Gardens in the Dunes (71 page)

She asked the ancestors for help to get her and the dogs safely to water now that they were back on the hot gravel plain. What a pity it would be to die here with so much money the people needed so desperately.

Big Candy made two days' water last until the morning of the fourth day, when the trail descended out of the mountains onto the dry plain. He stood and gazed into the distance on the plain for a long time but saw no sign of water or even a mud hole left over from past rain. No water behind and no water ahead—the words repeated themselves to the rhythm of his feet on the trail. In the army he heard plenty of stories about those who choked on their tongues swollen out, blistered, and black; some thought the hallucinations of the dying gave them comfort in their last moments—they
often raved as if they were bathing in cool water as they rolled on the ground and tried to swallow the sand. He intended to use the shotgun before that happened.

At night Big Candy woke himself again and again with dreams of water—icy glass pitchers of pure water, cascades of springs over rocks, topaz blue pools shaded by tall trees, even the muddy red Colorado water swirled around him so invitingly. Sometimes in the dreams he saw the tiny black baby near the water—it walked and moved as if it were grown up and it laughed at him but never spoke. Candy knew his meaning—the baby was alive and would live; he was the one who was going to die.

Before dawn he woke to the sound of a drum; it wasn't his heartbeat, he was sure; he sat up and listened but heard nothing but the breeze over the rocks. When he laid his head down again he heard it distinctly—the drumming was underground. So this was how it begins, he thought, not at all as he imagined dying would be. Who were the drummers who came to accompany him? He drifted off to sleep again, where the little black baby stood at the edge of a clear fast-moving stream to gesture and jeer at him. You're the one who's almost dead, not me!

He woke crying but he had no tears; he failed the Sand Lizard girl when the baby was born—in Dahlia's kitchen they always praised the tiny newborns, and spoke cheerfully to encourage them. Poor Sister! He let her down when the baby was born and now all the money she'd saved was gone too. He felt the need to urinate but was too weak and dizzy to stand up; he rolled over to one side, unbuttoned himself, but was able to make only a few drops of urine. His eyes would quit first, so he kept the shotgun right by his side.

Delena looked back at the mountains of grayish purple stone and wondered if the fat man turned back in time. As the sun moved overhead, she and the dogs crawled under the greasewoods for shade. She shook her canteen and listened to the last mouthful of water slosh inside; the big clouds moved slower today, their silver backs and bellies streaked blue-violet. Ancestors, she said, never mind about me; what about the others who are depending on me—hear their prayers!

That day months ago as she set out with her dogs on her mission, the old women and old men cried as they embraced her one by one; their task was to pray for her every day she was gone until she returned. Others prayed for their people fighting the federal troops, but her mission was so important, those assigned to pray for her had no other task but to bring her back safely with the rifles.

Now that the water was almost gone, the best strategy was to keep still in the shade; this trail across the dry plain wasn't much traveled but someone—maybe prospectors—might happen along before death came. She always wondered how the cards would tell her about her own death; she shuffled them and began to lay them down: First the card that stood for her, the Guitar upside down. Useless for play—yes, that was her! Next the Flowerpot upside down on its flowers—yes, this was her situation all right! Even the saying that went with the Flowerpot was true: “The one born in a flowerpot doesn't leave the hall”—beings that depend on water should not cross the dry plain. There it was! The Bell overturned, the third card, which represented the obstacle—death—that must be overcome. She had to smile; even at the end, the cards spoke truthfully.

She lay down the others. The Songbird upside down couldn't make anyone's heart sing, but the Rose upside down still was lovely; Mother of the Indians, Guadalupe, was still there. But then she turned up the Frog by a pool of water, followed by the Umbrella upside down to catch the rain, not shed it. Good to see the Frog, child of the rain, with the Umbrella, also a companion of the rain. The Drunkard card was upside down, so the liquor in the bottle poured into his mouth; the Heart was upright and its saying promised, “I will return.” The Apache card stood upright under the Sun card—the warrior strong and ready under the Sun, who is the protector of the poor. The overturned Bell was the truth—she faced death, but the other cards were her hope.

She glanced up at the sky at the clouds; they were no longer in such a hurry as they swelled and ascended into great pyramids and towers thousands of feet high.

“Oh you are beautiful!” Her throat was so dry her words made a croaking sound; all seven dogs feebly wagged their tails, mistaking the compliment for themselves. Poor dogs! Dumb to the end!

“My good soldiers!” she said and patted each one's head before she removed their packs with the empty canteens and the cash bundled up in old rags. Let the poor dogs at least die in peace without burdens. She piled the bundles together. Far, far in the distance a coyote howled for rain, and one by one the dogs began to howl mournfully in reply. She knew it was their death song and hers too—no one would pass by on this trail in time to save them.

She opened each bundle to expose the stacks of currency and the silver and gold coins; as she did, the money-sniffer dog wagged her tail and laboriously got to her feet to press her nose against the stacks of bills. Besides
her dogs, her most prized possessions were the decks of Mexican and Gypsy cards. She removed them from the cloth bag around her waist and laid both decks on top of the money.

She glanced up at the clouds again. She found it difficult to swallow now, and took the canteen with the last mouthful of water and sprinkled it over the dogs. She removed her dress and her shoes and placed them on the money pile, next to the decks of cards. This was all she possessed except her last breath and her body. Take it all, she told the sky.

She lay down in the greasewood's thin shade and looked up at the clouds pushing and bumping one another as they climbed the pyramids and towers that darkened under their weight. Now her eyes felt dry and it was more comfortable to keep them closed; the dogs were all lying close to her now. “Good dog army,” she said as she drifted off.

Hattie took a cab directly to the hospital from the station. She carried her small bag with her; it was heavy and made her regret she had not checked into the hotel first. The nun at the reception desk showed her upstairs to the third floor, for the most critical cases. Three doctors were consulting in the corner of the room; Hattie felt her heart lurch when she heard that awful Australian accent chime in with the others—of course Dr. Gates would be here. Edward seemed feverish but he recognized her at once and called out her name. She felt her cheeks redden as the Australian turned to look at her.

Edward looked grayish and weak, but she forced herself to smile and asked how he was feeling. He sat up and leaned forward.

“How dear of you to come,” he said as he took her hand between his hot dry palms. The diagnosis was pneumonia, he told her, but he felt better now. Dr. Gates was concerned about the possibility tuberculosis would follow the pneumonia, although the other doctors disagreed. Today the fever seemed on the wane, after Dr. Gates's experimental doses of manganese and raw gland tissue extracts to fortify his blood.

Though obviously quite ill, still he seemed alert and did not appear to be dying. Now Hattie regretted her haste—she might have taken Indigo the blankets and other things she would need for the winter, then come to check on Edward. He was in good hands here with ample medical resources,
not to mention the moral support of his business partner, who oversaw his treatment.

As the doctors left the room, the Australian with them, Hattie exhaled slowly. To be in the same room with Dr. Gates was almost intolerable; she was determined not to speak to him. She would enlist the hospital chaplain to speak for her if necessary. Though somewhat feverish, Edward seemed anxious to visit with her. He caught cold one afternoon as he hiked the rim of the crater. A sudden thunderstorm came up; as he hurried to rejoin his companions at the drilling site, the stiffness of the old leg injury slowed him, and in the confusion of the lightning bolts, the others drove off without him. He was drenched and shivering by the time his companions realized their error and returned for him. The cold lingered no matter what he tried, and then last week, when they brought new assay specimens to Albuquerque, a high fever developed.

He began to cough and fumbled for the basin; Hattie gave it to him then turned away as he spat. It was a mistake to come—the legal separation was almost final, she thought irritably. Why had Edward asked the chaplain to send her the telegram?

Hattie felt exhausted, almost ill herself. What could she do? What did he expect? Nurses in white habits appeared pushing a cartload of medical instruments and an odd apparatus that looked like a bellows connected to a piece of rubber tubing. It was time for his breathing treatment and the nurses asked her to wait downstairs.

Back at the hotel she soaked in the bath until the water cooled off, trying to sort out her feelings. She missed her parents, especially her father. She deeply regretted the disappointment they must feel over the separation, but she saw it in a positive light—she wasn't suited to marriage. After her bath she sent Susan a telegram to come at once, Edward was seriously ill. She would stay to look in on Edward until Susan arrived.

Her letter to her parents began with a description of Aunt Bronwyn's white cattle grazing under the old apple trees in the ruins of the cloister orchard. She wrote of her amazement at the cloudy chalcedony portraying three white cattle under a tree, excavated from the sacred spring at Bath. Aunt Bronwyn with her old gardens and old stones changed her outlook entirely. She did not tell them Edward's betrayal influenced the change as well.

She knew her father would be interested in her bout of sleepwalking and the luminous glow she'd seen; she wasn't the first to see such a light in Bath. She recounted the story of the queen terrified by the luminous glow
in the King's Bath. She experienced a gravity of well-being and peace as she gazed at the glow; later she felt traces of that odd gravity from the old stones Aunt Bronwyn protects; it was the same gravity exuded by the carvings in her possession.

“I wish you had been with me to see the
professoressa's
black gladiolus garden with the ‘madonnas' in their niches,” she wrote. “The rain garden serpent goddesses were quite wonderful. They won me over entirely.

“I know Mother will be relieved to hear I've abandoned the thesis.” She gave no further explanation, except she wished she had studied old European archaeology instead.

“The child was a good traveling companion, and the parrot was lost and found again only once,” Hattie wrote, but could not bring herself to write anymore about Indigo, so she wrote about Edward's illness, and how anxious she was to return to Arizona to look in on Indigo and her sister. She made no mention of their detainment by authorities in Livorno.

Susan did not reply to the telegram; another week passed as Hattie made brief visits to the hospital twice each day, and learned her way around Albuquerque to shop for Indigo. Although Edward seemed better, Dr. Gates ordered the treatments increased so there was scarcely a time she found poor Edward in his bed.

Edward tasted camphor and felt its vapors in his lungs for hours after the treatments. He did not remember much about the procedures beyond the face mask and the pump for the camphor because Dr. Gates gave him injections before and after the treatments. He did not ask what the injections contained, but recognized the morphine from the sense of well-being and euphoria it gave him. Dr. Gates discussed his theory behind the experimental therapy with Edward, one scientist to another: Gates believed there was a great risk of tuberculosis following pneumonia unless special treatments were given.

The hotel next door to the train station had a small courtyard garden with a quaint Spanish-style fountain; the sound of the splashing water soothed her. She calmed her anxiety with long walks through downtown Albuquerque. Here the cleaning and menial tasks seemed to be performed by Mexicans. She saw very few Indians on her walks except at the train station, where Indian women sold small pottery and beaded pins to the tourists. On the whole the Indians here looked much more prosperous than the poor women she'd seen in Needles. She added items to her list and began shopping for Indigo and her sister.

What was wrong with Susan and Colin? Were they away on vacation? Or was their silence an expression of their disapproval of Edward, or of her? Still she could not simply abandon him; he was quite ill, and asked her to stay until Susan arrived. She didn't tell him Susan hadn't responded. The weeks of illness changed Edward's appearance dramatically; the hair at his temples had grayed noticeably. His hands suffered tremors now, and he was terribly thin with no appetite; yet he seemed to be in high spirits.