Between Earth & Sky (21 page)

One morning after we got Elsie milked and the chickens fed, George brought out our horses and wanted me to ride with him to the mesa his father had loved. It is treacherous to ride in the snow with a sheen of ice across the top of it, but the sun was a big ball in the wide blue of the sky, and I never could resist a ride to the mesa.

There was a long time, maybe an hour or more, where we rode with just the sound of the snow crunching under the horses' hooves. Then George started to talk about his father, and how close they were when George was growing up. They spent hours together in the fields, riding out to repair the ditches, and Clayton sometimes took George with him on his trips to the mines. I never realized how often George still thinks of his father and how hard it was with Clayton dying when George was just a young man.

When we got to the mesa, it rose up, all powdered white with the dark of the piñon trees showing through. George got off his horse and helped me down, and we stood for a long time, looking up at the strange shape the mesa makes against the sky. The sun was right over our heads, its heat touching everything, and I heard the dripping of water. I thought of Clayton and how he would have enjoyed the ride, but also I thought about the mesa and the desert, how it had been home to me for so long and was as familiar as an old coat or boots.

George is gone now, and I don't know when I will see him again. The baby is well, as hearty as any Paula has ever seen. Perhaps this is due to Teresa's concoctions. She mixes them up in large glass bottles and has me feed them to the little thing.

I have no fears about the child's health; I only worry about what will be done with her. George was angry that she had been given into my care, but I reminded him that I have not yet turned sixty; I am not so old that I cannot care for a child. When I look into her innocent face, it seems a sin that she should have to bear the worst of her mother's indiscretions.

I remain your sister,

Abigail

June 26, 1900

Dear Maggie,

Amy's visit was wonderful. Little Ellen is simply delicious. I could not put her down and got accused of spoiling her at every turn. However, I grew much concerned about Amy. I have never seen her look so tired. Please, Maggie, watch her for me and see to it she goes to the doctor as I advised. Everett seems a kind husband, but he is caught up in his own affairs, more so than ever now that he is running for public office. And Amy is not one to worry others if she is feeling poorly.

During their stay, I instructed Paula to take complete care of Anna so that I would not chance Amy's worry and criticism. Still, she asked me to give up the child. Her concern is all for my good, she assures me. She does not want to see my old age burdened with raising another child. But I cannot give the baby up, and I have money enough from Clayton's investments and the sale of the land to pay for her care here.

The days were perfect while they were here—a clear crisp sky and just the right temperature for riding or sitting out in the garden. Ellen followed Ginger about, and together they chased the chickens. I will miss them.

Your Sister,

Abigail

December 13, 1900

Dear Maggie,

We had a light dusting of snow last night, and this morning when I looked outside, I was pleased to see the world had moved in such a pretty way towards winter. You must believe me when I tell you I look forward to winter as part of what rotates the seasons and moves the world forward. I do not live in dread of the cold or fear being alone, stranded on my ranch. Indeed, I am not here alone any longer. I have the child to care for. In addition, Paula and José come to the house almost daily to help me with the chores.

In some ways you are right; the child is an inconvenience. I doubt I shall be invited anywhere this year during the holidays. The Porters, the Sloaners, the Deerings, the Browns, all of them find it awkward. They fear if I came for a visit, I might carry Anna with me, as indeed I should, for she is my responsibility. But never mind, I shall spend the season in my own home with little Anna. I find her a delight.

Once a week I leave the child with Teresa or Paula and make the trip to the Methodist school. It is still a pleasure to work beside Miss Alden, and I do enjoy the children. Recently, I had the opportunity to visit with several of the Indian children on their reservation and was able to observe some of the native art work. Their drawings and paintings lack skill in composition, but their use of color in all art work, including weavings and pottery, is quite superior to any I have been able to produce with my oils.

I have read that compulsory school attendance is the law now, but I do not see any indication of it being enforced here. The priests are as active as ever in keeping children from an education. I have heard there are some who insist on teaching in the public schools, and you can imagine that every subject would have a religious overtone. They do not understand the meaning of secular, and they seek absolute control of the curriculum.

I read also what they are saying of us in the east, that if New Mexico is made a state, the priesthood would so dominate as to make successful government impossible. They cite the general lawlessness, also, and depict us as the “Siberia of America.” In some ways I must admit their impressions are accurate; however, I still believe our difficulties will be overcome with statehood. Our struggle remains arduous, and no one knows how much longer statehood will elude us.

But do not worry about me. The valley is peaceful, and I am not too afraid to take care of myself. I am an excellent shot with Clayton's gun.

I send you the blessings of the season,

Abigail

February 20, 1901

Dear Maggie,

This has been an easy winter, and despite my protestations of independence, I am glad of it. We have not been snowbound once, and last week I rode out along the river and heard the water running freely, as it does in the spring when all the ice has melted. Such weather could bode ill for the summer months, as a mild winter and early spring often precede a summer of drought and excessive heat, but right now I honestly do not care. I am only grateful that winter seems past and it has been an easy one.

I have received a correspondence from Dr. Mayfield, requesting the use of one of my sketches for a book he is compiling on the west. I have not had much time to sketch lately but will find some moments, as I would like to give him a number of recent drawings to choose from. He offers to collect the drawing himself, claiming he would enjoy the trip. Maggie, I have sent a note with instructions on finding our farm. I do not care what anyone who knows of this will think. I look forward so to his visit.

The baby does well. She was sickly for several days in January but recovered quickly. I myself was in bed for a few days, and Teresa spent two nights caring for us. She brought with her bags of horehound and spearmint, which she had gathered last spring, and the effects seemed beneficial. For years she has been called a curandera, a woman who is a doctor of herbs. Many of her neighbors have sought her advice. But now that Doña Romero is dead, there are rumors that Teresa is the bruja, the witch. It is because she lives alone since her husband's death and because she is growing old. “Only their mindless superstitions,” I said, but she will not speak against them to defend herself.

Last week I received a letter from Margaret. She did not ask about the child, but her questions about my own state of affairs were so insistent that I must assume she wanted some indication of her daughter's well-being. She fled to California, where she has taken up with a traveling band of actors. They are the worst kind in this part of the country, vagabonds capable of every sort of indecency. I only wish that she would return to her home.

Your Sister,

Abigail

July 29, 1901

Dear Maggie,

It seems I have become accurate at portending the weather. We are in the midst of a most terrible drought. I foresaw the difficulties of this season enough not to plant as I usually would, allowing the alfalfa and corn fields to stand idle. And so I have little need for the water that runs so shallow in the ditches and use only what is necessary to keep the fruit trees Clayton planted alive and to grow a few vegetables. Our neighbors bring me corn and grain for the animals. They are grateful to me for not using more of the precious water. Without Clayton, I doubt I would be able to engage in the fight for it; I find it easier not to have the crops that would demand a greater use.

You mentioned Amy's concerns in your letter. Of course, she has written to me also, explicating her reasons once again why I should sell the land and come east this summer. Perhaps it
has
become too much for me to manage. But both of you forget that I have a grandchild and two other children here—George, who wrote last month that he plans to come for a visit in the fall, and Margaret, who is wandering somewhere in California. Although I spend much of the year alone, I must be here for them when they do come home. Clayton would want it. And he would see my return as a failure after all that we worked so hard together to achieve.

Thomas Mayfield visited me here one day last week. We rode along the river and then out across the desert to the edge of the mountains. The mesa loomed over us, its dark, unchanging shape. Thomas wanted to take the horses up into the mountains and ride along the high, flat ridge, but it felt as if that would be a betrayal, for riding along the top of the mesa was Clayton's favorite ride, and so I told him it was too late in the day. “Another time, then,” he said, and perhaps there will be a time when I am past betrayal, past the sense that I owe an allegiance still to Clayton.

But Maggie, Thomas has changed, he is not the same young man I knew at all. And why did I not expect it? He has grown so quiet, so lost it seemed in his own thoughts, that I hardly dared speak, and indeed he said little the entire time we rode. But still he would jump off his horse to look at a plant or rock or to rub the sage brush between his hands, his face suddenly animated as it was more than twenty years ago, as if he is still surprised by the world.

He took two of the sketches I showed him for his book, a landscape and one of an Indian child. I have a whole series of drawings of the Indian children and will enclose one in this letter. I gave him another small painting, of a branch of apple blossoms, which he admired.

He gave up his medical practice several years ago to care for his wife, who died of diabetes. Shortly afterwards, one of his sons was shot and killed by a bandit. He has a daughter, who is attending medical school back east, and another son, who lives in New Mexico and has married a Spanish-speaking woman. I told him about Anna, and he said that he has a grandchild who is dark also.

I rode out with him to the railroad station, where he took the train that travels daily to Santa Fe. Before he left, he asked if he could come out another time for a visit. “Of course,” I told him. “I would welcome it.” And I would. Then he put his arms around me, for a brief moment, there at the station where anyone could see. I did not care. I could feel how thin he has become, how much older.

Your Sister,

Abigail

December 1, 1901

Dear Maggie,

Margaret was here for two months this fall. To put it plainly, she had gotten herself mixed in with the wrong sort of people. She had taken up with a man who ran a theater company. She arrived at the door one evening with only a small trunk, having taken the railroad car from California. She showed little interest in the baby after arriving and only went to her old room and began unpacking her trunk.

“What are you here for?” I asked, following her into the room. “What do you want?”

“I came to rest,” she said simply, and rest she did. There was nothing would get her out of bed—not hunger, not the sound of Anna's cries or even the promise to let her have a horse with which to ride out into the hills.

“It is my opinion you've come here to die,” I said after two weeks of her lying in bed with the shades drawn.

“I came to forget,” she said, then told me things I did not want to hear about the man who ran the theater company and how he took each new girl that joined their company and expected Margaret to clean up after them. He forced her to do all kinds of vile things for him, and when she would not, he turned her out of the rooms where they were staying, so she had to wander the streets, and sometimes with little clothing on.

What could I say to her, Maggie? I gave her your name, and it should have made her sensible and steady of heart, as you are, but she has always had to get just what she wants and there is no thinking on it. “Why did you stay with him?” I asked her.

“Oh,” she breathed out. “He was so fine-looking.”

I did not raise her this way. That next morning I offered her my plan, that she should stay with me and finish her studies. If she did well, I would send her to a college, so she could teach as Amy has done. “You must find a way to make your own living,” I told her, as no man will marry her now. Someday, I hoped, she would be able to take over Anna's care.

At last, she came to her senses and got out of the bed. When I came home from the school, she had dressed and gone outside to see the horses. The next day she held Anna and fed her. Later that week I would hear her singing Spanish lullabies and think: Yes, how she loves her daughter. Like any mother. Each night I tutored her, and she could not get enough of learning, the two of us up until dawn, bent over the books.