Wild Sorrow (14 page)

I looked at Diane with disbelief.

“What?” she said. “I can like the way it looks here, can't I? I like lots of things about Taos. I love the mountains, the art. They have great coffee. I just can't advance in my job, that's all. And I have a jackass for a landlord. Tomorrow, I'm going to have to do something about him. I'll file a complaint in the local court, I guess.”

In the plaza in Taos, we stopped to buy enchiladas from a street vendor who had stayed after dark to capitalize on the after-mass crowd pouring out of the Catholic Church nearby. Farolitos were lit throughout the small central square in a pattern of concentric circles. Buildings surrounding the plaza boasted strings of electric luminarias along the rooflines. While Mountain sat and watched the passersby, Diane and I perched on a park bench, the snow falling around us and building up on our hats and the shoulders of our coats, as we ate the enchiladas from paper cartons and sipped cups of steaming Mexican hot chocolate.

“I have to admit,” Diane said, waving her spoon in the air for emphasis, “all this is pretty enchanting. But it could be so good for my career if I got transferred to someplace where my talents would be noticed. I talked to the Silver Bullet about that just briefly today.”

“So the Silver Bullet's name is Agent Sterling. What's his first name?”

“I don't know. I don't think anyone knows.”

I laughed. “I looked at the card he gave me the other morning after he questioned me. It just said: ‘Agent Sterling, FBI.' That was it. And then it listed his contact information.”

Diane laughed, too. “The Mystery Man. I'll see what I can find out.”

I picked up the cup of hot chocolate that I'd set on the bench beside me. I felt the warmth of the liquid through the cup and thought of Tom Leaves His Robe with his coat that wouldn't close. “On the way into town this afternoon, I gave a ride to a guy who used to go to that boarding school. Seems like everyone I've talked to at Tanoah Pueblo lately has a tale to tell about it. And the stories are all so sad.”

Diane was quiet.

“How is the murder investigation going?”

“I don't have much to report,” she said. “There aren't any forensic specialists this side of Albuquerque, and we don't have state-of-the-art labs and technology here. People watch those television shows, and then they think we have endless resources and personnel to put on every crime we come across, but that's not the case. We haven't been able to pinpoint the exact date of death. Without knowing when Cassie Morgan died, there is no way to establish who might or might not have had an opportunity or an alibi. So we have to go on motive.”

“You have a motive?”

“A revenge motive involving a former boarding school resident seems likely. Especially with the nature of the crime. We've begun interviewing some of the former residents at the school, looking for a suspect.”

I thought of Sica Gallegos, her legs crippled from the beating she had received from Cassie Morgan. And I thought of the broken spirit of Tom Leaves His Robe, who had sought Morgan's support when he was being abused, only to suffer worse for having done so. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach, and I turned my face up and let the cold snow fall on my cheeks and my chin.

“How are you coming with your mountain lion?” Diane asked.

I shook my head. “No sign of her so far. Or the cubs.” I felt a wave of sadness move through me. A gust of wind rippled through the plaza, and all at once the farolitos in their carefully made circles flickered and their flames died, the brown paper bags wet with snow collapsing with the force of the gale onto the candles and snuffing out their light.

The Church

The next morning, I drove to the pueblo before sunup, as Momma Anna had requested. Tanoah Pueblo was observing old ways for the week of the Solstice through the Epiphany on the sixth of January, and members of the tribe were discouraged from driving during these times. So Momma Anna had requested that I bring my Jeep to help transport the bultos, the large carved and painted figures of the Holy Family, to their home for the holidays with Sica Blue Cloud Gallegos and her family. It was of no apparent concern to her that a motorized vehicle would be used for this chore, so long as a member of the tribe did not drive it.

When she got in the passenger seat, Momma Anna pulled her blanket from her head and turned to look at Mountain, who wagged his tail ecstatically to see her. “You maybe move that wolf one side,” she said to me. “He take up the whole back now.”

“As long as we put the bultos in the very back, Mountain will stay up close to the front, and it won't bother him. I put things back there all the time.”

My medicine teacher turned to pat the wolf and gave him a little smile. “You ride with Joseph,” she told him. “You maybe get be a saint, too,” she chuckled. “Saint wolf.”

I laughed out loud at this idea.

At the old mission church inside the perimeter wall of the historic part of Tanoah Pueblo, I parked my Jeep in front of the gates to the churchyard, which also had its own low adobe wall around it. Momma Anna pulled her blanket over her head as she was getting out of the Jeep, and—because I had learned from past experience to do so—I pulled a blanket over my shoulders and my long blonde locks as well, leaving my hat in the driver's seat of the car. Inside the door of the small, dark church, Momma Anna stopped to touch the holy water with the tips of her fingers and press them to her forehead, where she made the sign of the Christian cross. I looked around me at the narrow nave with its dark cottonwood pews, the garishly painted images of the stations of the cross on the wall, a carved image of the Virgin Mary in a large nicho behind the altar. In a long box of sand, candles were burning already, indicating that members of the Tanoah tribe had come to pray even before morning mass.

A small figure hurried to us down the center aisle. She was dressed in a black habit with a short black veil. “Mrs. Santana,” she said. “It is so good to see you! Good morning, good morning, and God bless you.”

Momma Anna turned and opened a palm to include me in the conversation. “This my daughter, Jamaica,” she said.

The sister smiled and reached out a stubby palm. “Good morning. How do you do? I'm Sister Florinda Maez. I oversee things here at Nuestra Señora de la Purísima Concepción.”

I took her hand and smiled in return. “Jamaica Wild. Forgive me, my Spanish is limited. Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception?”

She nodded, still smiling. “Very good. That is the official name for this Catholic mission here at Tanoah Pueblo. I divide my time between here and San Lorenzo de Picurís, at Tanoah's sister pueblo.”

“It's good to meet you,” I said. “There's no priest here, then?”

“No. There is a priest part-time at Taos Pueblo, where they have a larger congregation. He consecrates the sacrament for us and hears confession once a month, and of course performs marriages and other ceremonies. But we have a strong lay community here who help to perform the other duties of the church.”

Momma Anna had moved away from our conversation immediately after the introductions, and she was kneeling at the altar. She rose now and turned to Sister Florinda. “We take Holy Family to their good place.”

“Yes,” Sister Florinda said. “They are all ready out here in the vestibule. The wise men, the shepherds, Joseph, and of course, Our Lady.”

“But isn't that Mary in the nicho behind the altar?” I asked, pointing at the large bulto.

Momma Anna scowled at me for the question, but Sister Florinda responded kindly. “Our church is named for Nuestra Señora. She is our patron saint. We cannot leave this church unprotected by Her grace and light, and so a
santero
from Chimayó has carved a second bulto for ceremonies such as this, when Her presence is required beyond the church's physical walls.”

In the small, dark entry, Momma Anna pointed at a large carving and grunted, “You take.”

I started toward the bulto.

“You come back,” Momma Anna said, “bring those blanket I bring. And wrap him in blanket, make sure he is safe.”

As I picked up the carving, I turned to the nun. “Did this church have anything to do with the San Pedro de Arbués Indian School?”

Both women bristled when I said this. Sister Florinda put a hand on my shoulder, turning me toward the entrance. “That was a long time ago, my dear,” she said, as she pushed open the door.

I brought back the stack of thin blankets when I returned from the Jeep so Momma Anna could wrap the rest of the statues before I took them out. “So this church was involved with the school?” I said.

Florinda Maez gave me a look of resignation. “Yes, this church was involved with the school. The whole diocese supported it, along with the Bureau of Indian Affairs.”

“Do you know what role this particular church may have played?” I pressed.

Momma Anna shoved another bulto into my arms. “Take,” she ordered.

When I returned for the next statue, Sister Florinda had disappeared, presumably back into the dark recesses of the nave. Momma Anna was tenderly wrapping several small figures of shepherds and their sheep into one large blanket. I peered in toward the altar and was surprised when the sister approached me from behind. “Why do you ask so many questions about the Indian school?” she said.

“I don't know,” I admitted. “It has made its way into my life, and I'm trying to discover its meaning.”

“May I give you a little advice, from a poor sister of the cloth?” she said.

“Sure,” I answered, not buying her false humility. I knew a lecture was forthcoming.

“I advise you to leave well enough alone and stay out of the business of the church and the Indians. There is still much healing to be done, but it must be done by the parties involved, and you cannot change that. God knows what He is doing, Miss Wild.”

 

As I was loading the last figure into my Jeep, I remembered the gift from Tecolote. I reached under the folded-down seat, where I had placed the Howdy Doody doll on the floor so Mountain could not smash or chew on it. I helped Momma Anna into the passenger seat, and then hurried back into the church with the gift.

“Sister?” I called as I came back in the door.

The nun turned and came back up the aisle from the altar. “Yes? What is it?”

“An old curandera from Agua Azuela named Esperanza told me to bring this to you.”

Sister Florinda Maez looked down at the proffered package with alarm. “What is that?”

“It's a doll, I think.”

“Is this a joke?”

“A joke? No, why? Esperanza asked me to give this to you.”

The sister reached with two hands and sternly straightened the sides of her veil. “I don't know anyone of that description. I'm afraid I cannot accept the gift. We take vows of poverty, you know, and that is no doubt of some value. Please return it with my apologies.”

“But—”

“And now, if you will please leave, I have to prepare for morning mass.” She pressed her hand against my shoulder once more, turning me toward the door, and walked behind me, still pushing lightly against my back until I was through the entry doors.

“I don't understand,” I said.

But Sister Florinda Maez did not answer. Instead, she closed the chapel doors right in front of me, without uttering another word.

 

 

When Momma Anna and I arrived at the Gallegos home, the sun was up and the day was already proving to be warmer than its predecessor. Snow had melted and the packed dirt plaza of Tanoah Pueblo had turned to mud. “Rather than both of us tracking dirt into Sica's house,” I said, “why don't you go on inside, and I'll carry the bultos to the door and hand them in to you?”

My medicine teacher nodded, approving this plan. She took the first bundle and headed toward Sica's doorway while I grabbed another, larger statue and then lowered the hatch. “You stay,” I said to Mountain. “This won't take long. Stay.”

I approached the Gallegos home right behind Momma Anna, who had plodded slowly around the mud puddles. We got to Sica's door just as Rule Abeyta was hurrying out of it with something in his hands. He and Anna almost collided, and Rule looked up at us with a start. He dropped a small carved figure, then hurriedly picked it up and tucked it under his blanket. He nodded respectfully to Momma Anna. “I told this old auntie we needed to move the
monito,”
he said. “This looks bad for Sica.” Rule Abeyta walked briskly past us and on toward the small río that ran through the center of Tanoah Pueblo.

I turned to Momma Anna and tried to think how to ask what the “monito” was, but I knew better than to phrase it as a question. Before I could find a way to pose the query, Eloy Gallegos spoke from the doorway, “Hurry up, you two. Get inside. It's cold out there, and Auntie Sica wants us to close the door.”

Over the Edge

I took Mountain with me and again rode the Coldfire/BLM land boundary in my Jeep to check on the traps that Charlie Dorn and I had set on the previous day. I prayed we would catch the cougar family so we could ensure the mother would live. Without her to hunt for them, the cubs would die. The day was warming nicely, but a strong wind was stirring out of the southwest as the sun rose higher in the sky and the cool air dissipated. When I got to the lookout I'd used previously, I scoped the traps once more with field glasses and found them still empty, the meat lures intact. I hoped the warmth of the day would permit the smell of the meat to spread and perhaps entice the cats to the cages.