THE STUDIO
BY
ROBERT WALLACE PAOLINELLI
I
Winter
A gentle snow
fell on a quiet landscape.
A flock of
crows stood under a stand of cedars, snowflakes touched their black, shining
bodies; but the crows did not move.
Smoke, coming
out of a stone chimney from an adobe house, floated straight up in the
windless, serene afternoon.
The snowflakes
were large, almost clumsy the way they hit the ground and stayed covering the
land. The unpredictable crows flew away
and they were seen no more that day by the young boy who had been looking out
of the window of the adobe house ever since the snow began to fall.
Phillip, the
boy, turned to his mother who was at the stove stirring a pot of green chile
stew which was almost ready to eat.
"Mother,
how long will it snow?" he asked.
She turned,
similed, and replied facetiously, "Until it stops."
He giggled and
ran to her and hugged her around the waist.
"Will we still go on a walk after lunch, even if the snow doesn't
stop?"
Aurora, his
mother, touched the top of his head and rubbed his curly hair. "Yes, I suppose we will--but not a long
walk. It's very cold today."
He let go of
her and ran back to the window, and, propping his elbows on the sill and
resting his chin on his joined hands, he stared again, as he'd done (before) at
the land being covered with snow which kept him, thusly, transfixed in utter
fascination of the snow until Aurora called him to lunch some minutes later.
By the time
their meal was over and the dishes washed, there were two or more inches of
snow on the ground.
Their boots
made deep imprints in the fresh snow.
Mother and son walked together hand in hand. They walked past the cedars, down a slight
slope following it to the small stream which flowed at the bottom. The air had a bite in it. The temperature was dropping; and beneath a thin sheet of ice the low
stream moved sluggishly, nonetheless.
Phillip made
snowballs in his gloved hands and tossed them into the stream and watched them
shatter the thin ice coating and roll and then dissolve. He smiled.
He loved the snow and the stream, where in the summer he'd waded in it,
sat in it, splashed in it with glee while his mother sat nearby under an
umbrella to keep the hot New Mexican sun off her head and face.
"Let's
build a snowman when we get back to the house," said Aurora to her son.
He was pleased
she'd suggested the snowman; and he answered
enthusiastically, "And can we put your old hat on him?" Phillip asked
with an impish smile. What he called her
old hat was a winter cap she wore once
in a while; it wasn't a particularly
favorite cap, but had only some sentimental value. Her late husband, Alfredo, had bought it for
her after a strong wind had blown her cap off and sent it rolling into a heavy
stream of traffic on Central Avenue one winter day in Albuquerque. That hat had only been a stopgap to keep her
head and ears warm that day, many years ago, before Phillip had been born.
A chilling
sudden wind sprang up sending a shiver down Aurora's back. The temperature was dropping lower and she
wanted to get back to the house, build a snowman, then retreat into her cozy
adobe and drink hot tea while lieing on the couch in front of the fireplace
reading.
She took
Phillip's hand. "Let's go,
honey."
"Can't we
walk just a little more, mother?"
How could she
refuse such an innocent request?
"Yes,
darling; let's go down to the old ruin,
then go home."
The old ruin
was the former foundation of some structure--house or barn--they never
knew. Someone had torn the original
structure down many years before, leaving only the foundation, a large square
of old, hand-mixed and poured concrete.
She'd hoped (when Alfredo was alive) one day they would use the old
foundation to build a guest house or a place where she could go and muse, play
her recorder and to house all of her books.
She liked
solitude and semi-reclusiveness; that's
why she and Alfredo had chosen this property near Ojo Caliente, where they had
lived in harmony, he painting and she reading for (and writing) her doctoral
dissertation in linguistics.
After Phillip
was born and filled their lives with the joy of him, Alfredo painted and drew
the baby boy and Aurora fussed over him when she wasn't caught up in her
linguistics dissertation and its copious footnotes which took up a lot of her
time.
For a while
she commuted to teach at the university;
but her natural solitudinous nature and her deep attachment to her
husband and young child clashed with her busy academic life. She needed to be closer to those whom she
loved more than the bombardment of too many students and little time for her
true academic bent: Private research and
writing. So she gave up teaching and
wrote and edited textbooks at home and from time to time contracted to be a
university correspondence course reader and persue her private interests and be
with Alfredo and baby Phillip.
They had been
happy in their house, their rustic adobe, to which they had added a large,
spacious, well-lit studio for Alfredo, who spent many hours at his easel
painting. His fame as a painter
grew; he was able to make money from his
paintings which sustained them beyond either of their wildest dreams.
The snow was
neatly piled on the square foundation.
Phillip, with the enthusiasm common to eight year old boys, eagerly
mounted the narrow ledge, and, putting one foot after the other, heel to toe,
walked the length of the foundation with a connecting trail of bootprints; but at the first corner he abandoned his
disciplined pace and deliberately kicked the snow as he finished
circumambulating the square foundation.
Phillip was a
happy, even-tempered child, very attached to his mother, for Alfredo, his
father, had died of leukemia when Phillip was only two. He had no recollection of his father.
Alfredo's
death had been a blow to Aurora. She and
Alfredo had been together as sweethearts and as man and wife for fifteen years. She'd met him when she was nineteen and he an
"older man" all of twenty-five himself. They had always been close; each's world was the other's. Few in life were as close or as deeply in
love as Aurora and Alfredo. Their
friends saw this and admired this rare couple for the depth and duration of
their feelings and their harmonious relationship.
Phillip jumped
down from the foundation right in front of his mother. "Caw, caw, caw!" he cried when he
jumped. "Here comes a crow to tweek
your nose!" said Phillip in his playful voice.
"Ha ha,
crow. Watch out! I'm a hawk and I'll whisk you away," she
responded, playfully hunching her shoulders and flapping her arms.
They hugged
and laughed and went on their way, she with her arm on his shoulders and he
holding on to her coat belt. They were
happy together. He filled up (for her)
the vacuum left by Alfredo's passing and she filled up his life as mother and
the surrogate father he never knew.
They built
their snowman five feet high and topped him with her old hat, gave him a dried
red chile pod for a nose and stones for eyes and a smiling line of peebbles for
a mouth from Phillip's collection of stones he kept piled nearby which were now
covered with snow, making an artificla mound where they stood. In his eagerness, however, to give the
snowman a proper mouth, he pushed away the mound to get at his horde of stones
and pebbles, his treasures,which he'd collected throughout the summer.
Now she was
settled back on her sofa in front of the fireplace; on an end table stood a pot of tea and her
glass cup filled and steaming. While she
waited for the tea to cool, she opened her book on ancient scripts and took up
from shere she had left off the night before.
Phillip was on
his stomach with his feet to the fire drawing spaceships in a large sketchbook
which had formerly belonged to his father, the man he never knew, but whose
presence he often felt preternaturally.
Aurora kept
several photographs of Alfredo around the house, and these photographs were a
constant reminder to him of his father.
He especially liked the picture in his bedroom: Alfredo on a horse wearing a large straw hat,
in his hands a palette and a brush and he pretending to be painting the air
with a serio-comical look on his face. Phillip loved to play in his father's
studio; it was so spacious he could run
and crawl around it if he wanted; it
even had an echo if he called out loudly enough. During the winter, however, Aurora closed it
off for heat conservation. Phillip,
nonetheless, was allowed inside if he wanted to so long as he put his coat on
and shut the door. It had been from the
studio where he had taken his sketchbook.
He always kept it there instead of in his own room because he felt it
belonged there among the other sketchbooks, the many blank ones and ones filled
with his father's drawing's which he'd often looked through; mother did not mind.
One sketchbook
was filled with drawings of Phillip in his varying stages of growth which
Alfredo had drawn periodically to chronicle his son's days. That was the sketchbook Phillip liked best,
the one he went to when he wanted to "visit" ((as he called it) with
his father.
Outside the
snow continued to fall and pile up. Hard
winds blew, pushing the snow this way and that way, making it twist and spiral.
Phillip looked
up from his drawing and saw that his mother had dozed off. The book she'd been reading rose and fell
with her breathing. He gazed at her a
long time. There was something about her
face which made him close his eyes and shake his head. Suddenly her very familiar face made him feel
he'd never seen her before. "How
stange," he said in a low voice, for just as suddenly as the strangeness
had appeared, he saw her again as the familiar woman he knew.
He turned the
page filled with warring spacecraft and stared at a new page; but he was puzzled, for when he looked at the
blank page, he saw the unfamiliar sleeping countenance of his mother he'd
observed.
With one of
his pencils he outlined the face he kept seeing, then began drawing eyebrows,
eyes, nose, lips, hair, ears. He worked
steadily, not looking up, for the image was always, so it seemed, clearly in
front of him.
So engrossed
was he that he did not hear his mother stir, nor see her open her eyes. Aurora saw him drawing intently; she'd never seen a look of such intentness on
his face. The page was visible to her,
albeit upside down; nevertheless, the
face of a woman was discernable. Having
been married to an artist for so many years, she knew not to interrupt, so she
closed her eyes and, listening to the wind, soon dozed off again.
Phillip worked
for more than an hour on the woman's face;
then, just as quickly and eagerly as he had started, he stopped, turned
the page, and in his boyish enthusiasm, went back to creating spaceships in
combat around distant planets. But
gradually the strong wind outside beckoned his young, adventurous spirit. He was feeling called by the wind, and he
also wanted to be in the wind, to feel its coldness and its strength on his
face.
Quietly he put
on his heavy jacket and hat, his gloves and silently slipped out the front
door. The wind was strong, but he didn't
mind. It was what he'd expected. Seeing that the wind had blown off the
snowman's cap and that snow was covering it, he picked it up, shook off the
snow and put it in his pocket for safe keeping.
With his back to the wind, he spread his arms and, pretending to be an
airplane, and, making simulated engine sounds, re ran around the house dipping
his wing-arms thoroughly enjoying himself.
Aurora awoke
from her nap; the book on her chest felt
heavy; lifting herself up and putting
the book on the end table, she saw that Phillip was gone. She called out and looked about and saw that
his jacket was gone from the rack.
Walking to the window she pered out and saw him, arms spread out, racing
around, tramping down the snow. She
smiled, knocked on the window pane.
Hearing the sound, Phillip stopped, turned, saw his mother wave. He waved back, then lifted up his wing-arms
and ran to the window and pushed his nose and lips flat against the pane. She jumped back in pretended fright. Phillip smiled and laughed, then backed away
and went about playing his delightfully consuming snow plane game.
Aurora put her
tea things away. While she did, she
remembered the face she'd seen Phillip drawing;
her curiosity made her reach down, pick up the sketchbook and examine
it. Turning to the page, she saw the
face Phillip had drawn with such intensity.
The portrait took her breath away;
she could not believe her eyes, for on the page was a likeness of
herself--but an Aurora twenty years younger!
She sat down and under the light of the lamp examined the drawing
closer. True, the lines were a bit
crude, nonetheless, she could see that it had been drawn with a talent she had
never known Phillip to have exhibited.
But the astonishing thing was the likeness of herself in her youth. "How did he do it?" she asked
outloud. She had a budding artist genius
in her house and never realized it. She
began to look at the other drawings in the book: The spaceships were sleek vessels drawn with
the precision of a trained draughtsman.
She found pictures of soaring birds and galloping horses. She sat on the couch with the sketchbook on
her lap shaking her head at the marvelous ability of her son, an ability she
had not noticed, and she felt not a little ashamed.
She went to
the window and searched out her son whom she saw spinning cartwheels in the
snow, his lithe body forming a blurred circle of legs and snow. She saw him deliberately collapse onto the
snow and roll himself over and over, then get up and jump up and down with a
supreme look of boyish glee. With her
mother's heart she saw him as her little boy;
with her sensitive, aesthetic perspective, she saw a boy wonder, a true
scion of his artist father.
She still had
the sketchbook in her hand and looked again at the portrait of herself. A warm feeling came over her; she blinked her eyes as if surprised. There was something new in the house. She looked about as if in search of it, her
eyes darting here and there, until they fell on the studio door. She knew, then, what was her feeling: As if Alfredo were back. For an agonizingly delightful moment, she
held the belief that were she to open the studio door, she would find him,
brush and palette in hand, smoking his pipe and wearing his battered Stetson,
which he loved and wore most of the time.
But her more
prudent side understood her feeling was only a fantasy and she shook her head
for such a foolish daydream. Yet there
lingered still the impression of his re-animation, somehow rekindled, alive in
the house--and that Phillip was the cause of the arising of this newly felt
presence; that through the drawing he had
turned back the pall which had lain on her heart. In a sense he had freed her from the long
attachment to her mourning; and for the
first time in many years, she truly felt that her mourning was over. And this new awareness made her want to open
all the windows and doors, lettting air and sunshine circulate within, routing
the long, stale years of widowhood.
Aurora wanted
to have fresh, sweet smelling flowers in every vase all over the house and wear
a pretty dress and her strands of turquoise hishi and her favorite pumps. Oh, her heart fluttered as it had when she
first realized she loved Alfredo and that he loved her. This old forgotten joy spread through her,
making her cast prudency away. She threw
open the window in front of her, then proceeded to open other windows then
opened the door.
"Phillip!"
she called. All in snow and cheerfulness
he came to her. "Here's the
snowman. Want to buy some snow?" he
said.
She chuckled
at his simple humor. Extending her arms,
she grasped her son to her and kissed the snow flakes from his forehead.
"I saw
the picture you drew of me while I was asleep.
It's beautiful, Phillip. Your
father would have been proud of you.
Thank you, thank you..." She
started to cry and her tears were tears of happiness.
"Why are
you crying, mama? Don't cry," he
said solicitously.
"But I
want to. I'm very happy right now,
darling."
He hugged her
around the waist. Her love and
compassion permeated his spirit because he knew he was loved and he loved her
deeply. They disengaged; and that's when he saw the open windows. "Mother, why did you open all the
windows?" he asked quizzically.
And she burst
out in reply: "To clear the winter
out of my heart!
"I don't
understand," he replied, a bit confused.
"Oh, Phillip,
I wanted it to be spring, so I opened all the windows and the door, pretending
to let spring in to chase away winter."
"You're
funny, mama," said Phillip with an elfin voice. "Do you want me to draw your picture
again? It's easy."
"Yes,
yes--draw all you want. I'll even light
the fire in the studio if you want."
He made a
cartwell away from her. "Ok,"
he said.
And,
re-entering the house (which was now very cold) all smiles, Aurora took her
time closing the windows humming a spontaneous tune as she did. Her body felt light, freed from the lethargy
of winter.
The house
being cold, she donned a heavy sweater and put more wood on the fire; and while the new logs crackled, she put the
kettle on to make tea.
When the
freshly brewed tea was hot in her hands, she went to the studio.
Aurora
hesitated at the closed door. A flood of
memories came to her, calling up the countless times she had come to this door
with a hot cup of tea or coffee for Alfredo who would receive it gladly, stop
his work for a while to sit, sip and chat with her. She missed those small, sometimes tender
moments with Alfredo in his studio. As
she entered, cup in hand, it was as if she were re-enacting an old ritual of
propitiation.
At the wood
burning stove in the center of the studio, she realized there was no wood. How silly of me, she thought. The empty wood box made her acutely aware of
how empty her own life had been, but she now wanted fullness again in her life,
perhaps through Phillip's talent which she would nurture.
Aurora sat in
an old rocking chair sipping her tea, gazing about to see if there was
something she could do to make the studio more comfortable for Phillip. Alfredo always kept his studio austere: He never had anything superflous in his almost
monastic setting. Yet in this space of
uncluttered simplicity, he had created rich, moving works, reflecting the
intricacies of the human condition and the cosmos in an almost classical style
overlaid with a subtle surrealism and (sometimes) sense of humor which had
brought him much personal satisfaction and, ultimately, artistic recognition in
his lifetime.
Finishing her
tea and her reminisceses, she left Alfredo's studio bringing back with her some
old newspapers, kindling and an armload of pinon and cedar logs. She prepared the paper in balls and laid
kindling on top then the logs and, striking a match the old paper burst into
flame which ignited the kindling which ignited, first the cedar, then the
pinon. She watched the progression of
the fire grow and find its draft, and that gave her some small
satisfaction. When the fire was burning
well, she added a couple more logs, closed the door of the cast iron stove,
adjusted the damper, then went for a pan of water to put on top the stove for
moisture.
She lingered
at the drawing table, and while lingering she decided to move it closer to the
stove. While moving the table Phillip
walked in. "I'll help you,
mama," he said.
The snow
dropping from his boots and clothes melted as it touched the floor making a
trail. She wanted to ask him why he had
not stamped his boots and brushed off his clothes before he came into the
house--wanted to ask as the mother--but she stayed her disapproval because she
was so happy he would now occupy and use this special place and space, and,
perhaps, continue in Alfredo's footsteps.
'I think you'd
be warmer lwith the drawing table nearer to the stove. I don't want you to be cold while you
work."
Together they
moved and positioned the table.
At that moment
Phillip understood the seriousness of his mother's intentions: She genuinely wanted him to draw pictures for
her in his papa's studio, at his table!
He felt pleased she lwanted him to draw for her; but, at the same time, he feltl he could draw
ljust las well while lieing on his belly in front of th4 fireplace. But he would please his mother because she
was always so kind to him and he loved her dearly for her kindness toward
him. But he lstill preferred the
fireplace where he could watch the flames ldancing on his pages of spaceships
fighting laser battles.
II
Spring
Bees nuzzled
apple blossoms. The fields were green
with spring; the sun shone mildly and
the crows were gone.
Now that
spring was back Phillip wanted to go tramping in the fields after school and on
weekends, look under rocks and run after rabbits knowing they could not be
caught--but he felt the overpowering obligation to his mother to continue
working in the studio--he felt he should continue doing that, yet his nature
prodded him to answer its wild calls, and he felt caught in these two worlds
which pulled him first one way then another;
he had no developed intellect, no wisdom to deal with this contradiction
in his life. He only had feelings, the
deep feelings of a child pulled one way by its own rough independent spirit,
and by the calls to parental pleasing at the expense of the child's true
nature; his innocent integrity, bade him
acquiesce to please his mother--at the exclusion of the calling of his untamed
nature, as wild as the winds coming down the river canyon, bending the trees as
would a boy a twig. That was the truth
of his spirit: Unbound wind, roaring
across the land in a glorious chorus of rejuvenation, exploration and
curiosity, ever seeking understanding on the nature of things.
Aurora did not
know her son's deeper thoughts, for she took his willingness to draw in the
studio as evidence of it pleasing him, and admittedly, herself; that the reason he went to the studio (after
a snack and a recapitulation of his schoolday) and drew was because he wanted
to. But she was a good mother, an astute
mother who saw that he (also) spent too much time in the studio and often
worried that he was not afild in this glorious spring season, out with the boys
from the neighboring farms or playing with Ray Jaramillo, his bosom classmate,
who always welcomed Phillip to ride the great white mule lwhich belonged to
Ray's uncle, Adelicio.
Aurora, giving
her observation much thought, gradually became aware of the exact attitude
Phillip had adopted, but could not articulate.
When made aware of this through her own analysis, she gasped at the
magnitude of the error she had made! She
was angry at herself for having been so unconsciously selfish; she felt just awful that she was using her
son's talents and presence in the studio as a surrogate Alfredo. Aurora was positively wretched. It was two p.m. and the sky was the most
beautiful azure sky in the world and the wind was a gentle zephyr bringing
coolness and scents of the season, but Aurora was too miserable to notice.
Aurora sat on
her couch and stared at nothing in particular;
gradually, however, she was overcome with remorse and wept until she was
empty of the pain she was feeling. To
have intimidated her son, choking off his free spirit, was a pain she felt
deeply. Wiping her eyes, she walked to
the sink, and with the icy waters from the deep wells of the land, she washed
her face and hands; and with each
handful of pure, refreshing water felt better.
She shook her face with a proud mein, feeling releaved that she had seen the selfish
motives behind her actions and would now do what she could to make amends for
almost having destroyed her son.
"This
afternoon when he comes home," she resolved, "we'll go on a long
walk--and I'll bring a snack and we can be together, then we'll go visit the
Jaramillos." And she would visit
with Maricarmen, Adelicio's wife, whom she'd not seen for a long time.
Aurora busied
herself with preparing sandwiches. She
put water to boil and went to fetch her day pack from the closet and her steel
thermos, for she would bring hot jasmine tea, one of Phillip's favorites.
The school bus
stopped at the mailbox. Phillip jumped
off, turned and waved to Ray, Danny and the Rios brothers, who all got off at
the last stop; he watched the bus as it
rounded the curve in the road and was out of sight. He put his arms through the straps of his
school pack. The house was only fifty
yards up the drive and he walked leisurely liking the feel of the afternoon sun
on his face.
As he walked
his sharp eyes picked out all the wild mushrooms which had sprung up after
yesterday's rain. He was always curious
about wild mushrooms, not to eat them, though.
No; his interest was in their
form and color. He kneeled down in front
of one particularly fat, short mushroom, a doppled white one which took lhis
fancy. He studied it for a moment, made
up his mind, and, taking out his pocket knife, cut the mushroom from the earth
to use it as a model.
He skipped and
then ran in a carefree way all the ay up to the front door.
Aurora had
been waiting for him, waiting to announce thier walk, snack and visit to
expiate her sense of guilt. She saw him
running with something white in his hand.
She opened the door; he saw
her. "Mother," he called out,
"look at this mushroom--it looks like a fat, bald man, ha, ha!"
Indeed; it didn't take much imagination to see
that; and she laughed at the
anthropomorphic mushroom image which flashed through her mind. "May I hold it?"
"Sure. I'm going to draw it after I have my
snack."
She held the
mushroom while he put his pack away and hung up his coat. While he was washing, she said:--
"Phillip,
I've noticed you're spending too much time in the studio; you used to be more active--but I think I
made you feel you had to spend a lot of time drawing and you did it to please
me. Is that true, honey?"
He opened wide
lhis eyes at his mother's words, for they were his exact feelings; and he was not a bit mystified how it was
that she had (so it appeared) read his thoughts. He hung his head just a little.
"Will you
be unhappy if I don't spend lots of time in the studio?" he asked ever so
innocently.
"No, I
won't be unhappy, Phillip," she responded and reaching out her hand she
rubbed the top of his head affectionately.
"You go there to draw because you want to be there. I don 't want you ever to feel if you don't
draw it will make me unhappy. I want
only good things for you, son. I'm sorry
I made you feel that way."
He raised his
head. There was a smile on his
face. "That's ok, mama," was
all he said, then, embraced her and nuzzled his head against her. "I'm hungry. What's for snack?"
She stepped
back for a moment and took a long, loving look at him. Her mother's heart swelled with pride to have
such an understanding sone, one who never held grudges and rolled with life's
circumstances.
I was thinking
we could go for a walk and have a snack out in the field, then head over to
Adelicio's for a visit and also see the white mule. I've already made the sandwiches and we'll
take along tea in the thermos."
"Really?"
he said in surprise. "Oh, boy! Let's go.
I haven't seen Jezebel in along time and maybe Adelicio will let us ride
her. But can I have one of the
sandwiches now? I'm hungry."
Aurora
laughed. "You'll eat me out of
house and home, someday," she said, jocosely, and taking the sandwiches
out of the refrigerator, she put them on a dish and invited her son to eat. She poured him a glass of milk and sat with
him watching him eat. It was as if she
were seeing him for the first time after a long absence. She could imagine him (some day) a man, but
now, before her was just a little boy who brought home a wild mushroom to draw
and who could still get excited about Jezebel, the white mule.
In the field
their walking flushed out birds who flew away in panic at the giants afoot in
their meadow home. Aurora could feel the
energy of the season in herself; the
sluggishness and sometimes lethargy of winter were gone. She could lsee the energy of spring in her
son as he romped along full of spirit and inquisitiveness about his
surroundings. Oh, she felt so good about
today and how she had corrected her error.
Now, she thought, she would be more mindful and watchful about her son's
budding artistic talent. Henceforth, she
would only enbcourage him in the best way possible to develop his talent and
let the destiny of that talent take him to where h needed to go with it in his
life--be it the artist's studio, or...she didn't care. She would lwait for life to show him his true
path and she would observe the process and hope that his life would be ghood
and productive in the way his father's had been good and productive.
On a knoll
which had a few freshly dug gopher holes, they stopped to rest and to eat. From where they sat they could see the
Jaramillo family plot not far from the property line. She and Alfredo had attended the funeral of
Adelicio's father there. Alfredo had
painted a picture of the family cemetary.
She often felt she'd like to be buried there, too, among the Jaramillo's
who had lived and died for over a hundred years on the land they loved, the
land Aurora had (also) come to love as if it had been where she had been born
and raised. She late pensively and
sipped the hot tea while Phillip crumbled a piece of bread and dropped the
crumbs by an ant hill and watched the ants investigate, then carry the crumbs
into their cthonic home. He wanted, for
a moment, to be an ant and to be able to walk inside the hill to see how ants
lived. Oh, he was such a little boy.
At the samll
cemetary she lingered for a moment while Phillip walked ahead and she wondered
if she had the nerve to ask Adelicio if she could inter Alfredo's ashes and
"lease," a spot for herself.
She brushed the thought away and caught up with Phillip.
Ray was in a
large storage shed helping Adelicio and Maricarmen pull out a picnic table and
benches from storage after a long winter of idleness, when Aurora and Phillip
came into view.
"Ola!"
called out Maricarmen, when she saw them.
"Ola!"
replied Aurora.
"It's
been a long time since we've seen you," said Maricarmen in her lilting,
New Mexican accent, as she walked toward her neighbor and her son, whom she'd
come to love as family. The two women
embraced, disengaged and began asking about this and that. Adelicio came. "How are you, Aurora?" and he
embraced her, too. "Where've you
been keeping yourself, amiga? We were
just talking about you last lnight."
"I
apologize for being too much the recluse--but you know me a long time; you know I always show up," she said
with a good-natured grin.
"Good; now that you're here, we won't let you
go. Both of you will stay for
dinner--and no excuses," said Maricarmen with feigned authority to Aurora,
who accepted, gladly.
"Thank
you, Maricarmen," answered Aurora.
"We were
just moving the table and benches out.
The good weather's coming and I'm ready for it," said the
entusiastic Adelicio. "Do you want
to help?"
"Let's
go," answered Aurora.
"And
afterwards, we can have some coffee. How
does that sound?" added Maricarmen.
In no time the
very long table and benches were out in the air and sunshine. Aurora and Maricarmen got brooms and,
stooping, swept off the accumulation of spider webs under the table, while
Adelicio and the boys wiped down the benches with rags. The two women worked intently and fast.
"Finished,"
called out Maricarmen. ""When
we have our first outside dinner, you and Phillip are invited."
We'll be
here. I'm ready fro that coffee,"
said Aurora.
The boys put
away the brooms and rags. Then they ran
up to Adelicio. "Uncle, can we
saddle Jezebel and go for a ride?" asked Ray.
"Sure,
sure. I'll get the saddle. But don't go too far; we'll be eating soon. Be back in about an hour," he said with
a grin.
Adelicio was a
gentle man in spirit. On the outside he
was a bit rough in his manner; plus the
fact that he was almost six feet tall and was muscular and hard work had
toughened him, and his hands were the rough hands of a worker. But, like his spirit, his hands were also
gentle; and when he wasn't farming or
hiring out his services and backhoe, he carved santos. Locally, he had a reputation as a
santero; but he placed no value on what
people called him. He carved because it
was in his soul to carve saints. He
never sold them, but gave them away to friends and to strangers alike. Alfred, when he was alive, had encouraged
Adelicio to devote more time to his carving;
Alfred even volunteered to take his neighbor's works to galleries in
Santa Fe and Albuquerque and use his prestige to further Adelicio's genuine
talent. But Adelicio would have none of
it. "The wood is free; and my time
carving has value only to the saints.
What would I charge for something which is free and for the
saints?" is what he'd told Alfredo,
who could find no argument to the very wise statement, and he never mentioned
the subject again.
The boys ran
to the corral and led Jezebel to the storage shed from which Adelicio was carrying
the big saddle, saddle blanket and bridle.
The boys steadied the big mule while Aurora and Maricarmen watched. Jezebel was a beautiful beast and, like her
owner, had a gentle nature, in spite of the general conception aobut mules to
the contrary.
Up in the
saddle they went with Ray in front holding the rins and Phillip in the back
with his arms around Ray's waist.
"Vamanos, Jezebel, vamanos!" commanded Ray proudly, and
Jezebel moved her feet and the boys were off to adventure.
The smell of
freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen.
Maricarmen set out mugs, sugar and milk.
Maricarmen was a modest woman who didn't ask a lot from the world, but
gave much, and, thereby, received much in return. She was deeply in love with Adelicio and was
dedicated to her home and Ray, her nephew by marriage. She took care of Adelicio's backhoe service's
books and took all the phone calls and service orders. And in its proper season, she would be in the
cultivated fields next to him planting or weeding or harvesting. She begrudged no one anything and she was
happy both in good times and the not so good times. She was rooted to the land,to her family and
to her friends. Aurora was her special
friend, and although they did not see each other often, their visits were
always enriching.
Maricarmen
loved the graceful, natural ways of Aurora and respected her learning and her
knowledge of the traveled world which Maricarmen knew little about. She'd been
once to California and had been to El Paso and Juarez and that was the extent
of her travels outside of New Mexico. Aurora, on the other hand, seemed to have
been every where; and it was her tales of travel to exotic places that she
liked to hear about. Maricarmen would have been too shy to go beyond the
coastal borders of her country; but when Aurora would relate of eating raw fish
while sitting on tatami mat floors in a small inn overlooking the Inland Sea of
Japan, Maricarmen was there, too, even eating the raw fish--which Aurora
praised so highly and made it sound so tasty. The two women had opened their
hearts to each other many times through the years. Aurora knew Maricarmen's
lamentation that she was yet childless. Ray was her joy, she loved him dearly,
but there was no seed from her union, thus far, with Adelicio; and being the
kind of woman she was, her fruitlessness was a private agony.
The three
friends warmed to each other, exchanging news of their common lives and plans
and expectations.
"Adelicio's
old army buddy will come in June. School will be out by then, then we're all
going to drive down to Carlsbad to visit the caverns," said Mricarmen.
"Want to join us?"
"That's
an inviting trip. Phillip's never been to the caverns and I've not been there
in years. June, you say--when in June?"
"Probably
middle of the month. That's the soonest Max can get away," said Adelicio,
refering to Maxim Powell, his friend for over twenty-five years. They'd been
stationed together in the infantry from basic training, infantry school and
final posting to Germany in the 19th Infantry--same company, same platoon, same
squad. They'd often laughed about their similar assignments and became good
friends, even after their discharge--also on the same day; and they maintained
their friendship by letters and phone calls and brief visits. "You'll like
Max, Aurora; he's like you: he likes to hide away and write."
"Is he a writer?" she
asked.
"He's
been doing it off and on for a long time--never did make any money from his
writing, so he supported himself by teaching school until last year when he
finally got one of his novels published and he's making a few bucks."
"I'm
always interested in meeting artists," said Aurora.
"And he's
good looking, and he's single, too," said Maricarmen with a broad grin
full of hint which Aurora, herself grinning, understood immediately. "Are
you trying to fix me up with your friend, Max, Maricarmen?" asked Aurora
in mock exasperation. "You never give up, do you?"
"Never,"
said Maricarmen. "It's a shame a good looking, smart woman like you
doesn't have a good man to keep her company. Alfredo's been gone a long time,
Aurora. I know you get lonely--I didn't meet you only yesterday, hermana,"
said Maricarmen frankly.
"I know
you're right; I should have some male contacts. But, really, Maricarmen, I wouldn't
know what to do with a man. I've been alone so long."
Adelicio burst
into laughter and Maricarmen soon joined him. They were having a good laugh at
Aurora's expense. The intimation of their laugh was rustic, bawday, and made
the usually reserved Aurora blush; and when her two laughing friends saw her
blush, their laughter increased. Maricarmen laid a friendly hand on Aurora's
shoulder. "Excuse us for laughing."
Aurora took
maricarmen's hand and held it. "Don't apologize. Have a good laugh. I deserve
it--it reminds me of how self-centered I can get. Sure, I'll meet your Mister
Powell."
Their mirth
quieted, Maricarmen cleared away the coffee cups and asked Aurora to help her
prepare dinner and continue their talk.
"The boys
should be back soon. I'll go out and wait for them so I can unsaddle Jezebel
for them." Adelicio left and the women were alone.
The two
adventurous boys had gone at a gallop with Jezebel to the stream where they
halted and let her drink while Ray and Phillip pretended they were cavalry
couriers and had important despatches to deliver. They switched places in the
saddle after Jezebel's well-deserved drink. Phillip had the reins and headed
the mule across the meadow; he knew of an old, downed pinon tree and remembered
he'd seen some flat, brown mushrooms growing there and he wanted to pick one
and draw it as well as his "fat bald man" sitting in the refrigerator
at home.
Phillip gave
Jezebel the word and a double flip of the reins and off went the young
regimental couriers, lost in their fantasy as the gret white mule went into a
gallop. They flew across the meadow. Jezebel loved to run; and this mule, in
her own way, was enjoying spring, too.
Phillip, to
prolong their ride and their fantasy, invoked many dangers and barriers:
dragons, enemy scouts, imaginary ditches too wide to jump. He evaded the
obstacles by zigzagging Jezebel's direction and he did it with such consummate
skill, that the mule responded in a disciplined manner as if she had been a
trained horse of the line. The boys bent in the saddle whooping and yahooing as
Phillip guided Jezebel expertly through the imaginary ldangers.
But at last
the meadow gave way to trees and a sloping height of land. Phillip gradually
reined in his mighty steed and slowed the envigorated animal to a steady trot.
"There's
the log I was telling you about, Ray," said Phillip, excitedly, as he
slowly, and reluctantly reined in
Jezebel.
"Bueno,"
said Ray, "let's bring a whole bunch back to the house. My tio knows which
ones are good to eat."
It sounded
like a good idead at first to Phillip, but the more he thought about the idea
the less he thought it a good one. "But suppose they're not good to eat?
Then we'd have to throw them all away--and maybe they wouldn't grow anymore,
Ray."
"Ya,
amybe you're right. We can bring back a couple, and if lthey're good to eat, we
can come back tomorrow--maybe with Jezebel. How's that sound, Phil?"
Phillip liked
that. It was a proposal consonant with his spirit.
After a long
examination with very serious looks on their faces, they each selected a
mushroom. With their sharp pocket knives, they sliced through the long, white
stem of the flat, brown succulent-looking mushrooms.
Jezebel grazed
on young grassed and sweet new leaves and the boys lay on theri backs looking
up into the bluest of New Mexican skies. For a long time they stared up in
silence.
Ray boke the
silence. "Know what Phil: we are really the same in one way."
"How's
that?" asked Phillip.
"We don't
have dads."
"But
you've got your tio Adelicio and tia Maricarmen."
"I know;
but it's not the same thing. My uncle is the greatest! I really love him. But
he's not my father--but sometimes I feel my tia is like my mom."
"Well,
all I have is my mother; you've got two. I only have one."
They fell
silent again, each sensing a lack in his young life, a lack and a yearning
neither could fill; and that was their young burden: to realize the private
loneliness of the human condition for want of a man to call father.
Ray looked up
to his uncle; he loved him for the kind and sometimes stern man he was, and he
was proud to be with him when they went hunting or shooting or when he would
sit with him watching him carve his santos, and in some small way help him as
tio Adelicio recounted the life of the saint he was carving. Ray thrilled at
seeing a common piece of cedar come alive as a Saint Francis of Assisi or a
Santo Nino de Atocha. And he loved his uncle because he was the one who had
told him the truth about his parents and how Ray had come to live with him and
Maricarmen:--
"Your
mother fell in love with a religious fanatic who thought he was a great
prophet, and he dragged your mother along in his fanaticism. She was very
pretty, your mother, very sensitive, but naive and misinformed. After you were
born lyour father started a religious commune down in Texas--but the
children--and you were only a few months old then--were to be raised separated
from their mothers and were to be raised apart from them. No child was to know
his parents. It was your father's warped idea that said every child should be
raised away from the mothers to keep them free from the sin of Eve. You're too
lyoung to understand that--but that's wht he said. But many mothers didn't want
to give up their children, including your own mother; but since she was the
leader's wife, she had to set the example. So, instead, she ran away and came
here to la tierra. Your father soon divorced her. I don't know where he is or
whatr happened to him. One day your mother said she was going to Denver to see
about a job. I even gave her some money to help cover expenses. She said she'd
be back in two weeks. But we never heard from her again. We called the police;
but no trace of her was ever found of her in Denver. After a couple of years
Maricarmen and I became you legal guardians. I think your mother went back to
your father. But I have no proof, hijito." The truth was painful for Ray,
but at least he knew lhis origins and was endeared to his uncle forever because
of his simple honesty one night as he helped him sand the wings of a San
Rafael.
"Ping,
ping, ping" chimed out Ray's wrist alarm. They both sprang lup. "Time
to go," said Ray, tio said be back in an hour. Vamanos." They hewlped
each other into the saddle, and with Ray holding the reins, they trotted
homeward.
Jezebel's
needs and comforts taken care of and the saddle and riding gear back in the
shed, the two proud riders, a little saddle sore, walked into the house which
was filled smiles and with good smells. Awaiting them were platters of
porkchops, beans, greens salsa, tortillas land rice.
Adelicio said
a brief grace, then invited his guests to eat.
Aurora liked
the family atmosphere, the abundance of food and communality. She cooked only
for herself and Phillip. But momentarily, with the five people aound the table,
she regreted she had no growing clan to care for.
After dinner
the boys showed Adelicio the mushrooms and, upon seeing them pronounced them
toxic. "Verboten," he said lin his best G>I> German. "They
won't kill you, but they'd lmake lyou so sick you'd wish you were dead. What
lare you going to do with this mushroom, Phillip?" asked Adelicio,
concerned about the matter.
"Draw it.
I think it's beautiful."
"Beautiful--but
dangerous, hijo. Wash your hands carefully after you've touched it. You never
know. And you're going to draw it--just like your papa. It's in the blood,
Aurora," he said, turning to her.
"I think
so, Adelicio, I think so, too. This past winter I discovred this boy is a young
genius--can you imagine--I never saw it luntil one day, while I was napping, he
drew an uncanny likeness of me--but what I looked like twenty years ago. Now
you explain that to me?" she said, rhetorically. And Adelicio reiterated,
"It's in the blood." And Maricarmen re-echoed, "Si, es la
sangre."
The hour was
late. "We'll drive you back, Auroa."
"Thanks.
I was about to suggest that myself," she answered.
"Can I go
for the ride, tia? asked Ray.
"Yes, get
your jacket. Adelicio, warm up the truck, honey." She liked the ordering
of things and events in the house. Adelicio never interfered with her matronly
prerogatives. He husbanded the land, but the house was her bailiwick; somehow
it felt natural, Adelicio felt that deeply; but if asked why he felt so, he could
not have spoken the why. He put on his sheepskin coat, for the nights were
still cold.
"See ya
on teh bus tomorrow, Phil. Buenas noches," called Ray.
"Buenas
noches," replied Phillip.
Maricarmen
stuck her head out of the truck's window. "And don't be too long before
your next visit. Don't be such a hermit." She smiled.
"I'll try
not to. I"ll be seeing you sooner than you think."
Adelicio blew
the horn in good night, let the clutch out and headed back to his place.
III
During the
ensuing weeks Aurora gave her house a thorough spring cleaning land an airing
it had never had before. She went through drawers and closets and sifted
through clothes, papers, books and just "thins," and the accumulation
of odds and ends one was sure would come in handy someday--but never did. Well,
she put this assortment into large plastic bags land carboard lboxes and took
some to local charitable organizations and the rest she drove to the county
dump. It lwas as if she were in a dream.
As she swept
out the bed of the pick-up truck she came to the full realization of what she
had done: thrown away trwenty years of mementos--even a fgew things that had
belonged to Alfredo. For a fraction of a time she regreted she'd been so hasty;
but a superior element in her told her it had been correct, that to hang on to
the past was vainglorious and, ultimately, inutile.
With
envigorated strokes, motivated by her resolve, she swept the truck's bed clear
and would turn the hose on it and wash away even the dust of souvenirs and
mementos land clothes, which bespoke of another time, another world, another
consciousness.
She even
re-arranged the studio--but not much, however, adding a coffee table and two
comfortable chairs. The studio had the best lighting and was a natural place to
read, especially now that the days were warmer and longer. As an added touch
she put a vase of fresh daffodils from her flower bed on the coffee table.
When Phillip
came home he found the house sparkling and smelling not only fresh, but new.
The studio door was open and he called out, "Mama."
"In the
studio, dear. Welcome home," she said, finally putting the coffee table
and chairs in their third re-arrangement. "How was school? " she said
looking up from her work.
"Great.
Mrs. Sanchez said I was the best drawer in the class and she put my new
mushroom picture on the wall."
"Isn't
that wonderful, dear. Oh, Phillip, I'm so pleased. Now tell me, what do you
think of the new look I've given to the studio?'
He looked
around and smelled the air with conscious leffort and it too smelled new, and
the lighting seemed new, and he liked the chairs and table arrangement.
"Could we bring a radio and put it on the work bench? I like to listen to
music lwhen I draw."
"A radio
it will be. A fine idea. And after dinner we shall have our tea in the
studio," she said with a mimicked haughtiness in her voice and a dramatic
raising of her eyebrows which made Phillip giggle at his mother's silliness,
which he appreciated.
And so went
the days: Phillip going to school, drawing, playing with his best friend, Ray
and the other boys in the community; she kept busy in her domesticl chores and
her revision and updating of a linguistics textbook she was working on for a
college textbook publisher. The work paid well, but she would have prefered to
do something more personally creative, but she wasn't sure what. A novel? The
thought occured to her; and when she thought of writing a novel, she remembered
the name, Max Powell, Adelicio's writer friend, and she made a note to call a
firend in Albuquerque and ask her to find a copy of his new book and mail it to
her. She would find it interesting to read the book then meet the author.
On Memorial
Day, a warm day with a hint of the hot summer to come, she gave a barbeque, inviting,
of course, the Jaramillos and Dave and Geneva Taylor also neighbors, and their
son, Gabriel, who rode over on his pinto. Ray was on Jezebel; and while the
adults gathered around the barbeque,
Phillip, Ray and Gabriel rode of to visit the Rios brothers and promised to be
back in a couple of hours.
Dave and
Adelicio were friends and neighbors; each had brought beer. The two men soon
fell into a relaxed conversation while sipping beer and exchanging small talk.
Maricarmen had
brought a cake and Geneva a gallon of ice cream. The women went into the house
to prepare things. They worked well together and their animated conversation
filled the air as their busy hands worked independently of their thoughts and
speech. While they washed and cut land sliced, they joked and talked. But a
slip of the knife cut Geneva's left index finger, not deeply, but deep enough
to exude a lot of blood, making the wound seem more serious than it was, and
she was a bit shaken by the sudden trauma. Aurora took Geneva aside,
disinfected the wound, put a bandage around her finger and suggested she sit
down for a few minutes.
"Thank
you, Aurora; I'll just rest on your couch if you don't mind."
"Not at
all, Geneva. Just make yourself at home," said Aurora, hospitably.
Settled on the
couch, Geneva picked up a book on the end table. She read the title: Blue Pearl
, by Maxim Powell. She'd seen him on a late night tv talk show. She'd not paid
too much attention to the interview, but she remembered the book's title
because she had never seen a blue pearl and the idea of such a colored perl
seemed like something from a fairly tale, a magic pearl which would grant
untold wishes. Tht is how she'd remembered. And now with the book in her hand
she opened it to the first chapter and began to read.
Maricarmen and
Aurora finished the preparations and were ready to begin grilling the meat.
"Geneva," called out maricrmen, "we're ready." But Geneva
had become so engrossed in the first chapter of the novel that she only half
heard Mricarmen and responded, "Ok," but wasn't sure what she'd been
asked. The story was set in Taiwan and that intrigued her. Dave lhad been there
many years ago when he was in the navy, so she felt she had some contact with
that far away place and read on.
Maricarmen
came back in to get the tongs and saw Geneva still reading and, walking over to
her asked, "What are you reading?"
Geneva put the
book down, "Blue Pearl, by Maxim Powell, it's one of Aurora's books."
"Maxim
Powell!" she exclaimed excitedly, "that's Adelicio's old army buddy;
he's coming to visit us next month. May I see the book, please?"
Geneva
sprakled when she heard what Maricarmen had said. An authentic writer would be
only a mile away. Her romantic heart fluttered.
Maricarmen
raed the title and author over several times; she held the book in her hands as
it it were some strange, but important document. She turned the book over and
there he was, on the dustcover: Max, their old friend. She opened the bok and
saw the ex libris playte: "Aurora Francesca Cavallini." At first
Maricrmen was amused when she realized Aurora had bought Max's book--maybe
romance was in the czrds between these two; and her second thought was a sad
one: why had she not thought of buying a copy, or at least have suggested to
Adelicio they get one--at least to have it in the house to show some respect
for their old friend? She would ask Aurora where she got the book and buy one
herself and surprise Adelicio. And, she would read it, too.
The boys
returned with the Rios brothers; it was to be expected. These boys were all
school chums and playmates. Aurora welcomed the Rios brother, she enjoyed
having the neighbor's children around. She'd come from a big family and liked
the idea of lots of kids and adults about on special accasions.
Everyone sat
at the outside table; the boys did not hesitate and began eating with unequaled
gusto. The adults drank beer and made many toasts. And the two veterans, Dave
and Adelicio, in their own ways, reflected on the meaning of the day and were
glad they were alive. Life was good; it had its moments of agony and worry; but
it was better to be alive, reflected Adelicio than to be buried on some
forgotten battlefield.
"Aurora,"
said Geneva, "I started to read your book, Blue Pearl, would you lend it
to me when you're finished?"
"I'd be
glad to; and did you know the author is an old friend of Adelicio's and that
he's coming next month to visit?"
"Gee, you
bought his book?" exclaimed Adelicio before Geneva could answer.
"Maybe I'll get one, too. Where'd you get it?" he asked
enthusiastically.
"I called
a friend in Albuquerque and she had no trouble finding it and mailed it to
me," she answered.
Maricamen felt
a tinge of disappointment, for she had wanted to the purchase of Blue Pearl to
be a surprise; but a surprise for Adelicio being no longer possible she
suggested, "Why don't we drive down to Albuquerque to get a copy tomorrow;
and we can get the sapre parts for the backhoe you were going to get by mail
order, and we can do some other shopping. We can even visit tio Roberto. What
do you say?"
"Sounds
good," said Adelicio, "I sure do need those spare parts. We can even
go to a movie, too."
"Will you
get me a copy, too, Maricarment? And when Mister Powell gets here, I want him
to autograph it," said Geneva.
"I can't
wait to tell Max how popular he's become in Ojo Caliente," said Adelicio,
jocosely; and, he added: "I'll tell you what: When he's here I'm inviting
all of you over to meet him--is that ok with lyou?" he said, turning to Maricarmen
for confirmation out of deference towards her concerning guests.
"Si, como
no. You're all welcome. Max will enjoy meeting all of you," and then
turning to Aurora she asked, "What's his book about?"
"It's a
charmign and captivating love story about an American man and, apparently, a
very lovely and sensuous Chinese woman. Very romantic, poetic, a little
said--but beautifully written. If the woman in the story is not a figment of
his writer's imagination, then he must have been very much in love with her. I
was most impressed by the simplicity of his sentences, and I enjoyed his
straight forward style, too." She felt rather good about what she'd said.
The book had impressed her and for all the reasons stated to Maricarmen and the
others. The love story had been touching and there'd been loftiness and
eathiness well combined and balance. She'd finished it a few nights before, but
today was the firts time she'd spoken on it. she was already liking Mister Max
Powell. "I lguess we're his fan club," said Auroa, and levery one
laughed.
IV
Maxc Powell
sat on a small folding, backless canvas camp stool on the banks of the Arkansas
River which runs through Salida, Colorado, where he was staying for a couple of
days visiting with a friend and fishing when he could. He loved to fish and
held non-resident fishing licenses from half a dozen Western states. Today his
line was out luring the fish of the Arkansas while he drank hot coffee from his
cup as his Salida friend, Mary, baited her own hook and prepared to cast out.
They did not speak; he did not like to talk much when he was fishing. For him
fishing was a time of patient reflection, especially now that his book had
skyrocketed to such heights of popularity in just a few months that his head
was still spinning. The book was ready for a second printing and a possible
third. Suddenly he was well-known and his presence in demand. Movie rights for
his book were also in negotiation; too many people wanted him. For a while he'd
been heady and was liking the attention; but he soon wearied and, feeling
saturated by people and events, he asked his agent not to accept lany more book
signings or public appearances for a while.
So, loading up
his fishing and camping gear into his camper, he left his home in Manitou Springs,
Colorado, and went fishing, which he liked just as much as he did writing. The
success of his novel went beyond his wildest dreams. But now every thing was
different in his life and he had to find a new tack. He knew he would never go
back to the classroom--that had only been a stop-gap to keep the wolf from the
door while he finished Blue Pearl. His first royalty check was more than a
year's salary as a teacher. He liked the money and he would put it go good use.
But for the moment he would fish his way slowly to New Mexico where he was
expected in two weeks.
The pole he
held dipped; his quick reflexes snagged the unsuspecting fish. "Here comes
breakfast, Mary," he said. Mary turned and smiled. She and Max were old
friends and shared a common enthusiasm for life in general and fishing in
particular. In fact, she had met him for the first time, almost ten years
before, fishing in the Arkansas, not far from Salida. She didn't like him at
first, she thought him too quiet; but she didn't (then) know he didn't like to
talk when he was fishing land she thought him rude because she was being
friendly and all he would do was nod hi head or utter a one word response. But
lwhen lhe put up his rod and invited her to eat his catch with him she found he
was not too silent or rude at all, just singleminded about some things. In
fact, lhe turned out to be just the opposite: Friendly, warm and, when he had
something to tay, talkative. He'd helped her in many ways through the years
and, at one point, she was convinced she was in love with him. He, on the other
hand, had not shown any affection towards her other than that of an intimate
friend. Gradually she understood that they could never be anything other than
friends when one night he tld lher he knew her affection for him went deeper
than friendship, but that their deep and lasting friendship was all h would
give. mary admired him for his integrity and so she settled her heart, loving
him as she could and they visited when they had a chance and, of course, went
fishing.
She, too, had
read his book and had been touched by it; she was one of the few people who
knew that full story behind Blue Pearl and that mad her feel special.
The smell of
the frying fish filled the air as Max cooked their catch on his camping stove
atop a box on the ground, while Mary set a small folding table for two.
"I'm
thinking of leaving Manitou Sporings and settling in New Mexico," said Max
as he and Mary ate.
Mary raised
her eyebrows in surprise. "Leave? What for?" she asked; she couldn't
imagine him living far away.
"Well,
the only reason I stayed in Manitou Springs was because of my teaching job. But
I don't have to do that anymore--I'm finished working for other people. In less
than a year i've made more money than I could teaching. And the publisher is
now reading an MS of short stories I gave him and he seems to be pleased and
will, no doubt, publish them, too, next year. I've made it and I'll make it
even bigger--big enough where I can just hide away in some quiet place and do what
I've always wanted to do: devote all of my time--without inrerruption to
writing, instead of the off and on routine I've had to follow for too many
yars."
"But
suppose this book is just a flash in the pan--then what will you do?"
"Do? I
will do what I'm supposed to do: write. That's my real job, Mary. Being a
school teacher or a clerk, cook--damn! you name it, is not for me. I've done
them all and I'll not do any of them again. I'll starve before I let myself
have a boss again." His voice was strong and adamant. Mary knew how strong
were his opinions and sentiments; she knew he was very serious about devoting
his time to writing. He deserved that precious time. He'd struggled for a long
time as an unknown writer living in an obscure town.
"Will lyou
write to me?" she asked in a joking amnner.
Max looked up
from his plate, a big grin on his face. "You can count on it."
"Where in
New Mexico will you live?"
"I don't
know yet. I'm stopping in Ojo Caliente to visit an old friend, then we're
heading south to Carlsba Caverns, so I'll be seeing a lot of country and
somehitg will click: the right smell, the right sunset. I'll know when I find
it."
"Oh, Max,
you are still an incurable romantic. You'll never change--and I don't want you
to--ever."
"I can't
say never--but I promise to be true to my character--until the next change.
How's that?"
"I
accept," she answered with a smile. She turned away her eyes and stared
down to her food. She would always love him, even in another state, another
country; it didn't matter, thjough, for lhe would always be in her heart.
Max ate
quietly thereafter. The fish was delicious and Mary had made an excellent pot
of coffee. Life was good and was getting better, thought Max. He was working on
a new book, too; that was his raison d'etre. He had suffered some in his life;
but now that was all behind him. Yet he was not complacent or arrogant, for he
knew that everything could be taken away in a flash! But he was prepared (even)
for that--were it to happen; nevertheless, he would dwell on the exigencies of
the day because he had learned they were, indeed, sufficient unto themselves.
He was looking
forward to leaving Manitou Springs. It had been a wholesome place and he had
met some sterling people there; but he knew it was time to move on and grow,
become quieter, more reflective and contemplative and write with that spirit.
That's what he was looking for: supreme depth of consciousness and being able
to express that depth as a writer with words of wisdom and wit.
Max's life,
thus far, had been rich in experience; nonetheless, he lived each moment to its
fullest and had no regrets. He had money now; he was a free and independent
person, and that sat well with him. He had earned his reward and he would use
it with prudence and circumspection to bring him closer to his
destiny--whatever that may come to be.
He drank the
rest of his coffee. "Ah," he said in protracted delight, "fill
er up, Mary mine--you make coffee almost as good as I do--Ha!" He was
hearty. Mary smileld and putting her hand on her hips, threw her head in the
air in pretended indignation, then, herself, burst out in laughter at Max's
humor.
"'O
coffee! Thou dost dispel all cares, thou art the object of desire to the
scholar,'" she quoted, as she filled his cup.
"That's
great. Where did you learn it, Mary?"
"From one
of your lbooks, smarty--Ha!"
He roared with
laughter, then said, "That's one on me. Remind me to rea the book
sometime."
"But I
don't remeber which book, only that it was a translation from Arabic."
"Well, no
matter. I'll run across it someday. Speaking of books, I'm going to go through
my books and sort out what I don't want. I'll give you first coice."
"Thanks,"
she said.
And so their
day went, a slow and easy one. Max slept for an hour or so after breakfast,
then wrote until past three p.m., when he put down his mechanical pencil and
called out to Mary who lhad been reading and playing her guitar while he wrote.
"Time to
catch some dinner. What do you say?"
"I'm
reay," she replied eargerly.
Except for the
flowing river, all was still. There was no wind; the sound of the river
predominated, but intermingling in the fluid basso continuo of the river were
the calls of birds and in the distance the muted bark of a dog belonging to
some capers up river. This was the peae and harmony Max loved; here was hi
contemplative self manifest in the
phenomenal world. "Life is good, life is good," he said under his
breath as he felt the vibration of the river in his hands through lthe line and
rod. He kenned a great connection to water and to the earth; here were the
elements of power both subtlw and dynamic. The sun and the air; these were
powers too. He always felt surrounded by benign, natural powers protective,
sustaining, awe inspiring and humbling: in the mountains, by the seashore,
staring up at the night sky, in the tall trees or the desert, he always felt
small, but ldignified face to face with the awesome splendor of nature and the
universe. It was in the cities, however, where he often felt luneasy, out of
rhythm and, sometimes, slightly numbed lby the machanicalness of the city, the
rigidity of urban conventions and the fixed indifference of city dwellers. Wide
open spaces and places of natural solitude were his niche. And it was this same
spirit which made him want to visit the caverns in Carlsbad and (also) he was
looking forward to seeing Adelicio again,
for his old and good friend was the kind of person he liked to be
around. Adelicio was wholesome and had a deep earthy respect for life. Max
admired "Del" (as he used to be called back in their army days)
because he made a conscious decision to lead a modest, rustic life, work, make
a little lmoney, take care of his family, plant, carve and just ry to be the
best of what he was. And that is what endeared Adelicio to Max most: his being
the best human he knew how to be and changing when it was time to change and
stadning fast when it was proper to stand fast.
Their
soldiering days had bonded them in their youth, and an honorable respect for
each other continued the bond into the ensuing years.
V
Adelicio drove
his double cab pick-up down Highway 285. In Santa Fe they would stop for
breakfast; he'd promised the boys he would do that because they had helped him
change the oil and had passed him tools as he checked over his engine before
their trip to Albuquerque.
While Adelicio
drove, Phillip, with a small sketch pad, drew the back of Adelicio's head, the
steering wheel, the dashboard and a sensuous, but childishly so, three quarter
profile of Maricarmen staring dreamily out of the window at the passing
countryside. It was only their breakfast stop which interrupted his
composition. The breakfast was well-received. Phillip was hungry and ate and
joked with Ray; but inside his artist's soul he could not wait to be back in
the truck to finish what he had started.
During the
long drive from Santa Fe down to the Duke City, gave Phillip ample time to
continue his microcosm of life as he saw it in the truck, all in fine lines, taking
into consideration the stretches of uneven road which made him use his eraser
often.
Maricarmen's
elegant nose stood out sharply against the almost opaque window of the drawing.
The gauges of the dashboard were perfect rounds and well-drawn numbers and
indicators. Adelicio's hat was at the correct angle he always wore it. Phillip
had captured its jauntiness exactly. But he did not yet know he had great
artistic ability; he only liked to draw because that's what he liked to do;
and, true, he appreciated compliments, but really he gave no thought to what he
did, for he drew well, or badly, simply because he felt compellled to do so.
And when he was drawing, he was able to concentrate his attention and energy
and not let his mind wander, thus he was able to capture details and shadows
that perhaps a more experienced artist, caught up in the importance of his
style, might miss. He liked fine lines and shadings.
"I'm
finished," he announced in his almost cherub voice as the truck passed the
power plant at Algadones; and he proffered his pad to Maricarmen who had turned
at his enthusiastic outburst. "You can have it to take home if you
want," he said to her as she raised her hand to receive the drawing.
Maricarmen had
been married to a santero for a long
time, she knew something about form, about how an object could take up space
and fill the space with meaning. She was not an artist, nor did she have a
cultivated knowledge of art or its history, but she knew Phillip's drawing was
good because it was not an intrusion and gave one a sense of space, motion and
sentiment. She looked at herself in the drawing and saw the dreaminess of
herself as she had been leaning against the window during the trip. She'd been
having a fantasy of herself being pregnant and giving birth to twins and having
a fiesta with all the family and friends and introducing the twin souls from
heaven. Yes, the feeling of her daydream was reflected exactly in the face
Phillip had seen and drawn. The drawing was fantastic; it was as if he had been
reading her mind, and, for a moment she wondered if her were (perhaps) a little
clairvoyant, too; but she dismissed that notion. I knew his father--it's in the
blood, she reflected.
"I like
it a lot. You drew my face with the right expression--and look at the details.
Phillip, this is great. Slow down, Adelicio and take a look at what Phillip
drew," she said. He slowed the truck; there were no cars about so he
glanced down at the sketch. Back and forth went his eyes from the drawing then
to the raod and back to the drawing.
"Fine,
real fine--you have your papa's touch, hijito. You keeop it up and you'll be as
good as the master was."
Phillip felt
shy every time his late father was mentioned. He carried an image in his mind
that the whole world must have known his father and liked his drawings. That
was the naive image he had, not really knowing that there were those in the art
world (naturally) who had ridiculed the late Alfredo Cavallini, had written
blistering reviews against him and his works. Of this and similar things
Phillip knew nothing. The two greatest images in his life were his mother, who
took care of him and the image of his father, omnipresent and protective
because even in spirit he was a giant.
Maricarmen
passed the book to Ray, who took it and admired it. "You really going to
give it to my tia?
"Sure,"
he said, "I didn't draw it for me."
"You're
very generous, Phillip," said Maricarmen. "I'll buy a small frame in
Albuquerque and hang it in the house when we get back."
His natural
modesty mad him lower his eyes, but he smiled because he was happy his picture
had been so well received. He was just beginning to understand that people
truly appreciated his drawings: his teacher, his classmates, his mother and now
Adelicio and Maricarmen. He was stirred in his sensitivity; he was learning
that his talent had some affect on people and how they treated him.
"Thank
you," he said in his sweet innocence.
"We're
here," announced Adelicio, "'Albuquerque Next 12 Exits'" lhe
quoted and pointed at the familiar green highway sign. "First we'll go to
the parts store, then do the rest of the shopping, have a late lunch then take
in a movie. How's that sound, mujerita?"
"Bueno,
and I was thinking that maybe we should invite Tio Roberto to go with us to
lunch and the movies, too."
"Hey, I
never thought of that. While I'm getting the parts give him a call."
"He'll
like that," said Maricarmen.
Roberto was
Adelicio's old cousin on his late mother's side and, as is the custom was
addressed as tio, uncle. He was widowed and retired from the railroad and he
always welcomed Adelicio and his family on their infrequent trips into town.
"Yeah!"
Shouted Ray. "We're going to see tio and we can see his collection of
wrenches, Phil--he's got a thousand of them!"
"Not
quite a thousand," said Adelicio, "more like six hundred or so--but
that's a lot, too, no?"
"What
does he do with so many wrenches, Adelicio?" asked Phillip.
"Nothing.
He just looks at them, keeps them from getting rusty, swaps the and talks about
them. He loves to talk about wrenches. He's got every kind of wrench you can
imagine. Very impressive, and I think you'll like them, Phillip," answered
Adelicio.
Phillip was
eager to see the collection, but he was just as eager for the promised movie.
He and Ray fell into counting how many Volkswagens they could see on the road
and thus passed their time away in boyish amusement as Adelicio made his way to
the backhoe dealership.
Maricarmen
found Max's book at the bookstore on Central Avenue near the university campus
and bought two: one for herself and the other for Geneva, and started reading
her copy in the truck as they drove around town on errands. She felt proud that
Max was their friend and that at last he had been rewarded for all of his hard
work and patience.
"Tio
Roberto said his legs were hurting and will skip lunch and the movie, but he's
looking forward to our visit and he wants us to stay for dinner and spend tyhe
night. He insists," reported Maricarmen with a smile on her face to
Adelicio who was loading spare parts into the locker in the bed of the pick-up.
"Sure,
sure, we'll stay," he said in his usual, well-tempered manner. As
Maricarmen turned and walked to the cab, he was proud that he had such a good
wife. He watched her as a man does a woman who has caught his fancy. He was
still so very much in love with her. And he knew of her private agony, for it
was also his through empathy--but it didn't matter, for his love for her was
strong and whether there would ever be issue or not through their union did not
change how he felt about her.
He took his
time squaring things away in the back of the truck. He wished he could be alone
with his wife and hold her tenderly and whisper all the loving thoughts he had
for her. He closed the locker, turned the key, and, putting it in his pocket,
went to the cab. He put his hand out to her as he sat and adjusted himself in
the seat. "You're the most wonderful thing in my life, Maricarmen. I hope
we can live to be very, very old together." Deep feelings of love swept
through him. He was, after all, a man of deep sentiments and it didn't matter
to him where he was; he allowed his feelings to manifest--even in the cab of
his work truck which needed to be washed.
She took his
hand when she felt his on hers. She sensed something by the way he'd touched
her, and she liked that--his "code" which only she could decipher.
And his words, on, her heart fluttered like a young girl's after receiving an
endearment from an admirer; and she never tired of that continuation of their
youthful love which he kept alive by just being the spontaneously sweet man he
was. And yes, she too wanted to be very, very old with him: surrounded by
children and grandchildren (God willing). In a flash she projected herself long
into the future, insilvered hair in a long braid and watching an old Adelicio
carving santos and now and then lifting his grizzled face and smiling. With a
blink of her eyes she was back again in the truck holding hands with her lover
of long years. Her heart had been thrilled by his words, and in response she
replied: "I don't ever want to live without you."
He bent over
and gave her a kiss on the lips, a subtle breath and touch of love, a
benediction of lips which for him was like the utterance of hol words. He
started the engine.
The day had
been long and the movie a little bit too juvenile for Maricarmen; but the boys
had loved it and if anything, she was happy Ray and Phillip had enjoyed it. She
often felt the rural isolation they lived in was, in some ways, good for
children, for it shielded them from the gross defects of urban society and its
concommitant problems; but their isolation also separated the young people from
the world they must some day enter. She saw the boys as lambs and the world she
knew, and feared, as the wolf ready to pounce on the innocent. But she could
find no easement of this paradox; all she could do was live with it and try to
show the best and the worst of both and pray to Gid that Ray and Phillip and
all the innocents of the world would be strong against a world which at one
moment could be as serene as a summer evening and the next a hard, demanding,
competitive, rapacious beast. She saw the world and had understood it and had,
in her own way, fled it, taking refuge in her home and in Adelicio.
And now that
his long day was over she sat in Tio Roberto's front room, on the couch,
reading Max's novel while the boys were in the wrench "museum" with
Adelicio and Tio who was waxing prolific to the boys on the oddities of his
vast collection of wrenches.
She was
beginning to see a little of Max in the characters.
"Now I'm
going to show you one more wrench, then we can start cooking," said Tio
Roberto proudly to the boys who stood in wonder about all the different kinds
of wrenches in the collection; Phillip was taken by a particularly large pipe
wrench, chrome plated, which hung on the wall much like a trophy. He eyed it
intensely and let its image seep into his memory for future use in a drawing.
Because Tio
Roberto's leg hurt, Adelicio stood at the stove tending to chicken he fried in
a large skillet while Maricarmen stood at the kitchen table rolling out flour
tortillas which the boys cooked lby turns on the griddle; and the happy uncle
sat and sipped a beer out of a bottle as was his habit of many years.
"It's so
good to have company and a crowded kitchen with things cooking. Ever since
Josie passed away this kitchen don't get used the way a kitchen should. Hell, I
only cook for myself; can't rattle many pots and pans for only one," he
said matter-of-factly.
"Well,
Tio," said Adelicio, after turning the meat, then facing his mother's
cousin, "I got a big place; anytime you want to come, you come--you stay
for a week or a month--that's up to you. Mi casa es su casa. We've got
everything you need."
"Why
don't you come back with us, Tio," said Maricarmen. "There's plenty
of room in the truck, you'll be able to stretch your legs--plus, you can go
soak in the banos; it'll be good for your legs. By the way, did you go to a
doctor?"
"Si, si,
I went--couldn't find nothing--just old age. That's life, no? Can't stop
getting old," he said, again in his matter-of-fact way.
"no;
nothing can stop it, but we can at least make the best of things lwhile we're
alive," said Adelicio, as he took the last of the chicken pieces out of
the skillet and put them on top of the others on the big serving dish,
"and, Tio mio, you're still alive so you shouldn't be so lonely when you
have family around."
"Gracias,
muchas gracias. I"ll think about it. You're like your mother, bless her
memory; you take after her, Adelicio; she used to say things like that. She had
a good heart, your mother..." and he trailed off land sipped his beer
almost contemplatively.
The boys stood
proudly as they put the hot tortillas wrapped in a cloth on the table. They
helped Maricarmen tidy up the kitchen counter while Tio Roberto and Adelicio
set the table.
Chicken, flour
tortillas, green chile salsa, some beans; this was their fare. The adults drank
beer and Ray and Phillip drank milk. Roberto said a short grace, then they fell
to eating. In the middle of dinner Tio Roberto shook his head as if in
agreement to something said. "Ok, I'll go. We can leave in the morning
land I'll stay a couple of weeks. Maybe I'll reshoe Jezebel; I never did forget
how to shoe a horse or a mule. I put plenty of food on our table shoeing horses
in the old days, before I went to work on the railroad," he said, rolling
up another tortilla and biting down on it with gusto, accompanied by smacking
sounds of satisfaction. "You make tortillas as good as my Josie used to
make, maricarmen." lFor him to have said that was a great compliment to
her, and she knew that.
"Thanks,
Tio; I'm good, but Tia Josie was the best." She reached over to him and
touched his free hand. "I'm glad you've decided to come."
He was glad
they had asked him and he was glad to go. He had a few cronies in the
neighborhood, but no close family. His two children were living in California
and they seldom bothered to call or visit; he blamed their attitude on his job
on the railroad which had kept him constantly on the road, while they were
growing up and, well, not having a papa around all the time they got used to
his absence.
He would get
his neighbor, Mrs. Ramirez, to watch his plce; she was good that way and had
done him this service a few times through the years and vice versa. She would
take good care of his indoor plants. That was important for they, originally,
had been Josefina's plants and while they lived she was still alive for him in
the aloe veras, the succulents and African violets, the Swedish ivy which hung
majestically from the ceiling of the front room and the rose bushes outside
which he had planted for his Josie, at her request, many years before. He bit
down again on his tortilla, but not before he spooned on some green chile
salsa. It was ot and he loved hot chile. "Ah chile es el corazon del
mundo," he pronounced with the voice of a contented man surrounded by
domestic tranquility.
The last dish
was dried and put away. Adelicio and Maricarmen were alone in the kitchen. Tio
and the boys were in the front room watching television.
"Let's
have our coffee in the kitchen," she said, "I want to spent some time
alone with you. I'll bring Tio his now."
Upon returning, she found Adelicio had set up the coffee
cups and was sitting comfortably with his bootless feet propped up on a low
stool. He was smoking and relaxed. She poured the coffee nad sat herself down
across from her husband. They sweetened their coffees in silence, while from
the front room came the muted sound of the television two rooms away and down
the hall. The low hum of the refrigerator created a subtle tension. Only one
lamp burned; a wind was pushing a thin brass windchime and its dulcet tinkling
carried through the open back porch window and made the coffee sippers direct
their attention to the music of the chimes. Maricarment stared at the grey
hairs of Adelicio's temples and remembered when they had been dark; the years had
been go9d to him, to her. She didn't feel she needed more in her life. Having
come to this point in the development of her consciousness, allowed her to be
unabashedly generous with what she had.
"The
business has made a net profit of five0-thousand dollars in the past four
months. We've paid all the bills and the insurance, and we have two more big
jobs coming up. What do you say, partner?"
Adelicio
whistled and his forehead jumped in surprise. "Five grand--I didn't know I
was working so hard--that's more thatn I want to think about--plus we have ten
thousand saved. We're swimming in dough. Maybe I should help you with the
books."
She smiled.
"I can handle them pretty well. But at this rate we just might want to
think about expanding the business, buy another backhoe and hire an operator
and try for some contract work for the state. What do you think?"
"I don't
know. If we hire someone then I have to be a supervisor--and I don't want that.
Petty soon we'd get to buying more equipment and hiring more people and then
we'd really have some headaches we don't need. I'm happyu the way I am. Anyway,
if we expanded the business when would we have time to just sit around the way
we do at night--and when would I get a chance to spent time in my workroom and
carve my santos? No; I don't want to get any bigger--but I know you--and I
think you want us to do something with theat money. Am I right?"
"Exactly,
Yes, you do know me," she said, almost humbly. "I was thinking we
should start a trust fund for Ray's education; by the time he's out of high
school there might be enough to keep him in college witrhout having to work his
way through."
"That's a
good idea; but maybe he lwon't want to go to college."
"I've
thought about that--so we could give it to him as a wedding present
someday."
"Suppose
he doesn't want to get amrried," he said, knowing his devil's advocate
suppositions would tease her.
"Don't be
lie that," she said with a wave of her hand and a repressed laugh.
"I'm serious."
"I know. I
was only having a little fun. It's ok with me--either way. Sure, a college
trust fund. But we need to talk to an attorney and a financial adviser.
"We could
do that when we get home," she said, "I hope it's not
complicated."
"Don't
worry. We hire the experts and they take care of the complications. Now enough
talk of business and money; I want to sit out on the back porch with you and smooch." He laughed.
She laughed too. It was fun being with Adelicio because he was so natural and
good natured. Tio Roberto's words from dinner came back to her when he'd said
to Adelicio" "You are like your mother." Adelicio was like his
late mother, Lucy, in many ways and maybe that's why they got along so well
because Lucy had had the capacity of getting along with everyone and had passed
on her good naturedness to her son.
VI
Aurora had
awakened early and helped get Phillip ready by making him hot cocoa and some
cereal before the Jaramillos picked him up. She'd stood on the road and waved
until the truck was out of sight, then she went for a long walk which took her
to the river; it rushed full of spring water; the river was young and flush of
melting snows. Kneeling, she washed her hands in the icy cold river water and
also splashed some on her face. "Brr," her lips vibrated to the cold
dash of water, and her blood rushed through her face, much as the river rushed,
swelling her capillaries until her lips were as red as biblical rubies, and her
cheeks flushed, each a rose adorning her face. She did not wipe her face and hands
but let the fresh morning air bite and tickle her for a while, and then, taking
her handkerchief from her jacket, she carefully dried her face and hands.
She walked
about, eventually finding a spot that suited her. Sitting under a tree gazing
down to the river made her feel like a queewn reigning over a kingdom which had
never known war, poverty, famine or pestilence; a land where life lwas lived in
harmony with nature. Oh, she felt so good to be such a queen, who, being the
paragon, showed that wisdom, kindness and love were the correct apths of life. This was her utopia of a morning. She
knew her thoughts were only personal ideals of a perfect peace which howsoever
sought for is seldom, if ever, achieved in a lifetime; nonetheless, the ideal
was there, and if she could not, herself, achieve it, she would use her life in
pursuit of that ideal, well knowing it s illusiveness. And for a while she
meditated on her ideal while leaning against the tree: Queen Aurora,
protectress of peace and harmony.
As she sat on
her earth throne, Aurora gave some thought to her own life; she had peace,
harmony and love, she felt secure in her person, yet she lacked and longed for
a companion; she even entertained the thought of remarriage. She was devoted to
Phillip, but often she wanted adult, male company. Simply put: she wanted a man
in her life, someone who could love and protect her, as had Alfredo so
unconditinally. But, she asked herself, if it was just wishful thinking to
expect to find someone as loyal as Alfredo? However, neither would she settle
for second best, for she had known quality and was convinced she would know it
again when she encountered it.
Hungry at
last, and wanting a cup of coffee, she made her way back to the house and
cooked herself some breakfast; with breakfast over, she took her second cup of
coffee to the studio where she made herself comfortable and reread half a
chapter of her textbook revision. She was not pleased with the chapter land
went back to her desk and worked on it until way past noon when she stopped.
After so many hours of sitting a walk was in order. This time she did not
travel far, but she was gone for an hour and when she walked into the house the
phone was ringing; she answered it. On the other end was Maricarmen calling from Albuquerque,
saying they were staying overnight, "And would you mind lstopping by my
place and watering the plants?"
"Not at
all. How's Phillip?" And for a minute or so they chatted, then hung up.
She still had her jacket on and was still in a walking mood so she left once
again and made her way to the Jaramillo's place, passing the graveyard on the
familiar path.
When she got
to the clearing, she saw a blue pick-up truck with a camper shell on it parked
in front of the house. She slowed her step; the vehicle lwas not familiar; no
one in the neighborhood had such a vehicle. Perhaps it was a lost tourist. As
she got closer she saw no one was in the cab so she walked directly to the door
of the camper shell. She looked down to the license plate and saw the
distinctive mountains of the Colorado license plate. Could it be (she wondered)
that Max Powell had arived erlier than expected? She knocked. Someone from
inside moved, but was a long time in coming to the door, but when the door
finally opened, she immediately recognized Maxim Powell from the picture of him
on the dust cover of his novel.
"Hello,"
said he in a friendly voice, "who are you?"
"I'm
Aurora Cavallini, Adelicio and Maricarmen's neighbor--and I know who you
are--Maxim Powell. Am I correct?"
"In the
flesh, ma'am," and he stepped down and stood directly in front of her and
put out his hand. "I'm pleased to meet you."
She took his
hand. "And I'm pleased to know you. I've read your book."
"Really?
Well I'll be--even in Ojo Caliente. My fame precedes me, madame," he said
with a mock bow. "I hope you liked it."
"Adelicio
told me you had a sense of humor, and, yes, I liked your novel," she said
truthfully.
"Ha! I
love to hear that," was his response. "Where's Adelicio? I know I'm a
little early, but I hope he won't be gone long."
"They've
gone to Albuquerque on a shopping trip and will be staying overnight. I've just
talked to Maricarmen on the phone, my son is with them; they'll be back
sometime tomorrow, Mr. Powell."
"I'd
prefer Max, if you don't mind. And may I call you Aurora? It's a beautiful
name."
"Thank
you; and yes, call me Aurora. I came over to water the houseplants. Would you
like to come in? I'll make you some coffee and maybe you'd like to take a
shower."
"You must
have been reading my mind. Lead the way, Aurora."
She wasn't
sure she liked him; he seemed, somehow, a little cocky, even if he was polite.
She showed him
the bath, put towels out for him. While he refreshed himself she watered the
plants. And while watering, she recognized the plants she had given to
Maricarmen, some cuttings from her own house plants, some as gifts.
At a jade
plant which she'd seen when it was only a few inches high and now over a foot
tall, she stopped and reflected that so much time had passed since the day the
jade plant had been brought into the house; suddenly she felt a fear of time
and its ungraspable rapidity and that sometimes it passed and one was unaware
of its passage and at times too acutely aware of it and how often time was like
a chain, binding one to people places and things. But her fear was only a
momentary existential consideration--there was yet a lot of time left and,
moreover, the rest of the house plants needed to be watered yet.
The watering
done, she made her lway about the familiar kitchen preparing coffee and setting
out some fruit lshe had seen in the refrigerator. She would be Maricarmen's
surogate hostess.
She heard the
shower stop and a moment later heard a baritone voice singing a song, it had an
oriental lilt to it. Stopping, she listened, drinking in the haunting melody.
She would ask him to teach her the song and play it on her recorder.
A few minutes
later Max walked into the kithen dressed in a loose fitting pair of blue silk
pajamas; and on his feet were a pair of Chinese slippers with an embroidered
dragon thereon. He'd shaved and his combed, wet hair, looked awkward because it
lay so flat on his head; she repressed a laugh, but smiled at how silly, almost
boyish he looked with his slicked down hair.
"There is
nothing like a shower to make a man feel he can accomplish great things,"
he said which seemed to her an almost fervent gusto over a shower; and she
softened her initial impression of him. A man who could be enthused by such a
simple thing as a hot shower couldn't be as cocky as she'd thought.
"Thank
you for offering the shower. I've been in the woods and on the road without
running water for three days."
"I've
made some coffee and put out some fruit.Please, won't you be seated," she
said most graciously.
Her charm was
like a subtle command which cannot be refused. Max sat land watched her pour
coffee and he noticed there was only one cup. "Aren't you having
any?" he remarked.
"Dear
me!" lshe exclaimed, "I forgot to get myself a cup."
Max chuckled.
He liked her from the moment she'd invited lhim to coffee and when she said,
"Der me!" There had been a something in the tone of her voice, a kind
of matronly innocence which endeared her to him.
There was a
little nervous tension at the table for a few minutes. Max prepared his coffee,
sipped it, found it to his satisfaction, then took a long drink of it, then
proceded to bite into an apple and chew it contentedly. She fidgeted with her
stirring spoon. Aurora was lost as to what to say further. Max, she observed,
had made lhimself completely at home in no time at all. The lway he lsat and
helped himself so casually one would think him a long-time resident of this
house and gain she got the feeling of pertness from him. Ph, well, she was
being overly critical and would banish the ghought, and she said, "I
understand you've known Adelicio for many years."
"Ya,"
he said with a mouthful of apple. She found his "Ya" uncouth and to
have answered with a mouthful of apple--well--that man had no manners. She
pretended not to have noticed. She was not normally so priggish, she thought.
Aurora got up from the table.
"Will you
excuse me for a minute? I completely forgot to water the plants in the
bedroom."
What she'd
said was true; it had occured to her that she'd forgotten and had remembered at
a good time; she needed a couple of minutes alone to quiet herself. She was
being lvery rude silently and couldn't understand why. She got the watering can
and left to finish her chore.
While she was
gone, Max drank more coffee and finished lthe apple; it was a good apple, but
he wanted something more lsustaining. He'd had no breakfast and no lunch, and
the apple lwas whetting his appetite. Feeling at lhome, he looked into the
refrigerator, saw a loaf of bread and some leftoverl chicken. He helped
himself, found a dish, resat himself and began to eat.
Aurora took
her time watering the bedroom plants, but, also, she took time to calm herself.
Why had she been so critical? But it didn't take her long to figure out why:
she was comparing Max to Alfredo and that simply lwould not do--she had to see
men as they were, true to their own characters. She felt badly abou how she'd
felt land resolved to make it lup to him by inviting Max over to the house for
dinner. Yes, she would do that. Watering can in hand, she returned to the
kitchen ready to invite him to dinner only to find him alrady eating. She felt
a little defeated and foolish for not having offered to serve him something
more than just coffee and fruit.
"Would
you care to have a hot meal at my place later on?" she asked.
Max swallowed
the last bite of chicken, then answered, in a friendly manner, "I'd love
to have dinner with you. Allow me to bring the wine--give me the hour and
directions to your place and I'll be there."
She liked him
again. "Yes, please bring wine; I'd like tht. My place is easy to get to:
just go back the way you came and turn left at the first mailbox, or, you can
walk across the meadow. Come to the window, I'll show you."
Shoulder to
shoulder they stood at the window while she explained the way. "And after
you pass the burial plot, just keep bearing right and five minutes more walking
will get you to the front door."
"Great.
What time?"
Aurora looked
at her watch; it was just past three p.m. She made a quick calculation.
"About six o'clock. Ho'w that?"
"Perfect.
I can take a long nap and get some rest. I hardly slept last night. Then, if
you will excuse me, I'm going to throw myself on the couch and catch a few Zs."
She chuckled;
she'd not heard that ewxpression in quiet some time.
"Did I
say something funny?" he asked quizzically.
"No; it
was the 'catching la few Zs.' It's been a long time since I've heard it."
"I'm glad
you were amused. Now to really catching those Zs. See you at six--and thanks
for being such a god hostess. I'll recommend you highly to Maricarmen." He
turned and padded off on his red dragon slippers to the couch in the next room.
"Have a
good rest," she said.
He hesistated,
turned, waved his hand. "Thanks," and turned again and disappeared
into the next room.
She cleaned up
the coffee things, put her jacket on and slipped silently out of the house, and
on her way home, she decided on a menu.
At five
o'clcok Max's wrist alarm lbuzzed him awake. He lay for a moment to get his
bearings, then swung his legs to the floor and standing up, stretched his arms
high above his head and bent his torso in a circle a few times to the right and
then to the left. From his suitcase he took fresh clothing and dressed. He took
his time dressing and combing his hai. He looked at his watch; he had a while
yet, so he went out to his camper, selected two bottles of wine, put them on
the table, then, taking out lthe story he was writing, he read a few pages,
lmade some corrections and deletions. He had over one-hundred hand-written
pages; he wrote a few pages every day; he knew by past experience that in a
month or so he would have a few hundred more pages and then he would begin the
laborious chore of typig, which he did not like. Nonetheless, it had to be
done. He put the manuscript down and put it back in its file folder; he was not
in the mood to continue. He looked at his watch again; it was time to go.
Donning his jacket, and with a bottle of wine in ech hand, he lhad hi way via
Aurora's directions.
At the burial
plot lhe paused and studied the names and dates on the headstones; one in
particular caught his eye: 'Emilio Jaramillo, 1914-1960.' How well Max
remembered that Emilio's passing: Adelicio's paternal uncle. Adelico and Max
were in Fort Lewis, Washington, on maneuvers when the word came down that there
had been a death in his family and he was excused from the field exercises and
put on emergency leave. It was between pay days, so Max passed the hat around
the platoon land came up with a hundred dollars, which were given to their
bereaved comrade-in-arms. Now, twenty-eight years later he was seeing the
headstone of the long-deceased uncle. Max liked the solitude of the plot and
resolved lto return again and stay a while. Reverently he withdrew and
continued on his way
{NOTE BY R. Haig: Fragmented text below retrieved from
original MS Word document}
o many people wanted him. For a while he'd been heady and
was liking the attention; but he soon wearied and, feeling saturated by people
and events, he asked his agent not to accept lany more book signings or public
appearances for a while.
So, loading up
his fishing and camping gear into his camper, he left his home in Manitou Sp