Cities and Throngs and Powers Page 6

  “And we have a special presentation. Best first show project goes to Rosa Salazar.”

  What? I? Me? That’s me! “Thank you,” she squeaked, then cleared her throat. “I’m honored.” She tried to juggle the certificate and plaque and shake hands, until Santandar whispered, “Here” and took the things until she finished accepting the judges’ congratulations.

  She returned to her table to find an award ribbon already pinned to the cloth under the belt. The weavers high-fived her as she propped the award plaques up on now-empty necklace stands. Alicia floated through the rest of the show. A man bought the belt set for his wife, but agreed to leave it until noon on Sunday, when the show closed. He insisted on taking pictures of her and of the item with its awards.

  Sunday afternoon Alicia packed up her things and tucked the checks, electronic deposit receipts, and cash into two different hiding places sewn into her skirts. Her Abuelita had used the trick, and it seemed like a good idea to Alicia. One skirt got packed and she wore the other one. She put on the borrowed jacket and looked herself over one more time, then collected her “bus purse” and went to the closest bus stop. The cool, crisp air and bright afternoon sun felt clean and gave her a burst of energy and confidence. She needed every bit of those good feelings when she reached her destination.

  Tia Manuela’s neighborhood bordered on the worst part of the barrio. Alicia opted to get off a stop early and take a longer but safer route. She walked quickly, head up, alert but not fearful. Alicia recognized her father’s pickup, and Tio Paco’s old green car, and several others in front of the house as she rounded the corner onto Tia Manuela’s street. She let herself in the low wooden gate in the picket fence around the small house. As she came up the walk, the door flew open and Tia Rosa exploded out, arms outspread. “Rosita!” She all but smothered Alicia, then babbled about everything family as she herded her niece into the house. Alicia felt six years old again.

  People filled the small house and spilled into the back yard. Tia Manuela held court in the front room, her old, gold-colored, saggy 1960s chair, flanked by her youngest children: Ernesto and Guadalupe. The years wore on Tia Manuela, turning black hair gray. Alicia thought that only her aunt’s weight kept her from looking twice her age. Well, if I were ‘Sto’s mother, I’d overeat too. Guadalupe wore her Navy uniform and looked every inch a proud sailor. Ernesto wore a shifty grin and a bright blue suit that all but screamed, “gang chaser.” Tia Rosa left Alicia while she went into the kitchen to check on something. Several other aunts and uncles, and a herd of cousins ranging from senior citizens to babies in arms crowded into the front room, all wishing Tia Manuela a happy birthday. Alicia joined the line, wondering where Papa and Tio Paco were. Probably in the backyard, getting away from the women, she decided.

  “Feliz cumpleaños,” Alicia wished her great aunt, her father’s mother’s youngest sister.

  “Thank you, niña,” her aunt replied in a grand sort of way. Alicia wondered if she should curtsey. “Your father has told us all about that horrible man you work for, my child. I so hope you will finish paying him off soon.”

  Mr. Mills is not horrible and he works harder than I do. Alicia bit her tongue and told the truth. “I believe that I will, Tia Manuela. He is demanding but fair.”

  “Your Papa tells that you are not permitted to see young men,” ‘Sto said, his silky tone raising her hackles. “Is that why you’re so … modestly …dressed?”

  She did not like the look he gave her. “No, it is because I was working at an art show and did not want to compete with the art.”

  “Good call, and you are right in style,” Guadalupe told her, saving Alicia from another of ‘Sto’s barbs. “The Neo-Victorian look is very in on the coasts.”

  “Thanks.” Someone eased up to greet Tia Manuela and Alicia bowed a little to her great aunt and stepped out of the way, threading a path between relatives and out of the living room, past the kitchen, and into the shady backyard. One of the other cousins shook out a tablecloth and Alicia grabbed the end, helping spread it onto part of the long table. They set out mason jars full of flatware and some small flower arrangements. Two more tables needed attention and Alicia pitched in, eager to help and for something to keep her outside. The sunlight felt warm and she took off her jacket, hanging it on one of the dozens of chairs scattered around the moderate-sized yard.

  Alicia found lots to do. She carried things out of the kitchen, set out napkins and place cards for Tia Manuela’s closes relatives, made sure nothing breakable came near the children’s tables, and chatted with people she remembered. The Salazar-de la Vega family had not gathered since before the Collapse, and news and gossip flowed as fast and thick as Tia Rosa’s infamous coffee. Alicia answered questions, giving vague answers and doing her best to deflect attention. “Oh, Mr. Mills doesn’t have me clean his rooms. He prefers to do it himself, since his work requires odd hours,” she explained to an especially persistent uncle.

  “Is he Catholic?” The same uncle demanded.

  I don’t know, I’ve never asked him, and it’s none of your business, Tio José, since the last time you attended mass was your own Confirmation, or so Mama says. “I believe he is Episcopalian. His parents were,” she guessed.

  “Crypto-Catholics! I do not see why they don’t just return to the Faith, since …” and he rambled into a monologue that allowed her to escape and start carrying the food out of the kitchen.

  Guadalupe came out to make absolutely certain that everything met her standards. “Um, ‘Lupe, I got a question,” Alicia began.

  “The salad goes there,” the older woman directed. “And the real question,” she asked under her breath.

  “Ernesto. Is he getting into trouble again?”

  Guadalupe rolled her eyes. “The better question would be: has he ever gotten out of it. No, ‘Licia, and you should stay away from him if you can. I think he’s in with the Latin Masters, but I can’t ask.” She slid a thumb under the collar of her shirt, making her collar pins wink in the sunlight. “Comprende?”

  “Yo comprendo, and if the salad goes there, where do the, sorry—“ and they got out of Tia Rosa’s way as she carried an enormous tray of rolls out between them. Alicia returned to the kitchen for the next load. No problem, I’m going to stay away from him, ‘Lupe. If he’ll let me.

  As the rest of the family began streaming into the backyard for the dinner, she looked around for her jacket. “Your Cousin ‘Sto took it inside for you. He seems very interested in you, Rosita,” her mother told her. “You should thank him when you get a chance. It was his idea to invite you to come, you know.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that, Mama,” she promised. She took her seat between her parents and ate heartily. Once the first courses were done, several of the men stood up and offered toasts to Tia Manuela, her continued health, and the prosperity of the family. The old woman glowed, basking in the attention, and making Alicia glad she’d come. After three hours, though, she realized she’d better get back to the hotel before sunset. Something nagged her, a kind of warning. Yeah, well, I know I don’t want to be walking to the bus stop in the dark, not here.

  “But Rosita, you only got here,” her mother protested an hour later.

  “Mama, I’d love to stay, but I don’t want to have to ask someone to drive me all the way to Golden. I saw what gas costs, Mama.”

  Cousin Ernesto appeared at her elbow. “I’d be happy to take you to wherever you need to go, Rosita. I can borrow a car, no problem.”

  Mr. Salazar made a cutting motion with his hand. “No, thank you, ‘Sto. I can’t ask anyone to drive my daughter that far.”

  ‘Sto stuck his hands in his pockets. “Oh, well, then I’ll walk her to the bus stop and wait with her for the next bus.” He pulled one hand out and took Alicia by the elbow as if to drag her away right then and there.

  “Oh, thank you, but I’m sure you have family duties to attend to,” Alicia said. “I’d hate for Tia Manuela to get worried because you
stepped out.”

  “Yes,” her father agreed. “Say your good-bys, Rosita, and I’ll go with you to the bus station.”

  Ernesto seemed ready to protest. “Ernesto?” Guadalupe strode up. “There you are. You need to help with the next toasts, Ernesto.”

  “Later, then, Cousin Rosita,” and he gave her a hug that left her longing to take a bath.

  She found her jacket and pulled it on. She didn’t feel the hotel room key and started to panic, then found it in a different pocket. Someone, probably ‘Sto, had moved her lipstick and the kerchief with her mad money in it, too, but nothing was missing. I’m glad my big money is in my buttoned skirt pockets.

  When she and her father reached the bus stop, they met a group of older women waiting to catch the bus and go to St. Jerome’s for the evening Rosary. “Good,” he said. “Alicia, you need to be careful around Ernesto and some of the other cousins.”

  “Why, Papa?”

  He shook his head. “You are turning into a very pretty young lady, Rosita, and I don’t want you accidentally starting trouble because you’re not used to young men. And when will you be coming back from Mr. Mills?”

  Papa, I’ll be nineteen next October, I know not to lead boys on. And I don’t want to come back to live with you. “When will the house be done? I don’t want to crowd you, and I need space for my jewelry work and supplies.”

  Mr. Salazar frowned, running a hand over his mustache. “Christmas at the earliest, if the weather cooperates. Mr. Perez is very methodical.”

  Alicia nodded and made a sympathetic noise. He’s stalling so he can take your money, I bet. Or maybe not, she caught herself, half-scolding. “I’ll talk to Mr. Mills and see what can be arranged.”

  “Thank you.” He looked down, then over her head, toward the Denver skyline and the mountains beyond. “I do not wish to continue imposing on you and especially not on Mr. Mills, but the situation remains challenging.”

  “Thank you, Papa, and I understand, really I do.” The bus rolled up and Alicia gave her father a quick peck on the cheek and hopped on board. She waved to him as the bus pulled away, then sat back against the faded seat with a sense of relief. I love you Papa, but I like being a grown-up, too.

  The next day she caught the earliest bus she could back to Ft. Collins, and then transferred to the local. The northern sky had a white sheen and the east wind smelled wet. As soon as the gates of Illif House opened wide enough, she squeezed through and hurried up the long, winding way between the now-bare trees. The previous storm had stripped their leaves. Alicia made her way around to the back door and saw that Mr. Mills had taken in everything loose. And a stout rope now ran from just beside the door out as far as the well house. More shovels and things stood ready in the corner of the mudroom, and a pair of heavy snow boots waited alongside the usual wellingtons and other shoes. “I’m home,” Alicia called as she opened the inside door.

  No one answered. She listened hard and felt a sense of welcome. Mr. Mills was in his office, typing away, trying to finish something before sunset. Alicia set her bags down and looked back outside, studying the sky. The cream color in the north had a blue tinge to it. “Oh.” She took her things up to her room and changed into warmer clothes, then returned to the kitchen. Mr. Mills had left beans soaking and sausage thawing, along with a can of tomatoes and two onions, so she started a large pot of bean soup. Once it settled down to the “let simmer until done” stage, Alicia returned to her own office and sent out e-mails to her parents (“I’m back at Illif House and safe. Trip was quiet. Love you.”) and to Mrs. Hardeman (“Show went well. Thank you for the opportunity. I appreciate your generosity and time,” and so on.) She also checked her bank account and smiled at the results. She’d walked around the corner of the Ft. Collins bus station to the bank branch there and had deposited half of her cash and all the checks into her account before catching the local bus.

  Feeling a little giddy, Alicia logged into her favorite bead supply site and ordered several hundred dollars of supplies, including jump rings. She had a new project in mind, one that would eat up most of her current stash of the little rings. The money whooshed out of her account and she shivered. Well, she had plenty for now. The light through the bedroom window seemed weaker and Alicia got up, stretched, and looked out. White covered the sky, a sign that the forecast just might, perhaps, have been somewhat in error as to the timing of the next storm. That, or she’d fallen asleep and today was now Tuesday. A solitary tumbleweed bounced along just beyond the pasture fence, heading south. “We’re going to have a storm.”

  Alicia stirred the soup, did a little more computer work, and then logged out. She double-checked her lamp and the small candle stash. She’d bought two new books on advanced jewelry techniques and took them to the kitchen to read. After checking the soup, she turned to a detailed depiction of how to make a Byzantine chain and she sat there, pretending to weave the different rings in order. Sometime later, Mr. Mills cleared his throat and she jumped almost as high as the ceiling. “Would you like a touch of illumination, Miss Salazar?” She heard the switch click and suddenly the kitchen grew as bright as day.

  “Um, thank you, Mr. Mills.” A glance at the clock revealed that ninety minutes had passed since she’d last stirred the beans. She got up and also discovered that her rump had no feeling in it. And she needed a drink of water and to go to the ladies room, not necessarily in that order.

  She heard the wind whistling and when she returned to the kitchen, she joined Mr. Mills, peering out the back window. A few flakes of snow whizzed past, stopped and sank as the wind eased a little, then gusted away. She felt cold just looking at the scene. The Flatirons remained visible, but not the mountains behind them. Would they lose power? She listened, like Mr. Mills seemed to be doing, and got the sense that the lights and heat would stay on this time, but it would be cold. Well, winter in Colorado meant cold, no matter if you lived in town or in a big ranch house in the middle of nowhere.

  Mr. Mills stirred the soup and held the ladle up, his eyes asking a question. “Yes, please. Dinner was some time ago.” The soup tasted bland. “It needs something.”

  He got a spoon and sampled a bit of the broth. “Not sage, that’s for next week. Hmmm, more garlic and,” he pulled out the savory spice rack and sorted through the little jars and packets. “Here we go. Bay leaf and fennel.” He added generous dashes of both to the pot, chopped some fresh garlic and tipped it into the soup. Alicia tried the results and approved. “You’ve returned from the field victorious, I take it?”

  “Oh yes. All but one pair of earrings sold, and that’s because the ear-wire on one of the earrings broke and I couldn’t repair it, so I pulled them out of the sale. And I got through the family reunion without lying or spilling punch on anyone.” She ate more soup. “And I won a couple of awards.”

  His eyebrows disappeared into the edge of his brown-plaid flannel burnoose. “Best dressed, perhaps? Most stubborn saleslady?”

  She snorted. “No. Second place in small objects and best new artist.”

  His eyes bulged so much she thought they’d fall out of his head and roll out the door. “To ensure that I heard you correctly, Miss Salazar: the judges, in their august wisdom and a rare moment of good judgment awarded your work second place in division and best new exhibitor?”

  That’s what I just said, isn’t it? “Yes. Santandar won first place with a portrait miniature made from copies of book pages.”

  He shook his head. “And yet the pundits insist that the economy remains so woefully dead that only federal action can revive it.” Mr. Mills poured milk into a pan and began heating it.

  She carried the empty stoneware bowl over to the sink and washed it. “You’ve lost me. How does Santandar winning an award have anything to do with the economy?”

  “I’ll tell you, but only if you will retrieve the cocoa powder, sugar, and cinnamon and chipotle powder from their places of repose. As you well know, unwatched milk always boils.”


  “Does it ever,” she muttered under her breath. She’d had to clean up one milk explosion since August and that was one too many. Nothing boiled over as fast as milk, nor stank as much when it scorched. And the spill had put out the pilot light, meaning she had to turn off the gas, clean the stove while airing the kitchen, then find Mr. Mills and have him show her how to relight the pilot light. “If I were cocoa where would,” she reached up and felt along the edge of the top pantry shelf, not bothering to turn on the light. Something shifted, then fell on her head before rattling across the floor. “Ow!” She’d found the cocoa powder.

  She dumped her prey onto the counter beside the stove. “So, the economy and Santandar?”

  “The sum total of his income stems from from selling portraits done in mixed-media. Were I a gambling man, which I am not, I would wager that contact with the award raised the price of that portrait by no less than ten percent. Stir, please,” and she turned the fire down a hair, stirring while he measured in the cocoa powder, sugar, cinnamon, and a tiny pinch of the powdered chili peppers. “Thank you. I shall resume command.” He adjusted the fire under the pot. “You see, if the economy remained as dead as the economists claimed, no one would have money to lavish on things like …” He raised his eyebrows and she realized he wanted her to finish.

  “Things like strange art, beads on wires, and true-crime novels. Or other luxuries.” She moved away from the stove and began stretching, twisting back and forth until her back popped. Mr. Mills flinched at the sound. Alicia said, “It would be like just after the Collapse, when no one bought much but groceries. But it’s not. Even though gas prices are still high and parts of Denver still haven’t been rebuilt.”

  “Precisely correct. The pundits ignore the so-called gray economy, the barter, trade, and cash for work that people use to avoid government attention. I allow Teddy to keep some cows on the pasture and he runs short errands and lets me buy a beef at wholesale rates.” He fanned the steam and sniffed. Satisfied, he turned the fire off and poured two mugs of cocoa before running a little water into the pan. He presented Alicia with one mug. “Cheers.”