The Sheep Walker's Daughter

by Sydney Avey

  21 — Dolores, Confessions

  H Dolores I

  21

  Confessions

  E arly the next morning I hit the road. It’s a long drive through the Central Valley in a heat thick with crop dust. I stand at my uncle’s doorstep, my blouse sticking to my back. I’m massaging my shoulder and lifting my hair off the back of my neck, hoping to catch a breeze off the lake, when a uniformed nurse opens the door before I’ve even had a chance to knock. She introduces herself as Maria Zabala and ushers me down the hallway to a small bedroom where I drop my suitcase. Over her shoulder, I see Uncle Iban asleep in a hospital bed that’s been set up in the living room.

  Maria offers me a welcome glass of water and an update on her patient’s condition. Iban is in the last stages of cardiopulmonary disease. It’s not really the heart attack that caused his rapid decline, she explains. His heart is worn out. Shaking her head and clucking her tongue, she tells me she is leaving for a few hours to check on her family and to go to the store for more food and supplies to stock the refrigerator.

  “He will probably wake up in an hour or two.” She gives me instructions on what to feed him. “He will be glad to see you.”

  I don’t like being in this room with the curtains drawn. It reminds me of the hours and days I spent sitting idle, watching Leora go. I spot a jigsaw puzzle set up on the dining-room table, something Maria must be working on. I wander over from Iban’s bedside to look at it. It’s not long before I start popping pieces into a section of blue sky. I scan, test, fit, and push a puzzle piece in place, running my hand over a finished section to feel the seams between the pieces. It soothes me. The puzzle box shows what the finished puzzle will look like. Carmel-by-the-Sea.

  When I look up hours later, my uncle is awake, watching me. He smiles. Like the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland, his smile hangs in the air even as the rest of him seems to have gone somewhere else. His smile is not a grin; it’s a wistful twist of his dry, cracked lips. I walk over to the bed and ask if I can make him more comfortable. I adjust a pillow under a bony shoulder and help him sit up so he can drink some apple juice. He has lost a shocking amount of weight since the last time I was here.

  He asks about what I’ve been doing since my first trip to see him. I tell him about the fire. He’s very concerned that I don’t have a place to live. Reaching for my hand, he tells me not to worry. “I won’t be around much longer. I’m leaving my house to you, Dolores.”

  Oh God, no! I don’t want two properties to worry about, a burned-out lot in Los Altos and a house in a retirement community in the Tejon Pass. Two places to be responsible for in two different communities where I don’t want to live. This is my first inkling that I will likely leave Los Altos, but not for the Central Valley, for heaven’s sake.

  “People here will take care of you.”

  What can I say to him? I don’t want to be taken care of any more than my mother did. Apparently, these ways of thinking are grooved into us over generations. Who was the first woman in my family who refused to follow a man chasing his dream? How many of my male ancestors left their families to follow a calling to pasture, commerce, or war? And how do I come now to sit at the deathbed of this man I hardly know?

  “You know, I saw you and your sister come into this world.” Iban stares at the ceiling. “Alaya first, then you. It was the happiest day of Alonso’s life. He loved you both so much.”

  “He must have been very upset when she died.” I’m trying to keep him talking. Tears spring into the eyes of this man who has very little time left.

  “I have to tell you, Dolores.” The tears stop. “I have to break a promise I made to your mother and father.”

  He is struggling for breath now.

  “This is very hard.” He looks at me with eyes that plead for forgiveness.

  “They are both gone, Iban. What is it you need to tell me?”

  I can barely hear his next words. “Alaya didn’t die.

  Alonso took her back to Spain with him.”

  “My mother kept me and my father took my sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Leora couldn’t start the new life she wanted with two little girls.” Iban seems to draw renewed energy from somewhere. His voice gets stronger. His limp hands resurrect themselves in gestures that tell the story. “I offered to help, but she didn’t want to stay here. The two of them came up with this plan. It was a way they could guarantee that you both would have a good life.”

  “So Alaya didn’t die here, she died in Spain.”

  “She didn’t die, Dolores. She’s not dead.”

  “She’s alive? In Spain?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Pilar keeps track of her. Alaya keeps track of us. All of us.” He looks at me and I can see the crafty young man he once was. I’m not feeling much sympathy now.

  “I have a twin sister who has always known about me, but who has never tried to contact me?” He closes his eyes. “Everyone knows this but me?”

  Iban has finished telling his story. He never opens his eyes again.

  I check into a motel in Bakersfield and stay for a week between Iban’s death and the memorial service. In his will I discover that he’s left me not one but two houses. It seems he held on to the little place he lived in on East Truxtun Avenue before he moved outside of town. This is more than an embarrassment of riches, it is a nightmare. Just when I am trying to free myself, property is piling up. But I have no time to think about that. Iban also indicated in his will that he wished to be memorialized at church and buried in Union Cemetery.

  My only experience with this sort of thing was Henry’s brief graveside military service arranged by a chaplain and my mother’s impromptu interment that didn’t require much planning. I am unprepared for the production of laying Uncle Iban to rest.

  Crowds of people attend the viewing at the mortuary in the evening. The next morning a line of cars forms a parade to Saint Francis of Assisi. Uncle Iban attends the service in an elaborate flower-draped coffin. Also in attendance are eight dark-suited pallbearers, all looking as if they might join him in his supine state at any moment. They are his cronies from the oil company. The church is packed to overflowing.

  The pallbearers escort Uncle Iban out of the church after the service and back to his carriage, where it processes on to the cemetery. The graveside service attracts less attention but more oratory. What Uncle Iban lacked in actual family he made up for in friends, neighbors, and countrymen. Stories of his humor, his generosity, his contributions to the community, his ability to spin a yarn, and his love for animals and small children accompany each spade of dirt sprinkled ceremoniously on his coffin. The man was a saint if you can believe these people.

  Next stop is the Basque Club, where bandy-legged tables cower under huge plates piled high with food. Basque musicians pull instruments from their cases and begin tuning up on a stage. Costumed dancers arrive. There are more people here than at the church and cemetery combined.

  Pilar appears at my side.

  “Your uncle was much loved in this community.”

  “I see that.”

  “I wish you had known him when he was younger.” “I was not given that opportunity.”

  A cloud of indecision passes across Pilar’s pretty face. She takes my hand and pulls me away from the noisy crowd to a seat toward the back of the room.

  “I’m sorry that so many secrets were kept from you. It’s not my job to interfere in the decisions the families make. I stepped out of bounds when I made an inquiry about Leora. May I ask, did you get the answers you were looking for from Iban before he died?”

  “Do you mean did he tell me that my twin sister is still alive? Yes, he did. Did he explain why this is a secret that everyone knows except me? No, he didn’t. Can you explain that to me?”

  Pilar’s face shows no reaction to the bitterness in my voice. “I can put you in touch with Alaya if you
like.”

  “I don’t like any of this. I’ve been lied to all my life for no reason I can discover.” I stand up and look down at her. “Alaya knows who I am and where I am. If she wants to get in touch with me, she has always had the ability to do so.”

  Pilar appears deflated and sad. A twinge of guilt stabs at my heart.

  “Look, I know this isn’t your fault. It’s a heck of a job you’ve inherited here, babysitting these people.” I turn to leave, then I turn back to her. “You can have the houses and everything in them. Just send me whatever papers I need to sign.”

  I’m going home. But I’ll have to figure out where that is.

  22 — Dolores, Gifts

  H Dolores I

  22

  Gifts

  I slam the car door shut and stride through the doors of Saint Matthew’s into Father Mike’s office. After I spill my anger, he sympathizes with a click of his tongue that erupts into a soft chuckle. “And you left your uncle’s property to the Basque community out of love and compassion, is that right, Dee?”

  “No. If I could have thrown it at Pilar, I would have.” My anger has softened now. “That’s awful, isn’t it?”

  We move on to discuss my favorite topic, Leora. “Father Mike, I spent months going through my mother’s stuff. I couldn’t give it away fast enough. And the few things I wanted burned up in the fire. Most people are devastated when they lose everything. Me? I felt free.”

  “No regrets?”

  “I am sorry I lost most of the photos. Placing them in collages was like meditating. I was beginning to get some insights into my mother.”

  “Such as?”

  “She had an inquiring mind. She was very observant. Her relationships didn’t go deep, but she knew and appreciated many different kinds of people. The courtroom really was her place. If she’d been a man, she’d have made a good attorney or judge. She had that ‘old boy’ way about her.”

  Father Mike stands up and moves around the desk to where I am sitting. He lays a hand on my shoulder. “How does that fit your picture of a mother who divided her children and sent one away?”

  I look up at him, surprising myself with a ready answer. “It helps me understand why she did it. She thought it was the right thing to do.”

  “Let’s take a walk.” I follow Father Mike out through the orchard. We enter the chapel and stand in front of the columbarium. His eyes turn to the urn that contains Leora’s ashes and the two empty urns on either side.

  “Who do you suppose …”

  I get his train of thought. “Alaya and I,” I whisper.

  “Your mother was not religious, but she did come to understand that what happens in this world is not all there is. She knew it was unlikely that Alaya would ever return, but she wanted to make room for the possibility. She never forgot that she had two daughters.”

  We continue our walk through the orchard. “Dee, when Valerie gets home, tell her right away about the fire. Let her be part of the decision about what you do with the property.”

  “You think I was hasty in giving away my uncle’s houses?”

  “You didn’t give them away, you threw them away. There’s a difference.”

  Back at the casita, I give Laura a call and invite her to dinner. She hesitates and then says that it’s Fred’s poker night. But she decides that she can get them started with drinks and snacks and then sneak out for a bite if I don’t mind eating late.

  Why does she feel she has to sneak around? This Fred does not impress me. How will I bring this up in our conversation? Because that’s what I intend to do. I can’t continue to ignore my suspicion that something isn’t right in the McMillan household.

  My next call is to Roger at work. We arrange to meet after work so I can tell him about my trip. I have never had so many people to account to in my life—Father Mike, Roger, Laura, Marianne, and now it seems I will have to cast Valerie as an adult and include her in my circle.

  Peter has been to see me—for the last time, probably. He told me that Valerie is recuperating well and plans to be home for the holidays. He’ll be going home to Ohio to see his parents. The way he talked, I think his relationship with Valerie has changed. I don’t ask questions though. I did extract a promise from him that he won’t mention the fire in any letters to her. There’s nothing she can do, so why trouble her.

  I have the afternoon shift at the co-op office. As I walk down Main Street, shop windows compete for my attention. In the dress shop, headless mannequins party in holiday dresses, silver trays of crystal glasses at their feet. In the gift shop window, coffee-table books inspire lust for food and travel. Hanging on a wall visible from the street, an impressionist landscape and a watercolor amaryllis invite purchase at the co-op. One of my collages is also on display.

  When I get to the office, I open the cash box. Among the pile of checks are several made out to me for sales of my work. I will have to build up more inventory. Nervous energy lights a fire of appreciation in my heart. It’s not so much about the money—it’s about the testimony. I have a public, people who are willing to see the world in new ways, people who care about the things I care about.

  Dusk comes early now. Reflections of Christmas lights shining in store windows shimmer in black puddles on the street. I don’t bother to shield myself with an umbrella against the soft rain that dusts my head and shoulders as I puddle-hop across to meet Roger at Mac’s Tea Room. We sit in the far corner of the cozy neighborhood watering hole, privileged first customers early in an evening after the afternoon tipplers have cleared out to make room for those who are still finishing the day’s work. Putting our heads together over Manhattans, I give Roger a brief rundown of my trip to Bakersfield. Then I tell him I’m meeting Laura for dinner and why I’m concerned about her.

  “You think her husband knocks her around? Have you ever seen bruises?”

  “Well, no, I haven’t, but she seems to be afraid of him, or at least very careful about upsetting him. That’s a clue, isn’t it?” I sip my drink slowly. I don’t intend to have a cloudy head when I meet Laura.

  “Be careful about assuming, Dee. There could be another explanation.”

  “You think I shouldn’t pry?”

  “I don’t think that at all. I think you should give her a chance to talk if she wants to.”

  Good idea. I have such wise people in my life.

  Our conversation drifts. Roger invites me to the company Christmas party.

  “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “C’mon, Dee, let’s show them how great you’re doing, how great we’re doing.”

  My thoughts go back to the cocktail dresses I admired earlier—the little black one. No, the red one; definitely the red one. Pilar looks sexy in red and our coloring is so similar. It’s strange how often she pops into my head.

  “Okay. Let’s do it. Let’s wow them.”

  Roger heads out to look at apartments. Now that his house has sold, he’s decided to move closer to work and to me, and rent for a while, at least until he gets his money out of escrow. I walk down the street to meet Laura.

  She’s waiting in her car in front of Belluci’s. Hopping out as soon as she sees me, she gives me a hug and we go in and grab a table.

  “I love their lasagna,” she says, and then peppers me with questions about my trip. We each order a glass of Gemello’s Cabernet and Laura natters on about gossip she’s heard at our little artists’ colony. I don’t know how I’m going to raise the subject of Fred, so I just do it.

  “Laura, tell me about your husband. Where did you meet?”

  Her face colors a bit. “Oh, we met in college.”

  “Well, tell me about him. Will I ever meet him?”

  Laura stares into her glass and then slowly raises it to her tightly pressed lips. She barely relaxes enough to sip a little wine. I can’t tell if she is buying time, trying to figure out how to change the subject, or bracing herself before she finally comes clean with the truth.

  “I gue
ss we know each other well enough that I can tell you this.” She is clearly uncomfortable. “Fred was a big, handsome football player when I met him. He was funny and smart and popular. He still is all those things. We got married right after college, and Fred went to work in his father’s car dealership, but he wasn’t happy. He wanted to be a mechanical engineer. He has a very logical mind. The war came along and he went into the Army. They tested him and discovered how smart he is, and they put him in charge of some sort of artificial intelligence project. He really liked the work.

  “To make a long story short, he was playing football with his men during recreation one afternoon, and he got tackled too hard and got knocked out. The blow to his head aggravated an old injury. He had convulsions and things just went downhill from there. The Army gave him a medical discharge and that was a one-two punch. The injury and the depression triggered some sort of … illness.”

  Laura stops talking and looks down at her plate. When she looks up, she has tears in her eyes. “You’re the first person I’ve ever told this to. I don’t like to make people uncomfortable.”

  I reach across the table for her hand and squeeze it. “Laura, you can tell me anything. God knows, I’ve told you enough about my crazy life. The way you talk about Fred, I was afraid he was hitting you. He doesn’t hit you, does he?”

  Laura looks horrified. “Oh no! Never! Is that what you thought?”

  I lower my head, my thoughts swirling. “One thing I’m confused about—you said Fred has a good job at IBM?”

  “Oh, he’s very smart. He’s a good worker. It’s just that he has to have a certain kind of environment or he gets anxious. He’s fine as long as he keeps to a routine. We have a small set of friends we’ve known for a long time that he’s okay with. IBM assigned him a partner who runs interference so Fred can stay focused on his work. They’ve been real good to us. It’s just that new situations upset him and new people make him nervous.”

  “And that’s why no children?”

  “That’s why. Fred wanted to try for a family, but his doctor advised against that. Fred still has hopes though.” She laughs. “He’s not very realistic about how unnerving kids can be.” She laughs again.