Beverly Byrne (21 page)

She
looked left and spied a smaller structure with an open door and a sign that
said, "Ricardo Ibanez, M.D." Underneath was the word,
entrada
.
She knew no Spanish, but it wasn't difficult to guess the meaning. Amy entered.

"Good
afternoon, senora. May I help you?" A woman dressed in nurse's white
looked at her with little curiosity.

"I'd
like to see Dr. Ibanez. I'm afraid I don't have an appointment."

 "Don
Rico will see you, senora, but he is very busy. You must wait please."

The
nurse had a faintly foreign accent and a harried expression. She opened the
door to the waiting room. It was jammed to overflowing with patients. Men,
women, and children were everywhere. They sat on all the chairs, perched on the
wide windowsills and wedged themselves into the corners. Amy looked at the
scene and murmured. "I'm sorry, I seem to have picked a bad day."

"It
is like this every day, senora," the nurse sighed. "You must just
wait."

"Of
course. Thank you."

A
man rose to give her a chair, and she took it gratefully. He and many of the
others looked to be Indians. A few women, like the nurse, looked vaguely
foreign. Amy spotted three ladies more like herself, and didn't feel quite so
out of place. She settled down to wait, adopting the air of patience the others
exhibited.

In
an hour and a half most of the throng had disappeared through the door to the
doctor's office, but just as many had replaced them. The nurse came to where
Amy sat, brandishing a pad of paper and a pencil, and took her name. The
waiting continued.

Finally,
after nearly three hours, it was her turn. She walked into a room lined with
books and freshened by two vases of flowers. The doctor sat behind a large
table of carved oak. When she came in he rose and extended his hand.

"Good
afternoon, Senora Westerman. I am Don Rico. How can I help you?"

She
had expected someone older. This was a man of perhaps thirty, tall and slim
with smiling dark eyes and black hair that swept back from a pronounced widow's
peak. His teeth were very white in a sun-bronzed face, and he had a deep cleft
in his chin. He exuded vitality and frank maleness.

Amy
took the hand he offered, and blurted out, "I think I'm pregnant."

"Ah,
but that is always nice to hear. I am glad you are not ill, senora.
Please," he ushered her to another door. "I will examine you."

When
the examination was finished they left the treatment room and returned to the
gracious office. Amy perched on the edge of her seat. "Well?" she asked.

Ibanez
smiled. "I think so yes, but it is too soon to tell for sure. You have
other children, senora?"

She
explained about her miscarriage. "In New York the doctor said such things
meant the baby wasn't normal. That's why I was anxious to see a doctor right
away. "

"New
York! You have come a long way to consult me, senora," he said, smiling
broadly. He glanced down at the notes on his desk. "But of course! I
didn't make the connection right away. Westerman. You're the young couple who
just bought Santo Domingo. Congratulations. And welcome to New Mexico." He
pronounced the x as if it were an h, and didn't wait for her to reply but added
quickly, "And stop worrying. There is no reason for you to lose this
baby-if you are pregnant, that is. You must take sensible precautions, that's
all. Plenty of rest, and the proper diet. My nurse will give you a list before
you leave."

"I've
been wondering if it's all right to ride," she said shyly.

He
looked at her in mild surprise. "You ride? I didn't expect it. Forgive me,
that is stupid and prejudiced of course. Out here we have stereotyped ideas
about New Yorkers."

Amy
explained that she had learned in Africa.

"Then,
since it is an activity to which you are long accustomed, you may ride. But
only for another month or two," Ibanez said. "And you must come to
see me once a month. One other thing," he added. "No soaking in hot
baths. Sponge baths only. It is a small precaution in view of the last
time."

Amy
thought of the chipped enamel basins and the water butt. No hot baths indeed.
"Thank you." She rose to go. "I'm not sure, do I call you Dr.
Ibanez or Don Rico?"

"Whichever
you prefer," he said laughing.

There
was a separate door for leaving, so she did not have to walk through the
waiting room again. He escorted her out to the courtyard. "Wait here,"
he said. "I'll tell my nurse to give you the instructions I
mentioned." He turned to go, then turned back. "Listen, I just
thought. I go by your place every few weeks on the way to see patients in the
pueblos. I'll call at the ranch. No need for you to come into Santa Fe."

She
thanked him, but she was disturbed by the idea of this handsome and elegant
stranger seeing her in the ruin that was her home.

She
had left the buckboard in the plaza. When she walked back to the center of town
she saw a noisy crowd standing by the telegraph office. Amy moved toward its
fringe, trying to see what all the excitement was about. She craned her neck,
but couldn't read the notice in the window. "What is it?" she asked a
man standing nearby. "What's happened?"

"War,
that's what's happened. News just came. President Wilson's asked congress to
declare war on Germany." He pointed to the crush of people trying to get
inside the telegraph office. "All these guys is trying to send wires to
Washington. Want to volunteer to give ole Kaiser Bill what he deserves. Makes
you proud to be an American."

She
stood in the doorway of the shed, with the setting sun behind her, and told
Tommy the news. He was bent over the table they used as a washstand, pale and
red-eyed, but sober.

"War,"
he said quietly. "So it's come at last. I always knew it would sooner or
later." He pushed by her and went outside, and stared at the sky as if he
expected to see German planes zooming in from behind the fiery desert sunset.
"War," he said again. He sounded thoughtful, not alarmed. "It
makes sense."

Amy
thought of the killing and the death that had filled the New York papers.
"I don't think it makes any sense at all. It's just useless slaughter. I
don't even know what they're really fighting about."

"That's
not what I mean. Sense for us. For my plans. "

"What
plans?"

"I'm
not ready to talk about it yet." He turned and stared at her, as if
suddenly aware that she'd just returned after a day's absence.

"What
were you doing in Santa Fe? How come you went all that way alone?"

"I
had to see a doctor. You certainly weren't in any condition to accompany
me."

"Are
you sick?" There was an anxious expression in his gray eyes.

"No,"
she said. "I'm going to have a baby."

He
reached out as if to touch her, and she pulled away. "Don't come near me.
And don't start making noises like a loving husband, as if nothing's happened.
I've been planning all the way home to tell you this. I only hoped I'd find you
sober enough to listen. You are for the moment, so pay attention. Get this into
your alcohol-soaked brain."

Amy
spoke through clenched teeth, with a fury that nearly choked her.

"You
hit me last month. You probably don't remember, but you did. It was the first
and the last time, Tommy Westerman. If you ever lay a finger on me again, I'll
leave you. No excuses and no warnings. I'll just go. And I won't hesitate to
tell your precious prominent family in New York why."

She
shook with rage, as if the abuse had just happened, and she was facing the
shock for the first time.

Tommy
looked at her silently. The swift desert night already shrouded her features.
"That's all you want to say?" he asked at last.

"That's
all."

 "Ok.
Let's eat. I'm hungry. And I've got a lot to do tomorrow. "

The
next day Tommy disappeared for a few hours. When he returned he emerged from
the flivver wearing a striped chambray shirt, blue denim trousers and a
Stetson. The clothes, already covered with the dust of the road, didn't look
new, and despite his built-up shoe, Tommy didn't look odd in them.
Extraordinarily he looked as if he'd been born in such an outfit.

17

AMONG
THE CRATES SHIPPED FROM NEW YORK TO Santo Domingo was one containing Tommy's
exercise equipment. Each wooden box was carefully labeled in Amy's neat hand;
silver serving dishes, china, glass-ware, linen-the still unused bounty of the
showers and the wedding. Tommy pawed through them until he found what he was
looking for; then he set up the chinning bar and the weights in the patio of
the old house. He adopted a routine of rising at dawn , and in the morning
cool, under the shade of the gum tree, he slowly and agonizingly began
rebuilding muscles withered by alcohol and neglect.

Amy
would stealthily creep as far as the wall of the house and listen to the sounds
of his struggle. They made her hope. So did the untouched bottles of whiskey in
the shed, and his harrowing riding sessions.

She
offered to teach him, but he would accept no instruction. "At least let me
show you how the saddle works. Why must you be so stubborn? This just happens
to be something I know about. Why won't you let me help?"

He
muttered something about doing it his own way, and refused to discuss it
further.

Tommy
never changed his original choice of a horse. The temperamental black mare was
his unwilling partner in heroics. He mounted her by himself, alone behind the
wall of the corral. Sometimes it took an hour or more. Diego and Amy, as
instructed, waited by the gate. They could only listen to Tommy curse, and
eight horses whinny and stomp and paw in response.

"For
God's sake!" Amy shouted once. "Let Diego catch her. We'll lead her
out on a tether. Tommy, do you hear me? This is mad, you'll kill
yourself!" He didn't answer.

Eventually
Tommy yelled, "Now!" Then she and Diego had a role to play. They
pulled open the gate of the corral and closed it after Tommy rode out on the
black.

He
came as they had seen him that first drunken time, lying almost full length on
the horse's bare back, his arms around the animal's neck, clinging for dear
life. The mare would cavort wildly in an attempt to throw him, and Amy and
Diego would dash from one strategic spot to another to head off any mad plunge  into
open country. This went on until Tommy slid to the ground in exhaustion. Then
Diego would catch the horse and lead her back to the corral.

At
the end of a week Tommy sat upright on his mount. Amy's offers of help had been
refused, but on the eighth day she noticed a blanket between Tommy and the
horse. At least Diego had some influence. The Indian watched Tommy's struggle
without comment, but sometimes Amy saw something in his eyes. It was respect.
hard won and grudgingly given, but permanent.

A
few days later one of the saddles from the tackroom replaced the blanket. The
stirrups had been carefully altered to accommodate Tommy's built-up shoe.
"Thank you,"she said to Diego.

Diego
didn't look at her. "He was ready, so I did it. No thanks needed."

"You
approve of the way he's learned to ride, don't you? Even though he wouldn't let
either of us help?"

"In
the old days, the Apaches and the Comanche were the greatest horsemen in the
world. Nobody ever born could ride like them. That's how they taught their
kids. Just put 'em up on a horse and let 'em go. You get a feel for the animal
doing it that way. It's better."

It
was a long speech for him. "What tribe are you?" Amy asked. "Are
you an Apache?"

He
didn't look disgusted, but he sounded it. "The Pueblo Indians were here
before any Apache ever saw this country. And long before any Anglos came."

Amy
found herself wondering what tribe her grand-father had belonged to.

***

Toward
the end of the month Ricardo Ibanez called to see her. "I'm early, but I
was in the vicinity, so I came. I hope it's not inconvenient."

"No,
of course not. It's most kind of you. Please come in." Because she had no
choice, she stepped aside and motioned for him to enter the shed.

Ibanez
made no comment about their living conditions. He examined her and waited
outside until she dressed and joined him.

"Well,"
he said. "You are pregnant."

"I
know. I've been sure for some time."

"And
in excellent health. You mustn't worry. Everything's going to be fine. Mrs.
Westerman."

"Please
call me Amy, Don Rico."

"Thank
you. I'm Rick to my friends."

She
smiled at him. "Rick and Amy, then. It's a lot easier. "

Tommy
had taken the Model-T and gone into Santa Fe for supplies. Diego was off
somewhere. They were alone. "Would you like a cup of coffee? It's not much
good, but it's hot and wet."

He
grinned and she noticed the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. It was
typical of the men of this territory, a characteristic born of a lifetime under
the sun. "It will taste like ambrosia to me," he said. "I've been
out to Santo Domingo pueblo. My motor car can't handle those dirt roads. It's a
long ride on horseback. "

She
poured the thick black brew into a tin mug, the only thing available, and
watched anxiously while he tasted it. He didn't seem to find it too bad.
"I wonder if this ranch was named for the pueblo," she said. "Or
vice versa."

"Neither,"
Rick told her. "They were both named for St. Dominic. That's what the name
means in English. But you probably know that."

She
shook her head. "No, I didn't, I've just never asked. It's funny actually.
My husband's brother is studying to be a Dominican priest. He's in their
novitiate back east."

Rick
looked surprised. "You're Catholics? I didn't know."

 "My
husband is. I'm not much of anything. Are you a Catholic?"

"Nominally,"
Rick said. "Like you, I'm not really much of anything." He turned and
studied the crumbling wall of the main house and changed the subject. "I
remember this place in the old days. It was beautiful when I was a child. Once
we came here for a fandango. "

"What's
that?"

"A
dance, a fiesta. A big party with everyone for miles around."

"Have
you lived here all your life?"

"Oh,
yes." He put down his empty mug, and they strolled slowly to where he had
tethered his horse. "My nine-times-great-grandfather is supposed to have
been the natural son of Don Diego Vargas, a great conquistador and one of the
first governors of Santa Fe. According to the story Don Diego sent his
love-child to Spain to become a physician. Later the boy returned, and the men
of my family have had the job every since."

He
smiled at her, and she noticed his eyes again. He had dark thick lashes.
"We are perhaps without ambition. We just keep doing the same thing."

"I
don't think I'd describe it that way," she said. "Did you learn
medicine in Spain? I hear traces of it in your speech."

Rick
chuckled. "No, nothing so romantic. Johns Hopkins in Maryland. As for my
speech, my mother was from Mexico City. When she married my father she spoke no
English. Later she learned, but we used Spanish at home. It was my first
language."

Rick
untethered his horse, and Amy held the reins while he swung into the saddle.
"Just keep doing what you're doing," he told her. "You're
thriving, so it must be the right thing."

"And
I can keep riding?"

"For
a while longer, yes. I'll be back in a month, perhaps less. We'll talk about it
again then."

"Rick,
before you go, there's one more thing I want to ask." She bit her lip and
he waited patiently. "DeAngeles," she blurted out. "He must have
been your patient. He said he was selling because of ill health. Was it
true?"

Ibanez
looked from her to the ruined house and back again. "Doctors aren't
supposed to discuss their patients. I'm sorry." Then, when he saw her
embarrassed expression: "He wasn't sick, not the way you mean. But he was
sick in his heart."

Rick
wore a broad-brimmed black hat that tied under his chin. He pushed it to the
back of his head. "DeAngeles was born here in the last of the old, great
days, when Santo Domingo was known simply as
el rancho
, the ranch. It
was a magnificent spread and the men who owned it, Senor DeAngeles' father and
grand-father, they were kings. When the son's turn came it had all changed.
Government regulations, trains instead of cattle drives, everything was
different. So he moved in there"-Rich nodded toward the shed-"and let
it all fall to pieces around him. He really was sick, but it was nothing I
could cure with tonics or treatments. Do you understand?"

"Yes,
I think so. And thank you. I want to know everything about this place. It's
very important to me. Some day I'll tell you why."

"I
will like to know," he answered quietly. "And in the meantime, if you
need me for anything at all, send Diego. I will come.
Adios
, Amy."

She
watched him ride away until she could see nothing more, Then she turned and
studied the house and tried to imagine what it must have looked like when it
was full of beautiful happy people come for a fandango.

Later
she found an opportunity to question Diego. "Don Rico is a very good
doctor, isn't he?"

"In
the pueblos the old ones think he's a god."

"And
do you?"

"He's
a good doctor. And a nice guy. Been here all his life."

"Yes,
so he told me. He must be married. Is his wife a local girl?"

"She
was. She's dead. Died three years ago. He has a daughter. Estella, I think her
name is."

"How
old is she?"

"Three,
I guess."

He
looked away, and Amy realized that he didn't want to say that Don Rico's wife
had died in child-birth. Diego must know she was pregnant. Talk of the doctor
had apparently given it away. In fact, she thought, there are few details of
our life secret from Diego.

"Diego
tells me some doctor came to see you," Tommy said that evening after they
had eaten. "Are you sick?"

"No,
I'm pregnant. I told you that."

"I
haven't forgotten what you told me."

They
had not mentioned the baby or her ultimatum again. Amy didn't know if her
threat had influenced Tommy's subsequent efforts. "Listen," she said,
"I want you to know I admire what you've done."

"Oh,
what's that?"

"The
way you've learned to ride, the exercises. I realize it's not easy. I'm
grateful."

"Don't
be," he said. "I'm doing it for myself. Don't kid yourself about
that." His voice was cold and hard. Amy felt tears sting her eyes, and she
blinked them away.

"We've
got to make some money out of this place," Tommy continued. "We can't
just sit here, living on capital. It won't last long."

"I'd
like to help," she whispered. "I would if you'd tell me what to
do."

 "I
don't need you to do anything, sweetheart. You've done quite enough
already." The endearment was spoken in the same distant tone as the rest
of his words.

He
kicked out the fire without saying anything more. She started to gather up the
dishes. "Leave those for the morning," he told her. "Come to
bed."

"It's
early. I'm not tired."

"Neither
am I," he said very low. He stood aside and waited for her to precede him
into the low-ceilinged hovel that was their home. Then Tommy lit the oil lamp,
and Amy smelled its acrid fumes and stared at the black streaks it made on the
wall.