I did so, rattling them off from a list I had near the phone. “You understand,” I concluded, “that the last thing I’d like to do is alienate my neighbors. We’re getting along very well.”
“Of course,” Chilton said. “I’ll call these folks and see what we can work out. September is often a slow season here, and I think the paper’s going to give us a good spread.”
We set that Chilton and his photographer would come by Friday morning around ten. After I’d hung up, I walked outside to let Domingo know. Some of his crew did not like to be photographed, and given the good work they’d done for me, I did my best to honor their wishes.
Looking at the exterior of the House with the upcoming photography session in mind, I couldn’t help but be pleased with the result of our labors. Yes, the exterior might be called gaudy, but it was gaudy in the way an old-style carousel had been gaudy. Colorful, but never garish. In Ohio, the color scheme might not have worked, but against the impossible blueness of a New Mexico sky, Phineas House looked just fine.
“It looks good,” I said to Domingo. “I like it better than I do the Castle. That was elegant. This is, well, splendid. I want you to get the credit, tomorrow. I hope you won’t mind.”
Domingo frowned. “The credit belongs to the House. I have only followed what she wants.”
“I don’t think she’ll mind,” I said, “and you must admit that wouldn’t make for a good newspaper story—or rather it would, but not the right kind of story.”
Domingo might be a bit fey, but he was not a fool, no matter what people thought. He smiled now, then nodded.
“Yes. I agree, but let us take the credit together. After all, you have supported this project, and selected many of the colors.”
“Fine,” I agreed. “Anything I can help with? I may go run some errands later, but the weather is so nice I don’t feel like going anywhere now.”
“We have found some more wildcats,” Domingo said promptly. “They’re along one of the oriel windows on the third floor. I had two of the crew put scaffolding there because we needed to work on some of the shingles. That’s done now, but I’ve left the scaffolding in place.”
“Great,” I said. “I’ll be out as soon as I get my coveralls on.”
I spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon in a happy dream state, painting a collection of leopards and lynxes that looked as if they could have been right out of Dionysus’s entourage. Midafternoon, the wind gusted up, bringing a few spits of rain, not enough to be considered a break in the drought, but certainly hopeful.
“Do the monsoons ever come in so late?” I asked hopefully.
“Not usually,” Domingo said, “but we are hardly into September yet, and there is often some rain during the State Fair.”
“Is that held around here?” I asked.
“No. In Albuquerque,” Domingo said. “Enrico is quite excited. A project his class did is going to be shown in the school art show, and he and his sisters had something to do with the San Miguel County display in the Bolack Building. He has something planned for the 4-H display as well.”
None of this made any sense to me, but I could tell Domingo was pleased.
“So you’re going?”
“Certainly,” he said. “I plan to enter tomatoes, squash, and maybe some beans in the Bolack Building show. Those have cash prizes, and stay on display the entire two weeks of the fair. I’m also considering entering some of the old rose varieties in the flower show, but I never decide with roses until the last moment. The competition can be fierce, and the long drive is hard on the blossoms.”
“Maybe I can help,” I suggested. “You’ll have to tell me what to do.”
“I accept,” Domingo said promptly, “though you don’t know what you’ve just gotten yourself into.”
Since the rain, light as it was, made further painting unlikely that day, I decided to keep my resolution to go into town. I hadn’t forgotten that strange, red-haired woman I had glimpsed down on the Plaza, and figured I’d go looking for her.
I’d thought a lot about what I’d seen, and had come to the conclusion that the woman had probably been sitting on a folding table set up near the gazebo. What had happened was that when I’d turned to talk to Domingo, someone had come along to claim the table. She’d probably hopped off her perch, picked up an end of the table, and gone. She might not even have realized the confusion she would create.
On the other hand, remembering the wildness I’d sensed about her, she may very well have known what she was doing, and had enjoyed giving the “gringa” a turn. However, I wouldn’t be comfortable until I took a look for myself.
Parking wasn’t that hard to find. I deliberately picked a spot across the Plaza from where I’d seen the woman, so I could retrace my steps. I did this, marvelling how little activity there was. I mean, I knew school was back in session and the tourists gone home, but surely this late in the afternoon there would be some activity.
I walked slowly, feeling a hitch in one calf from where I’d been balancing on the scaffold while painting. I bent to massage out a knot, and when I stood straight again and walked a few steps, I saw the platform.
Immediately, I dismissed my theory that what I’d seen had been a folding table. It was too big, too solid. It also had an extension of some sort that after a moment I recognized as a windmill in not the best condition.
When my gaze lowered from examining the windmill, I saw the woman. As before, she was seated on the platform base dressed in a colorful skirt, its tiers adorned with contrasting ribbons. Her off-the-shoulder blouse was snowy white and, as before, low enough to display an ample bosom. She was smoking a cigarette, and as I drew closer I saw it was hand-rolled. The odor was tobacco, though, not anything else.
Looking at the woman, I felt an odd mixture of jealousy and admiration. There was something so free and easy about her, a blatant sexuality that I myself had never been able to express—although certainly I’d felt the urges. I knew every man who saw her couldn’t help but be moved. Yet, though I envied her, it was admiration without resentment. I admired her as you would a beautiful flower: a California poppy or a particularly vibrant hibiscus.
As so many times in my life, I felt as if I’d been constructed from squares: awkward and graceless, female without being in the least feminine. This woman went beyond femininity and gave lie even to my claim of being female. I had the equipment, but I didn’t know how to tap into its power. Even my love of clothing and jewelry seemed more like an extension of my art, a thing unconnected to my inner self. Colette had known how to use the same tools to become a beauty. More than once I’d wondered if my lifelong love/hate relationship with her, my fear and desire of being her “mirror” had made me deny myself things I could have had.
I struggled with a desire to run from this strange woman. She watched me coming, full lips twisted in a smile that was ironical without being in the least unkind. I had the unsettled feeling that she knew my thoughts, but neither of us were going to mention this—it would be one of those open secrets.
“Hi,” I said, suddenly feeling amazingly awkward. I’d felt a connection to this woman, but it was based on believing her some sort of hallucination. What was I going to say now that she was here in front of me, “How did you vanish last Friday?”
She grinned at me the way cats grin, and again I had the feeling that she knew exactly what I was thinking.
“Buenas tardes,” she said with lazy formality. “How are you?”
“Fine,” I replied automatically, then caught myself. “Actually, I’m confused as hell. I saw you here Friday. Then I didn’t—not you, not this windmill. Now you’re here again. You and nobody else. I don’t suppose you’d care to explain, would you?”
She grinned again, and I half expected her to stretch like a cat. She reminded me irresistibly of one, a sleek queen dozing on a windowsill, or maybe one of my leopards.
“I might,” she said, “but first I’d like you to come with
me. I don’t really much like sitting here.”
She motioned toward a bar with a toss of her head. “We can go over there, have a drink. What do you say?”
What I wanted to say was that I didn’t remember the bar either, but I kept quiet. I kept remembering the silent women, how my bed was made for me every day, how the interior of Phineas House was spotless, how the chrome sparkled. I’d forced myself to accept that—and not only because it was damn convenient. The silent women belonged to the tapestry of my childhood. This woman might have, too, if I’d been out much—and perhaps she belonged somehow to Colette’s life. Maybe they’d been rivals over some man. I could imagine that. There were similarities, though Colette had never had this sulky sensuality.
“Sure,” I said, shaking myself from the whirl of my thoughts. “I could use a beer.”
“Come on, then,” she said. “By the way, I’m Pablita Sandoval. People call me ‘Paula Angel.’ You can just call me Paula.”
“I’m Mira,” I said. “Mira Fenn.”
“Or Mira Bogatyr,” Paula said. “Colette’s daughter, come home again.”
And before I could ask her how she knew, if from Chilton’s article or some other way, Paula had hopped down from the windmill’s base, shaken her skirts into order, and started leading the way to the bar. I hurried to keep up, afraid that, as before, she’d vanish, leaving me with more questions than ever.
16
In 1866, the hanging of Pablita Sandoval for murdering her lover created quite a sensation, according to information gleaned by W. J. Lucas in the 1920’s, although the name was changed to Paula Angel in later published versions.
—Lynn Perrigo,
Gateway to Glorieta: A History of Las Vegas, New Mexico
INSIDE THE LINES
The bar looked like a setting from a Western: bat-wing doors, a long wooden bar backed with a mirror, polished brass spittoons, and tables scattered around almost at random. The floor was thickly covered with sawdust. There was a man playing an upright piano to one side, a bartender polishing the bartop with a rag on the other.
Four men in western clothing so carefully adhering to the fashions of a bygone day that it qualified as costuming, were playing poker well away from where the mirror might give their hands away. Other than these, the place was empty. I guessed it was too early in the day for a regular crowd. I wondered if the poker players were waiters, killing time until the evening crowd showed.
Paula gave the bartender a casual wave and called, “Two of the usual” as she led us to a table where the music from the piano pretty much guaranteed our privacy. The bartender followed us over almost immediately, a tray with two frothy mugs of beer balanced on one hand. He set the mugs down and left without waiting for payment. I figured we’d be running a tab, and tried to remember how much money I’d brought with me.
“So, amiga,” Paula said, blowing the foam off the top of her beer, “why did you come looking for me?”
“I told you,” I said. “I saw you, on Friday, you were there, then you weren’t …”
I trailed off, feeling really stupid. Then I recovered my determination, and forged on. “And today, I’m sure you weren’t in the Plaza, then you were—and nobody else.”
“And you want to know what’s going on?” Paula said.
“That’s right.”
“You are, Mira.”
I stared at Paula Angel. Her eyes were the rich brown of chocolate syrup, and the corners crinkled as she smiled at my confusion.
“Me?”
“You, Mira. I think you suspected this all along, didn’t you? You just wanted to hear it from someone else.”
I pressed my splayed fingers to my forehead, as if I could physically force my thoughts into order. There was some truth in what Paula had just said. When Paula had done her appear/disappear act that first time, I’d been irresistibly reminded of the silent women. I’d wondered if Paula were one of them or something else. Although a part of me wanted to continue to deny, to resist that the oddness I associated with Phineas House could spill out into the rest of the city, I wanted answers more than I wanted to hold on to whatever sense of normalcy remained to me.
And before you fault me for being a coward, or lacking a sense of adventure, let me tell you, reading about it is a lot different from having it happen to you.
“Me,” I repeated, letting the word roll around my mouth. “You seem to know a lot more about this than I do. Any chance you can explain?”
“Explain why you could see me when your friend, Domingo, could not.”
“That would be a good start.”
Paula Angel smiled, picked up her heavy glass beer mug and took a couple more swallows. She had to balance the mug between two hands to do this.
“To make you understand this,” Paula began, “I’m going to have to tell you something about me.”
Isn’t that always the case? I thought. People love to talk about themselves.
Paula gave me that sly look that made me wonder if somehow she could read my mind—or if she was just a really good judge of character.
She didn’t say anything else, so I said, “Go on.”
“Well, for one thing,” Paula said, “I’m dead.”
I’d been raising my beer mug, now I set it down with a solid thump.
“You’re what?”
“I’m dead,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I was executed. Hanged. You can find my story in a bunch of books. There’s even a poem about me.”
I nodded very slowly, as if my head might go flying off my shoulders if I didn’t take care.
“I think you’d better tell me about it,” I said.
Paula grinned wickedly. “I thought you’d see it that way. Very well. Like I told you, I was hanged, hanged for murdering a man. That wasn’t terribly fair. There was a dance. He was feeling me up. I didn’t like it much. Pulled out my knife and warned him off. When he didn’t listen, I stabbed him. Did a better job than I expected. Cut something vital. He died pretty fast.
“This happened at a fiesta, so there were lots of witnesses to what I did, but not so many who supported my claim that I was justified in what I did—a man doesn’t go after a girl that way right out in the open, you know what I mean?”
I nodded again, managed to get a swallow from the beer mug I held up in trembling hands.
“Well, one thing led to another and the trial wasn’t fair at all,” Paula went on. “Not that many people liked the bastard I knifed, but all the lawyers and judges and law officers were men, and men don’t like if a woman stands up for herself. That’s what men are supposed to do for them. So the hijos de putas sentenced me to hang. They put a rope up over the limb of a tree and put me in a wagon, and drove the wagon underneath the tree.”
Paula’s tone was flat and even, but there was a tension underlying the words that made my skin creep.
“I was sitting on a bench in the wagon and they put the rope around my neck. When they got the noose just right, the driver whipped up the horses and the wagon was pulled out from under me. I was supposed to drop and have my neck snapped.
“Didn’t work that way. I was young and strong, and though that rope cut into my neck, it didn’t break it. They hadn’t tied my hands tightly enough, and I’d worked them free while they were fussing with getting the noose just right. When I realized I wasn’t dead, I reached up over my head, grabbed the rope and started hauling myself up along it. I figured to get up onto that tree limb and see what I could do after.
“Now, a funny thing happened then. There’d been a crowd gathered around. There always is for a hanging. They’d been eager to see me die. The men wanted to see me die because I’d killed a man. The women wanted to see me hang because I was young and pretty, and they didn’t like me around their men. They’d all wanted to see me dead, and if that rope had snapped my neck then and there, well, they’d have thought no more of it than they would have about wringing a chicken’s neck for the stew pot.
“But now, se
eing me struggle to win against that rope, the feeling in the crowd changed. They started cheering for me, willing me to win. That was better sport than they’d bargained for, and their cheers gave me heart and soul, they did, because I figured if I could get to the top, they’d demand that I be given my life.
“But the sheriff didn’t feel this way at all. To be fair to him, at another time, he might have been watching with all the rest, but something big had happened in Las Vegas not that long before. The United States of America had taken over the New Mexico Territory from Mexico, and the sheriff was eager to show his new bosses that he was their man.
“He ran forward and grabbed me by the legs, dragging me down with all his weight, trying to make me strangle if he couldn’t break my neck. The crowd wasn’t having anything of it. It was between me and the rope now, and they saw the sheriff as butting in where he wasn’t wanted. They pulled him off me, and I pulled my way up the rope and somehow got my leg over the tree branch, and just lay there panting.
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