The Sheep Walker's Daughter

by Sydney Avey

  Andy is a storyteller. His stories are very funny, and the hours pass quickly. I thought only people in Europe had this much fun in a roadhouse. I never expected to find such convivial company in Bakersfield.

  Toward the end of the evening our conversation turns again to work we have ahead of us. I suggest that we call the proposed center the Iban and Alonso Moraga Cultural Studies Center. My companions applaud this idea and suggest a grand opening to coordinate with the annual picnic. We leave Noriega’s around midnight.

  I sleep late in the morning, but before I head out of town, I meet with Pilar to go over the details of the sale. We arrive at a plan to deal with the paperwork, agreeing that Andy will represent me in the sale.

  “Can you come back in a few weeks to sign some legal documents?”

  I promise I will. Walking back to the car, I put my hand in my coat pocket to fish out my keys and feel something else, a match cover or a coaster? I reach back into my pocket and retrieve a business card. Ander Ibarra, Esq. is embossed on the front. On the back, I see a scribble of words. I will be in San Francisco next week. May I call you? Andy.There is a phone number written in large and legible numerals.

  Do I need another tall, dark, and handsome man in my life?

  27 — Dolores, Green Times

  H Dolores I

  27

  Green Times

  Life is slow here. It has taken me awhile to get used to that. Carmel is all art and no industry. I’m losing the sun now and feeling the chill in my bones. I bundle up in my bulky knit sweater and sit a bit longer on a bench looking out at the ocean, watching the dogs play with their people and sport with each other. The setting sun sparkles in the sea foam like diamonds, offering light but no warmth. The chill pulls tears from the corners of my eyes. I should have stopped at the bakery for a dose of coffee-and-pastry warmth.

  The twisted trees in the distance have waltzed with the wind for centuries and they bear the scars. The raw beauty, the tango of wood and wind, compels me to reach for my camera one last time. I spend the waning light photographing the adagio effect of the wind on its partner. Then I pack up my camera, offer the backs of my icy fingers to a pooch that is trotting around collecting smells, and trudge back up the hill to town.

  I’ve been here four months. Marianne was around at first. We scouted locations for the new art co-op, met with artists, and decided which ones would make the magic work. A co-op needs the right mix of media and artists who bring paying customers with them.

  Dick and Marianne own a beach retreat on 17-Mile Drive. Her contacts are limitless, a testimony to her generous spirit. Of course she offered me lodging at the beach house, but I was determined to get a place of my own. I found a charming unit in a duplex a few blocks off Ocean Avenue and located a garage to rent for the Bel Air. I don’t drive my car much because I can walk to the co-op from my apartment.

  My neighborhood delivers what spring seed catalogs only promise—a riot of color. Carmel is a crazy quilt of gardens and houses that look like they were designed by gnomes. It lives a double life as a peaceful village and a growing tourist attraction. The mediator is the expansive Pacific Ocean, whose steady rumble sedates people into behaving well. I run the co-op, take photography classes from Wynn Bullock in Monterey and work on my collages in the co-op studio.

  On days that I’m lucky enough to have a volunteer to relieve me in the co-op gift shop, I visit other galleries in town. After work, I walk down Scenic Road to clear my head and then grab a meal from one of my favorite cafés. I relish solitude after a full day talking shop with other storekeepers, discussing the state of art with visiting and resident artists, and answering questions about investment value from collectors.

  My days are ordinary. Father Mike would say I’m in my green period—the time when the soul lies dormant, taking nutrition from stored reserves in preparation for another flowering. My companion these days is a treasured volume of The Imitation of Christ. In Thomas A. Kempis’s masterful meditation, I receive basic instructions in my new faith. I feel a Presence that plays host to the nameless emotions that spring free from some dark pool in my soul. Is it given to me, then, to name these creatures and put them to good use?

  Roger calls once a week. We talk about our work and make plans to see each other. Our plans usually fall through because I can’t find someone to babysit the co-op or he has to respond to a crisis at work. I think we both miss the easy familiarity of shared turf. We’re not kids in thrall to romantic adventure; we’re adults with an intimate need for the mundane. That sort of housekeeping doesn’t appear to be in the immediate future.

  Valerie is incredibly busy these days. I hear from her when she needs to give me an update on her little real-estate empire. As I anticipated, the Los Altos neighbors are not happy with the plan to let the lot sit empty until its new owner has time to think about what she really wants to do. Valerie has not been guarded enough about her plans and the neighborhood is ablaze with speculation. Rumors that Valerie is planning to build a group home for artists and writers or a safe house for fellow travelers have reached me through Laura.

  “A single woman working on a doctorate who owns a prime piece of real estate in pristine Los Altos is highly suspect.” Laura laughs. “The next-door neighbors are researching building codes and zoning laws.”

  “I imagine cease-and-desist warrants will add years to Valerie’s plans. I’m just glad there is nothing left there to burn down,” I say.

  I miss Valerie. She pulls me into the concerns of her generation in ways that keep my perspective young. The Carmel population is an aging one.

  This evening the sun is going down over the Pacific when I return to the co-op to make after-hours phone calls. I’m hoping to catch the painter I’ve hired and confirm that he will be in on Monday to prime a wall for a new exhibit. I set the burglar alarm, lock up and pop next door to pick up Chinese takeout. Walking home, the fragrance of chicken chow mien escapes the cardboard carton and genie-dances up my nose clear through my sinuses and springs to full flavor on my tongue. I pull my flashlight out of my pocket and begin to walk faster.

  When it gets dark here, we rely on light from windows to guide us home. Street lights lack charm apparently, so they are banned. The local hospital emergency room does quite a business among tourists and locals alike who trip on tree roots and smack the pavement with such regularity that a column in the local newspaper is devoted to listing the injuries.

  As I turn my key in the door of my duplex, it strikes me that my life is not fundamentally different than it would have been if I had stayed in Los Altos, except that the people I let into my life—Roger, Laura and Father Mike—graze in other pastures now. The change of scene is energizing, but my habits haven’t changed. Is that comforting or depressing?

  I heat water for the jasmine tea bag tucked into my take home and sit down at the kitchen table by the window to eat my dinner. It’s a déjà vu moment, taking me back to when I would sit in the Los Altos house and stare out at my garden, ticking through all the tasks involved in preparing the soil for the next season. Leora’s acerbic voice rings in my head clear as a bell—What are you waiting for? An invitation? What am I waiting for? I’m waiting for something.

  28 — Dolores, Hezitu

  H Dolores I

  28

  Hezitu

  V alerie has said little about the property in Bakersfield except that an oil company bought the house in town and the house in the hills is still for sale. She assures me she will have a check for me soon. That sale seems to require that she spend a lot of time in Bakersfield. I can’t see how she keeps up with her studies, but she is almost twenty-seven, not seventeen. How she manages her schedule is her business. She called last night to tell me she is driving over to “share some exciting news.” Those were her words, and I turn them over in my head while I play with the lighting on the new collection of paintings Marianne acquired from the Jo Mora estate.

  Exciting news could be anything—she got m
arried and forgot to tell me and now she’s expecting my first grandchild; she’s changed her field of study to agricultural management and intends to annoy the Los Altos neighbors by planting an experimental community garden; she’s adopted a cat.

  Marianne sweeps through the door and interrupts my reverie. Her Carmel persona is slightly different from her Los Altos one, like the difference between shepherd’s bread and San Francisco sourdough. She’s saltier. Maybe I just know her better now.

  “Dee! What an eye you have for lighting a Mora. The ocher tones? They pop in that light!” Like a tide that pulls silt off a glossy shell, Marianne polishes my better self and I glow. At that moment, Leora appears from some nether recess of my mind. She joins the party, sparkles here for a moment and then dissipates, leaving me with a bitter afterthought. Why could she not do what Marianne does with such graceful ease—make me feel good about myself? Deep in a sea cave in my heart, I hear the answer: despite her bravado, despite all her capability, Leora did not think of herself as a good person.

  Marianne doesn’t notice that my mind has left the building for awhile. She is lost in the exhibit. We reenter present time and review the promotional material. Then she lights out to meet her husband for dinner. I lock up and head home with some food I picked up at the corner deli.

  When I round the corner, my old Chevy is parked on the street. Valerie found the key I left for her under the doormat because the lights are on in the front room and she is lounging in my armchair. I slow down and stand just out of sight, looking at the cozy domestic scene that plays out before me. A very handsome young man enters my living room from the kitchen with a bottle of wine and a tray of glasses.

  My front door is slightly ajar. “Hey, Valerie, you made it,” I say, so that I won’t startle anyone as I push open the door.

  Valerie rises from her chair and circles her hands around the young man’s upper arm. “We got an early start to avoid the traffic; we’ve been here for awhile.” A kitten is playing on the floor. A new man … and a cat?

  “Mom, I want you to meet my friend Andy Ibarra.”

  Friend indeed. She is glowing.

  “Andy, this is my mom, Dolores Moraga Carter.” I’ve never heard my name put together that way. I set my bags down on the table and extend a hand.

  “I’m Dee.” Andy grabs my hand and gives it a good shake. “And who is this?”

  I look down at a ball of white fluff that has flipped over on its back and is batting at my ankle. I bend down and scoop up a fat puffball that blinks at me with enormous blue eyes.

  “That is Puffy, my new kitty,” she says, puffing up a bit herself.

  I can’t imagine how she will fit a cat into her life.

  Anyway, I’m more interested in where Andy fits. “Ibarra,” I say. “Would you be …”

  “Pilar’s brother.”

  Cozy. That triggers another thought.

  “Valerie, you should have let me know you were bringing a friend. I picked up some salads from the deli, but I can put them in the fridge and we can go out to eat. Would you like that?”

  Then I address the young man. “Andy, I would love to offer to put you up for the night, but I only have one bedroom and a sleeper sofa for Valerie.”

  He puts up a hand. “Oh, no need, Mrs. Carter, I have a room at La Playa. I have plans to meet a friend tomorrow to play golf at Pebble Beach.”

  I discreetly raise an eyebrow at Valerie, who purses her lips into an enigmatic smile.

  “Well that’s fine, then. Let me take you to dinner at Paolina’s. I think we still have time to catch the early-bird special. Is that okay?” I’m not about to try to impress a young man who apparently can afford to play golf at Pebble Beach.

  “Valerie, will the kitten be all right here while we go out?” I’ve never had a cat, so I don’t know.

  “I’ll settle Puffy in the kitchen with her kibble, water, and a litter box. I’ll close the door so she won’t wander. She’ll be fine.”

  “Good,” I manage to say, right after I recover from an attack of sneezing.

  Dinner is pleasant. While Valerie is quick to establish Andy’s credentials as an attorney, the young man himself is self-effacing. He has the easy manner of one who is either to the manor born or one who has been carefully schooled in egalitarian charm. I imagine he is a very good lawyer. Their company is enjoyable, but I don’t learn much about the purpose of their visit. Is more news coming?

  Valerie drives Andy to La Playa. She’s gone a couple of hours. I make up her bed, play with the puffball for awhile, and then go to bed. I forget to close the kitten up in the kitchen. It’s not long before I feel a tug on the bedspread as the kitten shimmies her way to the top of the bed Tarzan-style. She settles herself underneath my chin. My eyes start to water, but I enjoy her soft purr and the pressure of her warm belly pressing against my ear. Ha, maybe what I’ve really needed all these years was a cat! I sneeze and fall asleep.

  The next morning my eyes are puffy and red. I banish the offender from my bedroom and take a shower to wash off her allergy-inducing dander. Valerie is apologetic. I suggest we go out for breakfast. I need air.

  “So what’s the exciting news?”

  We each order juice, coffee, and Belgian waffles. She talks a little about our real-estate holdings, the role Pilar and Andy have played in brokering the sales, and finally she gets to the point. Iban’s house near the railroad tracks is going to become some sort of Basque Center, named in honor of Iban and Alonso. Valerie will play some kind of continuing role in administering the Center.

  “I knew you were interested in Spain. I had no idea you were interested in the Basque community in Bakersfield.”

  She sits up a little straighter in the booth. “I’m interested in our family history. And I have an opportunity to be involved with a project that educates children on their heritage and helps people maintain family connections.” Her chin takes on an air of determination. “That is, if they choose to.”

  She rests her shoulders against the red padded booth, ignoring the head-banging three-year-old on the other side, and interlaces her fingers, resting them on the table in front of her plate. There’s a buzzing in my head like an angry bee that has just been swatted. Before I can control my response, my hand slaps down hard on the table. This silences the head-banger and causes Valerie to drop her hands into her lap and fight to keep the tears that have jumped into her eyes from spilling over.

  “Look, Valerie, I’m not stupid. It hasn’t been too hard to figure out that you somehow unearthed the story on your own. You know that Alaya is still alive in Spain. I’m guessing that you may have even met her on your last visit.”

  Valerie’s face turns a color that matches the strawberry syrup chilling in the wells of her soggy waffles.

  I continue. “That’s your business. I don’t need to hear about it.”

  We square off in silence for a full minute. She rolls her hand around an orange she filched from the fruit basket, and for a moment I fear she might pick it up and fling it at me. Instead, she grows thoughtful.

  She shakes her head. “The two of you are identical in every way I can think of, but most of all in stubbornness. Each of you leaves it to the other to make the first move, and you both try to put me in the middle. But here is how it’s going to be. Next month, the Iban and Alonso Moraga Center for Basque Cultural Studies will have its grand opening. Both you and Alaya will receive a formal invitation to be a part of celebrating the lives of your father and your uncle. Come or don’t come, it’s your choice.” Then she shoves a huge bite of waffle into her mouth. “I need to get back and check on Puffy.”

  29 — Dolores, Betikotu

  H Dolores I

  29

  Betikotu

  My invitation arrives on May 1, 1955. It is an elaborate summons describing a two-day event that includes the annual picnic at the Basque Club, a dinner at the Wool Growers Café to install the Center’s new board of directors, and a ribbon-cutting ceremony to officiall
y open the Center. Dinner tickets and a voucher for a two- night stay at the El Tejon Hotel are tucked inside, along with a personal note from Pilar expressing her hope that I will attend. I notice that Alaya Moraga and Dolores Moraga Carter are listed as guests of honor. Also listed are Elazar Palacios and Domeka and Danel Palacios. Valerie and I have had a few tense conversations over the last few months so I know this is Alaya’s family. I surmise it’s a cultural norm for the woman who inherits the family home to keep the family name.

  Fittingly, these events are to take place over Memorial Day weekend. That’s when I’d planned to visit Roger in New York, so there’s my excuse.

  When he calls, I tell all this to Roger.

  “Dee, don’t be silly. Of course we should reschedule New York and you should go to the ceremony.”

  “What will I do if Alaya comes?”

  “Shake her hand and say ‘Nice to meet you’? Give her a hug and say ‘It’s about time’? You’ll think of something to say. Don’t worry about that.”

  “What if she doesn’t come?”

  “Then you won’t have lost anything you didn’t lose a long time ago.”

  I mull over his words.

  “Dee, would you like me to come out and go with you?”

  “No, Roger, I need to do this by myself. What I’d like is if you would reschedule my visit to New York. However this plays out, I’m going to need a good cry. And you’ve got the shoulder I want to cry on.”