Owen's Daughter

by Jo-Ann Mapson

  Skye yawned. “So why don’t you look her up?”

  “It’s been too long. I’m sure she got on with her life.”

  “Daddy, don’t be stupid. If she meant that much to you, if the only reason you left was prison, she might still be pining for you.”

  “Nah, I’m sure she found some decent fella. She’s too pretty to stay single.”

  Skye leaned on her elbows. “Isn’t it up to you to find out? Finding Gracie’s my priority. Without her, my heart doesn’t work right. Seems to me that painting is like a sign. Do you know how much I wish I had something like that to help me find Gracie? I’ll call Mama and ask her where she got that painting. Even if all you do is find out that Saint Margaret’s happy, it still seems worth it to me. How long a drive is it to that Blue Dog? Maybe she still lives there.”

  Her father took their empty mugs to the kitchen area. He ran water in the sink and washed the dishes. “You could help dry,” he said.

  “There’s a dishwasher.”

  “I figured it was a waste of water to run it for two mugs, a pot, and a spoon. Isn’t Santa Fe always in drought?” He stood there drying the dishes, ignoring her question about Blue Dog.

  Skye looked at him through new eyes. “You’ve changed, Daddy. The guy I remember wasn’t afraid to take a risk.”

  He sighed. “I heard from Joe that the ranch house was torn down. So she isn’t there. The fellow who bought it built a new house. Probably has those granite countertops and the crown molding nonsense everyone has to have nowadays. What is it they say? Open floor plan? Stop pestering me and go to bed.”

  “I won’t until you promise to look for her. Shit like this happens for a reason. You have to find her. It’s like it’s in the stars for you. Romantic.”

  “It’s a coincidence. The chances of Sheila buying this painting from the artist may be astronomical, but it could just as easily have come from a secondhand shop. Everywhere you turn in Santa Fe, there’re consignment shops filled with stuff from estate sales. Seems like too many people come to Santa Fe to die.”

  “You think Mama bought that for herself? Daddy, she wears leopard print!”

  “You know something? You’re not a kind person when it comes to your mother. How did you end up like that?”

  Skye punched his shoulder. “Even if I started now, it would take until the wee hours for me to explain.”

  Her father rubbed his arm. “Want a cup of cocoa? I saw some in the cupboard.”

  “Yes! Are there marshmallows?”

  Drinking her cocoa while her dad took his shower, Skye sat on the floor in the bedroom, brushing his smelly dog. Like every cattle dog she’d ever known, Hope was shedding. She gathered balls of hair in a pile at her feet, listening to him groan in pleasure. Despite his current state of dirtiness, she was growing fond of him. Lord, there was enough hair here to knit Shrek, the cartoon ogre, a sweater. She listened as cars drove up Canyon Road, idly wondering how much Mama’s place was worth. Probably a million. And she didn’t even live here or rent it out. If she could afford multiple houses, why couldn’t she help Skye out, just a loan to get herself settled? Or at least let her stay here until she got back on her feet? She balled up the dog hair and took it out to the kitchen, placing it in the trash under the sink. She watched the dog turn four circles on his three legs—no easy feat—lie down, lick his boy bits until she wanted to kill him, and go to sleep.

  The stoicism of animals had always intrigued her. The ridiculous idea that animals don’t remember pain, which some behaviorists argued, seemed like a convenient way to rationalize beating your dog. If she’d gone to vet school, that would have been one of the first questions she’d ask: Do animals remember pain? Did Hope remember having four legs? He seemed to get along just fine. And his choice to go with her dad, after it had been ten years? The fact that Hope even recognized him seemed miraculous, but it didn’t surprise her. The dog was twitching in his sleep, yipping softly every now and then, and she wondered what he dreamed about. Killing gophers? Chasing sheep? Wild rez dogs threatening his domain under the ratty trailer? Or did he dream about familial and pack bonds?

  Images of her childhood pets rushed through her mind: Bun-bun, an Easter gift, who’d lived ten years. She’d taught him to use a litter box. The pet store turtles that got sick right away and died. She’d taken them back to the store and told the clerk who sold them to her that he was a worthless piece of coprolite for selling sick animals and she hoped he rotted in hell. Looking back, she decided maybe her reaction was over the top; but her anger had been justified—nobody should ever mess with a child’s love for a pet.

  Her fascination with animal behavior began early in her life, when she started observing the social order of horses in the riding ring. Her riding instructor used a gray Morgan named Sultan for guided trail rides. He always had to be in front. Then there was his buddy Tonto, fourteen hands—barely taller than a pony—and the oldest horse in the barn. But all he had to do was pin his ears to make Sultan walk away.

  Not often did Skye allow herself to think of how her life could have been if she hadn’t gotten pregnant. If she’d gone on to Stanford, she’d have finished her BS and be in the second year of vet school by now. Would she have gone to Davis, staying in California? Or would homesickness have won out, prompting her to return to Colorado, where the state university had a good program? Maybe she’d have gone to Ithaca, New York—despite the horrible winters—and met some other guy, married him, gone to Europe, opened a practice together, or any one of a hundred things besides turning into an alcoholic single mother who needed almost a year of rehab to finally kick booze and pills. Learn from your past, and then move to the future, Duncan would say, like it was that easy. Duncan and all his advice. Now that she had some distance from Cottonwoods, she saw him differently. He was Navajo, so maybe the things he said came from his upbringing, not a need to proselytize. Maybe he really did care about her, but how could he? What a horrible career he seemed to have, trying to get people to kick, watching them detox, slip in sobriety, or overdose and die. She felt sorry for him for about two minutes, thought of his laugh and how the sound of it made her uncomfortable someplace deep down. It wasn’t until just this moment that she realized it was because it reminded her of her dad’s laugh. Then she remembered her dad saying they’d talked on the phone, and that made her mad again, embarrassed, really. At least her dad hadn’t witnessed her detox. That, Duncan had said, would stay between Skye and him for all time, which meant even if one person forgot about it, the other one remembered.

  Skye turned over on the bed and hugged one of the down pillows. Like all four of her wedding cakes, Mama’s bed was made of layers: On top of the memory foam mattress lay a feather bed. The sheets were linen, the duvet silk, and the down comforter far too warm for this time of year. Shams, patchwork quilts, lacy this, and tatted that were piled up everywhere. The bed was as white as an albino foal she’d once seen delivered. A single pickled-pine night table stood by the bed, and a skinny metal lamp was decoratively rusty, but the creepy shade looked like more stretched animal skin. The wooden vigas in the bedroom ceiling looked hand-hewn. Her dad was right. The house was trying so hard to be classy that it verged on becoming a joke.

  Skye heard the shower turn off and got up for a glass of cold water. Looking for ice in the freezer, she found a bottle of vodka. She couldn’t believe Sheila had left booze in the house, knowing her daughter was coming out of rehab. After all of Skye’s screw-ups, Mama still wouldn’t accept that Skye was an alcoholic. Rowing her boat down the river Denial was Mama’s specialty. The glass was frosty and Skye felt the pull so viscerally that her hands shook. “Gracie,” she whispered, and poured the contents down the sink.

  “Good for you,” her dad said. He was dressed in a clean shirt and his same old jeans.

  “Daddy,” Skye said, “you take the bed. The sofa’s fine enough for me.”

  “No,” he said. “I’m taking the floor.”

  “Dammit all,
will you just take the bed and go to sleep?”

  “I prefer the floor. You need the bed for a good night’s sleep. We have to make a plan to find Gracie in the morning. You gotta be fresh.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I’m a tough old buzzard. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, I’ll take the bed.” Skye thanked him even though she knew she wouldn’t sleep much given her worries.

  “I’m going out to my truck to get the sleeping bags,” Owen said, and the dog got up and tried to follow him out the door.

  “You stay,” her dad told Hope, and the dog turned around. It killed her how loyal that dog was.

  Skye walked over to the bedroom window so she could look out at her dad. He did just as he said, no sneaking a cigarette or a drink. He behaved like the trustworthy man he apparently was now. There had to be more like him in the world. Sliding under the covers at long last, Skye smelled lavender. Probably her mom had paid someone to sew sachets into special pockets. She tucked herself in and pulled a box of tissues on the nightstand closer in case of night crying. She opened the single drawer and found a note pad and a pen, a Cowboy Bible, one hideous chandelier earring, and a nearly full jar of La Prairie cellular cream, which, according to the ingredients, contained platinum. Seriously? She opened the lid, stuck in a finger, and rubbed a fair amount on her face.

  What a life, never having to look at price tags. Maybe she’d use up the whole thing, see if Mama noticed.

  When her dad came back inside, she hollered, “I changed my mind about making the list to find Gracie. First thing tomorrow, I’ll call the police. You know, they have those alerts, like AMBERs.”

  She heard her dad unrolling the sleeping bags. “I’m not sure this would qualify for one of those alerts. Plus, the agreement you and Rocky made—you paying him five hundred a month to let you have custody—was off the books. Might not turn out in your favor.”

  “What about hiring a detective? Are they like lawyers? Do they let you pay on the installment plan?”

  He walked into the bedroom. “In Santa Fe? I doubt it,” he said. “Listen to me, please. Once you involve the police, there’s no turning back. A detective is going to do the same things we can, and it won’t cost us more than phone calls and gas money. Let’s explore options for just one more day. Maybe we should earn a little money before we go the detective route. I’m down to my last couple hundred.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We should get jobs.”

  “Jobs? Are you serious?” She threw the note pad at him. “It’s my little girl I’m talking about. How do I know she’s safe? What if she’s cold, or hungry? It’s like Rocky and his mama disappeared into thin air. She’s my daughter. My baby. Oh, my God, what if something happened to her? What if she’s been hurt or molested or even—”

  “Calm down, Skye.” He picked up the note pad and smoothed out the pages. “We’ll find her. We’ll go to the library and do some research on the computer. We can look up perverts, too. Whatever you want. We’re going to find her. Tomorrow, we’ll start with the Pro Rodeo Cowboys Association. I know a couple folks there. And then we’re going to look through the yellow pages until you remember the name of that lawyer who’s handling your divorce. You have to stay strong, honey. Night is the worst time to make big decisions. You make a big move now, I promise you’ll regret it in the light of day.”

  “More of that AA bullcrap,” Skye said.

  “Maybe sounds like that to you, but it works for me—and it’s been working for you. Try to keep positive. Say the Serenity Prayer.”

  “I won’t. It’s stupid.”

  “Didn’t you read the Big Book in that place?”

  “I skimmed it.”

  He laughed.

  “What? It was boring and old. Written before television was invented.”

  “If I shut my eyes, it’s like you’re eight years old,” he said. “Pout out to here, scraggly pigtails.”

  Skye blew her nose into what she suspected was a five-dollar tissue. When she dropped it on the bed, her dad picked it up and wadded it into a damp ball. It reminded her of the time Gracie was sick with the flu. Skye felt more like a janitor than a mother. “Give me that tissue.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll throw it in the trash.”

  Her dad yawned. He was tired, and Skye felt all dried out. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  “For what?”

  “All day I’ve been mean to you. It’s just that everything hurts so much.”

  “I know, darlin’. Now go to sleep.”

  He left the room, and it wasn’t a minute later she heard his gentle snoring. Maybe sleep was an audition for being dead, and the older you got, the easier sleep came to you. All she knew was there was nothing more to do now. She turned onto her right side, thinking about that painting by Margaret. An empty house, full of stories. How did a painter accomplish that?

  Skye woke Saturday morning with the sun lasering into her eyes. Her head pounded. I have a crying hangover, she told herself as she staggered out to the front room. Her dad and the dog were nowhere to be seen. She looked over that painting Lady Love had done. It had featured in her dreams, but she couldn’t recall the details, only that the house had so many rooms she was lost inside it.

  When she’d taken a shower and dried her hair, she peeked out the window. Sixty-five degrees, according to the thermometer outside the peed-off terrier. Hope was back, chewing a bowl of kibble. “Dog, where’s my dad?” she asked. “Where’s Owen?”

  The dog continued to eat. Maybe he was deaf in addition to being ancient. Skye dressed and went out the front door, expecting to see her dad pulling weeds or doing some other chore, but he wasn’t there. Just Sheila’s ridiculous garden sculpture that had looked like a coat stand surrounded by boulders last night. Today Skye saw it was one of those awful metal contraptions, two figures made up of abstract shapes with holes where their hearts should be. A discreet plaque noted the title: Mother and Child. That was irony. What a waste of perfectly good metal, she thought. An early morning jogger went past, heaving breath. God almighty, Skye thought, I’d rather be fat than work that hard. Women had voted out curves a long time ago, but the trouble with being skinny and muscled was that it made you crabby or like Nola. Which was worse? Her dad’s truck was gone, and she hoped that meant he was finding the nearest Starbucks and bringing back a venti Americano with four extra shots.

  She went back in the house, sat on the couch, and leafed through a Phoenix Home & Garden. The dog had finished his kibble and was now engaged in washing his privates, something he apparently did at least five times a day. “Must you?” she asked. What a disgusting noise. She fetched the yellow pages from the drawer in the kitchenette in hopes of finding the lawyer Rocky had hired to do their divorce. Following the category “Astrologers,” there were twenty-six pages of attorneys to serve a city of sixty-eight thousand residents. She pored over the firms from AAA Lawyers ’R Us to Martinez & Sons, but she didn’t recognize a single name.

  Hope settled down in the same sunbeam that had jarred her awake. Santa Fe was no place for a ranch dog. Hope needed that den under Joe Yazzi’s trailer to sleep off the remainder of his days, not a town filled with visitors, tourist sites, and traffic. She wondered what would become of her dad. Would he disappear again? Had he disappeared already, leaving her with the dog? She looked through the cupboards, searching for a coffeepot or even some instant. There were teabags, yuck, and a microwave to heat up the water. With no milk or cream it tasted just awful, but she drank it like medicine, desperate for the caffeine.

  As soon as she had finished the cup, the dog got up and went to stand by the front door. Maybe he needed to pee. She fetched his leash and was about to head out when the door opened, and there was her dad. An aromatic box of Whoo’s Donuts was in his arms and, balanced on top, a Starbucks bag. “Thank goodness,” Skye said, taking the bag. “I was about to call 911. Your dog heard you coming like five minutes ago. How is that
possible when he’s a hundred and forty years old? Never mind, don’t tell me. ‘Them heelers are tough like a dingo,’ right?”

  “Having never met a dingo, I can’t say. Hope’s intelligent. Do you like doughnuts? I bought a dozen. Half of them are maple and bacon. Sounded pretty good to me, so I bought all they had.”

  If she could have stood the emotions, she might have hugged him. “Daddy, you done good. Now let’s drink the coffee while it’s still hot.”

  Already high on sugar, they made phone calls while finishing the doughnuts. The road crew boss, Chuck, didn’t have any leads. “Rocky win the lottery or something?” her husband’s former boss asked her. “Not that I know of,” Skye said. She called four of his friends, and three of their numbers were no longer in service. That was the trouble with cell phones, Skye decided. Everybody dumped their landlines, and as of yet, there wasn’t a cell phone directory. Miguel, the guy who usually hung around Rocky at rodeos, didn’t have too much English. “Rocky?” Skye said. “Hasta las vista?” Miguel laughed, so she knew she’d butchered the Spanish. After that, she handed the phone to her father. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said. “You try for a while. I’m going to rest on the couch.”

  Her dad plopped the yellow pages in her lap. “Start again at A, and read every single name. One of the lawyers or firms is bound to ring a bell.”

  Her dad called the PRCA, the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, and said, “They have a message option,” he said, pressing the number three on his cell phone.

  Skye dropped the yellow pages and stood by her dad, tilting the phone so she could hear when to talk. For the first time, she allowed herself to hope. But her optimism dwindled when the message option sent them to voice-mail hell that led nowhere but back to the extension stating they were closed. She wanted to scream. Her father pressed zero, and finally it went to an answering machine. Skye would have let loose a freight train of swear words, but not her dad. “I’m looking for a bull rider, Rocky Elliot,” Owen said. “It’s urgent that I get in touch with him. A four-year-old child is missing. Please call me back at your earliest convenience.” Then he rattled off his number, twice, to make sure they got it.