Biting the Moon (11 page)

Every time she walked into Isabel's “ranchita” (as Isabel called it), she had to smile. Isabel must have looked at every picturebook ever published on Santa Fe style. She had it all. The adobe house, the kiva in the corner of the kitchen, the vigas on the ceiling, the
farolitos
edging the roof. In the living room, Mary and Andi sat down in chairs covered in bright zigzags and Isabel sat on a cushion on the raised hearth.

No one would have mistaken Isabel for a native of New Mexico. She was from southern California and, like so many Californians, had made herself over, inside and out, into her idea of a native.

It really got to Mary how these women would come here and enter into what they appeared to believe was a more spiritual way of life. Mary wondered why they thought that loose clothes, long hair, and little or no makeup helped to do this. Their skin got leathery because they disdained the creams and emulsions they had lathered on themselves in their California lives. They also appeared to forgo soap and water, apparently thinking that cleaning and creaming were part of a beauty regime that had tyrannized them in Beverly Hills and Marin County.

Naturally, it cost money to support this illusion: the pure cotton, the elaborately embroidered tops, the turquoise, silver, and authentic Kirman rugs, the beaded vest that Isabel was wearing today. It killed Mary that these women were trying to “get back to nature” in one of the most sophisticated cities in the country. It was really that which drew them, though they didn't seem to know it.

“Has Rosella gone to her pueblo?” asked Isabel brightly. To Andi, she said, “Rosella's an Indian.” Andi's smile and nod must have encouraged Isabel to stretch her mind even further. “She's a—now, don't tell me—a
Zuni
,” Isabel said. “There's a festival, you see, and when Rosella goes back to her pueblo, I take care of Mary—I
mean,
well, Mary's hardly a baby, is she, but it makes Rosella feel better if someone can take charge in case there's an emergency?” Isabel had a way of turning declarative statements into questions, as if unsure of her ground. She fanned herself with her hand, as if merely thinking about it made her sweaty and hot. “I watch over her.”

With about as much effect as the moon, Mary thought, looking at the ceiling.

“But with you here, an older girl—how old are you, dear?”

“Nineteen.” Andi snapped it out with no hesitation, as if she could hardly wait to spring it.

Mary wondered if she'd forgotten she'd told Rosella she was seventeen.

“Well, if you're going to be there, Mary certainly doesn't need me to keep her out of trouble.”

If you only knew.
“I'm showing Andi around; she's never been in the Southwest before. I thought maybe we could drive to Taos tomorrow.
She wants to see the church; you know, the one in Ranchos de Taos.”

Isabel's brow wrinkled beneath the bright scarf, thinking that over; Taos was sixty miles away. Decision time in the hacienda. “That's a distance. I don't know. . . .”

Andi spoke with authority. “If it worries you, Mrs. Woodlawn, of course we won't go. But I just want you to know I'm a very good driver; I got awards in school when I finished the driver training course, and my dad has me drive in all kinds of difficult situations because he wants to be sure I can handle a car. I've helped out other drivers with problems, like changing tires or charging batteries, things like that. I remember once. . . .”

Mary sat with her hands locked behind her head, listening to Andi spin out her tale of life on the road and the astonishingly responsible things she'd done. Isabel Woodlawn's eyes were glazing over, probably the effect Andi was trying to produce. After all her driving experience, she started in on churches and how interesting she found them. “I really want to see this one—”

“St. Francis of Assisi,” said Mary. “It's more a chapel.”

“Yes. And then there's that chapel outside Santa Fe—”

“In Chimayo,” added Mary.

Isabel was enthusiastic. “Oh, yes. The ground there is holy; it's famous for its healing powers.”

After they'd talked for what seemed like hours about how spiritual a place Santa Fe was, how mystical, how haunting, it was Mary's eyes that began to glaze over. It astonished her how quickly Andi adapted to whomever she was talking with. When it was clear that Isabel was convinced she had found a friend and an ally in Andi, Mary said it was time to leave.

•   •   •

Later, at home and after dinner, Andi said, “Maybe we should take a tent, some camping gear. Do you have any?”

“Me? I'm not a camper. Anyway, I thought we were going to stay in motels and eat in restaurants.” Mary had been looking forward to this.

“We are. But you never know; we might have to go somewhere where there's no place to stay, no motels or anything.”

Mary thought for a moment. “Angela had a tent she used to take with her when she went on her Sedona trips. I don't know if she ever used it.”

They found the tent in a storage room, together with other of her sister's belongings: long-skirted flowered dresses that Angela had liked to wear, books in boxes, turquoise jewelry—all of them belongings that reminded Mary, who didn't want to be reminded. She was glad that Andi wasn't interested in clothes. But it did strike Mary that Andi was about the same size as her dead sister.

Andi was absorbed in seeing how the tent worked. It was a small one. “I'd have to study to see how it goes up. Still, it won't hurt just to toss it in the trunk with some blankets.”

Mary hoped they wouldn't have to use them. She had never liked the idea of camping. Andi, though, seemed ready for anything. Mary asked, “What about the stuff you left at the cabin?”

“I take most of my stuff with me whenever I leave it. I never know who might be there when I go back. I have my backpack and this.” She held up the smiley-face bag.

Mary had had several opportunities to look in the bag, but she hadn't.

Andi said, as if Mary had asked, “A couple of Elmore Leonard mysteries and some T-shirts and underwear.”

“We should decide on clothes and stuff. I mean, to make sure we pass for older.”

“I
am
older,” said Andi.

How irritating. But Mary had an answer. “It doesn't make much difference whether you are, if
I'm
the one that's going to drive.”

Andi ignored this, or didn't hear it. She was looking at some skirts and a dress hanging forlornly on a wooden peg beside the door. Taking hold of the hem, she fanned out the flowered skirt.

Mary looked at it sadly. “That was my sister's.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Andi dropped the skirt. “I was just thinking that it's loose-fitting; it might fit me, but not if—”

“Go ahead, try it on. But let's do makeup first.” Mary hated to admit, even to herself, that her interest in this was not merely practical; she loved the idea of dressing up. She pointed to an old oak table where a large mirror hung on the wall and another, full-length, leaned against it.

They moved to the table and Mary opened its center drawer. She scooped out lipsticks, powders, eyeshadows, and liners—a dozen or more makeup items. “It sure took Angela a lot of makeup to get that natural look.” Mary swiveled up a bright red lipstick, applied it, stepped back to view herself.

“That's the wrong color. You look like Spider Woman.” Andi picked up another. “Try this.”

Mary wiped off the red lipstick and put on the new one, a gold-tinted rose, a sunset color. She nodded. “That's better.”

Then they were both experimenting with sweeps of powder and rouge, coatings of foundation, brushes of eyeshadow, giggling and jockeying each other for position in front of the mirror. Gently shoving Andi around, Mary wondered why one of them didn't use the other mirror. They must have wanted to share the experience; they must have wanted to see, stroke for stroke—lipstick, liner, blush—how much they were alike.

Andi went to the peg beside the door and took down the dress. “I'll be right back.”

While she was gone, Mary rooted through another box, the one the British police had returned some of Angela's things in, and found her driver's license. There was certainly a resemblance, and no one expected an exact match. When she heard Andi coming, Mary got up and went to the door.

•   •   •

The dress came as a revelation. From the distance of the hallway's end, Andi looked like Angela. She was tall; she was also beautiful. It was a blanched, starving-pale beauty, almost transparent, so that Mary was reminded of the strange visions she'd had of Angela moving toward her through the wavering desert heat.

“You know, you look like her,” said Mary, holding out the license. “Here's your license; now you're legal.”

Andi took it and studied it with a small frown. “We've got the same color hair and almost the same color eyes.” She wiped the plastic carefully. “Maybe we could leave early in the morning. I could practice my driving more. I think I'm getting the hang of it.”

The only things getting the hang of it were the things that stayed out of her way, like the family of prairie dogs and the kids on bikes who went streaking away.

Andi was pulling the dress off over her head, saying, “Will Sunny be okay?”

“Oh, sure. He's gone half the time anyway. He doesn't need humans; he doesn't really need me.” What Mary had become aware of was that
she
was needed. All the time Mary had been barking orders at Andi, and wailing when she ran the car against a curb, and wondering how in heaven's name they'd ever get to Idaho—at the same time something awakened in her, a knowledge that she was necessary, that her presence was necessary. Andi could not make the trip without her. The car, the money, the driving—Mary was supplying most of these. But there was something else, too, a sort of dependence or need on Andi's part that Mary wasn't used to calling up in people.

Andi took the maps and spread them carefully on the floor, taking pains to dovetail the large one of Idaho and the ones of the other states through which they would pass: Colorado, maybe Utah, definitely Wyoming. They traced a route through northern New Mexico, then went out of their way (Mary insisted) to get to Cripple Creek (Andi insisted), then doubled back to get to the southwest edge of Colorado, then a corner of Utah and a lot of Wyoming.

Mary looked increasingly doubtful. “God, but it's a long way. It could take us a week just to get there and back.” She sighed, seeing them driving all that distance with Andi running cows and sheep back from their fences. She marveled at Andi's tone when she talked about this harebrained trip. She asked, “Which part is Idaho Falls and Salmon in? Are they close together? The eastern part of the state, I hope, so we don't have to drive clear across it.”

Andi's chin rested on her drawn-up knee. “What I think is that we should go to Salmon first because it's much smaller. Then, if we can't find out anything, if he's not there, we can hit Idaho Falls on our way back. It's here.” She pointed to one of the dots. “Salmon. What do you think?”

Mary had to agree. Looking for someone in a little town would be easier than looking in a big town. Though she felt they hadn't much
hope of finding him in either. But she didn't say this. And the trip itself should be made; if Mary didn't go, Andi would do just what she said she'd do—go alone.

“I bet we could get to Cheyenne or Laramie in one day,” Andi said. “We can drive longer with two of us driving.”

“What a comfort.” Mary sighed.

Route 67 wasn't an easy road under the best of circumstances, and Andi driving wasn't the best. She had, though, improved enough that the gears shifted without too much agony. Finally, they drove (or, Mary thought,
dove
) headlong into Cripple Creek. Before Mary could yell at her to hit the brakes, not the clutch, the car came to a dead halt. At least Andi'd remembered the car
had
brakes.

But Andi didn't seem to think she'd done a bad job. Her arms on the steering wheel, she was leaning forward, scanning the road, scrutinizing the buildings on either side. Cripple Creek's
BUSINESS DISTRICT
, or so the sign back there had said.

“Awful quiet,” said Andi. “Look up there, there's a diner. I bet that's where everybody hangs out.”

“All six hundred of them,” said Mary, getting out and slamming the door. She went a few feet, looked back. “Hey! Aren't you coming?”

Andi's voice came from inside the car. “Just a minute.”

Probably she was gathering up the maps; she loved the maps. She'd spent hours poring over them last night. Mary wondered if Andi thought she'd see a line of fire burn a trail across one, the way you saw it done in old Westerns, an antique map where a path was scorched in flame. She looked out over the street.

Although she had shrugged off the romance of old names, she could not help but be affected by this one broad street in Cripple Creek: wide enough for several stagecoaches, or a gang of gunslingers.
It wasn't hard for her imagination to shear away the new signs and building fronts to expose the old ones. That corner one across from her would have read
SALOON
, and the one next to it could have been the general store. What was now the Gold Rush Hotel probably had been a hotel a hundred years ago, maybe even with the same name. She could imagine cowhands riding in under clouds of dust and hitching their horses to those black iron posts in front of it, their spurs jangling as they walked.

Mary knew it wasn't a good idea to dwell on the past, even if it wasn't her own past; it would give her that lost feeling, and that was dangerous. If she thought on it too long, she was sure to get mired in it, stuck, pushed down. The past was quicksand. She thought of Dr. Anders, who spent most of his days at the Institute thinking about Time—with a capital
T.
Deep Time was a concept she didn't understand. She wondered if that meant there was a Deep Past. The quiet here, the enormous silence, which she knew was only momentary, still could make her feel that if she closed her eyes in the time it took to open them again, Cripple Creek would be gone.