The Pot Thief Who Studied Billy the Kid (36 page)

“I have no plan to stop,” she said, “but I shaved my legs this morning in case the engine blows up and I have to get out of the truck and appear in public.”

I was laughing when she added, “I also wore cl
e
an underwear in case we’re in an accident. Mom would be proud of me.”

Carizzo
is the Spanish word for reed
and
carizzozo
is the adjectival form, ‘reedy’. Reeds don’t grow
in desert
s, so
I assume the Spanish named the town for the wiry grass that grows in the surrounding plains.
Or maybe they were
referring to some women with coa
rse leg hair that they didn’t want to encounter
in public
on the
paseo
.

We turned east on U.S. 380
. Since we were getting closer,
Susannah told me about La Rinconada. It feature
s
paintings by Peter Hurd, Henriette Wyeth-Hurd, Michael Hurd, Andrew Wyeth and N.C. Wyeth. I gathered the Wyeths and Hurds are all in
-
laws, and one or more of them own the gallery.

“The only painting I know by any of that bunch is Andrew Wyeth’s
Cristina’s World
,” I said.

“You won’t get to see that one. It’s in the Museum of Modern Art in New York. You like it?”

“There’s something about the girl in the picture that makes me want to know her story.”

“Everyone feels that way, Hubie. That’s why itfonts why its such a famous piece. It captivates viewers. Wyeth was inspired to paint it when he saw a neighbor named Christina Olson crawling across a field. She couldn’t walk because she suffered from Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease.”

“A tooth disease can prevent someone from walking?”

“It’s not a tooth disease. Charcot
, Marie and Tooth were the
names of the three people who discovered the disease. The figure in the painting is actually Wyeth’s wife Betsy who posed for the painting.”

“Then why isn’t it called
Betsy’s World
?”

“Because it was Christina who inspired the painting. Betsy was just the model.”

“What about the house at the top of the hill she’s looking up at? Is it one of those Hollywood sets that’s just a flat surface with the front of a house painted on it?”

I was feeling disillusioned.

“No,
Wyeth
painted from the real house. It’s called the Olson House.”

“So he used the real house but a fake person.”

“Betsy Wyeth was not a fake person, Hubert.”

“You know what I mean. It’s supposed to be a painting of Christina Olson looking longingly up
the hill to
her house where they’re serving
tea and scones
or something, and she’s sad because it seems so far away and she can’t walk because she’s got a sore tooth. And up until a moment ago, my appreciation of the painting was even greater because I now know what it’s like to be mobility impaired. But even though that’s the way the house really looked, the woman in the picture got up and walked away after Wythe finished painting, and that spoils the painting for me.”

Susannah was laughing now. “If Christina had been in the painting and you found out about her, that would have spoiled it for you, too.”

“
How so
?”

“Because Christina Olson refused to use a wheelchair. She said she didn’t want to be beholden to anyone. As a result, she lived in squalor.”

“No wonder people don’t understand modern art,” I said, and she laughed even harder.

We
passed through Capitan and Lincoln before backtracking on U.S. 70 for three miles to San Patricio. We had traveled two hundred miles through eleven villages with a combined population smaller than a freshman history course at the University of New Mexico.

The La Rinconada Gallery is part of the Sentinel Ranch
which has a scattering of private residences and a few guest cottages. It struck me as a perfect combination of
urban sophistication
and pastoral relaxation, Virginia Wolfe meets Dale Evans.

The ranch is cradled in quiet rolling hills along
the
Rio Ruidoso,
‘
noisy river
’
in Spanish. But think of noisy as water flowing over rocks in a
J
apanese garden, not noisy as in Niagara
Falls
.

We checked into the
Apple House, a modest pink adobe with a tin roof
. The cottonwood, aspens and Lombar
d
y poplars had just begun to turn. The yellows and golds were magnificent against the pink walls.

We had just enough time to change, refresh and head for the reception.

We
w
ere greeted at the entrance by an elderly Hispanic
gentleman
holding a tray of champagne flutes. Bubbles rose from a strawberry at the bottom of each glass. I was reaching for a glass to determine if it might be Gruet when a
man with an in-charge countenance took the tray from the older gentleman.

“I’ll greet the guests,” he said. “Go fill some glasses. And put on a tie.”

The older gentleman nodded, said, “Yes, sir,” and left.

The man now holding the tray moved it out of my reach and said,
“I’m sorry sir, but we cannot allow you to enter
with a
foot
cast. Our
cherry cherront>
wood floors are quite delicate. They were milled from local trees and we are fastidious about them because… well, we can hardly go to Home Depot and buy a replacement piece if one
i
s damaged, can we?” He laughed his authoritative laugh.”We can, however, offer you the use of one of our wheelchairs with soft rubber tires.”

“That’s very kind,
” I said, “
but out of respect
for
Christina Olson, I never use a wheelchair.
”

He took a step back and gave me an uncertain smile.

I
gestured to Su
s
annah and said, “Ms. Inchaustigui is an art historian. I am
simply
her driver. I would enjoy a stroll around the trees.”

There was visible relief on his face. The sunburned guy with the skinned nose and cast was not going to embarrass
the other guests with their spa-
smooth faces and their
hedge-
fund
plump
wallets.

“Please do not hesitate to let me know if you change your mind,” he said with a smile. You could have lubricated an eighteen-wheeler with the oil
i
n his voice.

I started down to the river using my crutches
.

I was just to the back of the main building when I heard someone call
,
Se
ñ
or
.

I turned to see the gentleman who had
initially
been serving the champagne.

“I am sorry you were not allowed to enter. I am in the kitchen filling glasses. Can I bring you something? We have the champagne you saw. We also have
many kind
s
of fine liquors.”

“What would you have i
f
you were going to relax
over by those trees?
” I asked him.

There was a mixtu
r
e of merriment and mischief in his eyes.
“
There is some
expensive
whiskey.”

“I’ll go in with you and fix myself a glass of it.”

He smiled.
“No
,
Señor
.
I do not wish to have the marks from you
r
cast on the fine linoleum in the kitchen. I will bring it to you.
”

He returned moments later with a quart of
High West Rocky Mountain Rye 21 Year Old Whiskey.

“I brought two glasses in case your
patrona
decides to join you,” he said and winked.

I thanked him profusely even though I had never heard of the brand
,
and
rye sounded like a close cousin of pumpernickel, the taste of which had clung
to
my
taste buds
like
hot on
a
jalapeño.

There were a few outbuildings and a barn
closer to the river
. I
s
at down on a weathered wood bench in front of a fire
p
itit
.

I was content to listen to the rippling water and breath
e
in the fresh air. After a while,
I heard footsteps and turned.

He seemed to materialize out of the glooming, a
figure
backlit by the sun
dropping below
the Sacramento Mountains
. He
stepped to me and offered his hand.

“
Howdy.
Jack Truesdell,” he said, “but folks call me Cactus.”

His h
and was one continuous call
us
and felt way to
o
tough to dr
i
ve a rebar through
.

“Pleased to meet you
.
I’m
Hubert Schuze.”

“I was just stepping out for a smoke. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,” I lied.

He popped the snap on his shirt pocket, pulled out a bag of tobacco and did something I’d never seen before except in
old
movies. He rolled a cigarette. After he stuck it in his mouth, I half expected him to produce a wooden match and ignite it
with a flick of his thumbnail.

He did use a match, but he
ignited it by drawing it across his right boot. The hand-rolled paper flared, casting a brief light on a face with a thousand stories
etched
up
on it.