say. “I’m an only child.”

  “Oh no, dear, I remember. You are Leora’s daughter, am I right? She had twins—identical twin girls.”

  12 — Valerie, Alive and Well

  H Valerie I

  12

  Alive and Well

  I ’m in love. I’m in love with Spain and with Gibert Borrell, the son of my editor, Esteve. Señor Borrell invited me to his home for dinner one evening and Gibert was there. I must be clairvoyant because Gibert is the tall, dark, and handsome man I dreamed about. He is finishing medical school at the University of Barcelona and he loves literature and poetry, so much so that he is trying to decide whether to enter medical practice or give it up and become a novelist. Of course, his father is trying to discourage him from giving up medicine for writing, but Gibert is very talented, the kind of man who could succeed at whatever career path he chooses.

  I don’t get to see him much because he is on call at the hospital most of the time. I’ve told him that I want to explore the Basque region. He’s been very obliging on his days off, although there are areas he has warned me to stay out of because a few Basque nationalists are stirring up hatred against Spain. Franco has decreed one language and one flag for the whole country. The Basques are fierce in their desire for autonomy.

  It is such a beautiful region of Spain, tucked against the Pyrenees like a cherished child snuggled up under the arm of a protective mother. At least one weekend a month I climb on the back of Gibert’s motor scooter and we speed along the winding roads that connect farms and fields, orchards and vineyards, old forests and sheep trails. The rest of the time, I’m making the revisions to my manuscript that Esteve requires. I’m almost done and that’s a good thing. My money will run out at the end of this year, and I’m going to have to return to Stanford.

  Esteve has asked me to come to his office today to meet the illustrator who is doing the cover for my book. She has expressed particular interest in my work, he tells me, and has asked to meet me. What a process this has been. Publication is scheduled in four months. Esteve wants me to stay another year to help promote the book. I want to, but I don’t see how I can.

  The publishing house office where Señor Borrell works is in a medieval building in La Ribera. I wait until three PM, when I know they will be open again. Esteve spots me coming through th
e door and waves me into his office. Behind him, a woman with her back to me is spreading out some drawings on a counter under the window. Esteve leaves the room and the woman turns to look at me. She looks at me for a long time before she extends her hand across the desk and introduces herself.

  “I’m Alaya Moraga. I’m very happy to meet you, Valerie.”

  I stare at her in amazement. She has my mother’s face. Alaya is, in fact, almost an exact replica of my mother. She’s about ten pounds lighter and her dark hair falls in soft curls almost to her shoulders; other than that, they could be twins. And now I know where my story came from, not from my head but from Lita’s heart.

  “My grandmother only hinted that she’d had another daughter. I wanted it to be true. I wrote the story as if you were still alive, but I made it up. I had no idea you ever really existed or if you did, that you might still be alive.”

  I am talking way too fast. I’m holding my breath too, because the edges of my vision are starting to go black. I place a hand on the desk in front of me to steady myself, and draw in a breath. Alaya stands very still and regards me with a small smile, as if I’m some exotic bird she has long hoped to view. She seems very satisfied. I, on the other hand, am increasingly annoyed.

  “You’ve read my book.” She nods. “My mother hasn’t read it. She knows nothing about you.”

  Alaya moves around to the side of the desk and sits on the edge. “Do you know why my father left the United States with me?”

  “No, Lita didn’t tell me, only that he left her alone to raise my mother.”

  “That’s not the way it happened.” Alaya comes to her feet again. She picks up a pencil and taps the eraser end sharply on the top of the desk. “The details aren’t important, but my father was involved in an incident where men were killed. He didn’t shoot them, they were attacking him. His boss shot them. To protect himself, the boss made my father take the blame for the killings and then sent him back to Spain to avoid prosecution.” Alaya sits back down on the desk, adjusting the wide belt that circles her slim waist as she continues her tale.