Solomon's Oak (13 page)

He downloaded the photos onto a disc and printed out the best one of the bride and groom to slide into the front of the empty CD jewel case. On the back of the case he used one of his tree shots, imposing the bride’s and groom’s names and the date over it, a touch he knew the couple would like. He e-mailed Glory Solomon:

Dear Ms. Solomon,

If I send the photos to you as attachments, it’ll take all day to download, so I mailed you a CD. Let me know if there’re any problems. Here’s my cell number.

Regards,

Joseph Vigil

Okay, so he was sending the CD by snail mail because after the gun he didn’t want to embarrass himself further, but her tree was another story. Of all the trees in California, he wanted particularly to photograph Solomon’s Oak. Now that Grandma Penny was gone, and the cabin soon to follow, he wanted a last reminder of that tree and his summers.

On Thursday, Joseph woke to rain, made coffee, and sat down with a book. By eleven the rain turned into a torrential downpour. His grandmother had told him that pounding kind of rain was “male,” according to the Navajo. All Joseph knew was that the damp made his bones ache even more, necessitating an early-morning pain pill. When he couldn’t find a comfortable position sitting or standing, he lay down and shut his eyes, reliving the shooting that caused the aches he now had to find some way to live with.

He and Rico had met in a pre-law-enforcement class at the community college and discovered they were both on track for AA degrees in criminology. With the degrees in hand, they would work their way up to the better-paying jobs immediately. Both joined the force, finished training, and began as beat cops in Duke City. But where Rico thrived on dangerous circumstances, Joseph hated them. He worried he’d freeze at some critical moment, end up responsible for somebody’s death, so when a technician position in the crime lab opened up, Joseph applied. Enamored of the nifty equipment for analysis of crime-scene findings, he found a use for his high school geometry, learned to foreshorten photographs and to do ID fingerprint recovery in the field. Rico and the guys gave him a ration for it:

“Buy a chemistry set to play with on weekends.”

“You’d rather take orders than give them?”

“Less chances of meeting cute women.”

“You’ll have to turn in your gun.”

Those things were true. The job turned out to be more of a science than the art he imagined, but there were always new tools and systems to learn, and the difference they made in conviction rates satisfied him. Three years later, Rico was promoted to detective, and while most detectives scorned lab workers outright, Joseph and Rico remained close.

They met for beer after work sometimes. On the weekends, Joseph went to Rico’s kids’ soccer games and family barbecues. Rico never let up trying to pry him out of his lab chair. “Come along on one of our busts. It’s exciting. Nothing feels as good as cuffing some jackass and throwing him into the paddy wagon.”

Joseph got up. His back pain nagged him so that he couldn’t concentrate. He poured himself a cup of coffee, then noticed a trickle of rainwater seeping down the inside of the kitchen window. It wasn’t worth fixing, but it would be nice if he had the option to. On the back porch was a stepladder. If he tried to carry it indoors, he would spend the rest of the day lying on a heating pad, popping pills. For a task other men could do one-handed.

The Oak Shore was so deserted this time of year that all it needed was a couple of wandering burros to qualify as a ghost town. At one time there had been trees in every direction, fir, oak, cottonwood. Clear-cutting had created three hundred acres for custom homes. Once Penny’s cabin was bulldozed, entrance through the double gates to the area would require a punch code. Homeowner fees kept the landscape at a civilized distance.

Joseph had learned to swim in this lake. He had rocked in the green canvas hammock on the front porch while Grandma Penny sat on the steps shucking corn for their dinner. One of the three sisters was always present: corn, squash, or beans, often the creamy Santa Maria
pinquitos
she’d simmer for hours in her beloved micaceous-clay pot. They’d fold them into fresh tortillas and feast for days.

Grandma Penny collected rainwater in a barrel because why waste such a precious resource? When a rainbow appeared, she reminded Joseph, “It’s bad luck to point at a rainbow with your finger. Best to use your thumb, otherwise you might catch arthritis.” She had her opinions on the birds, too. “That bluebird right there? Angry bird. Thinks it’s a hawk.”

Like Lorna at the general store, his grandmother wanted to know his life plans.

“What are your ambitions, Joseph?”

Stuntman. Pro basketball player. Race-car driver. Pilot. FBI agent.

“Yes,
nieto
. I know you can do this if you put your mind to it.”

The cabin had no television, so every night he reread the books she’d given to him as a kid. From their mildewed pages he learned about the California Gold Rush, the migrant farmers, and the positive side of the Spanish missionaries, yet the book that burned within him was the tale of Ishi, the last California Indian living wild. One day, Ishi walked out of the forest and agreed to spend the rest of his life as an aboriginal artifact living in a museum exhibit people could visit. In his youth, Joseph thought that was beyond cool. Now it sickened him to think of any Native person living his life on what basically amounted to a stage set. But since the shooting, Joseph understood Ishi. In some situations all you could do was make a place for yourself and wait for time to pass.

“Without a job, a man is no better than a horse,” Joseph’s father had often told him during his growing-up years. “He might look handsome, but God gave us muscles to use, not admire.” His father gathered piñon nuts the old-fashioned way, laying a tarp under the tree and climbing a ladder to strike the open cones to dislodge the nuts. He took his twenty-five-pound limit every week and parked his truck off the interstate and sold bags. He grew Hatch chiles and hauled his barrel-roaster-and-propane-torch contraption to Albuquerque to broil green chile to sell at the farmers’ market.

“Fire up!” he’d call out as he lit the flame. The roaster tossed the chiles around like bingo numbers. “Chiles coming out!” he’d holler when the blackened chiles released their skins. He sold them in sandwich-size Baggies all the way to fifty-pound sacks. Driving anywhere in late summer or early fall, Joseph rolled down his window just to smell the smoky, spicy scent unique to his state.

His mother grew tomatoes and corn and tended her orchard of stone fruit. She braided chile
ristras
and sold them through a mail-order catalog. These days she needed a magnifying glass to braid neatly, and it took longer to make her quota. The last letter she’d sent to him made her feelings about the upcoming holidays clear.

Primo,

I am making and freezing tamales though my hands get numb after only an hour. If you were here, you could help me with the cornhusks. I forgot to dot the dessert tamales with food color, so I guess Christmas dinner will be a surprise. Your father and I wish we were all together to go to Mass, open presents, and enjoy visiting friends.

Love from your
madre
, who is
triste y solo.

When the rain let up, Joseph washed out the cup and spoon, checked to make certain the propane was turned off, and put on his jacket. He drove to the post office, mailed the CD to Glory Solomon, then headed out toward the highway. To get to the city of Carmel, you drove Highway 68 to the two-lane Highway 1, which was always crowded from Salinas to Monterey, and finally arrived in Monterey, with the excellent aquarium and Fisherman’s Wharf. Today he bypassed the tourist attractions and headed to the doctor’s office, where he had an appointment with an orthopedic specialist. The office was in the gallery-filled village of Carmel, known for its world-class golf course and expensive cottages.

Afterward, if the weather stayed dry, he’d drive south to the Big Sur redwoods.

“You need to get things looked at every three months, sooner if any of your symptoms worsen,” the surgeon in Albuquerque had told him. The California doctor looked more like a surfer than a surgeon. Joseph sized him up. Maybe thirty-five, 160 pounds, caramel leather deck loafers with a Goodyear-tread sole. He had one of those sticking-up hairstyles that made him look as if he’d just woken up. On his way to the exam room, Joseph passed doors to X-ray machines and other equipment he couldn’t identify. He lay down for the X-rays, which were digitally delivered to a flat-screen television monitor in the exam room.

The doctor took time out to shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Vigil.”

“Same here.”

The young doctor frowned as he studied the films.

“Bad news?” Joseph asked.

“We should do an MRI. If you can come back this afternoon, we can do it today.”

“That fast? Is there a life-and-death problem?”

The doctor chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I have my own machine, and I like to get fresh films. Waiting around for CHOMP to get an opening just isn’t practical. I’ll give you some Valium intravenously, of course, and you’ll need someone to drive you home. Can you call your wife?”

“No.”

“Can you arrange to spend the night in town?”

Joseph sat back on the exam table. “I’m in the middle of a project. How about we do it after the first of the year?”

“I know your type,” the doctor said.

“What type is that?”

“The type of man who thinks an MRI is a waste of time.”

“Is it going to change how my back feels? Heal the broken parts?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Then why do it?”

“With the MRI in hand, I can assess other avenues we might explore to manage your pain. There are new procedures every year.”

It sounded to Joseph like “A cure for—insert disease here—is just around the corner.”

“I’ve been wondering, how long will it take before I can get off the painkillers?”

“What’s your discomfort level on a one-to-ten scale?”

It was a solid eight and a half and had not changed one iota since Joseph had left the hospital. “It’s not totally immobilizing. Some days—” He stopped himself. “It’s pretty bad sometimes. Especially when it rains.”

“Common reaction.” The doctor typed into his laptop computer before looking up. “Disturbed tissue takes a long time to mend, but that’s only part of it. Cases like yours, I shoot from the hip. You okay with that?”

“I prefer it.”

“All right, then. Barring a miracle, you’re never going off the pills. I can’t predict when, but you will likely build up a tolerance and eventually need to use a stronger medicine. Your liver’s working overtime processing the pain medication, so avoid alcohol.”

Joseph nodded. “I don’t drink.”

“Good. Okay if I examine you, give you your money’s worth?”

Joseph sat still while the surgeon tapped on his back. It hurt, but it always hurt, so he didn’t say anything.

When the surgeon was finished, he said, “Mr. Vigil, you must have been born on a lucky day. Most patients with your injury are in a sip-and-puff wheelchair for life. To say that your spine’s compromised is putting it mildly. I’d say you’re looking at least two more surgeries down the line.”

“Terrific.”

“Did your doctor in New Mexico not explain all this to you?”

“He did. This being California, top-rate doctors, I hoped you’d see things differently.”

“Sorry I don’t have better news for you.” The doctor typed the prescription refill into the computer. “You can pick this up at the desk. It’s schedule II, so it needs to be hand-carried to the pharmacy and accompanied by ID.”

Joseph knew all this, so he said nothing.

“I’ve read the particulars of your accident. How are you doing emotionally?”

“Fine.”

The doctor closed the computer and set it on the counter. “Mr. Vigil, may I be frank?”

“Sure.”

“Survivor guilt is a bitch. I’ve seen patients trying to tough it out alone end up in the psych ward. You should see a therapist. I’ll write you a referral for this great guy in Santa Cruz.”

“Appreciate it.” Joseph pulled the paper gown away and put his arms into his flannel shirt and buttoned it up.

The doctor walked out the door behind him. “Think about seeing the therapist.”

“You bet.”

As soon as he reached the parking lot, Joseph threw the business card into the trash can. He drove to the nearest drugstore to fill his prescription. The pharmacist himself came to the counter. “Picture ID, please.”

Joseph showed him his New Mexico license with the red Zia on the yellow flag.

“You’re from out of state?”

Joseph showed him the letter from his New Mexico doctor, the California doctor, and answered, “Yes, on an extended visit.”

“This drug carries a high degree of addiction,” the pharmacist said.