The Staircase (5 page)

I nodded, clucked to Ben, and rode off.

AS BEN AND I
climbed the hill at the end of town, the wind picked up and worked against us. The higher we got, the stronger the wind became. I ducked my head. There were mists up here, too, close to the ground. And all around were crumbling walls of what looked like an old army post. There were even one or two abandoned and rusty cannons.

I thought of Fort Bent and Uncle William. Elinora had not spoken of a fort here. Of course, she wouldn't. She only spoke of churches and religion.

What was I supposed to be seeking? Had I understood Ramona? Was there someone up here who was lost? Or injured? Was it a place people came to pray? Or a place where I might someday bury my mother? Perhaps the nuns had told her my mother had died on the Trail.

As I went through an old tumbledown wooden archway, 1 made out the weatherworn painted sign,
FORT MARCY.

Ben and I climbed higher and higher. All around now were ruins of an old two-story building, and fortifications in which were holes, the kind you could shoot through. It was
colder up here, and the ground was uneven. Ben was stepping delicately over and around things. I looked down.

We were in what appeared to be a cemetery. There were some broken headstones, with the writing not even readable anymore. And loose rocks. Ben kicked one aside.

Rocks? I looked down in horror. They were not rocks. They were bones. Old bones that were coming up from the earth because rain and wind had worn the earth away.

Carefully I guided Ben out of the cemetery, then turned and looked down at the town. I could see all, like God could see all. The town was coming to life. People were moving about around the houses, and on the streets. But the plaza was still deserted. I had a grand view. And something about being so far above my troubles gave me a sense of peace. From below I heard the church bell ringing. The girls would be leaving mass now. I wondered if anybody would miss me.

I don't know what I had in mind when I saddled Ben. To get away. To ride on the Santa Fe Trail and find Daddy. But in my heart, I knew I could not do that. He had taken the Trail south this time. And I did not know the Trail south. I would become lost in the desert. I don't know in what direction I would have gone if Ramona hadn't entreated me to come this way.

"
Una madre,
" she'd said. Elinora had been studying Spanish to please the nuns, and I'd heard her say the Hail Mary in Spanish enough to know that
madre
meant "mother."

I remembered then what she'd given me, and reached for the sack. I opened the container of coffee. It was still hot. And there on the hill, in the ruins of the earthworks of Fort Marcy, I had my breakfast on Ben's back. Coffee and corn bread. Oh, it tasted so good! I sat munching and drinking, letting Ben have his head so he could seek out some dried grass and dandelions. There was still some mist farther up the hill, but for the most part the sun had broken through now. The day would become pleasant once the mist burned off. I heard some birdcalls, saw what I thought was an eagle.

The hot coffee and corn bread, the sense of being on my own, of being able to survey the town from up on high, gave me comfort. I did not know what I was going to do about being left at the convent. Maybe I would write to Uncle William and tell him to come and fetch me home.

Yes, that was it. I would write to Uncle William. Surely he would not leave me here.

I felt better and gulped the rest of my coffee. And then I heard the crying.

So low that at first I thought it was the wind. Or part of the spell of the weedy desolation and crumbled crosses around me. And then I heard it again.

"Ben, did you hear that? Somebody is here." I turned him in the direction of the crying. It was uphill, where the mist still clung. We made our way through, carefully, lest Ben step in a hole or trip on some bones.

Ben stopped, neighed, lowered his head, then raised it. "What is it?" I asked.

Then I saw a woman on the ground in front of me. She was wrapped in a Navajo blanket, kneeling in front of a headstone that was listing to one side.

"Oh, Robert, Robert," she was crying, "I must go now, son. I am long gone, and the nuns will be looking for me. What do you know about that? I fell asleep here. But it's all right. At least you weren't alone this night. Still, I must go."

At the side of the grave was a small cavelike structure made of stones. Inside was a lantern. The woman saw me, reached for
the lantern, and held it in front of her. "Oh!" She gave a small scream. "Oh, who are you? Go away, please!"

"It's all right, ma'am," I said. "We're not going to hurt you."

"Did they send you? They did, didn't they, the nuns? To fetch me. Well, I won't go back. They'll lock me in my room for coming here alone. But what could I do? None of the girls would come with me. And I had to see Robert."

She was crying, weeping, gesturing—threatening and angry at the same time. I scrambled down off Ben to kneel on the ground beside her. She backed away, afraid. "No, no, don't touch me. I won't be touched by a Catholic. They put a spell on you. I won't be under their spell."

"All right, I won't touch you. See?" I held my hands away from her. "And anyway, I'm not Catholic."

"You're not?" She was disbelieving. "Everybody around here is. How can you not be?" She dropped her voice to a whisper. "They're all over the place, the Catholics. The whole town is crawling with them. I have to be so careful."

There was a light that was not quite right in her eyes. She was demented, poor thing. "I'm Methodist," I said.

"You aren't."

"Yes, when I bother to be anything. I'm not very good at it, though, I'm afraid. I haven't much use for religion right now. But I was raised Methodist. My mama was a church lady in Independence. That's where I come from. But she died on the Trail, coming here. And my daddy isn't anything since the war."

"The war?" She blew out the candle in the lantern and set it down on the ground. "My Robert was always afraid of the dark as a child. So I leave the lantern for him at night." She had come alert at the mention of the war. The look in her eyes became sharp. "Your daddy was in the war?"

"Yes. He lost an arm."

"I lost Robert. Here, this is his gravestone."

"Your husband?"

"No, my son. My only dear son. I come up here every day to leave flowers. And leave the lantern for the night. Sometimes I sneak food out of the kitchen. I came last night and fell asleep and never woke until this morning. First time I've ever done that." She smiled. "Robert didn't mind, though."

Her smile was so warm it made her whole face seem like a room full of candles that I had suddenly walked into. Her eyes twinkled. She was old, yes. She had wrinkles, but it was the kind of old I knew my own mama would have grown into if she'd had the chance. The kind of old that says, "Come now, there's nothing to be afraid of. Don't be frightened."

She was a fine-looking woman, too, or once had been. Her jaw had a round firmness, her teeth were still all in her head, and her nose had what my mama would have called an "aristocratic line."

I should get her home, back to the convent. She didn't belong here on the cold ground. She could be getting a chill at this very moment. "What is your name?" I asked.

"The nuns call me Mrs. Lacey. But you can call me Violate."

She was "
una madre,
" the one Ramona had told me about. And she was missing from the convent.

"I'm Lizzy," I said. "Come along; let's go back to the convent together."

"No, no." She waved me off. "I'd just as lief stay here with Robert as go back to those nuns. Lock me in my room, they will, for running off alone. I'm not going back there, I tell you. I'd rather stay here."

"But you can't live here," I protested.

"And why not?"

"Because. You'll take sick. It gets cold. Because"—and I had a thought then—"because Robert wouldn't want you to. He'd want you to be where you're warm and safe."

"But if I go back they won't let me come and see him again," she whined like a child. "Mother Magdalena will make me wear the asafetida bag around my neck. It stinks."

"I've run off without permission, too," I told her. "But if they let me, I'll come with you to visit Robert."

Her eyes, which were baby blue, widened. "You? Who are you? I don't know you, do I?"

"You do now. I'm Lizzy Enders. And I've run off without permission. This very morning. I even left mass to do it. I'll probably be punished, too."

"You live at the convent?" She peered into my face. "I don't recollect you. You must be a new girl."

"Yes." I sighed, resigned to it. "I'm new."

"When did you come?"

"Last night."

"And you're Methodist?"

"Yes, when I'm anything."

She nodded, mulling it over. Then she spoke. "Will you speak for me if I go back with you? Will you tell Mother Magdalena you'll come here with me every day?"

"I'll speak for you," I said. "Come; we'll go back together."

WE MADE OUR WAY
down the hill carefully. I walked Ben, since it wouldn't be seemly to ride, and I had to hold her arm firmly. "How did you ever get up this hill yourself?" I asked.

"Oh, when I come to visit my Robert it isn't difficult. Going down can be worse."

"Don't you mind all these bones on the ground?"

"Not if they don't mind me!" She laughed. "The dead can't hurt you as much as the living."

"How long have you been at the convent?"

She stopped and stared at me. "I don't recollect. Forever, it seems. I came here with my husband when they made this place." She gestured to the ruined fort around us. "Let me see, that was many years ago. My first husband died during the war. I didn't want Robert to fight, but he ran away and became a drummer boy. He was only sixteen when he died. They shipped his body to me here. I mourned him so. He was my only child, you know. Then, after my second husband died, I became ill. Sometimes—" She stopped and squeezed my arm. "Sometimes they say I'm not right in the head. But during those times it seems I'm happiest. Tell me, with the world the way it is today, do you like being right in the head?"

I giggled. "Not always."

"Well, you see? When you're old you can go out of your head and get away with it. Not when you're young, though. I'm tired now."

We'd reached the bottom of the hill. "Would you like to ride Ben the rest of the way?"

"I used to be a fine horsewoman. Oh yes, I'd ride my horse all over these hills. I had a green velvet riding habit. Do you know about the staircase?"

The way she had of jumping from one subject to another certainly kept you alert, I decided. "At the church? Yes."

"They patterned that church after the Sainte-Chapelle, in Paris. They say it's the only Gothic church west of the Mississippi. I kept asking that architect, 'What about the staircase?' But he wouldn't listen to me. Threw me out. What did I know,
an old Protestant lady? When I tried to tell the nuns—well, they never listen to what I say at all. Then when the builders left, the nuns scolded me for not telling them. And Bishop Lamy is so upset with Mother Magdalena about it. Those two don't get on too well. Mother Magdalena gets bossy and uppity. He's kinder in the heart."

I told her then about Elinora, and how my father had been paid to bring her here.

"Oh, he has a great fondness for that grandniece, the Bishop. She's his niece's child. So do you like Santa Fe, dearie?"

"I don't know it yet."

"Oh, it's a land of fancy. And a land of stark truth. The trick is to figure out when it is being which."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Sometimes everything seems prickly and sharp. And when it is not sticking you with its stark truth, it is enchanting you. There is enchantment, magic, everywhere. You must be careful of it. Did you know that Jesse James was here last night?"

I stared at her. Was she in or out of her head now? Her blue gaze was becalmed, peaceful. "He comes here sometimes to hide. Up in the fort." She pointed to where we'd just come from. "I never know when he'll come, but he and I get along. He's a nice young man. About the age my Robert would be now His family was badly treated in the war, did you know that?"

"I come from Missouri," I said. "I know all about Jesse James." I felt very possessive of him, too. After all, he was ours in Missouri. What right did she have to lay claim to him here in New Mexico?

"He can't help doing what he's doing," she said. "He told me how the Pinkerton men blew up his house in Missouri and killed his young stepbrother."

I stared at her. Not many people outside Missouri knew that.

"He robs and steals to get back at authority. I wish I had a way of getting back at authority. Don't you?"

I thought of the plantation my father had lost. Of General Sherman's authority.
What kind of a girl would I be if we still had that plantation?
I'd often wondered. "Yes," I said.

"Whenever Jesse comes through, he hides out up there in the fort. I have other friends there, too. Maybe someday you'll meet them."

"If you're Protestant, why do you live at a Catholic convent?" I asked.

"They care for me. No one else will. But of course, I have paid my way. I gave a right-smart parcel of money to help build that cathedral. Which is why I was so annoyed when they didn't do the staircase right. They must find a builder to do it right. I keep telling them."

"There are plenty of missionaries and churches about."

"Not in Santa Fe, and I want to stay in Santa Fe. With Robert. In spite of all their mumbo jumbo, they're good people at Our Lady of Light. They just overdo the rules. And so I break them. They assign one of the girls to come with me every day. But the lily-livered little brats don't want anything to do with me. So if I want to visit Robert or Delvina, I have to go alone."

"Who's Delvina?"

"Why, she's my other friend up at the fort," she said, as if she'd already told me and I hadn't been paying mind. "She lives up there. I bring her food and extra blankets. She's darling. You'll have to meet her. She's to have a baby."