The Sweet Blue Distance, page 35
Eli looked over all the men in the room. “And you took him up on that bet?”
“It made sense!” Llabrés had gone red in the face. “Olivier was one of Lamy’s favorites, so it looked like easy money. If Eduardo Tejeda was so much in love he wanted to spread his coin around on foolish bets, who am I to deny him?”
Quincho threw up both arms, fingers wiggling in frustration. “You have eyes in your head, but damn, Llabrés, you don’t see much. Don’t you remember Lamy booting six priests out of his territory less than a week after he got here?”
“I don’t see the connection,” Llabrés said, arms folded over his chest.
“Men,” Rosita spit. “Llabrés, think about why Lamy got rid of those priests. Those priests in particular. It’s how Eduardo got the idea.”
Now Hartmann, who went to mass every day and confessed nearly as often, got to his feet. “I’ll tell you why. Because those priests had—had—”
Every man in the room watched, enjoying the dentist’s discomfort.
“Wives.” His voice cracked.
“Well,” Rosita said. “I wouldn’t go that far. You know a priest who can afford to pay the marriage tithe?”
“Wait,” Hartmann said, truly affronted now. “Priests don’t get married. They can’t be married. A priest who wants a wife can only pretend to be married.”
Rosita put back her head and laughed. “Priests fucking like rabbits anywhere you care to look. You call that pretending?”
Eli estimated it would take another hour of arguing before the crowd in the cantina would agree how Eduardo had pulled off his trick, but the important part was already clear. Padre Olivier had put aside his vow of celibacy in favor of a young woman in his bed, and somehow Eduardo made sure the bishop found out about it. Olivier was gone the next day; Eduardo won his bet, collected his winnings, and paid the wedding tithe. Now he was married.
Eli got up to go, and Chico stretched and yawned and got up too. Then Rosita followed him out the door, and gestured him closer to say something she didn’t want anybody else to hear.
She said, “Titus Hardy and his men stopped in here on their way out of town.”
Eli should have anticipated as much.
He cleared his throat. “Rainey had some stories to tell, is what you mean to say. About the new midwife. Miss Ballentyne.”
She patted him on the shoulder. “He did, but hold up, that’s nothing much to worry about. Wasn’t anybody in here just then except Ray Ingalls, and you know he’s pure deaf.”
It wasn’t often he saw Red Rosita unsure of herself, but she was hesitating now.
He asked her, “¿Qué pasa?” What’s up?
That was when she told him about what was going on with the Markhams.
Outside, Eli paused to listen to the commotion just across the way at El Taquito. Chico had been quiet the whole time he sat at Eli’s feet in the cantina, but now he gave a low growl. He disapproved of the whistling and shouting and stamping that came from the gambling den. Most likely they were throwing dice, with most of the players drunk.
He clicked his tongue, and Chico settled without an argument.
The trouble at El Taquito might settle, too, eventually, but it was just as likely that there would be bloodshed. When you mixed men and liquor together with gambling and whores, tempers tended to flare. It occurred to him that one of his cousins or brothers might be over there raising hell, but he put the thought away. Tomorrow he would go out to the ranch to see his people, and that was soon enough. Right at this moment he was worried about Carrie.
He had thought of her on the other side of town, sleeping peacefully. Sam Markham was rich, and rich men with families were careful. Markham had armed guards, experienced and well paid, who kept watch through the night. An attack or raid or burglary was unlikely, but Eli realized now that he hadn’t thought much about other kinds of trouble that might be waiting for her.
A half hour ago he thought he would fall asleep right where he sat, but he was awake now.
It was the kind of summer night he liked best, with a breeze that felt like a gentle touch on the cheek, and a sky full of stars. He could take a walk, make sure everything was peaceful over there. Of course Carrie wouldn’t like it. He imagined her, frowning, her head tilted back so she could look him directly in the eye while she advanced on him, a hand planted firmly on his chest.
Let me remind you, she would say, that I am more than capable of taking care of myself. I have weapons. I know how to use them. And what kind of trouble exactly are you imagining, that would make you walk across town in the middle of the night?
Just at that point he realized that Carrie didn’t know where he lived or how to find him. She was as good as stranded in a household with a man who was dying, a woman who had lost her mind, and Lulu. A clever child, but a child, still.
He reminded himself that there were more people in the house: Josefa, Manuela, and Carlos. All of them more than just capable. That might be enough to let him get to sleep.
Chico was sampling the air, his head swinging back and forth as he took in Santa Fe. Looking for something. A good time. A fight. A meal. A female.
If Chico was so inclined, they would take a walk. Just a short one, across town and back again.
37
In the morning Carrie woke to light pouring in through two deep-set, arched windows to shine on Lulu, who sat on the floor, legs crossed and hands folded primly in her lap.
“Good morning,” Carrie said, wiping sleep from her eyes.
The girl hopped up. “Good morning!” And then, in a great rush: “I’m supposed to say that Josefa will be bringing your clothes in just a few minutes. And I wondered if you might need some help. As you don’t know your way around.”
The girl wanted her attention—or, Carrie corrected herself, Lulu needed her mother’s attention. Because she could not have that one thing she never imagined she might lose, she was hoping for someone who was willing to pretend with her that nothing had changed and her mother was readily available to her.
How much Lulu had been told about the stillbirth, how much she had reasoned out for herself, those were questions that Carrie needed to ask, but not just yet. First, she had to earn Lulu’s trust, and that would require that they spend time together.
She was about to suggest that Lulu join her for breakfast, when the girl’s attention shifted to the window that looked out over the narrow street. Children were passing, girls just a little older than Lulu, agitated and breathless and urging each other to hurry, hurry, hurry. Lulu pulled a stool over to the window and climbed up on it to look out. Carrie came closer too.
The little girls had crossed the street and were running alongside a high adobe wall.
“Lulu, what is behind that wall, do you know?”
Without taking her eyes away from the girls, she said, “The old convent. And the bishop’s house and a rectory. Then the parish church, and then the boys’ school. All the way at the other side is the Academy of our Lady of Light, where the nuns teach girls. Look, that’s Sister Agatha. Oh, they are in trouble, those three. It’s a very bad thing to be tardy.”
A nun had appeared from around the far end of the wall. Her face, already narrow, was pressed tightly on all sides by a stark white wimple that set off the black linen of veil and habit. She stood, arms crossed and hands tucked into the wide sleeves, motionless, and said nothing. Her gaze fixed on the girls who stood in front of her, heads bowed. For as much as thirty seconds, they were all silent. Even watching, so far removed, was painful.
In a whisper Lulu said, “At least she’s not yelling.”
In fact, Sister Agatha continued to say nothing at all, and then without warning she straightened her right arm and pointed away from herself to a spot that was out of Carrie’s line of sight. The girls broke and ran.
Lulu pushed out a whistling breath between her missing front teeth. “That was exciting.”
“I would call it more awkward,” Carrie said. “But I don’t know very much about the way Catholic schools are run.”
Lulu squared her shoulders and stepped down from the stool, where she sat and once again folded her hands in her lap.
“I’ll explain.”
And she did just that, launching into a brief lecture on the fine points of Catholic education by the Sisters of Loretto here in Santa Fe. She had been paying attention, this little girl, and she was observant. When she finished explaining the complexities of the Catholic schools, she went on to describe the Baptist academy, founded by a Reverend Read.
“People like Reverend Read,” Lulu summed up. Then she amended her evaluation. “People like him better than Sister Agatha.”
According to Lulu, there were three nuns who taught in the school, and another who stayed in the convent and was never seen. The housekeeping nun, Lulu called her. There were rumors children weren’t supposed to hear about, if Carrie might be interested.
Discretion was the only real choice here, and so Carrie changed the subject.
“Will you be going to the convent school?”
“No,” Lulu said sadly. “It’s not what my mother wants.”
This gave Carrie pause and made her wonder in that moment if Mrs. Markham had envisioned Carrie as her daughter’s governess. Not a topic to raise with Lulu.
“Then to Reverend Read’s academy?”
Lulu blinked at her, surprised. “Only boys in his school.”
So the only choice for a young girl interested in learning about the world was to attend a Catholic school—which might involve converting, as far as Carrie knew.
“The nuns ain’t all cranky,” Lulu said quite easily. “Just mostly Agatha. Do you know any nuns?”
“I know quite a few nuns who are nurses, some I’ve met through work and some through friends. I don’t know any sisters from the order of St. Loretto, or any who teach, but I expect they are like people everywhere. Some can be—”
“Cranky,” Lulu supplied.
It was as good a word as any, and as much as Carrie was comfortable saying. It would not be a good idea to share any more of her thoughts on the subject, because someday Lulu might indeed end up in a Catholic school classroom. In the course of her education, she would learn that some nuns were well-meaning but ineffective, while others liked children and teaching both, and then of course there were the ones who shouldn’t have been teachers to start with. If Lulu was fortunate, there would be few Sister Agathas in her future.
Carrie knew a lot about teachers and teaching; it was a family calling that began with her Grandmother Bonner more than fifty years before. For a moment she wondered if her Cousin Jennet, who taught the youngest students in the Paradise village school, might be willing to come to Santa Fe. She could start a school of her own, one independent of both the Baptist and Catholic churches. Girls welcome.
The idea made her smile: she hadn’t been here for a full day, and her mind already turned to rebellion.
Carrie had begun the long process of brushing out her hair and pinning it up while she listened to Lulu’s recitation. For weeks she had worn a plait, but here in Santa Fe there was no excuse; she was an adult, a mature woman, and could not present herself like a fourteen-year-old. She had just finished when Josefa knocked and came in with a stack of towels and linen in her arms. Lulu ducked behind her and was out the door, almost colliding with an older woman carrying more laundry. The second woman resembled Josefa so strongly that Carrie was sure they must be related.
“Your clothes,” Josefa said. “Everything from your saddlebags has been brushed and pressed. I’ve kept back one of the skirts to soak.”
“You are very efficient,” Carrie said. “And thoughtful.” Then she spoke to the other woman directly and asked her name, in her careful Spanish.
The older woman glanced up at her and dropped her gaze again. “Manuela, señora.”
Manuela, Josefa explained, was her father’s sister, also of the San Juan Pueblo, and she was here every day to help with the cleaning and laundry.
“You will rarely see my aunt. She stays out of sight.”
Because, Carrie understood without being told, Mrs. Markham wanted the servants who cared for her family to be invisible. Manuela left, murmuring a few words to her niece as she went, in a language that Carrie took as Pueblo.
She would have asked about this, but Josefa, busy with sorting through the laundry, had more to say.
“The doctor is waiting for you in the dining room, did you know?”
“He said last night what time I should join him. And Mrs. Markham?”
“Sleeping, for another hour at least.”
Carrie considered for a moment. She said, “Lulu spends a lot of time with you in the kitchen?”
Josefa hung a skirt on a hook, and then turned to look at Carrie directly. A challenge was coming. Carrie didn’t know this younger woman at all, but she could see that she would not simply accept Carrie because she had been told to.
She said, “Yes. You don’t approve of her spending time in the kitchen, or with us, or both?”
“I’m glad she has a place to spend her time,” Carrie said. “A safe place.”
That was as close as she could come, at this moment, to raising the topic of the doll Mrs. Markham insisted was a living infant.
Josefa was studying Carrie closely. Finally, she said, “We watch over Lulu, all of us who work for the Markhams. We watch closely.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Carrie said. “And what can you do for Mrs. Markham? Can you think of anything that we should be doing for her?”
After a moment Josefa shook her head. “I can tell you that Lulu is safe and well looked after.” About her mistress she would say nothing more.
* * *
—
Dr. Markham had already finished his breakfast when Carrie joined him. There were just a few crumbs on his plate, which might mean he had had a big appetite, or no appetite at all, but Josefa served Carrie a meal that would have fed two hungry men: eggs, beans and ham, cornmeal mush, and biscuits with butter and honey. She thought of Eli and what he would eat for breakfast. She knew nothing of how he lived, whether there was a housekeeper or if he cooked for himself.
“So I’ll start,” Dr. Markham said, “with a summary of the kind of cases I see here, and the therapies and medicines I most often use.”
While she ate, she listened to the doctor talking about the dispensary, the scope of his practice, and how he liked things to be organized. Not a word was said about Mrs. Markham, and Carrie was fairly sure that he would stop her if she tried to pick up last evening’s conversation where it had ended. Sooner rather than later she would have to raise the subject, no matter how little he liked it.
When she had finished, Dr. Markham called to Josefa that they were leaving for the dispensary. To Carrie’s surprise, this did not require that they leave the house. Instead they walked through the placita and down a short corridor to another door. The doctor used a key that was clipped to his suspender by a chain to open the door, and then paused to glance down the hall.
He said, “This kind of hallway is called a zaguan.” His tone was almost peevish, as if he had just realized that she didn’t speak Spanish, and must take that into account. With the door open, familiar smells were there to greet Carrie, sharp and caustic, sweet and herbal. She would concentrate on things besides Dr. Markham’s irritation. It was something nurses learned to do quite early in their training.
Beyond the reception area, there were two rooms for exams, another that must serve as a surgery, and one large room outfitted with six hospital cots, all neatly made up and empty.
“Feast or famine,” Carrie said, mostly to herself.
“Yes,” said Dr. Markham. “Big cities or small towns, that is our lot.”
“When were the beds last all occupied at once?”
“Six months ago,” he said. “Typhoid. I saved six, lost nine. It hit the pueblos much harder, as is almost always the case.”
They sat in his office, roughly the size of a storage cabinet. His desk took up most of the space, and as thin as he was, he had to turn sideways to get to the chair behind it. Carrie sat in the single chair opposite him and listened as he went on talking about the practice. There was nothing particularly alarming or off-putting in what he had to say, and certainly nothing surprising. Dr. Markham had trained in New York and held tight to the methods he had learned there. Carrie had her own basic rules, but he did not ask, and she did not volunteer that information. Generally, physicians were not interested in either a nurse’s or a midwife’s opinions.
At the same time, most physicians considered themselves perfectly capable of delivering an infant. In fact, they often complicated a birth that was already difficult. If a child presented so awkwardly that the birth could not advance, a midwife with narrow, strong, flexible hands was far more likely to coax that new life into the world than any doctor with tobacco-stained fingernails and filthy shirtsleeves.
Amelie had warned her about such things many times. “In a crisis, do not volunteer information,” she had cautioned. “The physician will not thank you for it, but he will remember your attempt to interfere, as he will call it. Or worse still, decide to teach you a lesson.”
Carrie already missed Amelie, who had a dry sense of humor and little patience with physicians who were unaware of their ineptitude. She said as much, on occasion. Any other midwife who was so blunt with a doctor would face repercussions, but there was something about Amelie that made men pause.
“My face,” she would say, when Carrie raised the subject. “My Mohawk-Seminole-African-Scots face.”
