My GPS had gotten me to the Pueblo with just a couple
of “recalculations,” but I couldn’t find the two-tone truck with the bashed-in
fender anywhere among the mobile homes, blocked cars, and tumbling adobe
structures. And Leonard X was not one of the two men who sat, staring through
me, from the lopsided porch of what was supposed to be his family home.
Before he dashed off to his new job in New York, my
predecessor, Peter, had alerted me to the Pueblo distrust of outsiders and the
necessity of formal “introductions”––particularly among the more traditional
people. Driving home this point, a pack of feral looking dogs now circled
beneath the door of my SUV, with the two gentlemen, who continued to glare at
me under the visors of their b-caps, making no move to call them off.
I can do this, I told myself, as I used Leonard’s
very basic written directions to shield me from their laser stares. I just had
to stand my ground and hope they didn’t sense my fear.
Opening the car door just enough, I yelled, “back”
and stomped my hiking book hard enough to throw up a cloud of white dust and
send the dogs rippling back to safe distance. There they hung, like wolves
circling a campfire, wary of my every move. But by the time I had both feet on
the ground, one of them, with Dalmatian spots and long collie-like fur, was
already inching forward, nosing the ground but with her light brown eyes fixed
firmly on mine.
Sensing a softness in her demeanor I took a gamble
and extended my hand. She stopped, waited, then moved in closer, sniffing my
fingers, and eventually slid her head under my hand for a scratch. She enjoyed
only a moment’s pleasure before she was jostled away by another dog and still
another, nipping and whining and circling my legs so I could hardly move.
“Are they
yours?” I called to the men on the porch.
“Pueblo dogs,” the older one said, expressionless.
As I baby-stepped through my canine escort, I noticed
several other dogs wandering about the place. One with a Saint Bernard’s head
on a Lab’s body lolled in the shade of a cottonwood. Two others stirred up a
whirlwind of dust as they romped and nipped at each other, while a loner,
looking something like a fox with pendulous teats, warned off all comers. It
was as though someone had shaken their genes like dice in a cup and dumped out
all combinations from handsome to downright homely. As I watched my little
Dalmatian-Collie lead the pack off toward some new sound that caught her
attention, I couldn’t help but admire a certain exuberance missing in her
domesticated cousins. Maybe it was worth some scrounging and cold nights out of
doors not to owe their entire existence to the benevolence of one person or
family.
But I wasn’t here to study dogs. I was here to meet
Leonard X and buy one of his pots. I took a deep breath and turned to the
gentlemen on the porch.
“I’m Lizzy Murdoch, from the museum? I’m here to meet
Leonard.” I purposely dropped the X all the collectors used in place of his
ostensibly unpronounceable last name.
“I wanted to purchase one of his pots.” The younger
one snickered. I cleared the pig-squeal pitch from my voice and tightened my
arms to hide the sweat rings. “Is Leonard home?”
At that, the smaller, withered man balanced what I’d
assumed was a beer can, but turned out to be a diet soda, on the arm of his
rickety folding chair. He motioned his head toward the house.
“He’s inside?”
“Lenny ain’t. Larry is.”
After that the only sound came from a fly buzzing the
soda can and the dog under the tree slurping his private parts.
From the meager bits of Pueblo etiquette Peter had
imparted before leaving, I knew better than to walk up and knock at the door.
So I stood there with the blood pounding my skull from the inside and the heat
pounding it from the outside, praying for something––anything––to break this
dead silence.
Then the screen door swung open and, in spite of the
old man’s laconic remark, I swore the guy who stepped out was Leonard. Until I
realized that this fellow was a few inches shorter, much, much thinner except
for the paunch over his belt, and with longer hair only slightly touched with
gray.
After snapping open a beer can and barely avoiding
the slap of the screen door, he, at least, extended a hand. “You must be the
lady from the museum…. Len said you might show up today.”
“Yes, I’m Elisabeth Murdoch. Is Leonard around
anywhere?”
He sucked in some air and gazed out at over the brown
horizon. “Nope… I’m his brother, Larry.
Lenny had to, um … go somewhere.” He gave me a quick side-glance. “Can I get
you something to drink? It’s still pretty hot out.”
“No, thank you. Will Leonard be back soon?”
“No, prob’ly not….” He hooked his thumb in his belt
and sipped his beer. “Too bad you came all this way. My Mom’ll cook you up
something. . . .”
“I really don’t have time to eat, thanks. You see, a
woman named Betty Greene, one of our biggest–– well actually, yes, she is the
museum’s biggest donor–– is meeting me in Santa Fe tonight. She was expecting
me to purchase one of your bother’s pots for her.”
The young man snickered again.
“Like I said…Sorry you came all this way…” Larry
still didn’t look at me, and his earlier cordiality seemed to have cooled.
I tried another approach. “ The best part is, Betty
will loan the piece I buy to the New York museum for their upcoming exhibit.
Only, I have to have it today. Everything for New York needs to be inventoried
by next Friday…. Leonard doesn’t really need to be here, does he? If I could
just come in and see what he has. You must have some idea of the price. I can
leave a check, and if it isn’t enough I’m sure Betty will––” A cackling voice
pierced the screen door. It ran on for several seconds in a language I couldn’t
understand.
At the end Larry translated, “My Mom says no.”
For some reason I looked toward the two men. All I
got was another hard stare.
“I don’t think your mother understands. Leonard’s
piece would be seen in New York City. His work would receive national––even
international––attention, not to mention the prices he could command.”
“No…you don’t
understand.” Larry looked straight at me for the first time. “Lenny makes his
pots when the clay calls to him. It tells him what designs to make and how to
use them. It tells him which he can sell and which he should give to the church
and which he should give away. We can’t know what the clay told him…. My Mom
says, no.”
Another silence fell, and I had to assume I’d gotten
the final word. I did my best to spit out some polite words to leave the way
open should Leonard X ever see fit to honor his obligation, and I drove away.
Not even the dogs came to see me off.
Though the chilling night air rushed through my car
as I drove down the mountain, I felt the walls closing in. Ahead of me, in a
Santa Fe restaurant, the woman who held the entire museum board in her pocket
waited to celebrate our procurement of a coveted Leonard X pot. While back at the
Pueblo I envisioned those three men tearing me apart with their lewd comments.
From the young guy’s snickering, I had a feeling
Leonard had told them more about me than what I did for a living.
Through the perfect lens of hindsight, I now saw how
naïve it was sitting in his truck that night after the reception pouring black
coffee down his throat. But that clumsy grab at my ass was as close as Leonard
X ever came to screwing me. At least until now.
How had my reputation tarnished so quickly? Just a
few weeks ago I was the wunderkind, offered a top museum position just barely
out of my twenties. Now my golden touch had turned to crap.
It seemed like such a coup snagging the year’s
first-place winner at Indian Market for my “Meet the Artist Series” debut, until
Leonard arrived drunk. Members tried not to notice as he blinked at slides of
his work like photos of people he should recognize but didn’t. Until he fell
against the podium and nearly knocked it off the stage.
First, people coughed and shifted in their seats.
Then those seated on the ends discreetly exited. Eventually large groups openly
stood to leave, giving me wide birth on the way out. Only Betty remained long
enough to ask if I’d be all right on my own, raising her eyebrows toward
Leonard, before making her own quick exit along with her chortling husband,
Lou.
I don’t know why I even cared whether Leonard landed
face down in the parking lot. I’d handed him a great opportunity, and he threw
it in my face. I spent the next two days feigning work in the storerooms to
dodge Betty’s calls.
Then, on the third morning, a Friday, I found Leonard
standing outside my locked office holding a collapsing brown box overflowing
with crumpled newspapers. Leonard was a large man with course silver and black
hair that fringed just past his ears, but as he stood there with shoulders
drooping and head hanging like a guilty puppy, the diatribe I’d rehearsed for
our next meeting dissipated. I invited him in.
He refused the coffee I offered with a wave of his
hand. Then he placed the box in the center of my desk and waited with hands
shoved in his pockets.
For a moment, I wondered if he hadn’t just brought me
his trash, but underneath all those balled up pages from Indian Country Today, I found one of the most exquisite pots I had
ever seen. It was about eight inches high, made of a white clay and decorated
with an intricate relief that made it appear almost more Chinese than Pueblo.
Until then I’d only seen his work in photographs, but holding it in my hands I
suddenly knew what all the buzz was about. Based on the craftsmanship and
Leonard’s very limited output, I valued it at $10,000, at the very least––far
more than I could accept as a personal gift.
Feeling my way carefully I thanked him on behalf of
the museum and told him what a wonderful addition it would make to our
contemporary collections, but as I reached into my drawer for the proper forms,
Leonard placed the pot back in the box, threw a few papers on top, and turned
to go.
That’s when the idea hit me.
“Leonard, wait.” I raced around my desk and caught
his arm. “I hope you understand. It’s a lovely piece, but it’s one of those
tricky ethical issues.” He didn’t leave, but his eyes were flat. I had to work
fast. “There is another favor you could do for me. To be honest, it will be
worth a lot more to me. I didn’t get off to a very good start with the museum
board.” I allowed the implication to hover between us for a second or two.
“Betty Greene, a very influential person with the board, has been dying to get
her hands on one of your pieces ever since you sold out early at Indian Market.
If she could purchase––“
“This one’s not for sale.” He pulled his arm away.
“It doesn’t need to be this particular one. Any one
will do.” I went on to mention that Betty would likely pay quite a bit, so he
might just as well sell her one of his larger works, and that I could no doubt
persuade her to loan it to the New York museum for the exhibit Peter was compiling.
Eventually he’d agreed to meet me at his Pueblo on
Tuesday to see what he had. Well, I’d said Tuesday, and he’d grunted, but I
couldn’t see it as anything but a win-win situation––until I lost.
Now I had to
face Betty, the board barracuda, empty-handed and rack up even more points
toward my premature dismissal.
“So where is it?” Betty asked in her New York accent,
as I approached the table where she sat with Lou. “Please tell me you left it
in the car.”
I did consider telling her that, yes, I had left it
locked safely in my car and would transfer it to her after our celebration. Or
I could buy even more time by telling her that Leonard X asked to design a
unique piece, just for her. Only I was too grown up now to find value in
postponing the inevitable.
“I wasn’t able to get it.” Fumbling into my seat I
almost knocked over the margarita sitting at my place.
Betty raised her eyebrows toward her husband.
“Hey, she did me a favor,” Lou said. “I can buy a new
car with what that guy would have charged for one pot.”
“Well she didn’t do me a favor. I could have bought
Tanya Gonzales’s new piece. She always gives me first choice, but I had to tell
her I was buying a Leonard X instead.”
“Something
came up, an emergency, and Leonard couldn’t be there. Another time ––”
“What other time? Did you tell him I was going to
send that pot to the exhibit in New York?”
“She just told you, he wasn’t there.”
“Shut up, Lou.”
“So he couldn’t call you and save you the trouble?”
“Those people don’t have phones.”
“Lou, please.”
“Well, actually, he doesn’t have a phone.”
“I’ll tell you what his emergency was. He needed a
quick drink to ward off the DT’s.” Lou took a sip of his margarita.
“Oh, Lou, will you stop that. You embarrass me.”
Betty waved a hand at him.
“What? I’m not talking stereotypes. I’m talking about
one particular Pueblo Indian.”
Betty rolled her eyes.
“You’re telling me he wasn’t drunk as a skunk at that
museum reception?”
Betty folded her arms and leaned toward me, “As a
matter of fact, dear, I could have told you. Peter said many, many times he
would never allow Leonard X to appear in public. He just can’t be trusted to
behave. Now, Tanya Gonzales, that’s another story. She and her work both show
well. You know what I mean? That’s why we all adore her. She would have been a
much better choice for your debut.”
Well your paragon, Peter, isn’t here anymore, I
wanted to tell her for the hundredth time. I took his place when he moved on to
the big-time museum in New York, and don’t bother calling him again, like you
did after the reception debacle, because, frankly, I don’t think he gives a
pig’s patoot what goes on out here, so long as I get him the pieces he
requested for his new exhibit.
Of course, I didn’t say that. Instead I assured her
that it was only a slight delay, and she reminded me that, after Friday, it
would be too late for the New York shipment, which would be such a pity.
“This place makes the best margarita in town,” Lou
told me, after Betty excused herself for the ladies room. “I had that one
waiting for you, and you never even touched it. Go ahead, before all the ice melts.”
I took his advice. In fact, I took several large
gulps.
“That’s what I like to see. Listen, doll, don’t worry
about her. She just wants that pot because the Mancinis got one at Indian
Market last year and she didn’t. She hates being outdone.” Lou licked the salt
from his lips. “Besides, the last thing we need is another goddamn pot.”
Neither the clear fall air nor the panoramic view of
Santa Fe invigorated me as I drove up the Greene’s steep, winding driveway. I
was too distracted wondering what had precipitated this brunch invitation from
someone whose opinion of me was on such a slippery slope. Either Peter had
pleaded a second chance for me during one of her complaint sessions, or she was
planning a private moment to suggest my “voluntary” resignation.
From the hints Peter dropped during phone calls about
our New York shipment, I knew that Betty continued to regale him with my
faults. In addition to the Leonard X debacle, she now included the reception
for Tanya Gonzales that made the second in my series. The much-adored Tanya, of
course, behaved impeccably. Her dark skin exquisitely set off her self-designed
turquoise jewelry as she sat signing a coffee table collection of her work.
Later she narrated a career retrospective compiled in Power Point by her
husband and business partner, Ron, and injected her talk with the perfect dose
of humor and Pueblo humility.
Still Betty complained that the hors d’oeuvres were
too dry and the wine was too sweet. I made poor Tanya sign far too many books.
My introduction lacked enthusiasm, and we ran out of toilet paper in the ladies
room.
As I climbed the Greene’s flagstone steps,
resignation had begun to look more desirable than a second chance. My dream in
college was to work with art and artifacts, not to roll over for rich donors.
Each step up brought more prestige but no more security and a lot less freedom.
To my relief Lou answered the door while Betty busied
herself in the kitchen with the caterers. He had a drink in my hand before I
even said hello. “I make the next best margarita in town,” he winked, then
gestured his own frosted glass around the adobe-style living room. “What did I
tell you? Do we need anymore goddamn pots? She’s even got them in the bathroom…
Hey, at least I’ll always have a pot to piss in, right?”
I avoided his elbow jab by stepping over to examine
an acquisition but was distracted by high-pitched yipping on the other side of
the room. A little dog, slightly resembling the Dalmatian-Collie from Leonard’s
Pueblo, sat at the French doors. She was pure white and could have passed for a
stuffed toy had she not been whining and trembling with wiry tension. Her paws
kneaded the carpet while her ears stuck straight up like little birthday hats.
She was watching Tanya Gonzales who sat cross-legged
on the patio while two little brown-haired girls braided her ebony hair.
“That poor dog,” Lou said. “She’s dying to get out
and play with the kids, but Betty keeps her on a short leash. Just like me.”
“She’s so pretty. What’s her name?”
“Betty calls her Zuni. That’s where she found
her––Zuni Pueblo––on one of her pot buying sprees with Peter. Said she fell in
love and just had to have her. Beats me how Peter even got her in the car.” He
shook his head. “Betty always had that guy jumping through hoops. No wonder he
couldn’t wait to get to New York.”
“I suppose you and Betty will be seeing him when you
go out for the opening.”
“Are you kidding? She’s not going out there without
some expensive contribution to show off to all her old rivals.”
I waved to Tanya who had just looked my way. She
opened the door just a crack and squeezed through, restraining the dog with her
foot. “I’d love to let you out, Zuni, but Betty’s afraid you’ll run away.
Girls,” she called over her shoulder, “watch for Zuni when you come in.” She
kissed me on the cheek. “I’m so glad you could come, Lizzy,” she said in her
breathy voice. “I’ve been asking Betty to have us all over. We couldn’t really
get to know each other at the reception.”
“Well this is a nice surprise. Betty didn’t say you’d
be here.”
“Oh, Tanya’s here all the time,” Betty said, coming
out of the kitchen. “Her little girls are just like our own grandchildren,
aren’t they, Lou. Is Ron still lying down, sweetie?”
“Yes,” Tanya sighed, “My husband has another one of
his headaches.”
“Then I can’t show Lizzy your newest creation. It’s
in our bedroom. I didn’t want it out here with the children running around.
It’s a replica of an old ceremonial vase.”
“Well, it’s modeled on that idea. It’s not an exact
replica. I couldn’t’ do that––”
“Oh, excuse
me, Tanya dear,” Betty interrupted, “but I just have to show Lizzy the present
you made for Zuni. It’s for her one-year anniversary with us.”
Betty picked up one of two bowls from the living room
floor. They appeared to be decorated in traditional black and white designs,
but actually comprised the name “Zuni” running in all different directions.
“Zuni,” Betty squealed, slapping her thighs, “come
and show Auntie Tanya how you love the new bowls she made you…come on.” Zuni
had zeroed in on a bird flitting just past the patio and never even turned her
head.
Tanya knelt down by the dog. She scratched her under
her collar and followed her tense gaze past the patio and its green landscaped
border to the brown countryside beyond. Wearing braids and a simple sundress,
it was hard to see her as the confident businesswoman who had turned my
reception to standing-room-only. While Betty rearranged the buffet table, I
went over and scratched the dog with my toe.
Tanya whispered, “Betty was just telling me about
your trouble with Leonard.” She pronounced the unpronounceable name and glanced
quickly over her shoulder. “Please don’t take it personally. His people are
very traditional, and this is all so new to him. He hasn’t found a balance.” I
waited for her to explain, but after a few seconds of quiet, she changed the
subject. “I was thinking, we’re going to my Pueblo later for a rain ceremony.
Would you like to come?”
“Do you think it would be alright? Would they mind
having an outsider?”
“As long as I introduce you, and you don’t bring a
camera. My people are a little more open to visitors. Peter became like part of
the family. Maybe we can ride with you. Then Ron can go home. He… doesn’t enjoy
it as much as I do. Though I should warn you, my girls get in an awful state
when we go up there. My Gramma spoils them crazy.”
“Brunch is served, everyone,” Betty called, “Tanya, I
had the caterers set something up in the kitchen for the children.” The dog
visibly tensed once Tanya stopped petting her, but she was so focused on the
flitting birds and the children that she paid us no attention as we moved to
the buffet.
A few minutes
later, Ron stumbled into the living room massaging his temples. Wisps of his
fine, reddish hair pointed in various directions and red pillow marks etched
his cheek.
“I guess his headache’s not so bad that he can’t
eat,” Tanya mumbled to no one in particular, and then a little louder, “Ron,
will you call the girls? Betty wants them to eat in the kitchen.”
Blinking and running his hands through his hair Ron
scanned the room until he heard his daughters out on the patio. He stumbled
toward the door and lurched for the handle.
“Watch Zuni, “ Betty screeched, but it was too late.
Ron had barely cracked the door, when the little dog
wriggled through and was across the patio and crashing through the evergreen
border before anyone could move. Soon she was nothing but a white dot, weaving
through the juniper and pine bushes dotting the brown hill beyond.
“Oh my God, Zuni,” Betty clapped her hand to her
mouth. “Lou, do something.”
“I’m a sixty year old man,” Lou said. “I’m going to
chase a dog across the desert? She’s wild. She can take care of herself.”
“But she’ll never come back,” Betty said.
The little girls criss-crossed the patio, squealing
the little dog’s name, while all eyes fixed on Tanya’s still-dazed husband.
He combed his fingers through his hair. “Uh, maybe I
should go look for her.”
“Oh, yes, Ron, please,” Betty ran to the closet for
the leash.
Ron looked to Tanya.
“I guess you should.” Her voice was low and even.
“Take the car. I was going to drive to Gramma’s with Lizzy anyway. We’ll meet
you home.”
Betty pulled Ron toward the door. She shoved the
leash in one hand and two bags of treats in the other. “Rattle these and say
‘cookie, cookie.’ Maybe she’ll come. She doesn’t respond to her name.”
“Yeah, cookie, cookie… sure.” He waved the leash
limply. “See yu’”
Betty wrung her hands, “No matter how hard I tried, I
could never get that dog to obey. It was like she didn’t even recognize her own
name. I was just going to hire a trainer. Oh, please let him find her,” she ran
out to the patio. Shading her eyes, she
searched the brown countryside in every direction, while Tanya’s daughters mounted
a large rock and called Zuni over and over.
“Hey, come on
girls,” Lou said, “No sense letting all this food go to waste.” He wedged
between Tanya and me and cut three generous slices of quiche. “That dog was
itching to get away ever since she came. Believe me, she’s long gone.”
“Poor Betty,” Tanya said and gazed through the door
where Betty Greene stood with folded hands pressed to her lips. But I could
swear a brief smile crossed Tanya’s face when she glanced at me, though she
looked away so quickly it was hard to tell.
