“I know,” she said, though she hadn’t known, not exactly.
“He said we should let you go. He didn’t want you sitting in the front office.” Father Paul straightened now, oddly pleased.
Earlier, then, when Father Leon had glared at her from behind his desk, he hadn’t been merely irritated at the interruption; she saw now that he’d been horrified by her messy fecundity. No real surprise, but, still, Crystal had let herself believe that her body didn’t matter. She’d let herself believe that it was irrelevant to her work, that she was safe here and forgiven.
The real surprise, though, was that Father Paul wanted to hurt her. Courteous, heedful, absurd Father Paul. Father Paul, who saw pain in every face and gesture, whether it was there or not, wanted to hurt her, and that was what stung. She’d thought she could disdain Father Paul’s kindness, and that it would somehow remain intact: unconditional, holy, and inhuman. Astonishing that she had been capable of such faith.
“Well, who does that man think he is, telling us how to do things? I defended you. I put myself on the line for you.” His tone was wheedling. “I gave you the Santo Niño, too. Did you know the Santo Niño was my mother’s favorite?” He stuck out his chin, defiant. “Once a week she went to the Santuario in Chimayo. Used to walk there every Good Friday.”
“It was nice of you to give me the card,” Crystal said, regarding him with loathing. “I appreciated that.”
They stood facing each other, and time held steady. All her speculation, and Crystal didn’t know the first thing about this man. Then Father Paul bent suddenly at the waist, gasping like a sprinter.
When he rose, his face was purple. He backed against the wall, pushing against it with his palms as if it might relent and absorb him. “Forgive me. I never should have said any of that.” He slid to the floor. His black pants tugged up, and his head drooped to his knees.
“I forgive you.” Her voice was cold.
“Forgiveness,” Father Paul said, as though the word disgusted him. “Forgiveness is a drug, too. Believe me. You can forgive and forgive until you’re high on it and you can’t stop. It’ll numb you as much as any of that stuff.” He extended his foot and kicked the suitcase, which tipped, spilling bottles onto the carpet.
Crystal had the drowning sense that she’d lost track of what they were talking about.
“I know you don’t like me,” Father Paul said, looking up at her.
And what could Crystal say? Don’t be silly. Of course I do. And then there she’d be, lying to a priest.
She should leave, go back to the office and pretend that none of this had happened. Instead, she crossed the room and sat beside him.
“Please just hold me?” He looked at her as if asking permission, and when she neither gave nor withheld it, he leaned into her and rested his head on her shoulder.
She might have expected to be filled with a deep, sexual revulsion, but she wasn’t. She didn’t touch him, but she didn’t push him away, either. Instead, Crystal placed her head against the wall and waited.
Inside her, the babies stirred. She remembered the weekend and the icy horror that had swamped her when she realized how she’d put them at risk. She remembered the ultrasound stills, how she’d studied them, straining to connect the images to children, to her children, children who would come to shape her life. “Have you picked names?” the guy had asked Saturday night. She’d pretended to be asleep so that she wouldn’t have to lie. Where were her instincts? Where was the biological imperative to keep them safe? There must be some blockage, some deep damage that left her so cold.
Crystal saw herself standing on that ratty street at dawn, waiting for the cab to take her away from her mistake. But instead of the cab it was the Santo Niño who would find her. The soles of his shoes would be worn away, his little toes poking through the leather. He would take Crystal’s hand in his pudgy one and lead her home. It was a lovely notion, and Crystal almost allowed herself to sink into it.
But no. Crystal saw that she had misunderstood. In giving her the Santo Niño, Father Paul hadn’t meant that He would save her. And he hadn’t meant that the twins would save her, either. Even Father Paul, with all his hope, knew better. Instead, he’d been offering the prayer that the Santo Niño might save those babies from whatever Crystal was bound to do to them.
Father Paul’s head was heavy, and she could smell his scalp: a warm, sour smell. For a moment in confession, she’d believed that he could absolve her. And, even now that he was diminished and trembling and possibly insane, part of her still believed.
“I don’t even talk to them,” Crystal said.
Father Paul took a deep, shuddering breath, like a child calming himself after a long cry.
The sun filtered through the lace curtains above their heads. The window’s reflection was a mottled square of light on the glass of the framed poster, obscuring the image.
Crystal saw that who she was didn’t matter to Father Paul, that in his mind she’d turned into something else completely. Mary Magdalene, maybe: the whore who instead of washing His feet Cloroxed the bathroom. Or the Virgin up there on the wall, holding her dead adult son across her lap. Father Paul’s own mother, even. And, for reasons she didn’t understand, Crystal didn’t resent this. Maybe later she would; maybe in a day, or in an hour, she’d feel compromised and used, and would hate Father Paul for it; but right now it seemed so easy to sit with him. The relief was astonishing, that Crystal could be the kind of person who might meet another person’s need.
She watched the square of light in the glass. She breathed, and Father Paul breathed, and she felt the babies shift, navigating the tight space inside her.
And then, on the other side of the rectory, the back door opened and slammed shut. Father Leon’s steps crossed the kitchen linoleum. On his way to his study, he would pass Father Paul’s open door. He would see the suitcase, the strewn bottles, the two of them nearly embracing on the bedroom floor.
Father Leon would look from one to the other, his expression shading from perplexed to angry, but his gaze would rest on Crystal, because he would understand that she was guilty of something that she couldn’t deny or put into words.
Crystal considered pulling away. There was still time. She might still hide the evidence, meet Father Leon casually in the hall, dish towel in hand. Beside her, she felt Father Paul tense and push his face into her shoulder.
“You’re fine,” Crystal said. She placed her hand over Father Paul’s, but she was picturing her babies. Sheer skin, warm tangled limbs, tiny blue beating hearts. “You’re fine.”
CANUTE COMMANDS THE TIDES
THE NOYES’S NEW HOUSE WAS ON A REMOTE HILL NORTHEAST of Santa Fe surrounded by piñon and chamisa. The first time they approached, in the real estate agent’s Volvo, Margaret had clutched the armrest. She’d been sure even then that this was it. As Harold, up front, kept pace with the agent’s steady commentary, Margaret gazed out the window and collected in her mind the scenes she would paint: an abandoned blank-eyed adobe near the highway exit, a line of leaning mailboxes foregrounding a purple mesa, two dirty children playing in an old blue truck on blocks. When they finally arrived at the base of the long dirt driveway leading up through squat, dense piñon, Margaret found herself holding her breath. “You’ll want a four-wheel drive,” the agent had advised. From here, it was point-seven miles on the odometer every time. Even now, it gave Margaret pleasure to note it when she returned home.
From the high, wide windows of her studio, Margaret could see for miles: the late summer storms were coming, black clouds packing themselves firmer as they moved across the sky, distant shafts of sunlight breaking through and lighting the pink earth below. This house, with its antique double doors, soft adobe lines, and windows all around, was their retirement home, but Margaret didn’t feel old. She was still slim and upright (except for a bony bump at the back of her neck, which she did her best to hide with scarves), she walked daily, and had never once dyed her hair—had, in fact,
been pleased when it faded from a rather nondescript blond to shining silver. And she felt more creatively vibrant than she had in years, full of ideas, ready to buckle down.
The way Harold told it, laughing agreeably with their friends, was that out of the blue Margaret had announced that they were moving to New Mexico. “She wouldn’t take no for an answer!” Harold was still back in his office in Fairfield, surrounded by legal briefs. Margaret had known he was reluctant to retire and couldn’t move right in the middle of a big case, and though she’d made a show of disappointment, she was secretly glad she’d be alone. She insisted she had to leave as soon as possible to get them settled.
Her sister-in-law had offered to accompany her, but Margaret had wanted to drive across the country alone with her dog, Daisy. By the time she arrived, the movers had already unloaded the furniture and boxes and more or less arranged them in rooms according to the diagram Margaret had supplied. Walking through the empty rooms, Daisy close at her heels, Margaret had felt on her bare feet the warm afternoon sunlight and the cool terra-cotta tile, and she thought of their first house in Guilford forty years ago, the furniture from the old apartment spread thinly through the rooms, the bare wood floors, all of it waiting, still and quiet, for the lively clatter of babies.
She spent the first few days seeing the sights. She drove to Tesuque, visited artists’ studios and glass foundries, had brunch at the Market. In Santa Fe, she walked the Plaza and dipped in and out of galleries on Canyon Road. One night she went to the Opera—Rigoletto—though she was exhausted and left at intermission.
On the way home, Margaret stopped at the convenience store five miles down the highway with the idea of asking about anyone in town who might be available for housework and to help her settle in. Margaret thought of it as “town,” but there was no town, not really. Just the convenience store off the exit and a trailer with a sign over the door that said BEAUTY HAIR NAILS.
At the counter, Margaret wrote her name and number, and was about to jot her address, too, when she thought better of it. The heavy Hispanic woman at the register sat on her stool and watched impassively. “If you think of anyone, have her call me. We can meet, see how we like each other.” Margaret thought interview sounded pushy, though of course that’s what it would be.
A Carmen Baca phoned and arrived at the arranged time with a pink plastic tub of rags and cleaning solutions, apparently thinking she’d already been hired. Legs trembling, Daisy barked at Carmen Baca, who paused uncertainly in the door and held her cleaning supplies high.
Margaret scooped up the dog. “Don’t mind Daisy. She thinks she’s a guard dog, but she’s harmless.”
Carmen wore pale jeans and a teal t-shirt snug across her breasts and belly: GOLDEN MESA CASINO: WHERE MORE WINNERS WIN MORE! “I don’t know, but dogs have always made me nervous.” When the woman smiled, her round face creased good-naturedly. “But this one’s cute.” With one finger she gingerly patted Daisy behind an ear, pulling her hand back quickly when the dog licked her. “It’s a puppy?”
“No,” said Margaret, in the pleased, slightly regretful tone she used when people asked this. “She’s eight, a Yorkie. Come sit down!” Margaret gestured to the table in the raised dining area, where she’d set out cups pulled directly from a moving carton and a plate of almond butter cookies. “Tea? Coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot.”
Carmen placed the tub next to her chair and crossed her white sneakers primly. “My, my,” she said, nodding at the cookies.
Margaret wondered if this woman was making fun of her, but Carmen just smiled blandly.
She was in her early forties, no more than five feet tall, hair pulled into a black ponytail that exposed sideburns and a swath of coarse hair growing down the back of her neck. But what Margaret couldn’t stop looking at was the scar: a pink ragged line across Carmen’s brown throat, raised and stretching at least two inches, nearly to her ear.
Carmen surveyed the sunken great room, furniture still wrapped in plastic, wide foyer, the gleaming steel kitchen. “Pretty fancy,” she said.
“It’s bigger than we needed,” Margaret apologized, “but we couldn’t pass it up. We fell in love with the place. I’ve never seen anything like this light.” She thought of some man—boyfriend, husband, stranger—holding Carmen against his chest, his mouth in her thick hair, pressing the blade of the knife against her throat. Margaret circled her own warm neck with her hand.
Carmen twisted in her chair (the scar stretching taut and shiny), nodded at the boxes stacked along the walls. “You got some project here.”
“I’ll say. That’s why I need the help. Harold, my husband, is still in Connecticut. He planned to cut down, work a few weeks at a time back East and spend the rest of the year in New Mexico, but a big case came up.” She was talking too much—because of the scar, she was sure. It made her eyes water. Margaret tried to force her thoughts elsewhere, looked hard at Carmen’s hands as they spooned sugar into a mug. She counted the etched gold rings tight on the fingers: six. “So you grew up around here?”
“Yep. Live in the same house my dad built.” Carmen selected a cookie, pinky turned out, and nibbled as she explained that she lived next door to her diabetic mother. “She’s stubborn as heck. Won’t let anyone help with the shots, but wants you to stand in the bathroom watching.”
Margaret was surprised to learn Carmen had a twenty-five-year-old son and a six-year-old granddaughter, whom Carmen watched in the afternoons. “She lives with her mom, Ruben’s old girlfriend. I wanted them to get married, but”—heavy sigh—“what can we do?”
“I’d never have guessed you had a granddaughter. You look so young.”
Carmen hooted. “I wish!” She sighed again. “Well, Ruben’s not perfect, God knows, but he’s my baby.”
Margaret was wondering how she’d describe Carmen’s accent to Harold. “I’m planning to learn Spanish. Maybe you could tutor me.” She said it without thinking, then faltered.
“I don’t speak Spanish. Not good, anyways.” Carmen shook her head, and for a moment the scar disappeared in the crease of her neck.
Suddenly, Margaret was afraid Carmen might not agree to work here. She was about to explain that she’d only assumed because of the accent when Carmen looked up, grinned. “The only words I know are cusses.”
That smile—the white, even teeth—Margaret could have hugged her for that.
Carmen stood, wandered to the kitchen, aimlessly opened an empty cupboard. “I think this will work good.”
MARGARET TOLD HAROLD about Carmen that night on the phone while she chopped mushrooms for her salad. “She’s wonderful, Harold. Great sense of humor. And a saint, takes care of everyone. She’ll come in the mornings and leave in time to collect her granddaughter from school. It’s the perfect setup—” Then she added: “At least for now. When you get here we can reconfigure.”
“Good, Mags. I wish I were there. This case is rough. One useless deposition after another.” He talked about work for a while, and Margaret let her mind wander because she could tell he was happy. Carmen had clearly had a difficult life, but she was cheerful, open. The blade of the knife slid smoothly through the pale flesh of the mushroom, and Margaret thought once again of Carmen’s scar. She pictured the knife, or the accident—it might have been an accident—a piece of glass from a car’s windshield, a childhood collision with a sliding door. Whatever it was, there would have been blood everywhere. Her fingers felt weak.
She was on the point of telling him about the scar when Harold’s voice trailed away. He cleared his throat. “You’re sure everything’s okay, Margaret?” he asked. “With us?” His voice was husky, pained, and all at once the harmony drained from the conversation.
Lately, Harold had been oddly intuitive as he’d never been before. Just three weeks ago, as she was packing the kitchen, setting aside duplicate dishes for Harold to use in his new condo, he’d stood in the doorway watching her. His thin wrists seemed gray, exposed by the rolled sleeves of his
Oxford. “Are you leaving me?”
“Of course not,” Margaret had said, looking at him steadily from the mess of newspapers and dinner plates. He’d searched her face a moment, then relaxed, reassured.
And she’d meant it. In those months leading up to the move, Margaret had felt tremendous tenderness for Harold. She needed to keep him safe as much as she needed to be apart from him.
Now she said: “Of course everything’s okay. I forget how late it is there with the time difference. I’ll let you go, sweetie.”
From the living room, Daisy whined, in response, maybe, to the wail of a coyote too far for Margaret to hear. Daisy wasn’t used to the new house yet. She peered around corners, clung to the walls, eyeing the kitchen or bedroom before scrambling wildly across the open spaces, nails clacking on the tile.
Margaret lifted Daisy and held the dog’s warm, quivering body against her chest. She pressed her forehead against the cold window, peering past her reflection into the darkness beyond. You had to be careful with little dogs way out here, the real estate agent had said. They could be carried off by coyotes or bobcats or, more rarely, mountain lions. Even a hawk might swoop down and lift little Daisy into the air, tearing her silky gray fur with razor talons.
MARGARET HAD HAD OCCASIONAL gallery shows in Rockland, Maine, near where they spent their summers, and she periodically illustrated text-heavy children’s books about historical events. While the books never sold very well, two had won obscure awards for historical accuracy; and over the years she’d sold a number of paintings—fourteen—of abandoned farmhouses and docks and lobster boats, children crouched at the water’s edge. It wasn’t much, perhaps, but many artists did their best work in their later years, and Margaret hoped—with all her heart she hoped—that this would be true of herself.
Night at the Fiestas: Stories Page 19