Banana Rose (17 page)

“Oh, no!” Gauguin put his head on the kitchen table. “He flew to Las Vegas,
Nevada.
”

I wanted to burst out laughing, but I saw how upset Gauguin was. “Let’s skip the dinner I made. I’ll save it for tomorrow. We can just have dessert. Apricot cobbler.” I knew it was his favorite.

“No, let’s eat dinner. While Rip is coming up here, I’ll be going down there—for that gig!” His face was so broken up, it looked like a jigsaw puzzle.

“Well, you have to admit it’s kind of funny,” I offered.

Gauguin didn’t think it was. “Very funny, Nell, very funny. You wouldn’t be laughing so much if it were your family.”

Gauguin left for Albuquerque at two the next afternoon and Rip arrived at four on the one limo a day that stopped in Taos. When I picked him up, I recognized him immediately by his hair—red, though graying at the edges—and his spray of freckles. He was taller than Gauguin, maybe six foot, and he had a slight limp. Gauguin had told me he’d been in a bad car accident six years ago.

“Rip!” I called out, and waved.

“Ah, so you must be Nell.” His face lit up. He came over to me and bent down and kissed me.

“Gauguin had to go to Albuquerque—” I began to explain.

“When will he be back?” His face fell as he cut me off.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” I said.

“And I leave the day after that.” Then he brightened. “Well, I always wanted to see Taos.”

I took him and his brown leather suitcase to the La Fonda.

“Why don’t you come for dinner tonight?” I offered. I hadn’t planned to entertain, but I couldn’t just leave him alone. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

He seemed pleased.

I dashed over to Safeway. They had a sale on mushrooms that had become a little old. I could get a whole bunch for half price. I thought I’d make mushroom Stroganoff, one of my specialties.

I drove home and began to cook. On a sudden impulse, I walked up to Blue’s.

“Come to dinner tonight. Gauguin’s father will be there.”

“Sure, sugar, I’d love to. Want me to bring anything?”

“Just yourself.”

“Me, too?” Lightning stuck his head out of his room.

“Perfect,” I said. “But
you
have to bring something—your hat!”

He giggled. He was wearing his wool cap, as usual.

I felt relieved as I walked back down the hill. I didn’t want to be alone with Rip. It felt awkward—I hardly knew him—and besides, I remembered Gauguin told me once that Rip had tried to make one of Gauguin’s old girlfriends.

I had to drive back into town to pick Rip up before I finished cooking. When we arrived back at the house, he offered to help.

“Here, could you finish slicing these mushrooms?” I handed him the bowl, a cutting board, and a knife, and he settled down at the kitchen table.

“They seem a little old,” he said, holding one up.

“Oh, they’re fine. I got them cheap, so I could get a lot more.” I turned from the salad dressing I was making and smiled.

“You’re sure?” he asked, cutting them gingerly.

Just then, Blue walked in with Lightning ahead of her. I could see by the way his face lit up that Rip thought she was gorgeous. I looked over at her. She was wearing a red velvet jacket she had sewn by hand.

I introduced them. Rip popped right up into a standing position and took her hand. “My pleasure,” he said.

“I just adore your son, Gauguin, and he looks just like his daddy.” Blue tweaked Rip’s nose.

This undid Rip. “Please, please, let me get you a chair.”

“I’m fine. Just get back to what you were doing.” Blue nodded toward the cutting board on the table.

“Oh, yes, yes. I love to help around the kitchen.” Rip sat back down.

I wished Gauguin were there. I wanted Rip to stop gawking at Blue. But Blue seemed oblivious to it.

“So you’re an architect?” Blue asked when we finally sat down to the meal. “I just love dirt architecture. There are anthills all over the place, and sometimes I squat in front of one for a whole hour. Ever do that? I’ve been dying to see inside, but I don’t want to hurt the little bitty ants, so I just watch them come in and out, in and out of that top hole.”

“Why, yes, yes. I never thought about that. Maybe you could show me one.” He turned to me. “Nell, do you have anything to drink? I’m awfully thirsty.”

I jumped up. “Oh, I’m sorry. We have water. You should drink a lot, especially because it’s so dry and you’re new here.”

I handed him a glass and filled a pitcher.

“Honey, this dinner is delicious,” Blue chimed in. She’d almost emptied her plate.

“Oh, yes, yes,” Rip conceded. I could see, though, that he was nervous about eating the mushrooms. He thought they were rotten, but he wanted to impress Blue, so he suddenly chugged down whole mouthfuls, followed by big gulps of water. “Yes, sir, this is delicious!” By the time he was finished, he had drunk three glasses of water. He went to the outhouse.

While he was gone, Lightning looked up from his comic book. “He’s weird, Banana. I like Gauguin a lot better.”

Blue placed her hand on Lightning’s arm. “He just comes from a different place, sweetie.” Then she turned, and with her hand cupped to the side of her mouth so Lightning couldn’t see, she whispered to me, “He
is
weird,” and scrunched up her face.

I nodded. I started to say something, but just then Rip stepped back in the house. “Wow, is it beautiful out there! Worth the trip. Worth the trip.”

I served up the leftover apricot cobbler.

“I don’t get to see sky like that in the city,” Rip continued, “but sometimes I visit Camille, my mother, in Indiana, and we sit out on her porch and it feels good.” I placed a dish of cobbler before him. He looked down. “Oh, sweetheart, this looks delicious.”

Rip snapped his fingers. “That’s it! Blue, you look just like Camille when she was young.”

I burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Rip turned to me. “I’m serious.”

Blue stepped in. “Oh, Nell, honey, I just love this cobbler.” She leaned right into Rip’s face and asked, “Did your mother make dessert this good? I bet she did, didn’t she? You love your mother, don’t you, sugar.”

Rip was in heaven. “Yes, I love Camille.” I thought he might begin to cry.

At this point, I excused myself to the outhouse. I also wanted to see what the night sky looked like. As I passed the Russian olive, I looked up in supplication. “Heaven help me.” I couldn’t make Rip out. One minute he seemed like a lech or a con artist and the next he was just a grown-up little boy.

I drove Rip home that night and told him Gauguin would come by as soon as he returned the next afternoon.

“Oh, sure. I’ll just walk around Taos until he gets here.” He thanked me for dinner and told me what “a fine gal” I was, also how much he enjoyed meeting Blue.

The next morning I was setting up a still life on a low table. As I bent down to put a pear on the table, I glanced out the window. No! I stood up quickly. I couldn’t believe what I had just seen. I shook my head. I bent down and looked again. Sure enough, there was Rip, coming down the road on a big black horse, trying to hold on to a ten-gallon cowboy hat with his left hand while his right was gripping the horn of the saddle. The horse was trotting, and Rip was bouncing hard, his spanking new red cowboy boots wedged into the stirrups, his buttocks slamming down over and over on the leather saddle. He made a right before our house and went up the dirt drive. A guitar was slung over his shoulder. Was he going to serenade Blue? This couldn’t be true. Gauguin’s father had some screws loose. I stood up.

Suddenly I had a terrifying thought. He’s going to kill himself on that horse! Calm down, I said to myself. I’m sure he can ride. This is none of your business, Nell. Just sit down and do your still life. I bolted for the door.

“Holy shit!” I said out loud as I ran up the hill.

Bonnie’s barking had frightened the horse. He was stumbling and bolting every which way and was about to head for our vegetable garden. The chickens had dispersed in a flurry, and Sylvester had flown to the roof of a truck. Rip, scared to death, had dropped the reins, and they were dragging on the ground. Blue was trying to grab them.

“Oh, my god! Oh, my god!” yelled Rip from atop the horse. The horse’s hoof smashed through the fallen guitar. Rip’s hat dangled down his back, the string choking him around the neck.

“Grab the reins, and get off!” Blue screamed. Her goats had scattered and were heading up the hill behind her house.

“I can’t! I can’t! Please get me off!” Rip yelled back.

Henry Sandoval, the neighbor across the ditch, came running over. He swooped down on the horse, grabbed its reins, yelled for Blue to take Bonnie into the house, and began leading the horse around in circles while stroking its mane. “Climb off,” he commanded.

Rip gladly swung his right leg over and touched ground.

“Well, thank you, sir. Thank you.” He held out his hand.

“Later,” Henry said, and concentrated on the horse.

I crossed the ditch and came over. Blue walked back out of the house. “Thanks, Henry,” she called out.

Henry walked the calmed horse over to the fence and tied its reins to the post.

“No problem,” he said. “I’ve got to get home to my chickens,” and he crossed back over the ditch.

Blue turned to me. “Henry always thought Anglos were jerks. Now we’ve proven it to him.”

I looked over at Rip.

“I need to sit down for a minute,” he said. He looked very pale. “I thought it would be easier to ride a horse.” He turned toward Blue. “I thought I’d come and sing you some songs we sang down in Indiana.”

“Your guitar’s busted.” I bent down to pick it up.

“Oh, no! I borrowed it from the hotel clerk. Where’s a music store down here? I’ll go get him another.” Rip reached out his hand as I passed the broken guitar to him.

“Music store’s in Santa Fe,” Blue said, looking at the splintered instrument.

Suddenly, it felt as though we were all moving in slow motion.

“Your boots? New, huh?” I asked. “Comfortable?” I could tell they weren’t.

Rip grimaced and changed the subject. “What should I do about the horse?”

“Can’t you ride?” I asked. “Gauguin’s so good.”

“He learned from Alice’s side of the family. No one on my side ever came near a horse.”

“So why’d you ride up here?” asked Blue.

“Well, it’s the West. I just got a hankering to,” Rip explained meekly.

I nodded. “Uh-huh. We didn’t ride much in Brooklyn, either.”

“You mean you can’t help me with the horse?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“I hurt my back years ago—thrown off one. I can’t help either,” Blue added.

The midmorning sun was intense. “Let’s move into the shade,” I said.

“I’ve got to drive to town in a minute to pick up Lightning.” Blue headed for the house.

I could see it was going to be me and Rip and the horse. “What’s his name?” I asked, and looked over at the big animal munching some weeds.

“I think they called him Flash at the stables,” Rip told me.

I nodded. “Well, how are you going to bring him back?”

“Nell, do you have an old pair of my son’s sneakers? These boots are killing me.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Gauguin took his two pairs of shoes with him.”

“He only has two pair? Why, I ought to buy that boy some.” Rip tried to muster some authority, but it quickly faded. “Well, I guess I’ll have to walk Flash back. I’m certainly not getting on him again.”

“It’s five miles. Take you about two hours.” I had this strange feeling I was in a play, but none of the actors belonged except the horse and the land.

Rip walked over to the horse. He put his big hat back on his head and reached for the reins.

I walked him down the long driveway to the road in front of our house. “Sure you’ll be okay?”

“Oh, sure, don’t worry about me.” He waved.

I watched him hobble past Joe’s in his new red boots. The horse walked obediently behind him, happy now that it had no weight on its back. My hand reached for the doorknob as my eyes remained fixed down the road.

What about other barking dogs? I thought. Talpa was full of them. And cars? Trucks?

“Rip!” I yelled, waving my hand and running after him. “I’ll walk you to the pavement.” I wasn’t sure what I could do to help, but he seemed so helpless.

He smiled weakly. He was defeated, but I could see he was glad for the company. “How far’s the pavement?” he asked.

“Half-mile.”

“Boy, do I have blisters.” He shook his head. “I can’t wait to get back to the hotel. Blue probably thinks I’m a damn fool.”

“I’d forget her. She has a boyfriend.” I eyed him conspiratorially. “Should have asked me.”

“Oh, I never think about those things. Alice was engaged to someone else when I met her.”

I nodded.

“When will Gauguin be here?”

“Late afternoon.”

“You know, Nell, you’re the best-looking girl Gauguin’s ever been with,” he said, turning and looking at me.

I ignored his comment. “Here’s the pavement. Got to head back.” I stepped away from him and waved.

In the late afternoon, I was sitting at the kitchen table when Gauguin burst in.

“Nell, I went direct to the hotel when I pulled into town, and I couldn’t find Rip. When I called up to his room, he didn’t answer. It turned out he was in the bathroom the whole time. He has the runs and he’s nauseous, and when he’s not on the toilet, he’s soaking his feet in the tub. What a mess.”

“I’ll say,” and I told Gauguin what happened that morning. He said he’d heard some version of it from Rip.

“What’s wrong with your father, anyway?”

“He’s crazy when it comes to women. He busted up the family when I was ten over a woman house painter she came to wallpaper the living room—but Alice kept taking him back. He thinks all women are goddesses like his mother.”

“Jesus, is he that foolish?” I asked, incredulous.

“No, he’s actually pretty smooth, I’m afraid to say. He’s just out of his element, has some romantic idea about cowboys. You should see him back home, where it’s his turf.”

“I’d rather not.” I was sitting in front of the still life I had intended to paint that morning. It was of a melon, three pears, and a blue teapot. I picked up my brush.