The Pot Thief Who Studied Billy the Kid (27 page)

Martin and I clinked it.

He started back to the Pueblo because he doesn’t like to drive after dark.

“You think that’s true about them not letting their language be translated?”

“I know it is. And it’s easy for them to protect their language because they are the only Pueblo who speak it.”

She put her elbows on the table and clasped her hands together. “
You remember a couple of years ago when the
Santo Domingo Pueblo
changed its name to Kewa Pueblo?”

“Yeah. I thought there was a subtle unintended message in that change. They got rid of the Spanish name ‘
Santo Domingo
’ but kept the Spanish word
‘pueblo’.”

She squinted.
“The message is so subtle that I don’t see it.”

“The message is you can’t change history. They have every right to take ‘Santo Domingo’ off their signage, change the tribal letterhead and rename the tribal business
es
, all of which they did. But it remains true that they were cruelly subdued by the
conquistadores
and
spent four hundred years being known by a name that was not of their choosing.”

“Maybe the name change makes them feel better about that.”

“I hope so. But it won’t change the facts.”

“Because the facts are subspecies eternity,” she said
,
laugh
ing
.

28

There is something odd about a man in his late forties being driven to a date by his nephew.

He offered to park and help me into the building, but that would have been
even
odder. It was only a few feet from the curb to the lobby then a short elevator ride to the
4
^th
floor.

She greeted m
e
with a lingering kiss on the lips. Not as lingering and passionate as the goodbye kiss on our first date but a step up from the kiss on the cheek I got on her first arrival. I took that as a good sign.

I reached into the cloth shopping bag I was carrying and handed her a bowl.

“This is for you.”

She bealin>"+0" famed but said, “I can’t accept this.”

“Sure you can. It’s a present.”

She shook her head. “When I first saw it in your shop, I also saw the price tag. I can’t accept a five-hundred dollar gift from you.”

“This is not the bowl you saw. It’s a copy.”

She smiled. “So was that one.”

“Yes. So this is a copy of a copy. Almost worthless.”

“Nice try. It would bring the same price as the other one if you sold in your shop.”

“Except I can’t sell it.”

“Why not?”

“Turn it over.”

She did and read
out loud
the inscription I had carved before glazing and firing.

“To Sharice.”

That earned me an even longer kiss.

“I should have brought a dozen more,” I said
,
and she giggled.

She placed the bowl on the table and
said, “I wish I had a stem of y
ucca.”

Whereupon
I
reached into the bag and handed her one.

“You are amazing.”

“Another kiss?”
I asked
.
I’m shameless.

This was one longer still.

I looked forlornly into the empty bag and then up at Sharice. “I’m out of presents.”

“T
oo bad
. I’m not out of kisses.”

I hope I didn’t look like the lovestruck teenager I was feeling myself to be. I needed to look suave and debonair, if for no other reason than to
f
it in with the surroundings. H
er apartment was in one of the new downtown condominium buildings and
h
ad floor to ceiling windows on the north
w
all overlooking Central a block away. The high ceilings had expose
d
steel beams
with
visible ductwork and electrical conduits. The fl
o
or was polished concrete,
the counters
black granite and the
high-end
a
ppliances were stainless steel.

Although it was a small one bedroom unit, the clean open design made it look larger.
The furniture was simple and functional, a black leather love seat, two Barcelona chairs
and
a glass coffee table
. A
larger matching glass table
served as the dining table. A
white table cloth
was
set with
Fiestaware in the color the company insist
s
on calling ‘shamrock’ but
which
is, according to the color chart I use for glazes, olive drab. I suppose it’s a marketing thing.

Sharice put the bowl on the table
,
poured some water into it from a bottle of Pellegrino and stripped the yucca blossom
s
into the bowl. The fizz from the sparkling water made the blossoms d
ance around the bowl.

She wore a silver strapless dress of crinkled chiffon with a
slanting
hemline. I don’t know much about fashion, but the part of the dress that was modestly just above the knee made the other
side seem
tantalizingly short.

She
had the same violet lipstick and eye shadow she had worn to my house. The lipstick was unfazed by the three kisses.

“
You are an elegant woman,
”
I said.

She twirled around. “You like?”

I thought she was referring to herself, but before I could frame a response, she said, “It’s a Vera Wang. I think it makes me look
stylish
.”

“
I think you make the dress look
stylish
.”

She retrieved a bottle of Gruet rosé from the fridge and asked me to uncork and pour.

“I thought the
rosé
would go well with the salad
,” she said
.
“
I hope you don’t mind having just a salad for dinner.”

“I’m dieting, so a salad is perfect.”

“You don’t need to diet, Hubie.”

“I feel like I need to, especially since
th
is cast
prevent
s
me from walking.”

“And
from doing
other things, too,” she said mischievously.

“I could take it off.”

“Good to know,” she said. “Just in case.”

The salad was
frisee, cucumbers, tomatoes, avocados and fiddleheads with a dressing of balsamic vinegar and maple syrup.

“I can taste something Canadian in the dressing,” I said.

“And in the
salad, too. F
iddleheads are popular in Canada.”

“I’ve never seen them. I’ve never even heard of them.”

“They’re fern
leaves picked before they unroll. I don’t think ferns grow in the desert.”

“Where do you buy them?”

“Whole Foods, but they get them
only
in the spring. I froze these, so they aren’t quite as crisp as they should be,”

When we finished the salad, she said, “Sorry about your diet, but I do have dessert, and you aren’t allowed to abstain.”

I looked into her eyes and said, “
A
bstinence is the farthest thing from my mind.”

She laughed and said, “Keep your cast on, cowboy.”

When
s
he told me it was Saskatoon pie, I assumed it was named after the city, but it turns out that saskatoons are berries, sort of like blueberries. In Sharice’s homemade crust
–
made
,
she assured me
,
with lots of butter
–
they were delicious.

She cleared the table
,
rejecting my offer to help on the grounds that I was sporting a cast. When everything had been taken off the table cloth, she removed it to reveal
a S
cra
bble game board.

“Up for some fun and games?”

I resisted a tempting reply and said, “I love Sc
r
abble.”

She beat me in three straight matches,
a ‘hat trick’ as she called it.

“Let’s sit on the love seat and finish the bubbly,” she suggested.

I sat on the loveseat and somehow she ended up on my lap. There ensued
several
minutes of serious mouth to mouth contact.

Then she said, “I’ll drive you home.”

“No need,” I said. “After the last few minutes, I think I can fly.”

She
dro
ve me home
anyway and
accept
ed
my invitation to have dinner at my house
again
.

29

I awoke Sunday morning wrapped in warm memories of the evening with Sharice.

And in a light blanket. Fall had arrived early. It’s always cool at night out here, but it had dipped into the fifties last night. Rather than close the door to the patio, I had opted for the blanket. I knew we would still have a few days in the eighties, maybe even in the low nineties, but there was color on the mountain and a nip in the air.

I cracked three eggs into a buttered ramekin, stirred in some salt
,
pepper
and chopped jalapeños
and put the ramekin in the oven. While that baked, I heated some leftover mole in a saucepan. I removed the eggs when the whites were set and the yolks warm but runny and poured t
he mole over t
h
em
. Warm tortillas and cold Gruet completed the breakfast.