Wild Penance (17 page)

Everyone laughed. This was the same Regan who had schooled me about Los Penitentes—totally in her element when telling a tale, her finger right on the pulse of the people. After a few warm-up yarns about the locals, she began to relate amusing tidbits about the guests present. One couple had brought some of their delicious chèvre to have with the wine, and Regan told about when they had tried to make extra income giving goat-walking adventures to rich Santa Fe women. “These two would pack their goats down with gourmet food, linens, tableware, and even little cushions to sit on. Then they would lead a bunch of wealthy women on a hike up to twelve thousand feet, serve them lunch from the goat packs, and listen to those ladies whine about broken nails and blistered feet all the way back down the mountain.” Regan laughed, and so did her guests. Then she turned to me and tilted her head, trying to decide what she would tell the others. “And Jamaica has taken on her own unique New Mexico adventure. This young woman is working on a book of drawings and stories about the Penitentes.”

The guests gasped in unison.

Father Ximon looked amused. “The Penitentes? Then you should get together with Ignacio Medina,” he sniggered. He looked at Regan as if they were sharing a private joke.

Regan rose gracefully from the sofa and said, “Well, I’m a terrible hostess—look at these wineglasses, they’re all empty! Please excuse me, everyone. I’m off to the cocina for more wine. I’ll be right back to fill your glasses.”

To Father Ximon, I said, “I have talked to Father Ignacio.”

“Well, then, you probably know all there is to know about the subject.” He chuckled, but his sarcasm cut like acid. His blue eyes looked hard, like marbles.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “What’s so funny?”

Before the padre could answer, the French doors at the back of Regan’s house opened and the good-looking renter from Regan’s casita with whom I had talked earlier that week came in. Regan peeked around the kitchen door to see who had just arrived, then hurried across the room to take his arm. “Oh! Look here, everybody, this is my guest in the casita, Andy Vincent. Andy’s from Los Angeles.”

Andy swept the room with a glance, his eyes widening when he got to me. The gesture was so subtle, I almost wasn’t sure whether he had done it or I had imagined it. In the midst of this group, this well-dressed, fifty-something man seemed an outsider—more polished, his look a little contrived. His black hair was feathered with a few perfectly matched wisps of gray, his shoulders broad from faithful sessions at the gym, and beneath the drape of his clothes he looked lean and hard, like a runner.

Regan introduced each of us, beginning with the priest. As she presented her guests, she spoke loud and fast, as if she were nervous that she might forget a name. Andy Vincent appeared not to notice this and was charming and well mannered.

Until now, all eyes and ears had been on Regan. But as she made the introductions, she seemed to grow smaller and fade into the background. And this commanding newcomer—full of exotic intrigue—took center stage.

When they came to me, Andy Vincent engaged my eyes. “Miss Wild and I have already met one another, but we did not have the privilege of an introduction then. It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Wild,” he said.

“It’s Jamaica. Nice to meet you, too, Andy.”

When the introductions were finished, Regan went back to the cocina for the wine. I got up as discreetly as I could and went to join her.

Regan set the bottle she was about to uncork on the counter. “Jamaica, I’m sorry I put you on the spot out there. I didn’t know it was going to go that way when I mentioned your book.” She placed her palm on my back, patted me several times, and then began rubbing between my shoulder blades as if to comfort me. I could feel her hand quivering.

“I want to talk to you about my book in a minute, but first—since we’re alone—let me say something real quick that I need to say.”

She stopped rubbing and looked at me.

“Regan, if I have ever done anything to hurt or offend you, I want to ask your forgiveness.”

My hostess surprised me when her eyes grew moist with tears. Her lower lip trembled, and she reached out with her hand and squeezed my arm. “My dear, that is so touching. I am honored that you cared enough about me to say something like that. Of course, no forgiveness is necessary, but that is a lovely custom. Especially for Lent.”

Before I could raise the matter of my book again, we were interrupted. “I thought I heard something about there being wine at this affair,” Andy said, leaning against the door frame at the entry to the cocina. The light behind him gave an auralike glow to his large, lean frame, his face in shadow. He tucked his thumbs into his pants pockets so that his fingers hung in front of them, and I could see two thin gold bands, one each on the fourth and fifth fingers of his right hand. I caught a faint whiff of citrusy aftershave. His hair gleamed. I stared at him, intrigued. “Regan, you’re in here keeping Jamaica all to yourself. That’s not fair.” He looked at Regan, but he came toward me. He picked up the corkscrew and wine bottle from the counter and deftly removed the cork. “Where’s your glass?” he said to me.

“I’m having tea.”

“Tea? You don’t care for the wine?”

“I don’t drink.”

“Jamaica loves the local poleo,” Regan said. “I always make that for her when she comes.” She took the opened bottle of wine from her renter. “I better take this out there before all my guests get parched and go home,” she said and scurried away.

“I hear you’re doing some kind of book about the Penitentes,” Andy said.

“I
was
doing a sketchbook. My book was stolen.”

“Stolen? How? When?” His face showed genuine concern.

“Last week. Three guys. They went through my Jeep. I—”

He interrupted again: “But why would they steal your book?”

“I don’t know. All I know is they took it.”

“Well, that’s about the lousiest thing I ever heard of. You kept a copy somewhere, I’m sure?”

“No, I didn’t keep a copy. It was all pretty much hand-drawn and handwritten, some of it typed using an old typewriter. I lead a pretty low-tech life.”

“Wow, that’s too bad, I’m so sorry.” He put the cork he’d been holding on the counter.

“What brings you here to New Mexico?” I asked, eager to change the subject.

“I’m an art dealer. I’m here on a buying trip.”

“Well, there’s plenty of art around here. Every other house in New Mexico is a gallery.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“Are you looking for any kind of art in particular?”

“No, nothing in particular. I buy what I like. Perhaps you can recommend an artist, or even show me your favorite gallery?” His eyes met mine.

I pulled my gaze away from Andy Vincent. I had felt ill at ease the whole time I’d been at this brunch, and I was also feeling the exhaustion of too much anxiety and too little sleep. After what had happened to Nora the night before, I had gone to bed with my pistol under my pillow and my shotgun on the floor beside me. I had been unable to rest, mulling over every moment I could remember from the past week, trying to make sense of the series of strange events. I wouldn’t even have come to mass today, but I had wanted to tell Regan about the book. I guess I also had hoped that the mass might distract me, maybe even inspire me to write again. Instead, with that garish life-size crucifix hanging above the altar, it had left me feeling even more off balance.

“All this talk about your book has upset you.” Andy’s voice called me back to the present.

“I’ve just had a hard week.”

“Well, then maybe you need to have a little fun this afternoon!” He smiled.

“I think I’m even too tired to have fun,” I said. I started to move around him and go toward the door.

“Wait.” He took my elbow gently and stopped me, leaning in front of me so he could see my face. “We could get out of here—just take a drive or something. Something easy, laid-back.” His eyes revealed a hint of desperation.

I hated to rebuff him, but my head was starting to pound. “No, thanks. I think I need to go home and get some rest,” I said, and I turned and went back to the party. He followed me.

“Andy, did you and Jamaica get acquainted?” Regan asked, coming toward us.

“I think Jamaica is too tired,” Andy said. “Even my considerable charms did not get her to talk much with me.” He smiled, but he looked chagrined.

“I really am tired,” I said, “and I don’t mean to be rude, but I think I ought to go. Thank you for inviting me, Regan.” I squeezed her arm. “Mass was an extraordinary experience.” I shifted my look to Andy Vincent. “Perhaps we’ll see one another again before you go,” I said.

“Maybe we can have dinner sometime? I am staying through the end of the month, and possibly a day or so after that.” He looked from me to Regan. “We could all have dinner.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. Not dinner. Not for a while. I’m working nights. It was nice meeting you, Andy.”

Regan took me by the arm and walked me toward the French doors that led out onto the patio. “You do look tired, Jamaica. Is anything wrong?” Her face showed concern.

I took my jacket from the iron sculpture that served as a coat-rack. “We’ll have to talk another time. I had something I wanted to tell you.” I reached for the door handle. “Did you get the rosary—”

“Rosary?” Regan paused a moment, then nodded her head. “Oh, yes, yes, I did. I do wish you would be nicer to Andy. He doesn’t know anyone here, and . . . Well, my dear, I must get back to my other guests. Get some rest, and we’ll talk some more next time you come.”

When I stepped outside, Father Ximon was standing on the patio alone, looking out over the rio. I pulled on my jacket and began buttoning it against the cold.

“Have you ever seen the eagles fish in the rio here?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s thrilling, isn’t it?” The crisp air felt good on my head.

“Yes . . . yes, it’s thrilling.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I think your book is ill-advised, Ms. Wild.”

“Why?”

“What exactly is your interest in the Penitentes?”

Now I was starting to get angry. “I’m not sure that it’s any of your business, Father.”

He drew up at this, then gave me a sardonic smile. “Well, I doubt seriously that you have a full understanding of the nature of your subject. I think the fact that you have aligned yourself with Father Medina indicates your ignorance of a salient fact. You see, the Penitentes are considered a heterodoxy by the Catholic Church.” He emphasized the word
heterodoxy
with a grim tone. “Father Medina seems to have a morbid fascination with that barbarous sect, some say to the detriment of his service to the Church.”

I took a deep breath of the bracing air. “I don’t recall ‘aligning’ myself with Father Ignacio. I consulted him because he is a scholar who happens to have expertise in this area. Besides, have you read his work? He’s not advocating their religion, he’s simply recording for posterity.”

“The Penitentes are not just a part of history, Ms. Wild. They still exist. To give them attention is to fuel their continuation. It arouses interest. It defies the Church. It is a kind of advocacy!” As he said this, his voice had become harsh and gruff. “Ignacio Medina’s desire to be a renowned scholar in this regard appears to have led him to break faith with the Church.”

“Why do you say that?”

He smiled as if he had just announced a small victory. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Let’s just say that Father Medina may be in jeopardy of losing his position as a teacher at the St. Catherine Indian School due to his extracurricular activities. And you, Miss Wild—you should be careful, too. Here in New Mexico, the Church is everything. The Church is everywhere. You don’t want to end up on the wrong side of things, I assure you. That, too, would be ill-advised.”

Unforgivable

Once again, instead of going home to sleep, I drove to Tanoah Pueblo and sought out the company of Anna Santana. When I knocked on her door, I worried that she would be upset that I had come back before completing the lesson. But she surprised me with a warm smile. She invited me in and we went to her kitchen where I helped her to sort through a large bundle of stiff, reed-thin red willow branches, selecting one at a time and trimming off any roots and side feeders, then slowly working the straight stalks around the inner edges of a large galvanized washtub full of hot water. It took patience to do this, as we had to wait until the first section of each willow branch softened before we could push more of the length into the circular tub—not unlike putting uncooked spaghetti into a small pot, only one stick at a time. “I make basket, these,” she said with a smile. “Grandma Bird, you know my mother, she best one make basket, Tanoah Pueblo. But she only make basket next other time. Now she is done. So, I am basket maker now.”

While she finished working the last few willow branches into the hot water to soak and soften so they would be pliable enough to weave into baskets, I made us each a cup of hot tea. When our tea was ready, Momma Anna washed her hands and once again went to get a folded blanket. She spread it on the living room floor, and we sat together on the brightly colored wool and drank our tea.

“I am not finished with my lesson with the Old One yet,” I confessed.

“I know,” she said.

“Momma Anna, I have asked a couple people for forgiveness now. Both times, I felt . . . I don’t know . . . ashamed, I guess. Like I had done something terrible and I really needed forgiveness. But I don’t know what I’ve done that would make me feel that way.”

The old Pueblo woman pressed her lips together until they almost disappeared. She seemed to be thinking about what to say to me.

I knew to remain quiet and allow the silence to blossom between us. Sharing silence is a form of both intimacy and respect to the Tanoah, and they often measure someone they meet by how much silence the newcomer can tolerate.