Durango (9 page)

So, that's my idea, Professor, the young man said. In a way I represent, through my father, I guess, one point of view. And, as a big environmentalist, you represent the other.

Not very big, the professor demurred.

Okay,
leading
environmentalist, the former student said. So, here's my idea. The two of us should go to Mr. Sheridan, more or less representing both sides, and propose that he get back involved by becoming the mediator of this whole matter.

Smithson took some time to think. He shook his head sadly. He'll never do it. At least I don't think he will. Who are we? Self-appointed spokesmen for the community? We don't have the power or the authority to even suggest mediation, let alone the mediator. Besides, Mr. Sheridan likes his privacy. He's a friendly man. But he's also a solitary man. He likes it up there where he lives.

Patrick Carroll moved to the edge of the creaking chair. But it's a chance for him to play a role. From all I can tell, everyone had respect for him before all that trouble. You and some others were pushing him for governor. This is his chance to come back.

Smithson smiled. He doesn't want to “come back,” as you say. Why? To do what? I can absolutely guarantee you that he doesn't have a politically ambitious bone in his body. It's the last thing in the world he would want to do now.

I'm not necessarily talking about politics, Patrick said. I'm talking about becoming a leading citizen…playing a role…helping solve a big problem, heal a wound.

The professor thought again. That's a little closer to it where Mr. Sheridan's concerned. I've never spoken to him about it, and I never will. But it would be only human for him to want to lay to rest all that speculation from years ago. Smithson was silent again. Then he continued, He cares a lot about this community. He loves Durango. Sheridans have been here almost from the beginning. It's his home. It's where he'll die. It has to grieve him that old friends are becoming enemies.

The young man now nodded vigorously.

Smithson continued. He wouldn't get involved to try to salvage his reputation. Most of us around here don't think he needs to. But if he thought he might prevent a local civil war or keep the place from dividing down the middle, that would be a powerful argument for him.

That's exactly my point, Patrick said. That's it. If he were convinced that he might have some role to play that no one else could play, to settle this thing peacefully, and to everyone's satisfaction—

It's not going to be settled to everyone's satisfaction, the professor interrupted.

—but at least for most people in Durango, the young man continued, then he would at least have to give it some thought.

Smithson smiled. I know the first thing he'll say is, What can I do that anyone else can't do?

Patrick smiled and responded, The tribe. The Southern Utes. That's his unique weapon. Where they are concerned, with the possible exception of Mr. Maynard, he is their most trusted friend. I believe he is the key to the Indians and the Indians are the key to the Animas–La Plata.

17.

On the day years back when Daniel Sheridan resigned from the La Plata County Commission, Caroline had returned to her large house in the foothills west of Durango to find all traces of her husband gone. His closets were cleaned out, down to and including his laundry. His dresser drawers were empty. Her inspection revealed that his revolver, previously hidden in the sock drawer, and his hunting rifle were gone. Virtually every trace of his existence had disappeared.

She noticed with a degree of grim satisfaction that he had taken no books. He had never been much of a reader, and most of the books were hers in any case. And even more important, he had taken none of her paintings. This also did not surprise her, since he had taken little interest in her artistic efforts.

Caroline had gone to the sun porch with a glass of wine. Just as well that their ten-year marriage had yielded no children, she reflected. Her hopes for an intimate, romantic relationship had never really materialized. Their years in New York and then a few years in Denver on the way to Durango had been characterized by his professional preoccupations and her activities in the investment world. They had been social enough everywhere they had lived, though she had become increasingly restless with the frequent parties, charity balls, and evenings out in the cities even as he had been increasingly swept up in them.

Socially, they had evolved into a two-car family by the time they moved to Durango. She left early, and he stayed late. For a while, the independent bank he had acquired in Durango proved satisfying to him, and they adjusted well to the informal small community life. Their friends tended to derive from the professional class of lawyers and doctors. As a leading banker, Russell Chandler quickly became a pillar in the Chamber of Commerce and the service clubs. He also became an officer in the state banking association. Caroline attempted to participate in garden clubs and local charities but within a year or so began to spend most of her time trying to improve her painting skills.

As newcomers they made it a point to attend as many city council and county commission meetings as they could, often accompanying the Farnsworths, who made an effort to introduce them to the Durango area. They became acquainted, through various business and social affairs, with the mayor, the members of the council, and the commissioners and knew most of them on a first-name basis.

Caroline now studied the sun reflecting through the golden wine. She thought of the evening when the chairman of the county commission, Daniel Sheridan, had introduced himself and welcomed them to Durango. That was now three years ago. She had been impressed with his easy manner, his quiet authority and self-possession, and his uncommon aura of remoteness. It wasn't as if he was hiding anything, she thought, his direct green-eyed gaze belied that. It was that he seemed solitary even in the midst of friends and neighbors. In itself, that remoteness had stimulated her interest and curiosity.

She now sighed and found herself amazed not to find her husband's flight more surprising. It was almost as if she had expected it all along, sooner or later. If he was going to leave, and she supposed she had vaguely assumed he might someday, it would be without notice and without discussion or confrontation. That was Russell. A sip of wine later she wondered if she should care where he went. She supposed not. If he wanted her to know, he would find a way to tell her—eventually.

Only after half an hour did she go inside to find the plain manila envelope on the dining room table. She filled her wine glass and took it and the envelope outside once again to the sun porch. It was now late afternoon. He would have known that she would be in the hill country painting most of the day and had planned accordingly.

In the envelope were official documents: the deed to the house; a contract providing for her to receive half the proceeds of the sale of the bank, then nearing completion; and the transfer of a mildly handsome sum to her savings account. Nothing more. No forwarding address. No goodbye. She had to smile. Oh, Russell, you are—were—so predictable.

The money was a help she didn't really need. It was his form of conscience salving. She had maintained her own banking and investment portfolios from the time of their marriage, and he knew her to have more than enough to live on comfortably for the rest of her life.

Only after she began to return the documents to the manila envelope did she find the small white sealed envelope. In it she found this note: “C: You may initiate divorce proceedings on the grounds of abandonment, or whatever. I will not contest it—even to allege adultery. R”

Caroline took matches from the kitchen and returned to the porch with the note. She studied the wine glass, then took a large swallow. She lit a match and burned the note. She swallowed hard and resolved not to cry. Not now, not then. She shook her head. It was all so unfair, so unjust. How had all this happened? Who had introduced this serpent into the Eden of southwestern Colorado? Was it money? Was it power? Was it politics? Or, was it perhaps envy?

Two weeks later the
Durango Herald
had reported the sale of the Chandler bank to a regional banking conglomerate. And some weeks after that, the
Herald
had carried a small notice of the uncontested divorce of Caroline Chandler from Russell Chandler. Caroline would later thank Frances Farnsworth for burying the notice in random news and notes on a back page. By then, in any case, word had circulated that Russell had left, and naturally there was speculation and gossip about the circumstances. For a number of months the community would not see Caroline and Daniel Sheridan in the same location or even the same neighborhood. Time would later ease these restrictions.

Caroline had found it easy to sell the large home in the west suburbs of Durango. She knew exactly where she would relocate and quietly bought the small ranch northwest of town from an elderly couple who themselves were looking to move into town. The house was not large. But it was immaculately maintained and had a small barn for the young mare she acquired at the livestock auction. Best of all, the house had a southwest-facing solarium that she converted into her painting studio. From there she looked out onto a two- or three-acre meadow filled with wild mountain flowers and dotted with pine trees and in which she often saw small deer herds grazing throughout the year.

The place was reasonably secluded, with the house a quarter-mile from the gate and split-rail fencing surrounding most of the ten acres or so, including the horse's grazing area.

Caroline had given thought to leaving Durango and returning to the city, either back to New York or perhaps the San Francisco Bay Area. She had come to trust Frances Farnsworth about such matters and had organized a lunch with her to discuss it.

You came to the right person, Mrs. Farnsworth said. You know that Murray and I are from New York and we chose to abandon it for this place almost four decades ago. She waved her hand in the direction of the town.

Caroline said, Did you ever regret it?

Never, Mrs. Farnsworth said. Never. They've got the Metropolitan and Madison Avenue and all that. I miss the Metropolitan—though we did get there every couple of years—but I don't miss Madison Avenue and all that stuff. This is real life here. I'm going to sound corny, but this—Durango—is what America was supposed to be.

Caroline shook her head. I haven't lived here nearly as long as you, but I do know what you mean. There isn't the big city excitement, but there is a genuine sense of real life.

Do you miss the city? her older companion asked.

Not really, Caroline said. It helped to spend a few years in Denver…to kind of decompress. But I've come to feel that I belong here. She hesitated, then said, I don't want to be a subject of gossip or laughter around here. My thought about leaving has to do with not wanting to be…some kind of object of discussion.

Mrs. Farnsworth said, Oh, please. People here like you. You must know that. They think you are…classy, I guess…but also a real person. It comes through.

Yes, Caroline said, but now I'm a real divorced person.

My dear, Mrs. Farnsworth said, in the minds of most of the people around here that I know, your stock has gone up. I shouldn't say it, but under the circumstances I will. Your husband was not particularly well liked.

I hope they know that I like it here, that I do feel comfortable here.

I hope you don't mind my saying so, but your husband—your former husband—never felt that way, did he?

Caroline thought and then said, I don't mind, and you're right. He tried to fit in. He even had some political ambition—mayor or congressman or something. But he didn't fit in. When he wore his suits he looked out of place, and when he tried to dress down he looked like some drugstore cowboy.

They both laughed. Then Mrs. Farnsworth said, But you took right to it, didn't you? You felt at home here.

I did, and it was strange, Caroline said, because I've never lived in a small town. But this was like coming home. Russell missed the sirens, but I didn't.

He what? Mrs. Farnsworth asked.

He missed the sirens. He used to wake up in the night and he was almost afraid. It's too quiet, he would say. There has to be some noise out there somewhere. This ungodly quiet is driving me nuts, he'd say.

Mrs. Farnsworth waited, drank her coffee, and then said, But that wasn't all, was it?

Caroline shook her head. No, that wasn't all.

Why did he form this grudge against Dan Sheridan? Mrs. Farnsworth asked. What was that all about? If you don't mind my asking.

I don't mind, Caroline said. It had happened before, after we met and into our marriage. There was a type of man he instinctively didn't like. I've thought about it. It was a type. Mostly men who were self-contained, self-sufficient, who seem as if they could make it even if they were dropped on the moon, or in the desert, or…up in the Weminuche. Dan Sheridan never did a thing to Russell, to my knowledge. He was always polite, always cordial. But Russell quickly came to dislike him—he'd say negative things—and then he couldn't stand him. A couple of times within the last year, Dan would start across the room toward us and Russell just took off. It was embarrassing.

May I tell you something? Mrs. Farnsworth asked.

Of course, Caroline said.

He was jealous of Dan. He thought you would be more attracted to Dan than to him. He envied Dan. He wanted to be like Dan, but he couldn't.

No, Caroline responded, I gave him no reason. I went out of my way not even to talk about Mr. Sheridan when Russell's resentments began to appear.

That's alright, dear, sweet Caroline, Mrs. Farnsworth said. Because he couldn't be like Dan, he took it out on him. Insecure women are all insecure in their own way. Insecure men are all alike.