Zigzag (24 page)

“You may stop to buy pottery quickly, or you may return to a particular vendor afterward if you see something you like. However, you may not leave the tour to buy,” James warned. “An Acoma guide must always be with you.”

Why? So we wouldn't steal things? So we wouldn't decide to stay?

We huddled around the display tables, looking at clay animals and bowls, vases and plates. In some booths the pottery was
beautiful, carefully painted with tiny details, while in others the work seemed poorly done, hurried, in the hope of making a little money. At one table where the work was especially nice, Dory bought a beautiful white bowl with small black arrows painted all around it. I could tell James was ready to move us along, but Dory was talking to the woman artist, and I decided I wanted something, too . . . something to help me remember this haunting place where I could never belong. A young girl, maybe the daughter of the artist, was selling clay horses, not as perfect as the older woman's bowls, but I liked that they were each different and wild looking. I decided, quickly, while Iris and Marshall were looking away, to buy three horses, one for each of us. It would be nice to give them something, too, so we would all remember.

By the time the shuttle bus brought us back down to the parking lot, we were all hot and tired. I'd stuffed the horses in my backpack, deciding to wait until the end of the trip to hand them out. We refilled our water bottles and were heading for the minivan when Dory suddenly said, “I'm going to buy something else,” and headed toward the line of parking lot vendors.

“What?” Iris said. “Mom, I've got a headache!”

“I'll just be a minute.”

“Well, can we at least get in and turn on the air-conditioning?”

“Go ahead,” she called back.

I got in the driver's seat and turned the ignition so the a/c came on, but I sort of hated doing it, especially out here where some people didn't even have electricity, for God's sake. But we
were
hot, so we polluted the ancient environment in order to cool ourselves off. Still, it felt awfully good when the air started blowing. It's not easy to be righteous.

Dory came back with a vase that must have been at least two feet tall and a foot wide. We all stared at her: There was no room for that thing is this car.

“Mother, are you nuts?” Iris said.

“Isn't this the most beautiful thing you've ever seen? And the artist is a wonderful man. I took his name so I can contact him. He said he could send me slides of his other pots.”

“Why didn't you tell him to send you this one? We don't have room for it in here.”

“Oh, sure we do,” Dory said. “There's room in the backseat.”

“No!” Marshall was getting into the act now, too. “Iris already has her junk spread out all over the place. I hardly have any room.”

“Well, Iris, couldn't you condense things a little bit? The pot could sit right here between the two of you.”

Iris and Marsh went more or less ballistic over sharing their limited space with an object the size of a five-year-old, but what could they do? Dory had bought the damn thing—it had to go somewhere.

As Dory pulled back out onto the highway and headed north for Santa Fe, the rage from the backseat was practically combustible. Marsh and Iris were mad at their mother, at each other, and even at me, the person who did not have a giant jar wedged in next to her knees. Dory's attempts at conversation were soon directed only to me.

“I thought we'd take a back road up to Santa Fe. It's on that map there—they call it the Turquoise Trail and it runs through some lovely small towns, some of them almost ghost towns now.”

I opened the map on my lap. “It goes over some mountains.”

“I know. See that town called Madrid? It was almost a ghost town until a group of artists took it over and now it's supposed to be a cute little place. I thought we'd stop there for dinner.”

“Looks kind of far,” I said.

“Oh, no. Not more than an hour,” Dory said.

Two silent, hungry hours later, we pulled into Madrid, a very small town, which consisted of half a dozen stores selling jewelry,
pottery and weavings, a pizza parlor, and a small café. Without asking advice, Dory parked in front of the café, turned off the motor, and slumped back in her seat.

“Well, that was longer than I thought. And more confusing. But we're almost to Santa Fe now.” She dared to glance into the backseat. “Anybody hungry?”

“Is
this
where we're eating?” Marshall asked. “It doesn't even look open.”

Iris slammed the car door, marched up to the café, and turned the door handle. “It's open. Let's, for God's sake, eat.”

The café was small but pleasant in a rundown, hippie-dippy way. Indian bedspreads were strung across windows and flung over shaky tables. Mismatched chairs and stools were painted red and yellow. Strings of chili peppers hung from the walls, which also displayed brightly colored paintings of vegetables.

For some reason it reminded me of Franny—she would have liked a place like this—a hodgepodge that was perfectly happy with itself. Not for the first time, I wished she was here with me. Maybe even more than I wished for Chris.

The café seemed to be deserted, but after a minute a young woman came out from behind a curtain, her dark hair cropped close to her head, a big white apron tied over a tank top and shorts.

“Oh, hi! I was just closing up. Did you want to eat?”

Iris and Marshall groaned.

“Well, yes,” Dory said. “It's only seven o'clock—isn't that early to close?”

The girl smiled. “Not around here. We usually get visitors through at lunchtime and a few locals late afternoon, but by this time of day it's pretty dead.”

“Oh, well . . .”

“It's okay—I'll stay open. I've got food. What do you think you want?”

“Could we see a menu?” Iris asked rather snippily.

“You could if I had one. This is what's left: two servings of eggplant Parmesan, enough tuna for a sub or two, plenty of cheese, tomatoes, and lettuce. I could make you a salad. Or I could cook up an omelet and throw an avocado in it. Any of that sound good?”

“Avocado with an
egg
?” Marshall made a face before ordering a tuna sub with lettuce. Iris asked for a salad, then glanced at me and told the girl to put some tuna on the side, too. Dory got the eggplant and I went for the omelet with avocado, which turned out to be excellent.

“Miss, do you have coffee, by any chance?” Dory asked.

“Name's Savannah. But I'm sorry—I don't have any more water.”

“You don't have
water
?” Iris said.

Savannah shook her head. “There's no water piped into Madrid—not drinking water, anyway. We buy it, but I ran out today. There's some iced tea left, though.”

“This town is weird,” Iris said when Savannah disappeared behind the curtain. “The only restaurant in town closes at seven o'clock and they don't have any water. Trust you to pick this place.” She glared at her mother.

“I think it's charming,” Dory said. “And besides, she's being very helpful. In a bigger town they might have just said, ‘
We're closed—go away.
'”

“A bigger town might have
water,
” Iris said.

Dory looked down at her plate and let her fork drop. “Iris, I'm really getting tired of your attitude. Even I can only take so much.”

“Even
you
? Like you're some kind of saint?”

Fortunately Savannah came back out then, iced tea pitcher in hand, and poured us all a round.

“You have a long drive today?” she asked.

“From Texas,” Marshall said. “And we stopped at Acoma Pueblo, too.”

“Wow, you covered a lot of ground for one day. You'll be glad to get to bed tonight. I guess you're heading for Santa Fe.”

Dory nodded. “I didn't make reservations anywhere, but I'm assuming we'll find a place.”

“Oh, sure. Only the expensive places fill up early.”

“We wouldn't want to stay in an
expensive
place,” Iris said, almost to herself.

Savannah fumbled in her apron pocket, then brought out a white card. “Here's the place my parents run. It's clean and there's almost always a vacancy.”

Dory looked at the card. “The Black Mesa Motel. I like the name.”

“Black Mesa is the name of the rock behind the San Ildefonso Pueblo. It's where my parents met.”

“Are your parents Indians?” Marshall asked.

“Native American,” Dory corrected him gently.

Savannah laughed. “No, they're just hippies. My dad is a potter and he used to go to the pueblo a lot to study Indian methods for making hand-built pots. And one day my mother was there and they met. She was on a trip with some friends from New Jersey, where she lived. But after she met my dad, she never went home again.”

“Never?” Marsh asked.

“Well, she's gone back to visit her folks, but she says she knew right away New Mexico was her spiritual home and my dad was her soulmate.” She laughed. “That's the way they talk.”

“Kind of cornball,” Iris said.

“Yeah, they are,” Savannah agreed. “Ya gotta love 'em, though.” She cleared our dishes and took them behind the curtain.

Dory paid her, including a big tip. “I'm sorry we made you stay so late.”

“No problem. I'll lock up right behind you.”

She waved good-bye to us and took off her apron. As we climbed into the car, the sun was already starting to go down behind the mountains and the air was getting cool. I think we were all looking forward to settling into a place in Santa Fe for a few days and not having to ride in the car for a while.

“What a sweet girl,” Dory said. “I'm glad we stopped there.”

The minute the doors slammed closed, Iris started in. “I am
not
staying in some cheap old motel again—I don't care if it is run by
soulmates.
”

“Hey! I want to go there! We could see her father's pottery!” Marsh chimed in.

“Yeah, and Mom would
buy
it. Just what we need—more pots to cram into the backseat.”

“Put your seat belts on,” Dory said, trying to ignore them. “I just stay on Route 14 here, don't I, Robin?”

I checked the map and showed her the route into town. We pulled out onto the shadowy old highway.

But Iris was still livid. “I'm sick of
you
making all the decisions.
You
decide where we eat.
You
decide where we stay.
You
decide we're too poor for me to go to Forest Hill School even though
you
can spend money on other stupid junk like this ugly vase,
which is pinching my legs
!” Her tirade had developed into a full screech.

“Ow!” Marshall entered the fray. “Iris kicked the vase right into my knee!”

“Well, I
can't stand it anymore
!” Iris said. She kicked the vase so hard I could feel it hitting the back of my seat.

“Iris, if you break that pot . . .”

“I hope I
do
break it. It would serve you right!”

Dory unbuckled her seat belt so she could turn far enough around in the seat to see her daughter. “Iris! Get hold of yourself. What is wrong with you?”

“What's wrong with me is
you
! Why did Daddy have to die? He wouldn't make me do things I don't want to do!”

“Shut up, Iris!” Marshall demanded. And then he lifted his foot and smashed it into her thigh.

Dory turned back to look at the road, and then turned around again, trying—with one arm—to keep Iris from kicking the pot, to keep Marsh from kicking Iris. I think what she wanted to do was pull the car over to the side of the road, but we were going too fast, and everything was so loud and crazy. When we came around the curve, we were too near the edge, and then everything went into slow motion. The tires went off the road and bumped over the rocky dirt. Dory swore and tried to wrench the steering wheel in the other direction, but suddenly the van didn't seem to be under her control anymore.

“Mom, stop!” Iris screamed, but this time there was nothing Dory could do. Marshall was just yelling, without words.

The van leaped sideways, heading down the slope of the hill. Dory kept stomping on the brake, but it was useless. As the van tipped, I braced myself against the dashboard and looked over at her. She was staring through the windshield with wide, terrified eyes; she'd given up trying to stop the inevitable.

Oh, my God,
is what I was thinking.
This can't be happening. Make this not be happening.
The screaming from the backseat continued as the van rolled over once, twice, three times, and finally landed on its side like a wounded elephant.

Then everything was quiet.