“Of course.”
“Maybe if you ever do learn how Quincannon's case turned out, I could write it up for a historical journal—if that wouldn't be stealing your material.”
“My material? What would I do with it? I can't write to save my soul. You're welcome to use it. If there's anything to find out—”
A woman's voice, loud and strident, called Sam's name from the front of the house. He frowned in annoyance and said, “It's Dora, fifteen minutes early, as usual. The party's about to begin.”
THREE
FROM THE SOUND of her, plus Sam's previous comments, I'd expected Dora Kingman to be a sour-faced old busybody. The woman who entered the kitchen was not more than thirty, wiry and athletic-looking, with close-cropped black hair and a pert face. She broke into a grin when she saw me and said, “Oh, good, somebody new! What these potlucks need is fresh blood.”
Sam made introductions while Dora set a paper sack on the counter and began to unload Tupperware containers in various sizes and shapes. She said, “I'm glad you could join us, Elena. Sam, get off your buns and help me find room for these in the fridge. And what is that smell coming from the oven?”
Sam rolled his eyes at me and went over to the refrigerator. He opened its door and started dubiously into its tightly packed depths.
Dora said, “I asked—what's the smell?”
“Lasagna.”
“Ahah! Cheating again.”
He opened one of the containers she'd brought and sniffed at its contents. “And what's this smell?”
“Brown rice with eggplant.”
“Ugh. It's all gray and tan.”
“To each his own. I knew that except for the gazpacho and salad, you'd cheat, so I brought the things that I like to eat—and that are good for you.”
Sam shrugged and stowed the containers away, balancing them one on top of the other. Neither he nor Dora seemed particularly upset with each other; I suspected he “cheated” every time she came to dinner and that she always brought her own food.
The screen door slammed, and footsteps came across the front room. Gray Hollis appeared in the doorway, brown paper bag in hand. Dora turned, and her eyes narrowed as they moved quickly to the bag.
“So, Gray,” she said, “what are you contributing tonight?”
He raised the bag, which clearly showed the outline of the bottle within. “Fine bourbon whiskey.” As Sam had predicted, Gray was drunk, teetering on the fine line between rigid control and stumbling lack of coordination. He walked to the counter in a marionettelike gait, got a glass from the cabinet, and poured himself a couple of fingers of liquor. Dora glared openly at him. When he took the bottle from the bag, I noticed that it was only two-thirds full.
Dora opened her mouth, but Sam pushed a stack of plates into her hands, saying, “I thought we'd eat outside. You want to set the table?”
Dora glanced back at Gray but carried the plates out a side door to where a picnic table stood in a clearing among the weeds. Gray watched her go with an amused expression, then leaned against the counter and raised his glass in a toast. “Here's to you, Sam. And to our pretty visitor, who I believe I saw in Marshall's earlier.”
Sam introduced us, adding that I had come to see him “on a quest of historical importance.” Before I could explain, there was a flicker of motion over by the door, and we all turned our heads. A young man stood there, silent as a ghost. He was Chicano, slender to the point of being frail, with thick hair falling to his shoulders.
“Arturo!” Sam said. He went to the counter and poured a big glass of wine. The young man moved gracefully across the room, setting a covered plate on the chopping block. He took the glass wordlessly and retired to one of the director's chairs. I looked at Sam, but he was inspecting the nachos on the plate. Gray had turned and was looking out the window at Dora and sipping bourbon.
Since no one seemed about to introduce me, and Arturo Melendez's silence indicated he might not speak English, I said, “Yo me llamo Elena Oliverez.”
He acknowledged the words with a slight twitch of his lips that might have been a smile.
I looked at Sam again. He smiled reassuringly and said, “Sorry. That's Arturo Melendez. He's just shy. Will you take the utensils out to Dora for me?”
I got them from the drawer he indicated and went outside. Dora had arranged the plates on the picnic table and was standing next to it, staring sightlessly at a half-dead rosebush. When she heard my footsteps, she turned.
“Oh, Elena, thanks for bringing those out,” she said. “I didn't want to go back inside.”
“Because of Gray?” I began laying the knives and forks next to the plates.
For a moment she was silent. Then she said in a low, strained voice, “Yes. It's horrible what he's doing to himself. I can't bear to watch.”
“I understand his wife has left him.”
“Yes, but that's no reason to kill himself with drink. Georgia was a miserable wife. The fights they'd have! She threw a pair of scissors at him once. He's better off without her.”
“Maybe that's true, but I suspect he doesn't know that yet.”
“He should. I've told him and told him.”
And that was your first mistake, I thought. I've never been married, but I've had enough experience with friends who have been to know that no matter how bad a marriage is, a person doesn't want to hear his friends' criticism—at least not until it's completely over for him.
I said, “Did Gray drink a lot before Georgia went to Peru?”
“Hardly at all.””
“Then he'll probably stop when he's ready to.”
“Do you think so?” There were tears in Dora's eyes, and her small hands were clenched white-knuckled over her breasts.
Por Dios, I thought, she's in love with him. She's the one who Sam meant when lie said there were those who hoped Georgia would never come back from Peru. “I'm sure of it,” I said firmly. Then, to get her mind off Gray, I said, “Dora, what's wrong with Arturo Melendez?”
“Wrong?”
“He doesn't speak.”
Dora shook her head. “Oh, that's just the way Arturo is. He's quiet, and with a stranger here, he's bound to act more shy than usual.”
It seemed more than shyness to me; and Dora was so wrapped up in Gray's problems that she didn't make a particularly good observer. I decided to try to draw Arturo out during dinner; he was an exceptionally talented artist, and one who I felt deserved more recognition than he'd gotten.
As things worked out, though, any further conversation with Arturo was impossible. The talk around the picnic table turned into a running argument between Dora and Gray, with Sam desperately introducing neutral topics that both of them ignored. Gray kept the bourbon bottle right beside him, and every time Dora made a critical comment, he refilled his glass; the level of liquor rapidly dropped to less than two inches. When Dora found she couldn't get a rise out of Gray, she started in on Sam's poor eating habits. Arturo ate silently, his eyes cast down and his expression closed, seemingly unaware of what was going on around him.
I was sitting next to him, and I studied him covertly, glad of someone to divert me from the tiresome bickering going on across the table. When he finished what was on his plate, he kept his eyes down, as if the smeared pottery surface was an object of fascination. After a couple of abortive attempts to speak to him about his work, I finally concluded that what I was dealing with was a seriously depressed person.
It wasn't unusual; I'd seen it before in other minority artists. It was a state born of repeatedly having to drag one's emotional guts out and spread them on the canvas, only to later be dismissed as amusingly ethnic but essentially unimportant. Arturo, I decided, had been living in the shadow of the Anglo art establishment for too long, and it was now beginning to erode his personality. It was time he got out into the sun where he would receive recognition for his considerable gifts—and that was something the museum and I could help him with.
By the time dessert
was served, the meal had degenerated thoroughly. Sam's beautiful chocolate mousse was greeted with silence. Gray seemed more interested in the remainder of his bourbon. Dora was sulkily spooning out her fresh fruit salad. Arturo declined dessert with a shake of his head. I felt so sorry for Sam that I took an extra-large helping and wolfed it down, in spite of the fact I wasn't really in the mood for sweets.
After Sam finished his mousse, he passed cigarettes around, and everyone but Gray and I lighted up. Gray made a caustic remark to Dora about how health-conscious people shouldn't smoke. She countered by pointing out that at least she didn't quit and then take it up a few days later like he did. Sam watched them anxiously, and I could see he was searching for a way to divert them from what promised to be a full-blown quarrel. Suddenly his face brightened, and he said, “What a dunce I am! I forgot to tell you all the reason Elena has honored us with her presence.”
They all looked at him: Gray's eyes were bleary, Dora's impatient, and Arturo's seemed to be looking inward.
“She has made an incredible find.” Sam went on, describing in glowing terms John Quincannon's papers and the story they told. No one looked very impressed.
“So, what're you gonna do,” Gray said, “go out an' dig up this treasure, get rich?”
His words sounded like an exaggerated parody of a drunk, and I wanted to smile. Controlling the impulse, I said, “I doubt it's still hidden. Probably Quincannon found it and restored it to the family.”
“Then why isn't there any record of it?” Sam said.
“Yeah. Just think, Elena,” Gray said, “you could have your own li'l arcological expedition right here. I know about those things; I could help you.”
Dora glanced anxiously at him.
“Dig it up,” he said, waving his glass. “Dig it all up.”
“Gray—” Dora said.
“Ah, shaddup.”
“Gray!”
“Let Elena talk, will you?”
Quickly I said, “I must admit I did entertain some thoughts of finding the artifacts when I stopped off at the ruins—”
“Gray, you've been a drunk for quite some time now, but you've never been a rude drunk—”
He reached agitatedly for his glass and knocked it over. The bourbon flowed across the table and into his lap. “Shit!” he said, and jumped up.
I felt a tug at my sleeve. Arturo was looking shyly at me. “The ruins—you have been there?”
I was surprised. These were the first words he had spoken to me. “Yes, just today.”
“I often go there. They are muy tranquilo. I like to sit there and imagine how it was in the days when our people were strong and respected.”
Respect. Respecto. Acepción de personas. In either language, in any shade of meaning, it was a concept my people mentioned time and time again. We had almost wrung the word dry of any significance, almost worn out the idea by talking about it. And had we achieved it? In some areas, perhaps. But not in the really important ways, as evidenced by Arturo and his debilitating depression.
I said to him, “Will you go there with me sometime?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “I should like that.”
“Bueno. The next time I'm here I'll come for you.”
He smiled and dropped his gaze again.
Gray was still mopping at his liquor-soaked jeans, and Dora was still glaring at him, a bright spot of red on either cheek. Sam seemed relieved when I declined another helping of mousse and said I needed to get back to Santa Barbara. I took down his phone number and promised to call him the next afternoon for the information about the Velasquez woman, and then I took my hurried leave.
As I crossed the square, the village was bathed in spring twilight; it softened the more squalid aspects of the shabby buildings, made the trees seem fuller, the vegetation more lush. I caught the faint scent of apple blossoms, the gentle strains of piano music from one of the nearby houses. A dog barked and then was silent. A mother called her child and received a glad answering shout. Las Lomas was the image of peace and tranquillity—which only went to prove how deceptive appearances can be.
FOUR
MONDAY NOON I arrived at the museum, the marriage coffer once more wedged into the passenger side of my car. The parking lot of the nineteenth-century adobe in the city's historical district looked strangely deserted; there were only three cars, all of which belonged to volunteers. Leaving the chest where it was, I entered the building by the door off the loading dock and went down the tiled corridor to the office wing. The secretary's desk across from my office was cleared, the typewriter covered. I stopped and frowned until I remembered that Emily—like me—was on vacation.
Neither Susana Ibarra nor Rudy Lopez were in their cubicles, and the door to the office of Linda Trujillo, our education director, was closed. Where was everyone? I wondered. It was lunchtime, but the staff took their breaks at staggered intervals. Concerned, I made a quick tour of the galleries; they, the gift shop, and the entrance were all manned by our ever-reliable volunteers. It seemed they took their duties more seriously than my staff.
I crossed the inner courtyard, noting that no one had bothered to turn on the water in the little blue-tiled fountain, and checked the office wing again, lit turned out Linda was there after all; I could tell by the strains of the classical music she often played while writing copy for the fact sheets we make available to our visitors. But where were Susana and Rudy? Apparently while el gato was away, los ratónes had decided to play. And el gato was not at all pleased with that.
I went into my office and sat down in my padded leather chair, then took John Quincannon's investigative report from my tote bag, and locked it securely in the drawer of my desk. Shortly after I'd been named director, I'd developed the habit of keeping important papers and valuables here at the museum where they were protected by an alarm system, rather than at home. My neighborhood is reasonably crime-free, but there had been just enough break-ins in the last year to make me continue the practice. The report wasn't exactly valuable, but I have a great respect for historical significance, and I didn't want to chance losing it through fire or theft.
Next I reached for a stack of little pink message slips piled on the blotter. The writing on them was Susana's; at least she had not taken the morning off. I thumbed through them, seeing nothing that needed to be tended to immediately. Then I swiveled the chair around and stared through the heavy wrought-iron bars of the window at the azalea plants in the courtyard, thinking about Mama.
I'd talked with Dr. George when I'd gone to the hospital the evening before, and he'd said she was progressing nicely. And Mama had seemed in much better spirits. Nick had finally got hold of Carlota, and she and Mama had had a long phone conversation in which Mama had convinced her not to fly out. I heard all about that and then reciprocated with my story of dinner at Sam Ryder's. Mama was interested enough to ask if Arturo Melendez was single. Yes, I said, and very talented. But was he handsome? she asked. Well, maybe un poco. Well, then, she said, did he make any money? Artists, after all….
I'd been glad to close the subject by saying Arturo was as poor as a churchmouse. But then Mama had gotten on the subject of Dave. When was that policeman coming to see her? Dios knew she didn't relish the idea of an Anglo son-in-law, but all the same she did enjoy the young man….
I'd put her off by saying Dave was still out of town. Our breakup wasn't something I felt I could discuss right then. It might make Mama feel relieved, because she strongly disapproved of intercultural marriages, but if she saw how hurt I was, she would become upset and then angry—not a good thing so soon after surgery. I have never been good at hiding my feelings from my mother, and she seemed to sense something was wrong, but she just eyed me suspiciously and didn't say anything.
I'd gone home from the hospital yesterday evening feeling sure that Mama was on the road to recovery both physically and emotionally—which was why her state of mind this morning had surprised and dismayed me. She had been back in her stare-a
t-the-ceiling mood, and even Carlota, who called shortly after I got there, couldn't get through to her. Nick had arrived around eleven-thirty, bringing one of the special thick peach milk shakes she liked, but she'd barely looked at it—or him. It was then that I'd left, because I couldn't bear to watch her withdraw into herself any more, couldn't stand to see the hurt and anxiety on Nick's face.
This wasn't like Mama, not at all. If something was bothering her, she liked to get it right out in the open. I hadn't always appreciated her direct approach, because usually what bothered her was some transgressi on of mine, but now I would have welcomed it—
There was a knock on my door, and Rudy Lopez spoke my name. I swiveled the chair around. My curator stood in the doorway: tall, stocky, and curly-haired, wearing an outrageously bright purple shirt. His round face was pitted with scars from teenage acne, but when he smiled—as he did now—you didn't notice any imperfection; Rudy's warmth and obvious interest in other people made him nearly handsome. Mama had been very excited when she'd met him, proclaiming him muy guapo. And she'd been very disappointed when I'd told her he was gay.
Rudy said, “What are you doing here? This is supposed to be your vacation.”
“Yes, and you all seem well aware of that. Where were you?”
“At lunch.” He held up his wrist and tapped his watch. “I go from eleven-thirty to twelve-thirty.”
It was twelve-twenty-five. I felt ashamed. No wonder my staff sometimes accused me of being a slave driver or, as Susana often put it, una osa negra—a black bear. “Well, what about Susana?” I asked defensively. “She's supposed to go from twelve-thirty to one-thirty. Who's taking care of the phones?”
“Susana had an appointment, so Mrs. Ramirez is answering.”
“Por Dios, Mrs. Ramirez needs all her concentration just to make change when a visitor buys a postcard! What was Susana's appointment, anyway?”
Rudy looked amused. “She went to have her legs waxed.”
“What?”
“She was out on Carlos's yacht yesterday, and she noticed they weren't as smooth as she'd like them to be. So one of Carlos's rico friends suggested she try waxing—”
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