The Sheep Walker's Daughter

by Sydney Avey

  We order cannoli for dessert and have some coffee. “I’m glad I told you, Dee. It’s terrible that I made Fred sound like a wife beater!”

  “We all make lots of assumptions based on very little information, don’t we?”

  And then the conversation turns to holiday plans and the trio of cocktail dresses in the window across the street.

  On the day of the GE Christmas party, I roll up the sheerest nylon stockings I have ever worn and hook them to a new girdle. Then I slither into the silky red sheath dress with a boat neck that forms a deep V in back.

  Roger has told me to wear only earrings.

  “Won’t that be chilly?” I answered, and he laughed.

  He shows up at the door all tuxed out, with a brightly wrapped present he puts under my tiny Christmas tree and a small velvet box he places in my hand. Inside I find an oval 14K diamond-and-garnet drop-pendant necklace. It looks beautiful with my dress.

  “I like buying jewelry for my girl. Next year we’ll get you the earrings.”

  “You’ll have to wait for your gift,” I tell him, as we head out the door. “I’m very traditional; Christmas Eve for you.”

  We’ve planned a quiet celebration at the casita, just dinner at home and the midnight service at Saint Matthew’s. Valerie is flying home on Christmas Day and I’ve set aside that day for her. The Watsons are due home on New Year’s Day and I’m determined to have a plan by then. I’m in danger of overstaying my welcome. I have some ideas I want to run by Valerie that I haven’t told anyone else.

  Roger and I drive through heavy traffic to San Francisco. GE is having their party in a ballroom at the Fairmont Hotel. San Francisco is an elegant lady during the holidays, wrapped in furs and dripping in diamonds; if her slip is a bit tawdry dockside, all the more fun.

  The party is in full throttle—I’m learning aviation terms now. Roger seats us with his coworkers and their wives. Elaine spots us right away and strides across the room to give me a chilly nod and lay a hand on Roger’s arm.

  “We’ve got a seat for you at Mr. Bradley’s table.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary, Elaine. I’d really rather sit with my people.” He gives her his warmest smile. She shrugs and walks off.

  “That’s not a career-limiting move?” I ask.

  “More for him than for me.” He ushers me to the dance floor. “Dick Bradley doesn’t get that these tech companies are going to need to be managed less as fiefdoms, where management and employees don’t mix, and more as environments where everyone works together. That’s why after the first of the year I’m going to work for Ralph Cordiner.”

  “The president of GE?”

  “Yes. He’s asked me to join his staff and help reshape management.”

  “That’s wonderful, Roger.”

  He pulls me to him and we foxtrot around the dance floor. Heading back to our table I ask him, “Does this mean you might be moving east?”

  It’s hard to talk above the din of music, conversation, and clinking tableware. He bends down to catch my question. “That’s not clear yet. You and I have some talking to do.”

  The rest of the evening, we make pleasant conversation with the people at our table, eat a nice filet mignon, and enjoy the dance floor.

  On the drive home, there is no more talk of future plans, his or mine. I’m dozy. In companionable silence, we listen to Christmas music on the radio, Bing Crosby and Dean Martin. As we pass through the gates to the Watson estate, the lights are on in the main house and a is car parked in the circular driveway. Apparently, the Watsons have returned home early.

  Over the next few days, Roger and I are content to let the old year run out without worrying about what the new one will hold for us. On Christmas Eve, I unwrap a heavy box and find several new lenses for my camera. He is equally delighted with the leather flight bag I have given him to replace his old one. Then we stuff ourselves with ham, green beans, twice-baked potatoes, and cheesecake, and somehow manage to brave the chilly air to attend midnight Christmas Eve service.

  23 — Dolores, Homecoming

  H Dolores I

  23

  Homecoming

  I drive to the San Francisco airport on Christmas Day to meet Valerie’s plane. When she spots me, she catapults through the gate like a contestant in a potato-sack race. Her left leg is encased in a cast that starts below her knee and ends just short of where her nicely pedicured toes stick out. What looks like a rubber bathtub stopper is glued to the heel of the cast. She pogos up to me, balancing her weight on her heel, and throws a free arm around my neck. I grab the bag she is carrying, and off we go to get her luggage. Soon we’re on the freeway, which is eerily free of vehicles on Christmas morning.

  Valerie chats nonstop without giving me any information whatsoever. She talks about her little studio apartment in Barcelona, how welcome her editor and his family made her feel, how good it was to see Peter. She describes being mugged, in detail, and thanks me for helping her get another driver’s license and passport. All this chatter seems designed to prevent me from asking her what is going on with Peter or what she plans to do with the rest of her life. We are getting closer to Los Altos, and I have to find a way to break Valerie’s monologue and tell her we aren’t going to the house on Lundy Lane.

  Distracted by a passing Ferrari with a blonde at the wheel and sporty-looking gent in the passenger seat, Valerie whoops, “Oh, somebody must have been a very good girl!”

  I agree and then grab the reins of this conversation. “Val, I have something to tell you. I wouldn’t say it’s bad news really, but it’s news that might shock you.”

  “Let me guess! You and Roger are getting married.” “No! Why would that be bad news?”

  “You said it wasn’t bad news.”

  “Would you be shocked if Roger and I got married?” This is a ridiculous conversation. Roger and I aren’t even talking about getting married.

  “So what’s the news?”

  “Your grandmother’s house burned down.”

  “What? No! When? How? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Slow down, Valerie, I’m telling you now. I didn’t want to write this news in a letter. I wanted to tell you in person.”

  “Did Peter know about this? He didn’t say a thing.” “He didn’t know when he left for Spain. I drove home one evening from Saint Matthew’s and the house was on fire. It pretty much burned to the ground. The fire was caused by a short in some faulty wiring in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, Mom, that’s horrible. Everything in the house burned? You didn’t get anything out?”

  “Laura got there before I did. She got some of my collages and my camera out while it was still safe. The house went up pretty quickly. There wasn’t anything they could do to save it.”

  Valerie burst into tears. “I loved that house.”

  “I know you did, honey.”

  “So,” she sniffed, “where are you living now?”

  “For right now, I’m living in a guesthouse on the Watson estate.” She looks at me, puzzled and suspicious.

  “Marianne Watson owns the art co-op where I’m working now. That’s a long story for another time. You and I are going to need to talk about where we’re going to live, but not today. You’ve had a long flight. Let’s get you back to the casita and let you rest.”

  “The casita? You sound pretty dug in.”

  I pull through the gates and around to my cozy temporary home. Valerie whistles. “Nice digs! You really know how to fall on your feet, Mom.”

  I give Valerie my bedroom. I’ve made up a bed for myself on the couch. She objects, but not very hard. We eat leftover ham and cheesecake, and I put my Christmas gift in her lap. It’s the collage of Leora. An oak tree forms her spine and branches out. Eyes look down from the leaves on the tree. More eyes twinkle among the leaves piled on the ground. A fiery opal plucked from one of Valerie’s favorite pieces of Leora’s jewelry shines among the dying leaves.

  “I hope you don’t mind tha
t I took her brooch apart.” “Oh no, it’s so meaningful, what you’ve done here. Is this the only collage that’s left?”

  “Maybe not. You’ll just have to wait and see.” I have another one tucked away for her birthday. It’s of a woman in her prime with a young girl by her side, their laughing faces reflected in a mirror as they primp. Snippets of modern and vintage apparel from catalogs provide context for the photos. Bits of ribbon, feathers, and veiling give it texture.

  “Valerie, I’m sorry we don’t have anything left of your grandmother’s things, but that’s all they were— things. What’s important is the legacy she left us. She was a strong, talented, smart woman. So are you. So am I. We got that from her. The things we leave behind aren’t important. What’s important are the memories we carry forward and what we do because of them.”

  “Wow, Mom, I’ve never heard you be so philosophical.”

  Then she gives me my gift. It’s not wrapped. She places a book on my lap. “I know you won’t be able to read this. It’s in Spanish. But an English language version will be released in the United States sometime this year. This is my promise that I’ll get you an advance copy.”

  I hold up the book. “Is this your thesis?”

  “No. It’s my first novel. I had anticipated publishing it only in Spanish, but the publisher has bigger plans, so …”

  “You write novels? I thought you were studying Spanish literature and publishing your thesis. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I hate that phrase—Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve tried to remove it from my lexicon, but it keeps sneaking back in. My emotions are fragile and teary again—but not angry.

  “Oh well, you know, novelists are like that. They keep it all a secret until it’s a success. I honestly didn’t think it would go anywhere.”

  The book’s glossy cover shocks me. The art on the cover is more than vaguely reminiscent of the postcard my father sent to my mother. Valerie fidgets and sets her eyes firmly on the fruit bowl on the table.

  “Mom,” she says to the fruit bowl in her teacher voice, “first I want to remind you that novelists write fiction. It’s inevitable that they put some of themselves and their own stories in their work, but that gets tangled up with the story they really want to tell.”

  “I don’t understand.” I turn to her for an explanation, but she continues to look away.

  “I don’t want to tell you about the story I wrote. I want you to read it and then I want us to talk about it.” She looks into my face. “Okay?”

  I’m treading on thin ice here. Valerie is entrusting me with her secret. She is trusting me not to make her regret this gift. Love—it does not insist on its own way; it’s not irritable or resentful. Funny, these words don’t come from my head. God’s word bubbles up from my heart. I don’t have to have answers to all my questions right now. The answers will come.

  I place the book aside. “Okay. I have something else to tell you. Your uncle Iban died while you were gone. I’m sorry you never had a chance to meet him, but he left us some property.”

  24 — Valerie, Resolutions

  H Valerie I

  24

  Resolutions

  Mom and I are back at Clarke’s for a noontime burger on New Year’s Eve Day. She wants to talk to me about her plans, but I have a plan of my own. Today I’m going to declare my independence. I wait for her to bite into her burger and then I lay it on her.

  “Mom, I’m going to get my PhD.” Her eyes get big and she starts chewing really fast. I rev up the volume before she can swallow. “I plan to teach at a university, Stanford, I hope. I’m moving out of student housing—it’s expensive and it’s for students. I’m a scholar not a student. I’ll be hanging out in the library most of the time so I just need a place to shower and change clothes.”

  Mom holds up a finger while she swallows hard. I reach for her hand that she is flapping in the air and lower it to the table.

  “Mom, I’m going off your payroll. I will pay for my PhD myself.” I tell her about my advance from my Spanish publisher. She’s nodding and smiling, about to drink from a glass of iced tea when I tell her the crazy part. “I want to buy the lot on Lundy Lane from you.”

  Her glass of tea slips out of her hand and lands with a thud on the table, splashing tea everywhere. I grab a napkin and mop up the spill.

  “Why?”

  “It will be my stake in the ground.”

  “That’s all that’s left, you know, just the ground.” “Mom, this valley is going to grow! In ten years, you won’t recognize it. That is going to be some very valuable property someday.”

  “You want it for an investment? What are you going to do with it? Let it sit there and then sell it? The neighbors won’t like that.”

  “I plan to build a house on the lot, but not for awhile.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I want to own land. I want to build myself a house. If I work hard and save my money, I’ll be able to build just what I want in a few years. My work will have me traveling a lot, but I want a place to come back to that’s home. It will even have a name. People will know it as the Moraga place.”

  My mother’s lips press into a familiar straight line when I pronounce Lita’s last name. Then she surprises me.

  “I like the idea, Valerie. We’ll go to the county and transfer the deed into your name.”

  I protest, but she cuts me off.

  “I do have some say in how this all goes.”

  “Deal!” We shake hands.

  People are knocking off early and crowding into Clarke’s. We should give up our table, but now that I’ve hooked Mom on my idea, I want to reel her in. “The house will have a writer’s studio for me and an artist’s studio for you, small bedrooms and big workrooms to fit our lives.”

  I stop when I see that famous Moraga brow etch a V between her widely spaced brown eyes as she frowns.

  “You assume a lot when you think I plan to live with you, missy! You don’t plan to get married ever?”

  “Well, I’ve given that a lot of thought. I’m heading into my late twenties and it hasn’t happened yet. There was a time when I thought Peter and I might get married, but he’s chasing a career in baseball and we both know I’m not a fan. There was a man in Barcelona …”

  Mom sits very still. I choose my words carefully. “He may be coming over to study at Stanford, but I’m not holding my breath. I think marriage isn’t something you plan for, it’s something you leave the door open for—I’m leaving the door open.”

  That seems to satisfy her.

  I pay the bill, but we have more to talk about. Mom’s got it made in the shade at the casita, but this sweet deal is coming to an end. I suggest we go for drive in the hills before we head home.

  My ankle is starting to throb. I adjust the seat back as far as it will go, prop my leg on the dashboard, and wait for Mom to say something.

  “Iban left us his house at Pine Mountain Club and some little house in Bakersfield near the railroad tracks. You have no interest in either property, do you?”

  We’re driving out toward the Duveneck ranch. “Probably not, but I’d like to see them.”

  “I have an idea. Do you have time to make a trip to Bakersfield?”

  “With you?”

  “No, I was thinking you might like to go by yourself. There is a young woman you should meet who is about your age. She’s the executor of Iban’s estate. You and Pilar, that’s her name, have a lot in common. She’s a scholar too.”

  “What does she study?”

  “Basque culture and history.”

  Mom’s tone is neutral when she says this, her expression blank. She’s trying too hard, but the idea is irresistible.

  “After I get this cast off, I could drive over to Bakersfield and represent you—figure out how to handle the sale. I’d need to borrow your car though. You sure you don’t want to go with me?” I’m testing her.

  “I’m sure.”

  We head back
to the casita because Mom has a date with Roger. I’m frosted that this is the first New Year’s Eve that I don’t have date, but I guess I better get used to it. When we walk into the casita, Mom heads straight for her bedroom and returns jangling her car keys, which she places in my hand along with the pink slip to her old Chevy sedan. Then she grabs my other hand and leads me out back to show me her brand-new 1955 Chevy Bel Air.

  “That is unreal, Mom! Did Roger buy you that?”

  “Of course not. I bought me that.” Again, her eyebrows squiggle over her eyes and she lifts one corner of her lip in a comical grimace. “I may have to live in it.”

  I’m still waiting for her to tell me her plans. I guess I should have asked.

  “Mom, I’m sorry I haven’t asked you what you are planning to do. All we seem to have talked about is me.”

  “That’s okay.” She seems sincere. “I’m still working on my plan. I’d like to settle things with Roger tonight before I tell you what I have in mind.”

  That doesn’t sound like a very promising evening for Roger. My earlier fit of pique dissipates. After what I’ve been through with men, the prospect of a warm bed and a good book looks like the better bargain. I wouldn’t want to be on either end of what I imagine will be the giving and receiving of bad news.

  25 — Dolores, Courage

  H Dolores I

  25

  Courage

  Roger and I spend a quiet New Year’s Eve together. For two single people, we stay home more than I ever expected we would, which is strange since neither of us has a home. We’ve found homey places to call our own though. One is the Babbling Brook restaurant in Santa Cruz. We toast 1955 at a small table tucked in a corner loft of the rustic lodge. The creek water below us glimmers on smooth rocks.

  Roger tells me he is expected on the East Coast within a month for a six-month stint under the tutelage of Ralph Cordiner. After that, he’ll be coming back to the plant in Palo Alto.