Shaman's Blues

by Amber Foxx

  “Hey, Niall.” Mae tried to sound cheerful in the face of his attitude. As she talked, she finally began to unpack, keeping a set of running clothes out. “How’d your opening go?”

  “Adequate. One sale. One commission. Rather sell what’s already there, but it’s work.”

  She didn’t know whether to commiserate or congratulate, so she did a little of both, and skipped to the reason for her call. “I’ve got kind of a tough question. I know you said to trust him, but how well do you know Jamie Ellerbee?”

  “Known him since he was fourteen. I already told you that.”

  “But have you seen him lately?”

  “No.” A clatter and a sigh. “Get to the point. I almost didn’t pick up. I’m in the middle of something.”

  “Sorry. He helped me clean the house, completely, all night. He was really helpful, and he’s coming back to help me move the furniture we put out to air.”

  “So? Is that a problem that he’s nice to you?”

  “I haven’t gotten to the problem yet. I met someone that’s a music manager who wants to work with him. I want to put her in touch with him if he’ll just agree to it and give me some way to do it. But he kept avoiding it. And he had this ... spell. So, before I see him again today, I wanted to know ... Is there ...” She didn’t want to bring up the psychic material, but she had to hint at what it implied. “Is there something wrong with him?”

  “Christ. I said you can trust him. That means you can trust him.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Look. I haven’t seen Jamie for years, but his mother is one of my best friends. What she tells me is none of your business. Anything you want to know about Jamie, you ask Jamie, and if he doesn’t tell you, you don’t have to know. Just pay him for the cleaning. We’re paying you.”

  She had forgotten all about that. Of course she should share the pay. “I think I have enough to cover half of it when he gets here.”

  “Good. If that agent or manager is any good, make sure he signs with her. He needs that.”

  “So he doesn’t have anyone.”

  “You heard me. Trust him, pay him, and get him a manager. He could no more manage his own career than I could run a marathon. Now, I’m welding the legs on a pig. I’m done talking.”

  The cranky Yankee. Jamie had sounded so fond of Niall when he called him that. She wished their friendship didn’t make Niall so protective about Jamie. It sounded as if there was some troubling secret, and Niall wasn’t going to break a confidence about it.

  She needed to clear her head better to think this through, but there was still no food or coffee in the house. A run first, and then she would go out to eat, and afterwards shop for groceries. The clock on the stove read eleven. She had lost what felt like half a day, though it had been necessary to get enough sleep.

  As she slapped on a layer of sunscreen, it made her think of Muffie’s bad advice about the sun, and reminded her to try later to search out Muffie again. Leaving the back windows open a crack to finish airing the house, Mae locked the front windows and dressed for running. Time to finally wear the pink-and-orange five-toed barefoot shoes. Her birthday gift from Hubert, back in April.

  Mae had never taken the shoes out of the box, but kept on wearing her old, worn-out standard shoes, though she knew a more natural foot strike would be better for her. The last-straw fight that led to the end of their marriage had started on her birthday.

  There was a little note inside one shoe. She took it out. She’d never even read this.

  Honey, I hope you’ll think of me with every step. These will keep your knees healthy so we can still run together when we’re eighty. Romantic aren't I? Thinking of your orthopedic health. Take it real easy getting used to them or your legs will get sore. Sorry they're so pink but Brook and Stream helped me shop, and they liked these better than the blue ones. Love, Hubert.

  And she’d thought he was inconsiderate, getting something this color, but he’d been shopping with the twins. The marriage that was ending had not been all bad.

  Mae wriggled her toes into the little toe pockets of the shoes and remembered making fun of Hubert’s black shoes like this, saying they looked like gorilla feet ... Pictured him running alone—or with his new girlfriend—on those farm roads where he’d run with Mae. Somehow, after all their disagreements, she could still miss Hubert.

  Enough. Mae was alone and liked it. She was in Santa Fe, ready to run the memories out of her body and make some new ones.

  She walked the block to Alameda Street, crossed the bridge to the other section of Delgado, and picked up the trail Marty had showed her that ran parallel to Alameda and the river. The thought of the young man who had fallen and died there made her glance back at the dark cave of the bridge’s shadow—but she didn’t need more sadness. She looked ahead and started running. The soft dirt felt good under the barefoot shoes, the gait more natural and freer than when she was wearing her old shoes. As the trail took her into a cluster of tall, sweet-earthy smelling sage plants, her head cleared, and she felt better already.

  Although the river held barely a trickle of thin brown water, the banks were thick with trees and occasional wildflowers. Sometimes she had to duck under branches to run, and sometimes the trail became so narrow that she jogged down into the riverbed and back up. Running at seven thousand feet above sea level in strange shoes was a humbling experience. After what felt like only half a mile, she was winded and her calf muscles ached. Slowing to a walk, she caught her breath and resumed her run at a pace so slow she felt ridiculous. This must be how her out-of-shape beginner clients felt.

  The trail ended at a park, where Mae did a few laps of run-walk intervals, and then turned back to follow the river. The return trip drained her, and she wanted water desperately. Maybe she was pushing herself too hard to try to feel normal after only two days at high altitude. Feel normal.

  The image of Jamie from her vision came back. It was not her business to know this about him, but why didn’t he feel like a normal human being? No matter what Niall said, should she trust Jamie? She couldn’t bring the furniture back in on her own, and she didn’t know anyone else in the city yet. As she’d left for her run, she’d caught a glimpse of the neighbors on their way to their car. They were elderly and frail. They couldn’t help, even if she asked them. The clouds over the mountains promised rain in the afternoon as Jamie had predicted, and she didn’t want to ruin the bed.

  Approaching the bridge at Delgado and Alameda, she heard a flute playing a melancholy but beautiful tune. Jamie, still in last night’s clothes, was sitting on a bench under a tree near the place where she had picked up the trail. He set the flute down, scribbled something in a notebook, played a variation on the melody and wrote again. What was he doing hanging out here? Why hadn’t he gone home and changed? And if he’d found the body, why would he want to be so near the spot?

  Mae slowed down. This was public enough to be safe. What a thought. How could she suddenly doubt him when he’d been so kind and companionable last night? She knew both too much and too little.

  A flash of the sun-sized smile vanished as quickly as it shone. He ducked his head and fidgeted his hands along his flute. “You shouldn’t be chasing me.” He made shy eye contact and forced a return of the smile. “Especially in those ugly shoes.”

  “My husband gave ’em to me.” She stopped, but jogged in place so her pounding heart wouldn’t have to cool down too suddenly. “They’re not ugly.”

  “Pig’s arse. If I were me—fuck—I am me. I mean, if I were him, I’d give you flowers.” His voice went soft, as did his huge black long-lashed eyes. “Furniture at two?”

  She couldn’t say no. She had to move it. Then she’d be done with him. “See you then.”

  Running off, Mae crossed the street and then cooled down to a walk. What was he doing on the river trail in the middle of the day, like he had no job, nothing to do? Near the bridge. Marty had said not to go under the bridges, becau
se homeless people lived there. Was Jamie homeless?

  No, that was ridiculous. He was clean, and there had been other keys on the key ring when he had her drive the van, keys that looked like house keys. He wouldn’t have those if he didn’t live somewhere. So what had he done? Hung out near her house all night? Stalked her? Ridiculous. Of course not. He’d left on his own the night before. Musicians had different schedules and lifestyles. If she hadn’t had that vision about the knife, she wouldn’t be thinking like this. Or would she? Maybe this was how single women living alone thought when strange men took an interest in them. The shadow side of her freedom.

  The brighter side came back. She still had the sense of taking herself out on a date when she went out in Santa Fe. The beauty of the place made her feel like dressing up, caring how she looked, so she put on a sunny yellow knit dress and flat sandals to walk to the coffee shop off the Plaza.

  Settled with her brunch and her laptop at the same table as the day before, she tried writing an e-mail explanation to Wendy. It was hard. Jamie made too little sense. She gave up writing, looked up the number on Wendy’s card and called her. The memory of Jamie crumpling the card and dropping it on the bar came back. He hadn’t kept it, had he? Had he kept Mae’s?

  Wendy’s youthful voice answered, apparently trying to sound older. “Wendy Huang Management. Speaking.”

  “Hey, it’s Mae. I talked with Jangarrai.”

  Wendy dropped the cool, mature act. “Awesome. What’s he like?”

  Whatever his troubles and quirks might be, musically he was what Wendy was looking for, probably exceeding her expectations. “He doesn’t have any agent or manager, but he left your card on a bar and freaked out.”

  “What?”

  “He’s weird. Kind of nervous but then he’ll be funny and friendly. I have no idea what’s with him.” Mae hesitated to mention the depth of her concern, not knowing what it meant yet. It wouldn’t be fair to make wild guesses. She could safely say something about his mood swings, though. “He might be a little high maintenance.”

  “I’m not planning to marry him. I want to manage his career. Sounds like he needs it.”

  “That’s what an old friend of his family said. I’ll see him later today and I’ll try again. I have to warn you, though, you’re not getting into normal here.”

  As soon she said it, Mae felt guilty. Jamie wanted so badly to be liked and feel like he was normal.

  “He can be as weird as he wants. Have you got his number?”

  Mae couldn’t bring herself to mention the out-of-service phone. It might embarrass Jamie. “Not yet.”

  “See if you can get him to send me a sound file, some of his solo stuff. Does this band take up all his time now or what?”

  “I don’t know.” Sitting on a bench composing music, he didn’t look like he was tied up with the band. Or much of anything. “I don’t think so.”

  “If this works out, I’ll pay you, like a finder’s fee or something. Keep after him.”

  What if he wasn’t ready for this? Mae didn’t like the idea of being paid to pressure Jamie to do something that seemed to frighten him. “I’ll ask him when I see him. But if he doesn’t agree to get in touch with you this time, I’m going to get his contact information and turn it over to you. Don’t pay me for it. I don’t want to keep hanging out with him.”

  “But I’m tired of chasing his shadow. Seriously, if you could set up a chance for me to meet him, I’d pay you.”

  After Wendy said goodbye, the words I’d pay you echoed in Mae’s mind. She owed Jamie for his share of the cleaning work. As soon as they moved the furniture back in, she’d give him the money, get his contact information for Wendy, and say goodbye. Then Mae could squeeze in one more attempt to find Muffie, and head back to T or C tonight. She’d have to forget about being a Santa Fe tourist, even though the house was done and she had the time. Much as she wanted to trust Jamie, she wasn’t sure she should. He was so sweet, and yet he was unstable in some way. And he knew where she lived.

  Chapter Ten

  Bringing the Sanchez and Smyth catalog and her crystals, Mae walked back to the river trail. It was close by, and the only suitable spot she knew of in the middle of the city. She needed a quiet place away from Ruth Smyth’s energy to pick up Muffie’s. Jamie, she hoped, couldn’t still be there.

  He wasn’t. She sat on the bench he’d used earlier and leaned back against the tree. Enough people used this bench that she shouldn’t be inundated with his energy like she had been when sleeping in his old sweatshirt, and it was private compared to the park. She hadn’t seen any signs of homeless people camping down here so far.

  Setting the intention to see Muffie, Mae closed her eyes and let the energy from the catalog and the crystals enter her, her mind clearing to open the tunnel. The image that appeared at the end of the tunnel was Muffie. Finally. She was alive after all, walking around a white-walled room, examining a series of prints hung on the wall. An art gallery. Mae tried to see the art in case she could locate the gallery by the type of work or the artist’s name, and was startled to recognize the heart chakra drawing from Kenny’s book, in a green metallic frame.

  This had to be the original. As Muffie walked along the gallery, Mae discovered that the exhibit consisted of the whole series from the book, the fine line drawings in the rainbow spectrum of colors that followed the chakras. Muffie turned and struck a pose, and a young man with a camera crossed the room, knelt, and took a shot at an upward angle. Why was she having her picture taken in this gallery? Was it in Santa Fe? If it was in T or C, Roseanne should have known, and Kenny and Frank for sure would have known. So would Niall. It was a small town. Muffie couldn’t be there and not be seen.

  Muffie walked to a sloping rack that held books displayed face out, plucked one of the Chakra Meditations books, and posed with it. She did the same with Sri Rama Kriya’s wisdom book, holding the black-and-white cover photo of the smiling, bald Indian man beside her own smiling face. Maybe this gallery was at his Ascended Bliss Center. In the past or the present?

  A rumble of thunder distracted Mae, and she lost the vision and opened her eyes. A strong, cool wind flowed up the riverbed, fat blue-gray clouds and flashes of lightning riding its distant tail. A curtain of rain brushed the mountains like a woman’s long gray hair being combed along their peaks.

  Not knowing how severe a storm to expect, but impressed with the size of the clouds, she put her crystals away and started home. Her calf muscles felt tight from her first barefoot-style run. Hubert’s note had reminded her to be careful about easing into those shoes at first, and she knew it was good advice, but she’d kept pushing herself.

  It was exactly two o’clock when she got home, and she found Jamie, hatless, in a long-sleeved gray T-shirt and a slightly less faded pair of jeans, standing on the little bridge, leaning on the railing with a sad and anxious look. His bicycle was propped against the house, and his hair was soft and fluffy with no signs of helmet head.

  As she approached, his face brightened. “G’day.” He straightened up. “Thought you’d stood me up.”

  “You were early.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t know.” Half a smile, uncertain. “Um, so ... Shall we?”

  “Move the furniture? I think we’re just in time. Looks like a bad storm.”

  “No such thing as a bad storm here. Rain, you go out and dance in it. Dance for it, like on the Pueblos.” He danced a few small steps as he followed her to the door. She set the catalog on the floor when they stepped inside. “What are you doing with that stuff?” he asked. “Sanchez and Smyth. Bloody expensive.”

  “Psychic work.” She went to the kitchen, and Jamie came with her while she looked in the cabinets. “That’s right. No salt.” They’d thrown it out the night before, the container had been so coated with grease.

  “Salt?”

  “I use the crystals and something the person touched, something connected with them, to find them. Then I need either salt or sun
light to clean the crystals.”

  “Sun’ll be back in an hour or less.” He opened another cupboard. “Fuck, your shelves are empty.” He opened the refrigerator, shut it, and looked at her with bewilderment. “You haven’t shopped yet? Jesus. Got this nice clean kitchen—you’ve got to be dying to cook in it.”

  “Not really. I don’t like to cook. But I do need some food. Come on, let’s grab the furniture.”

  He trailed her into the garden. The wind slammed the door shut behind them, and he took a landscaping stone from the herb beds to prop it open. Grit blew into the living room.

  “We just cleaned that,” Mae said.

  “But it’s clean dirt. Part of life here. The earth comes in. So, who were you trying to find?”

  They piled cushions back onto the sofa and carried it in. “Muffie Blanchette.”

  “Fuck. You don’t need to be psychic for that. I can take you to see her.”

  Jamie had lived in Santa Fe a long time. He was vegan. If Muffie was involved in a restaurant venue here, they might have met, but the coincidence still startled Mae. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.” He let the couch down and rubbed his left hip. “I’m surprised you’re into Muffie, not being from here.”

  They returned to the garden for the next load of furniture. “I’m not exactly into her, but my neighbors are. Where are you gonna take me to see her?”

  “Ruth Smyth’s opening, of course, where else? Thursday night. Is that why you had the catalog, then?”

  Not a restaurant. A gallery. Mae wondered if her vision had been Muffie at Ruth Smyth’s exhibit. It would mean Ruth did the art for the books, and they knew each other, though they made an unlikely pair. “Yeah. Muffie is all over Sanchez and Smyth.”

  “That she is.” Jamie sounded amused. “From her cowgirl hat to her batik bum to her million dollar boots.”

  They carried a heavy upholstered chair in and went back for the next. A few drops of rain began to fall as the sky blackened rapidly. “Ruth Smyth was the tenant here that Daddy and Niall kicked out.”