Cities and Throngs and Powers Read online

  The next e-mail came from an unfamiliar address, and she hesitated to open it, even though it didn’t have any attachments. Probably an offer from the president of the Bank of Mexico to claim an inheritance. Scammers are soooooo stupid. Instead of a scam, the message asked her to contact Cedar Sierra Hosting about a business website. The owner, Kate Paulson, provided a list of other sites they hosted, including one for an author by the name of F. I. Mills and another named Bielkowski. Alicia grinned and rolled her eyes. “Ok, ok, I get the hint.”

  As she’d guessed, Mr. Mills had no problem with her staying longer. “No, and in fact, should you wish to remain through the winter, you are more than free to do so. It might be for the best for you to plan on that, actually, in case your father’s landlord drags his feet on the repairs. If you have a place to stay, it will be one less thing for him to worry about.”

  As soon as the roads opened, she drove to Ft. Collins with Teddy and opened her own bank account. Mr. Mills had all but ordered her to. “As much as I would enjoy continuing to receive your hard earned funds, Miss Salazar, I prefer not to contribute anything more to the IRS and Colorado Revenue Service than I already do.” She also bought a pair of winter boots and some new winter clothes, and a pair of wooly slippers. The workroom had a draft along the floor. Two boxes of beading supplies waited for them at the post office, along with a large stack of mail.

  “Nice thing about junk mail,” Teddy said, sorting his own. “It gives you something to laugh at.” He showed her a plea for money from something called “Friends of the Bovine.” “I like cows just fine. Especially roasted, grilled, or in chili.” He’d sorted a few more. “Ah, deer tag,” he held up the brown and green envelope.

  “You get a doe permit this year?” the man standing beside them asked.

  “Two, since the state’s giving them away free. My wife likes her roses outside of the deer, not inside them.”

  The other man grunted, “Huh. Got two doe permits, no bucks. I need meat more than a trophy. Did put in for an elk tag though.”

  “Where you going?”

  “Backyard. Elk are thick already. Kept me up all night with their bingo game last week,” and the other people in the post office lobby laughed.

  Alicia didn’t get the joke, but she laughed along with everyone else. It felt good to see other people, and to eat lunch at the Chinese buffet, but it felt even better to drive through the gates of Illif House just as the sun went down behind the mountains. She and Mr. Mills helped Teddy unload.

  “Are you going out on opening day, Mr. Mills?” Teddy asked as he carried the last box of groceries into the house.

  Mr. Mills looked at the calendar in the kitchen. “No. I believe I will wait until Monday, after those suffering from buck fever go back to work.”

  Teddy chuckled. “I hope we don’t have to paint the cows this year. Have a good night sir, ma’am.”

  By the first of November, the opening day of deer season, Alicia’s business had brought in enough to pay for her new materials and to send some money to her parents. They’d found a smaller house in town and the rent and utilities cost more. They still paid their old landlord every month, to keep their lease up so they could move back in once he finished the repairs. Keeping track of her parents’ problems gave Alicia a headache.

  And then there was the letter from Mrs. Hardeman. “Congratulations on your sales! I told you to raise you prices, didn’t I? Nice website. Do you have any plans for November 14-17? There’s a table open at the Golden Mountain Craft Show in the jewelry section. I’ve got stuff to do that weekend or I’d go myself. I’m holding it for you, so let me know by November 3 if you want to come down.”

  Today’s the second and she needs to know by tomorrow. I want to go but that’s huge! And I don’t have a car, or a display set and stands, or clothes and I’ll need Papa and Mama’s permission, well no, I don’t since I’m eighteen now, but I’m not that good. Her thoughts chased themselves into dizziness as she stared at the letter. And Mr. Mills had gone hunting, leaving the house to her care.

  The house felt empty without him. She missed his notes. He’d thrown himself into another book project, trying to get the first draft done before deer season, and she never saw him. She cooked for him, though, and noticed that the stews, casseroles, and other things disappeared much faster than they had before. Alicia took that as a good sign, and dug through the cookbooks for more things to try. She also realized that despite being alone, she felt safe in the house. But she wanted Mr. Mills to come back soon so she could ask him about the show offer.

  Oh, grow up. You’re eighteen! Pull on your big-girl pants and make up your mind. “Running around with my hands in the air solves nothing,” she reminded herself. “All that can happen if I go and nothing sells is that I learn what is not selling and I’m out a month’s income.” Although, maybe not even that, since she’d done so well in October and had orders pending. “There’s a bus to Golden and I can ship stuff to me down there, or carry it on the bus. And I’m sure I can find something at the St. Vincent thrift store in Ft. Collins to wear.” Maybe one of those caftan things like fat ladies and hippies wore? She could pretend to be the lady on TV, the one Mr. Mills mimicked so well. “I’m an ahtist, dahling. I require solitude for my inspahration.”

  This time, Mrs. Hardeman included her e-mail address, so Alicia gathered her courage and said “yes.”

  The next day, she got a message from her father. “Alicia, I know this is short notice. We’re going to Denver on the 17th and 18th to celebrate Tia Manuela’s birthday. You need to come. She and Ernesto have been asking about you. I can help pay for your bus ticket. Love, Papa.”

  She saved the message instead of answering it right away. She wanted to think a little. “Honk, honk!” Alicia jumped. She’d left the intercom and camera on so she could hear if someone needed in, since one of the ranchers wanted to preg-check his cattle and they stayed in the pasture closest to the house. She trotted down the hall to Mr. Mills’s office and opened the gate. An older model green pickup pulled in, the bed full of white coolers, and she realized that Mr. Mills had come home. She logged out, put the computer to sleep, and scurried downstairs to meet him.

  He and his hunting friend could barely carry the coolers into the house. “Please do not open these, Miss Salazar,” he panted. “I do not want you fleeing from the sight of venison even before we start canning Bambi and Faleen and her sister.”

  Her heart pattered with happiness at seeing him, even sweaty, smelly, and obviously tired. He said ‘we.’ Then she realized, three deer. Fifty pounds of meat per deer. Oh no, I’m never going to get to town to get clothes for the show if we have to can a hundred and fifty pounds of venison.

  He interrupted her panic. “Before you flee for South America, I assure you that one deer is already at the butcher’s being processed. And much of these,” he waved at the three coolers, “will become sausage and stew meat in the freezer.” His partner handed her a heavy box full of butcher paper and plastic. She set the box in the kitchen and returned to help carry Mr. Mills’s rifle case into the house.

  He took off his jacket and boots and left them in the mudroom. “Do not wash that. I implore you by all that lives on this sublunary world, do not wash, brush-off, clean, or otherwise harass that jacket, lest the scent of fabric softener cause every deer in Colorado that does not die from laughter to flee to New Mexico a week before the season begins.”

  The blood stained camouflage jacket reminded her of aged road-kill. “I will promise not to wash it if you promise that it won’t try to climb up the steps under its own power.”

  The older man with Mr. Mills laughed. “Gawd, she sounds like my wife. ‘Don’t you dare bring those nasty hunting clothes into this house.’ I never have, either.”

  “You are wise,” Mr. Mills replied. “Mr. Illif did, once, or so I am told. I believe the claw marks by the doorframe and on the floor were caused when Mrs. Illif dragged the clothes and him out to the well house.�
� He thought for a moment. “Or when he cleaned ten trout on the kitchen table and she came in before he could scrub it.”

  Alicia and the stranger both winced. “As I recall, that’s considered grounds for justifiable homicide in some parts of Wyoming,” the stranger said, a thoughtful expression on his round face.

  Canning and chopping consumed most of the next week. On the third day, Mr. Mills made a large batch of sausage, cooked it, stuffed the casings he’d brought from the butcher’s shop, and began smoking the meat. The pressure canner saw heavy use, and it seemed that as soon as they finished one batch, another deer’s worth of meat needed to be taken care of. The work gave Alicia a chance to tell Mr. Mills about her decision to go to the Golden craft show. “ … And I thought I could get a suit from the St. Vincent de Paul shop, and maybe some display boxes from there, or Goodwill.”

  “Why a suit, Miss Salazar? I understood this to be an art and folk-art show rather than a gallery opening.”

  Should she tell him? And was there enough sage in the sausage? She started to taste a nibble and caught herself. No, not venison, you had to cook it first like pork, she reminded herself. Mr. Mills’s overly detailed descriptions of the various forms of Bambi’s Revenge had almost put her off of anything deer related. Alicia sniffed the mixture instead and decided that it smelled right. “The day the show closes my family is having a party for my Tia Manuela. Her daughter will be getting leave from the Navy to come home, and the rest of us are going to try and get together.”

  “Ah. Do wish to can or to freeze that sausage batch, Miss Salazar?”

  “Let’s freeze it, if there’s room.” He produced a set of freezer bags and they packed and labeled five one-pound portions and tucked them into one of the last unfilled corners of the big chest freezer. He’d insisted on emptying the beast, loading the newest food in the bottom and then replacing the older things. In the process they’d discovered a fossilized carton of ice cream that he’d agreed had long passed its prime, along with a white paper package of mystery meat. “It might have been lamb. Or wooly mammoth, given the age of this piece of equipment.”

  After they finished cleaning up, she looked around and realized that they’d reached the end of the meat. The rest of the other deer would arrive from the butcher later that week. “We’re done?” She dropped into a chair. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Not quite, but I prefer to make the jerky myself. Top secret marinade, you know,” and he gave her a knowing sideways look.

  Top secret means ‘I tossed in a bunch of leftover spices and can’t remember what went in it last year.’ Nice try, my Mama uses that same excuse. Alicia stretched, feeling her shoulders pop.

  “So, you are going to get a suit so you can show your family how well you are doing. That sounds reasonable, Miss Salazar, however, what are you going to wear to the show? I ask because there are a number of trunks containing vintage clothing in the attic, should you wish to try a more, hmm.” He stopped, tipping his head slightly to one side as he looked for a word. “A more traditional style? Yes, I believe that is the proper term.”

  “How traditional? Because it was traditional for the youngest daughter to join a convent after her father died, if she hadn’t found a husband by the time she was nineteen, and I don’t think many convents make jewelry.”

  “Have you ever seen La Conquestadora’s wardrobe? Go to the Santa Fe cathedral’s website, look at the convent-made pieces and tell me those are not jewels, Miss Salazar. But no, the style that came to mind could be called neo-Victorian: tasteful, traditional, warm, and attractive.” He shook out the towel he’d been using and hung it on the rack. “What I recall of the items in storage, dark blue, brown, cream, and dark red predominated. Granted, I am but a mere male and thus shockingly ignorant of such things, but not only would those colors look attractive on you, they would not upstage either your customers or what you are trying to sell, either. Unlike,” and he held up the copy of Beading Today that Alicia had left on the counter by the cookbook shelf.

  “Um, yeah, there’s such a thing as too much of a good thing,” she had to admit. The lady’s skirt sported a swirling pattern of reds, oranges, and browns. Her blouse showcased an ornate geometric pattern of purple and white beads in five sizes that covered her chest and wrists like a breastplate and bracers. Alicia’s Papa would have described lady in question, the art director for one of the major Texas art fairs, as “generously proportioned.” Alicia liked the skirt and wondered how it would look with a tan blouse. “If you don’t mind, maybe I will look in the trunks.”

  She found several things that fit and that seemed to have plenty of wear left in them. She also found some hats that sent her into gales of laughter as she tried to picture herself wearing them. Alicia decided to take two of the plainer blouses and two simple skirts, one in a rich plaid wool flannel. One of Mrs. Illif’s blazers, worn with the cuffs popped up, turned another skirt into a very nice suit. Alicia looked at some of the men’s clothes and wondered how on earth anyone could stand to wear celluloid collars. They made her neck hurt just looking at them! And then there was the 1940s ladies suit with the fox collar. The fox’s glass eyes winked at her and she re-folded the jacket, tucking it out of sight in the trunk.

  The bus trip to Denver passed quietly and quickly. The old lady in the seat beside her dozed off before the bus left Ft. Collins and she napped all the way to Denver, much to Alicia’s relief. She got to the hotel next to the convention center hosting the show and forced herself not to gawk at the lobby. Later, check in, change, go register, then you can stare. Alicia did her best to pretend that she’d done all this before and that being in a four star hotel didn’t make her feel like a trespasser. It helped that the front desk staff treated her the same as they treated the man in a very expensive suit with a fancy briefcase waiting behind her.

  Three hours later, Alicia was too busy to feel anything but professional. As soon as she draped cloth over her assigned table and set out her sign and stands, people began stopping to look. “No, I’m sorry, but I can’t sell or take orders until the show officially opens,” she repeated at least a dozen times. The winter belt attracted the most attention. She’d found a scrap of royal blue velvet at the thrift store and stretched the belt over the lush fabric, with the necklet and earrings in boxes behind the belt. Alicia used a warm brown base cloth to set off the cool winter and early spring colors of her other pieces. She stepped back and studied her display, making certain that everything looked right. Then she went to scope out the other vendors and the competition.

  Alicia decided to attend the reception that evening. She pretended that she knew what she was doing, and listened a lot. That seemed to be the right thing to do—listening and making polite little noises when the speaker paused. Alicia learned a great deal about pottery techniques, basketry, competition from cheap Pakistani copies, and how not to behave. I will never get drunk in public, she swore to herself as she watched a skinny man make a fool of himself and upsetting several other people. “Chad really should not be drinking,” the woman beside her hissed to her associate.

  The other woman hissed back, “Are you going to stop him? I’m certainly not—I don’t want my work slammed in Handwork Monthly’s next issue.”

  At last security and a busty dowager managed to convince “Chad” that he ought to lie down for a while. Alicia covered her table and took the most expensive pieces back to her room with her. She fell into bed.

  The show passed in a whirl. Taking Mrs. Hardeman’s advice to heart, Alicia priced her pieces twice as high as she thought she should. They sold even so. The dowager who had assisted “Chad” stopped by her table the first day and inquired if she’d entered the belt in the judging. “No, Ma’am. This is my first show and I didn’t think it was good enough.”

  “Not good enough? My dear, that is better than three-fourths of the work here! You really should enter it.” A customer had peered around the lady’s bulk and Alicia made a polite noise. The lady marched o
ff and Alicia sold a pair of purple earrings.

  On Saturday afternoon, she left her booth under the watchful eye of the weaver in the next space and got a bite to eat for both of them, after stopping by the ladies room. On her return she found the winter belt and jewelry missing! Devastated, Alicia stared at the empty spaces. Her vision blurred and she started to cry. “Shh honey, it’s alright,” the weaver assured her. “The show judges took them. Here,” and he handed her a blue bandana. She sniffed hard, wiped her eyes, and gave it back.

  His partner grumbled, “They really need to learn manners. Daryl, the one with the woven pottery, almost had a literal heart attack when they borrowed a platter without telling him.” Both men nodded in unison.

  The belt set returned in an hour. At four, the PA system crackled and a voice called, “Will the following people please come to the display stage: Tony Rudolfo, Teri Mikes, Santandar, Misha Boroslav, and Rosa Salazar. Will Tony Rudolfo, Teri Mikes, Santandar, Misha Boroslav, and Rosa Salazar please come to the display stage? Thank you.”

  “You go girl,” the weaver cheered and the other man gave her a big smile and two thumbs up. She went and found a large number of people milling around. Nervous, Alicia threaded her way through the crown until she reached the stage.

  “Um, I’m Rosa Salazar,” she told a well-dressed man with a clipboard.

  “Please go stand next to Santandar,” and he pointed to a person in a brightly colored caftan. Alicia bit her tongue to keep from giggling and did as told.

  “And the winners of the small-project divisions are: third place, Misha Boroslav for his bufflehead duck decoy.” She’d seen the carving and marveled at how he’d made it so realistic. Mr. Mills had a long way to go to carve that well, she’d thought.

  “Second place: Rosa Salazar for her winter belt beaded art.” Dumbstruck, she shook the judge’s hand and managed to remember to say “Thank you,” for the plaque and certificate.

  “First place: Santandar, mixed media portrait miniature.” The person in the caftan shook the judge’s hand. “Thank you, I’m truly honored,” Santandar said, his deep bass voice almost making Alicia jump.