by Come Sunrise
Reluctantly she followed him back to the car. "What is a kiva?"
"Next time," he repeated.
When they were driving once more Amy asked, "Are you saying that this is where Diego and Maria and all the other Pueblo Indians came from?"
"Yes. Many places like this. Pueblo Bonito is only one site. When they left, for whatever reason, they settled along the Rio Grande. I think it was water they were seeking. Maybe there was a year-long drought. Maybe that's why they deserted the cliffs for the river."
"It sounds logical," she said. "I'll bet you're right."
He glanced at her and hesitated for a moment. "While we're on the subject of water-is there any point in asking if you can talk to your husband about this current business?"
Amy took off her hat and let the breeze ruffle her hair. "What business?"
He shot her a quick look. "Don't you know?"
She shook her head.
"Tommy's got Lopez working on breaking the treaty that gives rights to the waterhole to the two ranches adjoining yours. If he succeeds, they're finished. That's one of the reasons I wanted to show you Pueblo Bonito. Because whatever you manage to achieve out here, if you can't get water, you're doomed."
Amy felt suborned. She'd thought he only wanted to share with her something remarkable and beautiful. Rick seemed to read her thoughts. "It wasn't the main reason I brought you here," he added. "I enjoy seeing all this through your eyes."
"Thank you for saying that."
"I mean it. But I meant the question too. Can you talk to your husband? There's always been enough water for all three ranches. Why must it change now?"
"I don't know. But I have no influence over Tommy any more. Partly it's his leg. He's always been at a disadvantage because of it. Now he can ride as well as any man, better than most. On a horse he's totally mobile for the first time in his life. Somehow he's drunk with that freedom."
"I understand."
"Sometimes I do too. Other times I'm not sure." He didn't answer because there was nothing he could say. The silence between them grew awkward. To fill it Amy began telling him of Africa and Jericho and her girlhood. Rick listened quietly and didn't interrupt until they came to a good place to stop and picnic. "I'm starved," he said. "How about you?"
"Ravenous. "
It was early evening. The fierce heat of the day had spent itself, and left behind the comforting warmth that preceded the chill of night. Amy unpacked the hamper. She'd brought ham and potato salad and cornbread, and ripe juicy tomatoes and tangy pickles. "What a feast!" Rick exclaimed. Then he was too busy eating to talk. "Estupendo," he said finally. "In other words, magnificent."
Amy giggled. "I'm flying under false colors. I didn't make any of this. Maria did. lean't cook."
"No! Impossible!" He laughed softly at first, then with gusto. Soon they were both laughing. "You can ride a horse and drive a motorcar, and you know all about Africa and diamonds, but you can't cook!" Rick gasped. "Only in New Mexico could such a woman survive. "
"I think maybe I'm a freak," Amy said hesitantly.
Rick chuckled. then realized that she wasn't joking. He reached out and touched her cheek. "You are no freak, lovely Amy," he said softly. "What put that idea in your head?"
She would not tell him more. Never could she tell anyone about the things Tommy said and did, and the way he made her feel. Neither could she admit to the possibility of having Indian blood. These days she was so ensnared in her guilts and fears that she couldn't speak rationally of them. "Nothing," she said. "I'm just being silly."
Rick didn't take his hand away immediately. Amy could feel his strong but gentle fingers against her flushed skin for a few more seconds. Then he pulled away and they both stood up and started for home.
The next time he lay with Beatriz, Ibanez was miserable. Physically she pleased him as much as ever. But when it was over he was saddened by a sense of falseness. He lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling and wondered what to tell her, and how.
"I saw Manuel yesterday," Beatriz said. She sat up and pulled a silk shawl over her shoulders and heavy breasts. The sweat of passion dewed her skin, and Ibanez looked away as if it was a reproach to him. "You remember," she continued. "I told you about my cousin Manuel."
"Yes, I remember."
"He came to town to see me. He is in much trouble. It is a very evil thing this man Westerman does."
"I spoke with Amy," Rick said quickly. He did not want to hear a long catalogue of Manuel's troubles. "That's Senora Westerman," he added.
"I know."
"She's very sorry about your cousin and the other rancher, but she has no influence with her husband."
Beatriz didn't meet his eyes. "That is sad for her. They cannot be happy together if this is the truth."
"No, I don't think she is happy." He didn't want to discuss Amy either. "Manuel should talk to Lopez. He'll need a lawyer."
"He has no money for a lawyer. Besides, Lopez works for the Anglo." She shrugged. "It is to be expected; they share blood. One Mexican grandfather does not make a man of one of us."
"Us and them. That attitude spells death, Beatriz."
"Yes, death," she agreed, pretending not to recognize that he was reprimanding her. "Death for us. Anyway, Westerman pays Lopez a lot of money."
Ibanez got up and dressed, and they spoke no more of the water rights and Manuel's troubles. "Beatriz," he said, "I may not be back for a while. I'm very busy at the office just now."
She lay back against the pillows, and her face was in the shadows when she spoke. "I understand. It has been good, Don Rico. Adios."
He hadn't expected it to be so easy. "It has been very good, Beatriz," he agreed. "Adios." There was nothing more to say. He would see her again because her mother was his patient. But it would be as if the many nights of athletic pleasure in this room had never happened. "Adios," he repeated.
In the alley across from the shop the girl with the guitar was singing the same song. He wondered if she was practicing, or if an appreciative and silent audience listened. " ... I don't look much like a lover, but she may never love another ..."
The lyric followed him home, and when he tried to sleep it still filled his mind. "Spanish is a loving tongue ..." How did it end? Oh, yes, " ... in her little sorry tone, mi amor, mi corazon." He'd never spoken such words to Beatriz. At least he didn't have lies to repent.
20
ONE DAY IN THE AUTUMN OF 1918, WHILE SHE AWAITED the birth of her second child, Amy went to Santa Fe to have a checkup and do some shopping. Warm October sun overlaid a hint of crispness in the air. It had rained the day before; everything seemed fresh and new and sparkling. Even the newspapers were cheerful. The allies were pushing deep into German-held territory-they called it the Argonne Offensive-and columnists were predicting that the war would soon be over.
"Good news at last," Rick said when her visit was over and he escorted her to the terrace door. He gestured to the folded newspaper she held.
"Do you think it really will end?" Amy asked.
"Yes." He looked pensive. "I wonder if everyone's ready for that." She stared at him quizzically and he grinned. "Nothing for you to worry about. I'm just thinking about the price of beef."
"You mean it may not be good for ranchers like us?"
"Not like you. Whatever happens, Tommy Westerman won't be caught napping." Rick's voice was hard.
"You don't like Tommy much, do you? Not since he fenced off the waterhole and bought those other two ranches."
Ibanez looked away. "I have patients waiting. We'll talk about it another time." He took both her hands in his. "Meanwhile, remember there's one thing about Tommy I admire very much. His choice of a wife."
Amy left without answering. Sometimes she felt guilty about how important Rick was to her. At other times she examined their relationship and found nothing to be ashamed of. They were both lonely. Each met a need in the other. On this occasion she wasn't thinking so much of Rick as of what he'd said, or a
t least implied.
Two months before Tommy had secured a court order breaking the treaty that governed the rights to the waterhole. It was on Santo Domingo land, the judge had said; henceforth it was reserved for the exclusive use of Mr. Westerman. The two adjacent ranchers promptly sold out to Tommy. It was all fairly predictable. Tommy was simply applying Wall Street business methods to New Mexico, As Amy made her pensive way along the alameda toward the plaza, what bothered her was the economics. Winning the legal battle took a good deal of money. Lopez and the other attorneys had, as Tommy commented, extracted their pound of flesh. The pair of ranches left waterless had dramatically decreased in value, but they commanded a high figure. Where was Tommy finding the capital for it all?
Amy thought about the unpaid bills she'd found in New York, and the sale of her diamond ring. But it didn't seem Iikely that this was a repeat of that situation. No shopkeepers accosted her on her trips to Santa Fe. On the contrary, they made it obvious that her credit was excellent. The name Westerman had become one to reckon with in these parts.
Her ponderings brought her to the plaza more quickly than she realized. She looked up, saw Moore's Men's Shop, and started to cross the road.
"I tell you Tommy Westerman says so, what else do you need to know!"
The words were spoken by a strident female voice. They echoed across the plaza and stopped Amy in mid-step. She stared in the direction they'd come from and saw a small crowd clustered at the door of Spitz's Jewelry Shop. The onlookers were ranchha is in town to spend their wages and have a bit of fun. They were laughing and egging the woman on.
"You tell him, Rosa!"
"An' if he don't do what you want, you can hit him. Ain't nobody 'round here gonna get the law after Mr. Westerman's woman!"
There were more shouts from inside the shop, but Amy could distinguish none of the words. She remained where she was, in the shade of a cottonwood tree, as if she too had roots.
"It's ok , boys," someone said. "Rosa's won. Spitz is givin' her the necklace."
More laughter, then the crowd of cowboys began to drift away. One of them spotted Amy and whispered something to his companion. She wasn't embarrassed. She was too deeply shocked to feel anything.
Amy stayed where she was. In a few moments a woman left the jeweler's. She was about twenty-five and her features identified her as a mestiza-part Indian, part Mexican. She had black hair piled high in an elaborate arrangement, and a voluptuous figure barely covered by a flamboyant red dress. Amy stared at her. This Rosa moved with a kind of insolence; as if daring any man to ignore her full breasts, her wide, swaying hips. She wore a heavy silver and turquoise pendant, and she left the plaza without glancing in Amy's direction.
Amy told herself that she must move. She must go to Moore's and get the shirts Tommy wanted. Hesitantly she put one foot ahead of the other. Then she caught sight of her reflection in a shop window. She was heavy with child. Beneath a neat straw hat her long black hair was coiled primly at the nape of her neck. Her maternity dress was of brown cotton, sedate and subdued, as befitted a young matron. "Oh, my God ..." she whispered aloud. Suddenly she wheeled round and entered a door marked by a red and blue barber's pole.
"Afternoon, Mrs. Westerman. If you're lookin' for Mr. Westerman, I ain't seen him today. Was he plannin' to have his hair cut?"
"No, Joe," Amy said. "I am. I want a bob. Will you do it?"
"Well, sure. If you're certain you won't be sorry afterward. "
"I won't," she said firmly. She looked pointedly at the barber's chair. The cowhand sitting in it rose hastily. "Thank you," she said and took his place.
Joe Turner's scissors flashed round her head. Great handfuls of shiny hair fell unheeded to the floor. Amy stared into the mirror. Joe had draped her in a protective white cloth. It hid her swollen shape. She saw herself as a wide-eyed child. A foolish, innocent child, she thought. Reared in the African bush, tainted by the blood of a savage; a child who knows nothing of the adult world.
"That'll be fifty cents, Mrs. Westerman. Looks real nice, if I do say so."
She smiled at him, but didn't trust herself to speak. Carefully she stepped over the debris of the shearing and extracted a coin from her bag. Then she put on her hat and went out into the sunlight. Until now she'd been as if anesthetized. Suddenly Amy didn't think her legs would carry her. She had to drag herself to where she'd parked the flivver, holding on to the mellow adobe walls of the buildings of the plaza for support.
A few months ago, when she started to show, Tommy protested about her driving. Amy ignored him. The Model-T was her link with the outside world. Since Tommy had bought himself a Packard, the flivver was exclusively hers. She handled it with the same confidence she sat a horse. Now she automatically turned the starting crank, positioned herself in the driver's seat, and released the spark and throttle lever. Just as automatically she headed toward the alameda.
She was still numb when she turned north on Castillo Street. Until she pulled up she hadn't realized where she was going. The road there was narrow and skirted a deep arroyo. That's why she usually parked in the plaza and walked to Rick's office. This time she didn't care. Amy left the car on the street and pushed open the familiar green gate. Through the gathering dusk she saw Rick's nurse approaching.
"I'm sorry," the woman said as she walked down the path, "Don Rico's office hours are over for today. Unless it's an emergency." Then she recognized Amy. "Oh, it's you Senora Westerman. Are you all right?"
"Yes, but I must see Don Rico."
"I'll tell him you're here." If there was any message in the woman's ready agreement, Amy was too preoccupied to notice.
"It's all right, Elena." Rick's voice floated across the garden. "I heard." He came toward them and the nurse looked questioning. "Go on home," he said quietly. "I'm sure I won't need you." His eyes searched Amy's face, and he seemed to understand that this wasn't a medical emergency. He led her into the house and poured a brandy.
"Drink this. Then tell me what's happened."
The potent spirit made Amy cough, but it warmed her and melted some of the ice in the pit of her stomach. "I saw Rosa," she said. She studied Rick's reaction, but there was no hint of surprise, only sadness.
"I see. I suppose you had to, sooner or later."
"You know about her, don't you?"
"Yes."
"And so does everyone else in Santa Fe," Amy said. It was a statement not a question.
Rick shrugged hopelessly. "This is a small town; you know that." He led her to a chair. "Sit down. I'll get us both another drink."
They were in a pleasant high-ceilinged sitting room decorated with Rick's collection of early Indian pottery and woven blankets. He put a match to the fife. Pinon logs burst into flame. "The nights are growing cool," he said. "A fire is welcome."
Amy ignored his attempt at ordinary conversation. "Tell me about it," she said. "When did it start?"
Rick sighed. "Do you really want to know, querida?" He had used that endearment with her before, but it had never sounded quite so intimate.
"I want to know," Amy said.
"About a year ago, I think."
"While I was carrying Kate." Amy folded her hands over her swollen belly.
"I'm afraid so."
"Where does she live? Who is she?"
"Her name is Rosa Mandago. Her mother is from San Felipe pueblo and her father was a Mexican drifter. Rosa has always been wild."
"She's beautiful."
"If you like the type," he said with a wry smile.
"You haven't told me where she lives now. Not in the pueblo, surely?"
"No, she has a small house on the outskirts of town, near the Pecos Trail."
"On the way to our place," Amy said. "How convenient. I take it Tommy supports her 'small house' ..."
"I believe so. I think he bought it for her."
"She was in Spitz's." Amy spoke in a high childish singsong that didn't sound like her own voice. "She bought a necklace and charged
it to Tommy. There seemed to be some disagreement. you could hear her shouting all over the plaza. A bunch of hands were outside. They thought it was funny, so they egged her on. I just stood and listened. Afterward I watched her leave, but she didn't look at me."
"Stop talking about it. Stop torturing yourself. It won't do any good. Some men just ..."
"Do you know what I did after I saw her?" Amy interrupted. "This!" Savagely she pulled off her hat and displayed her bobbed head.