Now, as the baby stood next to Artemisia and leaned his head against her neck, it was clear that his markings would be different from Sargent’s, the golden palomino. As his hair dried and fluffed, Klee became a mirror of Artemisia: a tobiano Paint horse of brown-and-white puzzle pieces with a cloudlike mane and tail. Against the pending dawn, the light sections of their coats looked luminous and opalescent, but the dark of their bodies disappeared into the night. From a distance, mother and son became two fractured spirits drifting above the earth.
AGNES MENETTI, A PALLID VISION OF PROPERNESS, STOOD in the doorway, tapped her cane, and commanded attention. At eighty-eight, her extraordinary posture, substantial chest, and smooth helmet of short white hair gave her the appearance of a giant pigeon. She had a faint white mustache and favored long stretchy skirts, orthopedic sandals, oversized white silk blouses, and always a beaded chain of pearls from which her eyeglasses dangled.
Maya often tried to imagine what Grandmother’s life had been like before her father died. One of the housekeepers had told her that Grandmother had traveled and gone to luncheons and even volunteered, delivering meals to the ill and homebound. But Maya had never once seen her leave the property on Altadena Lane.
“Good evening, Grandmother,” said Maya.
“Good evening, child.” She inspected the table, nodded with satisfaction, and sat down. “Morgana, several leaves from the magnolia tree dropped this afternoon. The gardeners don’t come for three more days. After dinner, pick them up and dispose of them. I cannot have foliage on the ground. It’s unsightly and causes bacteria and mold. And I noticed several scratches on one of the patio chairs.…”
Maya rolled her eyes. The lawn furniture, garden pottery, walkways, yard statues, the exterior and interior of the house, and the great block wall that surrounded the side and back yards had been painted an eggshell white and were repainted at the first hint of wear. The van of a local painting contractor was almost a permanent fixture in the circular driveway. On Grandmother’s whims, the workers descended with their equipment to cleanse everything of its brief history, leaving Maya’s world on Altadena Lane the color of bleached sheets.
“Call Blanchard Painting,” Grandmother continued. “They know me well and will be prompt. Have them come out tomorrow and give me an estimate on all of the outdoor furniture.” She picked up a napkin, draped it across her lap, and turned to Maya. “School?”
A pleasant memory overtook Maya’s common sense and she blurted, “Today Mrs. Webster turned off all the lights in the classroom and let us put our heads on our desks while …”
Grandmother’s eyebrows arched upward. “I hope this isn’t something frivolous, Maya. I would hate to think that this school is like all the others.”
Maya had changed schools eight times in six years and had learned to squelch any mention of friends, field trips, assemblies, or anything that might interfere with class time or homework. Otherwise, a new school would be on the horizon the next day. School would be out for the summer in a few weeks. Maya adored her teacher, and she had just discovered that Mrs. Webster would continue with the class into the next grade. Maya hoped to do the same.
Her mind searched for something other than the truth. “No, no. Nothing frivolous. Mrs. Webster was actually trying a new educational technique from an important teacher magazine to help us remember our spelling words by having us close our eyes and visualize them, like they do at the National Spelling Bee. She’s very innovative and it was extremely effective. I got one hundred percent on my spelling test.”
“I would expect nothing less. My Gregory, may he rest in peace, was always an excellent student. He never compromised his education, Maya, and you won’t either.” She looked at Morgana. “The meat?”
Morgana disappeared, reentered with the chuck roast on a serving platter, and placed it in the center of the table, exactly between the two side dishes of green beans and potatoes.
Maya’s eyes scanned the eating surface for an offending drop of gravy. Grandmother had sent other housekeepers fleeing for as much, but unfortunately, Morgana had a steady hand.
Grandmother glanced down at the floor. “Morgana, did you mop and wax today?”
“Yes, Mrs. Menetti, not three hours ago.”
Maya looked down at the white tile, which gleamed like an unwavering lake.
“I see a cloudy area,” said Grandmother. “I cannot have inefficiency in this house, Morgana. Buff the floor after dinner.”
Maya gave Morgana a pitying smile, as if to say, “See, she really is unreasonable.”
Puzzled, Morgana said, “Certainly, Mrs. Menetti.” She gave Maya a quick nod and a tight grimace and disappeared into the kitchen.
Maya ate with her eyes downcast. Not a word transpired. The air filled with the clink of silverware and Grandmother’s sips and swallows. Sounds from the neighborhood beckoned through the open dining room window. One of the boys from across the street counted for a game of hide-and-seek. The ice-cream truck crawled down Altadena Lane with the tinkle of carnival music, followed by the squeals of children begging it to stop. Bike bells rang from the sidewalks. Maya gazed out but tried to look indifferent. Grandmother didn’t believe in foolishness of any kind, ever.
Morgana walked into the dining room, wearing a look of smug superiority. “Mrs. Menetti, I hope I’m not presumptuous in presenting these to you, but you told me to be diligent in the supervision of Maya’s time. I found her playing with these this afternoon. She keeps them hidden in her closet.” She held out the shoe box.
Maya stood up, clutching her napkin. Her face pinched with disbelief. The pot roast jumbled in her stomach. “No!” she yelled.
Grandmother signaled for Morgana to come closer. She lifted her eyeglasses to her face and looked inside. The photo of Maya’s mother lay on top. “How long have these been in my house?”
For the first time, Maya could not think of a lie that would please Grandmother. “She … I … my … mother gave them to me when I was little. I didn’t tell you …” Maya glanced at Morgana. “Because … you don’t like horses.”
Grandmother leaned forward, her eyes examining the girl. “Have you forgotten, Maya, that it was your mother’s obsession with horses that was your parents’ undoing?”
Maya sat down and stared into her plate.
Grandmother turned to the housekeeper. “You see, Morgana, my Gregory was well past the age to marry when he met Maya’s mother. Over forty years old, successful in business, and firmly entrenched in Pasadena society. Then he went on a vacation to Wyoming. On a painting expedition, of all things, out in the wilderness. Oil painting was such a trivial, messy hobby. And then he met that woman. Imagine! She was half his age. Her family lived with animals. Like animals. He took her away from that desolate and forsaken place and brought her to civilization.” Grandmother took a deep breath through her nose. “That’s the kind of man he was, always wanting to help the less fortunate.” Her eyes narrowed. “But she couldn’t give up riding horses. And my son indulged her. They were on their way to one of those excursions in the middle of nowhere, so she could ride and he could paint, when the accident occurred.” Her face lost expression and she seemed to retreat into her thoughts. “He was my only child, my sweet boy … and that woman and her horses took him away from me. She might as well have killed him with her own hand.”
“My condolences, Mrs. Menetti,” said Morgana. “So, with respect, ma’am, your son and daughter-in-law didn’t die in a boating accident in Costa Rica?”
Grandmother snapped into the present. “Certainly not! Wherever did you get that idea?”
Morgana’s eyes glared in Maya’s direction.
Maya tried to look remorseful, but with each breath, her fury expanded like a balloon about to pop.
“My granddaughter has a vivid imagination, Morgana, but after all, she’s only a child. She will outgrow it. My Gregory was truthful, and Maya will be just like him. Of that you can be certain. Put that box in the trash can in th
e alley. I will not have anything related to those filthy beasts or that woman in my house.”
Morgana walked out with her head high and deliberate purpose in her steps.
The silence continued until Maya heard the back door click shut.
“Your Saturday library privilege is revoked,” said Grandmother. “And you are excused to your bath.”
Maya avoided Grandmother’s eyes as she slid from her chair. She walked upstairs, her fists clenching and unclenching. She winced at the thought of losing her only weekly outing, one hour of precious library time supervised by the housekeeper. The Big Book of Horse Facts and The Equine Encyclopedia would have to wait, but it was just as well. She didn’t want to go anywhere with Morgana anyway.
As Maya took her bath, her thoughts raced. The trash had been collected yesterday, on Thursday. Today was Friday. That left Maya one week to save her horses. As she dressed in her pajamas and robe, she comforted herself by recalling all the housekeepers she’d sabotaged in less time: Kathryn, by sneaking a blue sweatshirt into the washing machine with an all-white load of Grandmother’s delicates; Patricia, by convincing her that Grandmother loved jalapeno peppers in her food; Laura, by assuring her that it wasn’t inappropriate in the least to paint Maya’s nails with bright red polish.
A wry smile crept onto Maya’s face. One week was plenty of time.
ARTEMISIA SENSED SHE HAD BEEN GONE LONG ENOUGH. She raised her muzzle, and her ears alerted and twitched. Something in the wind felt wrong. An innate urgency told her to return to the protection of her band. She left the birthing area with Klee in tow.
On the trail, if she shifted in one direction, Klee did the same, his spindly legs mimicking her movement. When he tried to stop to investigate a rock or a clump of greasewood, Artemisia nosed him to keep moving for fear he would become an easy meal for a hungry predator.
Artemisia led her obedient baby over the rise of a hill and was relieved to see the cluster of horses. She neighed, announcing their arrival. When all heads turned, she walked with slow and regal steps, proud to be bringing home the new addition and comforted by the safety of their numbers.
Sargent’s alert head leaned in her direction, and he nickered as if to say, “You were missed. Welcome home. And who is this?” He did not rush to Artemisia. Instead, he stood aloof and on guard, keeping his vigilant post as protector.
Artemisia watched as Georgia came to say hello, making deep, soft nickers. She sniffed the baby with careful curiosity. Klee leaned his muzzle toward her and touched her nose but soon became shy and pulled back toward his mother. Wyeth approached with two-year-old boldness. When he seemed too forceful, Mary intervened and prevented his advances. Then she turned to nuzzle the foal. Artemisia allowed it. She already sensed Mary’s protective nature toward her new brother.
Artemisia took a few steps away and peed a long stream. Sargent marched over, sniffed the puddle, and covered it with his own stream, mixing their scents to make sure that any other males in the area knew that Artemisia belonged to him.
Artemisia ambled back to her foal and watched as Sargent came forward to meet his son, his huge body towering over the newborn. No one had taught Klee how to defer to the stallion, but he knew by instinct to pull back his lips and clap his teeth together as if telling his father, “I am young and small. I am not a threat to you. I need your guidance, so please don’t hurt me.” Satisfied with the appropriate submission, Sargent snuffled Klee’s muzzle, then moved toward Artemisia. She felt the stallion’s gentle tugs as he nibbled at her neck hair. She returned the favor and they quietly groomed each other.
Throughout the night, for several minutes every hour, Artemisia felt Klee sidle toward her, drawn to the safe smoothness of her underbelly and the milk. She welcomed him, adoring the closeness. Once he was nourished, she watched his every move until he folded to the ground with exhaustion. Even as he slept, Artemisia often dropped her head to his body, as if to reassure herself that he was safe and still breathing.
MAYA TOOK A DEEP BREATH, SEETHING WITH RESENTMENT. She unlocked and opened the narrow French doors that led from her room to the balcony overlooking the side garden. Stepping onto the landing, she looked toward the far reaches of the backyard, knowing that her horses lay just beyond the great white block wall. How could she ever get them with Morgana and Grandmother on constant watch? And hadn’t Grandmother always complained about transients who wandered in the alley and rummaged through the garbage? What if someone took the horses for their own children before Maya could reclaim them?
She turned back into her room, took the crisp, clean blouse that Morgana had readied for school tomorrow off the hanger, and returned to the balcony. She wadded the blouse into a tight ball, stepped on it, and mopped the deck.
As she stood in the almost dark, holding the now dirty and wrinkled blouse, the house next door began to illuminate as someone turned on lights, room by room. The people had just moved in and had not yet draped their windows. The upstairs bedroom opposite Maya’s turned bright. A woman and a young girl entered. Maya felt riveted. The girl sat on the floor with a towel around her shoulders, and the woman sat behind her on the bed, combing out her tangled wet hair. The daughter chatted and the mother smiled. Even after the girl’s hair looked sleek and straight, the mother kept combing, stroking, and listening.
Muffled voices broke Maya’s reverie. Downstairs, Grandmother had begun her nightly inspection of the house to examine each room for hints of disorder. Morgana would follow, making notes on the housekeeper’s clipboard for tomorrow’s cleaning. Maya’s bedroom was last on the schedule. She backed into her bedroom and shut and locked the French doors. She hung the blouse back on the hanger and crawled into bed, pretending to sleep.
Grandmother’s and Morgana’s voices became louder as they climbed the stairs. Doors opened and shut. Footsteps began and paused. Closer now, Grandmother’s voice rose and fell with audible directives.
The bedroom door swung wide and the hall light flooded the room. Grandmother’s cane tapped as she walked toward the closet.
Maya heard the closet light click on, and she waited for the discovery.
“Morgana! What is this? I asked you to wash and iron Maya’s blouse for school tomorrow. She cannot appear in public in that fashion. Do it tonight or I’ll call the agency.…”
“But … I …” Morgana paused. “Yes, Mrs. Menetti.” With clipped steps, Morgana walked toward the closet and then out of the room.
Under her blanket, Maya’s face wrinkled with disappointment. Morgana had not even been flustered! After the door shut and Grandmother’s footsteps subsided, Maya turned onto her back and stared at the honeycomb shadows on the ceiling. Tomorrow she would try another tactic. Maybe she could tell Grandmother that she’d overheard Morgana talking to the new neighbors next door about employment. That lie had worked one time before. Maya’s thoughts drifted back to the woman and her daughter. What had the girl been telling her mother? she wondered.
If she had the chance, Maya knew exactly what she’d tell her own mother. She would tell her frivolous things. How Mrs. Webster had turned off all the lights in the classroom and let them rest their heads on their desks while she finished reading King of the Wind by Marguerite Henry, and how the entire class had clapped at the end of the story. And that Jeremiah Boswell had pushed a first grader and made him spill his lunch tray in the middle of the cafeteria. Jeremiah laughed so hard that he slipped and fell on the floor and his face landed smack in the creamed turkey and mashed potatoes. She would tell her mother about ice-cream trucks, bicycles, and foolishness of any kind.
Sunday afternoon, Maya squirmed on the plastic slipcover on the living room couch, trying not to slide off. At the same time, she struggled to hold a large photo album open on her lap.
Grandmother sat opposite her in a wingback chair, studying the estimate left by the painting contractor for the patio and lawn furniture. She flipped through a multitude of possible color samples.
Maya shook her head
. Why did Grandmother even bother? She always chose the same color.
“Where are you now?” asked Grandmother.
“Tenth album. Fifth grade. Summer.”
Every Sunday, Grandmother insisted they revisit several of the numbered albums that chronicled each year of her father’s life.
“Yes, that was …”
Maya whispered “Big Bear Lake” in unison with Grandmother. She could recite the events by heart. In third grade he had fallen from his bicycle and had broken his arm. He received a trumpet for his eleventh birthday. In high school he was on the chess and tennis teams. He collected stamps, was allergic to cats, and loved to travel by train. He had wanted to be an artist, but Grandmother had discouraged his folly in favor of a respectable job in accounting instead. She didn’t mind if he dabbled in art because, until he went to Wyoming and started painting horses, it had been simply harmless recreation. Maya had never seen any of his paintings and never would. Grandmother had destroyed all the painful reminders of that “unfortunate time.”
Maya replaced the album in the long cupboard and removed another, farther down the row. She took it to the couch, opened it, and came across a photo in which Grandmother had clipped out her mother’s image, leaving Maya intact, floating in the middle of the picture, as if no one had been holding her. A familiar anger bit her like a tick. Maya traced around the edge of the picture now in the shape of a puzzle piece, showing only a portion of her mother’s hand and a wisp of her hair. The desire for revenge engorged. She knew that the one connection to her mother had also been cut from her life and was now in the trash.
“Maya, you look flushed,” said Grandmother. “You’ll stay home from school tomorrow until your color improves.”
Maya shook her head and pleaded, “No. I feel fine!” She sometimes had to miss school for weeks because of Grandmother’s random and bizarre notions that she might be getting sick.
Paint the Wind Page 2