Read Child of a Rainless Year Online
Authors: Jane Lindskold
Child of a Rainless Year (22 page)
What I was thinking about was the Pecos, certainly an enchanting and enchanted place. Where else could one come across a man by the name of Mr. Merlin, living on the banks of a stream called the Holy Ghost. And where else in this sophisticated world could you find a Mr. Merlin wholly and completely unaware of this conjoining of fact and fable, of pagan and Christianity?
—Milton C. Nahm,
Las Vegas and Uncle Joe
You can imagine how I nearly went crazy myself skimming through, looking for entries that said more, but as far as I could tell, there were none. Aunt May had discovered the joy of research for its own sake, and her hungry mind was devouring stories and building connections. No doubt about it. The world lost a great researcher when Aunt May was locked away into the bland expectations of suburbia.
I didn’t mind the tangents. Actually, her enthusiasm was a delight, and I had a feeling that there were more jewels for me amid the scrawled paragraphs, maybe even the gem I sought, but I was too impatient to wait.
I thought about racing off to the local library and seeing what I could find. There was a university in town as well. I felt certain they had some sort of program through which I could do research or borrow books. I might have to pay a fee, but unlike Aunt May, who had to wait on an allowance, I had my own money.
Then I had a thought. I checked the time, decided it was too late to call, and settled for drafting an e-mail to Betty Boswell.
“Dear Betty,” it began, “I was wondering if you’d take the spare key and go over to my parents’ house. There are a couple of books of Aunt May’s that I’d like to have here. I don’t know the exact titles, but one is a dictionary of mythology and the like. Also, if she has any books on mirrors and on the symbolism of color, that would be great.
“Could you send them to me? I’ll reimburse you for the postage, of course.”
I sent it before I could regret the notion. If I got too impatient, there still were libraries and local bookstores. Indeed, New Mexico was a New Age haven, and I could probably find anything I wanted in Santa Fe.
But I wanted Aunt May’s copies if at all possible. Her books would bring her closer.
And who knew what she might have written in the margins!
Was it in defiance of the influence Phineas House was asserting over me that after nearly two full months of residence, I finally began to explore the town that was becoming my new home? Or was it the desire of the House that I do so and in this way gain some sort of understanding of the deep and twisted complexities that surrounded the House—and with understanding, more deeply bind myself into those same complexities?
This I do not know, even at this late date, nor do I ever expect to do so. Whatever the reason—defiance or domination—I began to learn about the strange history of Las Vegas, New Mexico. As I learned I also began to suspect the role Phineas House had played in those events—or if not the House itself, the forces of which the House was somehow a part.
As I have said before, for all that my birth certificate states that I was born in Las Vegas, my knowledge of that town was minimal. My earliest world was Phineas House itself. Later this expanded to include the seminary and the homes of a few school friends. I remember little else.
The real estate agent, Mrs. Morales, had told me a little of the town’s history. I had gathered a bit more from my neighbors, most of whom were amateur historians by virtue of their interest in restoring old homes. Now I decided to set this fragmented information into a pattern, and who better to ask for help than Domingo? He had lived in Las Vegas all his life, apparently contentedly. Chilton O’Reilly might have some interesting tales. But I began with Domingo.
“What does ‘Las Vegas’ mean, anyhow?” I asked one morning. “I keep having to tell my friends that I’m not on the gambling strip in Nevada.”
“It means ‘the Meadows,’” Domingo said, the twinkle in his eyes telling me that I was not the first resident of the town to have this problem. “Called so, I think, because in the earliest days when this was a land grant given by the Spanish government to the family of Luis Maria C. de Baca, all that was here were meadows, good for nothing much but grazing—though by all accounts they were very good for that.”
I’d heard a little about the Baca land grant, and knew that even now, a hundred and eighty or so years later, it was a sore point with some of Hispanic residents of Las Vegas, especially those of Spanish descent. Judging from his tone Domingo did not seem to be among these.
“‘The Meadows,’”I said, trying it out. “I guess I can see it. I must say, though, that the mountains stand out just as much.”
“They do,” Domingo agreed. “Some years ago a publicity campaign for Las Vegas—trying to bring in residents and businesses, you understand—used the slogan ‘Where the Mountains Meet the Plains.’ It did okay, but nothing like Santa Fe calling itself ‘The City Different’ or Albuquerque’s nickname, ‘the Duke City.’”
“I like it,” I protested. “It speaks to the heart.”
Domingo smiled. “You have an artist’s heart, Mira, and you like contrasts very much. But ‘Las Vegas’ is not the town’s full name.”
“No?”
“No. She is Nuestra Señora de Los Dolores de Las Vegas.”
“Our Lady of the Sorrows of Las Vegas?”
“Yes. The Virgin Mary has many mysteries. They are celebrated in the rosary. It is as ‘Our Lady of Sorrows,’ though, that most Catholics love her best, because her sorrows mean she will understand our own.”
“Oh.” I felt a little uncomfortable with this Catholic mysticism. Aunt May had been religiously eclectic in her views, but those views were private. Publicly, we were a tidy little Protestant family, trotting off to our nondescript but good-hearted little church each week.
I hadn’t thought about whether Domingo was religious or not, or, to be honest, whether he had a religion other than his devotion to Phineas House. This easy familiarity with Roman Catholicism was unsettling—because it separated me from the only person to whom I felt at all close, the person who shared a private mystery with me. I decided to shift the subject.
“So,” I said, “if I was going to play tourist, what should I see?”
Domingo gave this serious consideration. “There is always the plaza. Have you been there?”
“Not really. I’ve been through, but never to look around.”
“Well, in a Spanish town, the plaza is always the heart, and this is still true today. Of course, Las Vegas is odd in this as so many other things. Did you know that for much of its history Las Vegas was two towns, not one?”
“Two? No offense, Domingo, but there’s hardly enough population for one town, much less two side by side. I thought that only happened where urban sprawl had filled in the gaps.”
Domingo’s smile was sad. “It can happen where hatred and resentment rule as well. Las Vegas was, as I have said, a town that originally developed as many towns do—because here there was water and elsewhere there was not. With the development of the Santa Fe Trail, and, later, the founding of Fort Union, the town began to thrive.
“Then in 1879 the railroad came, and this changed everything. For various reasons I cannot recall right now, the railroad chose to run its line a mile from what was then the heart of town. Almost immediately, a second town—a boomtown—grew up near the railroad. From the start, the old town and the new were rivals, each fiercely resenting the other.”
“Money will do that,” I said.
“New money meeting old,” Domingo agreed, “but there was more. The old money was mostly Spanish. The new money was Anglo—and New Mexico had not been a part of the United States for very long.”
“Was it a state yet?”
“Oh, no, not for a long time yet. That would come in 1912, but the United States took over governance of New Mexico from Mexico in 1846. Interestingly, Las Vegas was the first place in the territory where the announcement of United States’ rule was made. General Kearney, who did this, did his best to reassure the local population that they would be well-treated, but …”
Domingo gave one of his eloquent shrugs.
“I know enough American history to guess what happened,” I said. “As long as there was nothing of great value—other than trade that was already locked down—the locals were pretty much left to go on as they had, but when the railroad came, and there was new money to be had …”
“Exactly,” Domingo said. “Now, you must understand, I am American, but even so, the first language I learned to speak was Spanish. Old memories run long here. When the train came to Las Vegas in 1879—on July 4th, incidentally—thirty years had passed since the Americans had taken over, but there were still many who thought of themselves as Spanish. Spain had ruled here, too, within many of their lifetimes. They were
dons
and
doñas—
lords and ladies—and they did not at all like the sudden influx of rough men who called them ‘Mexicans,’ ‘greasers,’ and other things less kind.”
dons
and
doñas—
lords and ladies—and they did not at all like the sudden influx of rough men who called them ‘Mexicans,’ ‘greasers,’ and other things less kind.”
“So two towns grew up from this?”
“That’s right. East and West Las Vegas, or sometimes called the Old Town and the New Town. Each was proud, each thinking itself right. Side by side, two towns, two governments, two school systems, angry twins glowering at each other over old grudges. When the local economy finished its long collapse in the early 1920s, the money was gone and the only currency left was resentment.”
“You know a lot about this,” I said, mildly surprised to find my handyman such a historian.
“All of us who love Las Vegas know these events and occasions,” Domingo said simply. “We are still trying to figure out why we cannot recover. Santa Fe is a mere sixty-five miles away and thriving. Being the seat of the state government helps, but that cannot be the only reason. Taos, in the mountains to the north is isolated, yet it continues to grow and thrive—even to take over some of the trendiness that Santa Fe has lost. Albuquerque is a great ugly city, but vital. Here in Las Vegas, we shrivel and fade, no matter how hard we try. It is an eternal puzzle.”
I felt odd and shivery, almost as I had when we stood together outside the closed doors of Phineas House. Domingo had shown me something important here, but I lacked the key to understand it. Giving myself a quick shake, I turned to him.
“So, can you tell me what I should look for in the Plaza? Or is there a tourist center where I can go and get maps and things?”
“Both,” Domingo said, with a shy and yet courtly smile. “Or I can escort you. As you said, I know a lot about local history. I would very much enjoy sharing it with a native come home again.”
My cheeks grew hot, and I felt a sudden prickling under my collar, but I ignored this.
“If you can spare the time.”
“Well, I already have the crew coming to paint today,” Domingo said, looking less pleased than he had a moment before. “However, we are coming up on Labor Day weekend. I am sure they would not mind an extra day off—and if there are those who need to work, I can find them some. Can you wait until Friday?”
Today was Wednesday.
“I can,” I agreed. “It will give me a chance to do some research. It seems there’s a lot more to Las Vegas than I realized.”
Domingo smiled. “I will tell you some books to read. I can even loan you some.”
I nodded, uncertain whether he was seeing this venture as a date, a duty, or an opportunity to lecture. Later, when I found the stack of books on my kitchen table, beside them was a very nice bouquet of roses, fancy ones, wrapped in florist paper, not cut from our mutual garden. They were mostly yellow, with one red glowing at the heart.
Then I thought I knew.
The water heater stopped heating Wednesday afternoon, and dealing with plumbers and the like made the days between my conversation with Domingo and our planned outing speed by.
Betty Boswell had e-mailed to say that she had found a bunch of books she thought would interest me, and that she had mailed them that same afternoon. However, appalled by the cost of shipping, she’d sent them the cheapest—and slowest way.
I resigned myself to waiting, though I could well have afforded the more expensive rate. I’d sold an old toaster online for an amazingly good price, especially since I was quite definitely afraid to use it. The chrome might have dazzled, but the wiring screamed “fire hazard.”
Friday morning I took a hot shower with a new appreciation for the pleasure, then went downstairs to meet Domingo. He poked his head around a door frame and asked if I wanted to start our touring immediately after breakfast, and I agreed.
Torn between feeling like I was going on a first date, and a purely practical awareness that we were probably going to spend much of the day walking, I had fussed over what to wear the night before. I settled on my lightweight hiking boots, a nice pair of jeans, and a short-sleeved, hand-painted silk blouse in swirling shades of dark amber and honey that reminded me somewhat of the images in one of Colette’s kaleidoscopes. I added amber earrings, and a matching bracelet I’d bought for a song on one of my European trips with Aunt May and Uncle Stan.
When I hurried down the stairs to put on the coffee, I felt festive and happy. My own reflection in one of the mirrors rather surprised me. Yes, I was still a somewhat stocky, fifty-something woman, but there was a sparkle in my rainy-day eyes and a hint of rose in my pale cheeks. Even my hair seemed to have more shine.
“New Mexico agrees with you, Mira,” I said, and avoided my own blush in the myriad mirrors in the kitchen as I made the coffee.
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