Owen's Daughter (18 page)

Though it wasn’t very late, Skye took his advice. She stripped down and turned the shower on as hot as it could go. She cycled through vague memories of her early childhood days. When she was a toddler and her dad gave her baths, he always made sure to put in bubble-bath powder. Just like Gracie, she’d never wanted to go to bed, either. She was always afraid she’d miss something. There had to be a reason parents poured cocktails and put on music once the kids were in bed. Gracie fought sleep so hard, sometimes Skye had to rub her back for an hour.

After her shower she dressed in a pair of her mother’s silk pajamas and found a matching robe. La Perla. Navy silk with gold trim. Wow, that had to cost a week’s worth of groceries. Her feet were too big for her mother’s slippers, so she put on fuzzy socks and walked out to the main room to look around. She’d been here only once before, and that time she happened to be a little bit drunk. Okay, maybe a lot. And she might have thrown a couple pills in the mix, too. But Mama was hard to take sober.

Her mom had yelled at her in front of the other guests, saying Skye had ruined the housewarming by showing up “altered.” Skye had known that the only way she could go to the party was “altered,” and Mama was plenty “altered” herself, on gin and tonic, and said so.

The place was small, but everything in it was high-end. The floor—red Saltillo tiles with small blue ones inlaid at the corners—had been scattered with kilim rugs. The adobe walls were stark white. A weathered, rustic console table piled with leather-bound books sat in front of an Indian rug on one wall. Sheila didn’t read, so the books must’ve come via a decorator. A Moroccan-style light fixture with amber glass panes hung over one of those pigskin tables that made Skye cringe:
Come sit at my dead animal skin table!
There was a wall mirror framed in some exotic scrolled wood, and the typical Santa Fe paintings you’d expect to see: a
giclée
Miguel Martinez Latino Madonna, a stunning Frank Howell grandmother print, and one of the clouds rolling in over the prairie. There was an original painting, too, of an old Victorian house in the middle of nowhere.

Not one inch of this place had escaped Sheila’s relentless decorating. It was too perfect. No rough edges. Skye let her eyes stare off into the middle distance while her dad puttered in the kitchen end of things. The appliances in the kitchenette, a Bosch dishwasher and Viking stove, sure were a waste: Sheila did not cook. There were two sets of cupboards, too, and a butcher block that looked as though a family in Brooklyn had been chopping pastrami on it for generations. Skye bet her life it had been used only as a place for Mama to set down her Louis Vuitton purse.

“There’s soup, beans, and some of that instant rice that tastes like glue,” her dad said.

“Soup,” Skye responded, and sat on the couch, the weariness from crying hitting her hard. She might fall asleep before the soup was hot.

Their first stop had been the Trailer Ranch in that part of Albuquerque that made Skye wish she had a concealed-carry permit. Turned out Rita Elliot hadn’t lived there for months, and no, they didn’t have a forwarding address or recall if she had a little girl with her. There was rap music booming, and a few of the residents were giving her a look she didn’t like. Their uniform seemed to be wife-beater undershirts and baggy pants hanging halfway down their asses. They sported those metal chains hanging out of their pockets, as if whatever they cuffed to inside the pocket was potentially fatal. Another group of
vatos
stood around a different trailer, smoking cigarettes, making her want one. Their movements were jittery, as if they were high on something, probably crystal meth, which made Skye feel superior since she’d never tried it. Rocky smoked it occasionally. She’d met people at Cottonwoods who’d done crack for years. Their brains were emptier than a Halloween pumpkin, their teeth yellow and broken. Once they found out the Trailer Ranch was a dead end, Skye’s dad had hustled her back to the truck, locked the doors, and driven that hour-long drive back to Santa Fe in forty minutes flat.

She watched him appraise his ex-wife’s cozy little second house while the soup heated. He walked around the room, exploring. The Moroccan lanterns. A
Yei be chei
Navajo rug on the wall, the figures clutching cornstalks. He inspected an old Chief’s Phase blanket that looked faded and worn, as if it had weathered over a few hundred years. “I hope your mama didn’t pay too much for this,” he said, “because it’s a fake.”

“So long as it looks good, I doubt she’d care,” Skye said.

“I have to say, I feel a little sorry for her, always trying to make her life appear important by cluttering it with things.” His eyes lit on the painting of a house, and he walked over to inspect it. He shook his head. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”

“What is it, Daddy?”

He turned to her, his face stricken. “I’d recognize this farmhouse anywhere. It’s on the Starr ranch, in Blue Dog. I spent a couple of years caretaking from the bunkhouse on that property.”

“What are you saying? Mama bought the painting to make you mad?”

He shook his head. “Nothing of the kind. It’s a coincidence.”

“Don’t lie to me, Daddy. I can tell by your face it’s a lot more than that.”

“Just seeing this triggers so many memories.”

“Is the soup ready? I’m beat.”

Her dad poured soup into mugs and brought one to her. They sat at the pigskin table, using paper towels for napkins. Skye blew on her spoonful and then swallowed. Nothing had ever tasted this good. Her dad drank his from the mug.

“Life in Blue Dog was peaceful until the day Maggie Yearwood moved in. I’d thought I was done with women.”

“Ew,” Skye said. “Is this story going to have old-people sex in it?”

He walked over to the painting, took it down from the wall, and brought it over to the table, where the light was better. “She painted this.”

“Mama? Seriously, she can’t even get her eyeliner on straight.”

“I wasn’t referring to your mother,” he went on. “I was referring to Margaret. She must have painted this after I left. What a great mom she was to her insolent, teenaged son. She put up with more than I ever would.”

“Daddy, you make her sound like a saint.”

“She was, so far as parenting that selfish son of hers. He punched me in the mouth once.”

“Did you hit him back?”

“Nope. He needed to hit me.”

“This is crazy. How could a painting by Saint Margaret end up here in Mama’s house? That’s Lifetime movie material.”

“You know how New Mexico is. The small-town vibe.”

She laughed. “Did you just say
vibe
?”

“I’m not that old, Skye. Go on to bed. We can continue the story tomorrow.”

She set down her mug. “I’m not tired anymore. Tell me now.”

After her father laid out the details—what year it was, how long he lived there, the motley sheep he kept—Skye could picture Margaret hanging laundry outside and smell the fresh hay in the wind. Somehow, the painting of the weathered house seemed full of the whole, lonely story. Margaret’s dog, Echo, who’d gotten knocked up by three-legged Hope on the first day Margaret arrived at the Victorian farmhouse that was too big for her. Her deaf teenage son, Peter, who refused to live there with her. The day Owen left, asking the deaf kid to care for his horse but getting a knuckle sandwich instead. Owen leaving before Echo had even whelped her pups. When Skye’s father finished the story, he rubbed Hope’s head, paying particular attention to the ears.

Skye yawned. “So why don’t you look her up?”

“It’s been too long. I’m sure she got on with her life.”

“Daddy, don’t be stupid. If she meant that much to you, if the only reason you left was prison, she might still be pining for you.”

“Nah, I’m sure she found some decent fella. She’s too pretty to stay single.”

Skye leaned on her elbows. “Isn’t it up to you to find out? Finding Gracie’s my priority. Without her, my heart doesn’t work right. Seems to me that painting is like a sign. Do you know how much I wish I had something like that to help me find Gracie? I’ll call Mama and ask her where she got that painting. Even if all you do is find out that Saint Margaret’s happy, it still seems worth it to me. How long a drive is it to that Blue Dog? Maybe she still lives there.”

Her father took their empty mugs to the kitchen area. He ran water in the sink and washed the dishes. “You could help dry,” he said.

“There’s a dishwasher.”

“I figured it was a waste of water to run it for two mugs, a pot, and a spoon. Isn’t Santa Fe always in drought?” He stood there drying the dishes, ignoring her question about Blue Dog.

Skye looked at him through new eyes. “You’ve changed, Daddy. The guy I remember wasn’t afraid to take a risk.”

He sighed. “I heard from Joe that the ranch house was torn down. So she isn’t there. The fellow who bought it built a new house. Probably has those granite countertops and the crown molding nonsense everyone has to have nowadays. What is it they say? Open floor plan? Stop pestering me and go to bed.”

“I won’t until you promise to look for her. Shit like this happens for a reason. You have to find her. It’s like it’s in the stars for you. Romantic.”

“It’s a coincidence. The chances of Sheila buying this painting from the artist may be astronomical, but it could just as easily have come from a secondhand shop. Everywhere you turn in Santa Fe, there’re consignment shops filled with stuff from estate sales. Seems like too many people come to Santa Fe to die.”

“You think Mama bought that for herself? Daddy, she wears leopard print!”

“You know something? You’re not a kind person when it comes to your mother. How did you end up like that?”

Skye punched his shoulder. “Even if I started now, it would take until the wee hours for me to explain.”

Her father rubbed his arm. “Want a cup of cocoa? I saw some in the cupboard.”

“Yes! Are there marshmallows?”

Drinking her cocoa while her dad took his shower, Skye sat on the floor in the bedroom, brushing his smelly dog. Like every cattle dog she’d ever known, Hope was shedding. She gathered balls of hair in a pile at her feet, listening to him groan in pleasure. Despite his current state of dirtiness, she was growing fond of him. Lord, there was enough hair here to knit Shrek, the cartoon ogre, a sweater. She listened as cars drove up Canyon Road, idly wondering how much Mama’s place was worth. Probably a million. And she didn’t even live here or rent it out. If she could afford multiple houses, why couldn’t she help Skye out, just a loan to get herself settled? Or at least let her stay here until she got back on her feet? She balled up the dog hair and took it out to the kitchen, placing it in the trash under the sink. She watched the dog turn four circles on his three legs—no easy feat—lie down, lick his boy bits until she wanted to kill him, and go to sleep.

The stoicism of animals had always intrigued her. The ridiculous idea that animals don’t remember pain, which some behaviorists argued, seemed like a convenient way to rationalize beating your dog. If she’d gone to vet school, that would have been one of the first questions she’d ask:
Do animals remember pain?
Did Hope remember having four legs? He seemed to get along just fine. And his choice to go with her dad, after it had been ten years? The fact that Hope even recognized him seemed miraculous, but it didn’t surprise her. The dog was twitching in his sleep, yipping softly every now and then, and she wondered what he dreamed about. Killing gophers? Chasing sheep? Wild rez dogs threatening his domain under the ratty trailer? Or did he dream about familial and pack bonds?

Images of her childhood pets rushed through her mind: Bun-bun, an Easter gift, who’d lived ten years. She’d taught him to use a litter box. The pet store turtles that got sick right away and died. She’d taken them back to the store and told the clerk who sold them to her that he was a worthless piece of coprolite for selling sick animals and she hoped he rotted in hell. Looking back, she decided maybe her reaction was over the top; but her anger had been justified—nobody should ever mess with a child’s love for a pet.

Her fascination with animal behavior began early in her life, when she started observing the social order of horses in the riding ring. Her riding instructor used a gray Morgan named Sultan for guided trail rides. He always had to be in front. Then there was his buddy Tonto, fourteen hands—barely taller than a pony—and the oldest horse in the barn. But all he had to do was pin his ears to make Sultan walk away.

Not often did Skye allow herself to think of how her life could have been if she hadn’t gotten pregnant. If she’d gone on to Stanford, she’d have finished her BS and be in the second year of vet school by now. Would she have gone to Davis, staying in California? Or would homesickness have won out, prompting her to return to Colorado, where the state university had a good program? Maybe she’d have gone to Ithaca, New York—despite the horrible winters—and met some other guy, married him, gone to Europe, opened a practice together, or any one of a hundred things besides turning into an alcoholic single mother who needed almost a year of rehab to finally kick booze and pills.
Learn from your past, and then move to the future
,
Duncan would say, like it was that easy. Duncan and all his advice. Now that she had some distance from Cottonwoods, she saw him differently. He was Navajo, so maybe the things he said came from his upbringing, not a need to proselytize. Maybe he really did care about her, but how could he? What a horrible career he seemed to have, trying to get people to kick, watching them detox, slip in sobriety, or overdose and die. She felt sorry for him for about two minutes, thought of his laugh and how the sound of it made her uncomfortable someplace deep down. It wasn’t until just this moment that she realized it was because it reminded her of her dad’s laugh. Then she remembered her dad saying they’d talked on the phone, and that made her mad again, embarrassed, really. At least her dad hadn’t witnessed her detox. That, Duncan had said, would stay between Skye and him for all time, which meant even if one person forgot about it, the other one remembered.