Kirstin Valdez Quade - Night at the Fiestas - Stories

Angrily, Margaret flung her brush at the canvas. It flipped to the ground, splattering the tile. She dropped to her knees, swiped the floor with her rag of turpentine, but the oil spread across the clay.

IT HAD NEVER OCCURRED to Margaret that she might forget what the ocean looked like. She thought she would always see the water clearly in her mind’s eye, having always lived so near it. But now it eluded her. She found herself painting not water, but likenesses of water she had painted before, imitations of other artists’ renditions of water. One night she filled the stainless-steel kitchen sink and tried to make currents in it with her hands, watched the kitchen light waver against the sides.

Outside, only darkness. Margaret leaned over the sink, closer to the window, trying to see past her reflection. Perhaps she should set the chair here , among the round hills and piñon woodland. The subject caught her, and for a moment she was pleased with the novelty of her idea, the unlikely twist.

But here there was nothing to threaten the chair, just time and sun and occasional rains. Here mud structures took hundreds of years to wash away. Even the bodies of rabbits and coyotes killed on the highway didn’t rot and rejoin the earth, but shrank and stiffened. Here the problem wasn’t that nothing lasted, but that nothing disappeared.

FOR THREE WEEKS Carmen was on time and never missed a day. Then one day she didn’t show. Margaret called her house and left a message. She vacillated between irritation — she’d come to depend on Carmen’s presence — and guilt over her irritation. Maybe something had happened to the diabetic mother.

It was noon before Carmen arrived with her granddaughter Autumn in tow. “Sorry,” she said at the door. “No school today. I hope you don’t mind.” She turned to the girl. “You be good and don’t go touch nothing.” Autumn, wearing lavender platform flip-flops, jeans, and a pink halter-top, stood close to her grandmother. Her hair was pulled back so tightly it tugged the corners of her eyes, and the curls of her ponytail were stiff with gel.

“What a day,” said Carmen. “Ruben’s got my car. His truck’s in the shop, and he has to go down to Albuquerque. But he’ll be back in time to get us.” She was already rummaging under the kitchen sink, pulling out bleach and sponges. “I got Autumn’s lunch here—” she gestured at a bag of Taco Bell on the counter. “She brought her Barbies, and she’ll be happy watching TV.”

“Do you like art?” Margaret asked the girl. “Let’s see if we can’t get you some pastels and good paper. Come with me.”

Autumn didn’t follow, just stood with her backpack on her skinny shoulders. She still hadn’t budged when Margaret returned, arms full of supplies.

“We’ll set you up at the table.”

As though she’d been waiting for permission to move, Autumn walked slowly around the living room, touching each picture frame lightly with one finger. “These are your grandkids?”

“They are. Nine and eleven.”

Autumn bit her lip. “Are they sisters?” Her teeth were small and sharp and slightly bluish, the color of skim milk.

Margaret nodded. “They live far away now. In South Africa, which is a country in the continent of Africa.”

Autumn examined another picture from years ago: Margaret and Charlotte in the kitchen, flour-covered, smiling up from their work of tracing maple leaves into piecrust.

“That’s my daughter, Charlotte. She’s an only child.”

“Like me,” said Autumn.

Autumn spent the morning drawing page after page, frowning earnestly at her work. Margaret showed her how the pastels could be blended; soon Autumn’s fingertips were thick with green-brown waxy smears.

Carmen spread newspapers and brought out the tub of silver polish and rags, then settled at the table next to the child with Margaret’s grandmother’s tea service, which hadn’t been touched in years. “Look at that. She’s gone and used up all your colors.”

“That’s what they’re for.” Margaret wanted to give this child things, lifelike stuffed animals and educational toys. She wished Autumn were her grandchild. Her own were so assertive and articulate now, so at home in the world, absorbing it all — their private school, safaris, school vacations in Thailand and Indonesia — without a flicker of self-doubt. With Autumn she could make a difference.

It was relaxing to watch the child work. Autumn tilted her head, considered, then bent back over the page. Her shoulder and whole arm moved with her hand. Soon the table was strewn with lush green landscapes that had nothing to do with New Mexico.

“Autumn is lovely,” Margaret told Carmen.

Carmen nodded, scouring the sugar bowl with her rag. “She’s my blessing.” At the sound of her grandmother’s voice, Autumn stood and put her hand on her grandmother’s knee, looked up at Margaret gravely. The child’s expression struck Margaret as one less of affection than allegiance.

Margaret felt a sudden jealousy. She remembered holding Charlotte when she was tiny and asleep, that trusting limp weight against her chest, how she’d bend her neck over Charlotte’s, bury her face in the warm skin, wanting so much to merge with her again.

BY SIX O’CLOCK, Ruben still hadn’t arrived. Carmen tried calling. “He must not got his cell with him.”

“No problem, I can drive you.”

“I’m sure he’ll be here,” Carmen said doubtfully. “I hope he’s okay.”

Autumn rolled her eyes. “Daddy always forgets.”

“I know — you and Autumn could stay here tonight! If you want. I have extra toothbrushes, anything you could need. We’ll have a girls’ night, eat pizza, do masks. Autumn, I can set up a real canvas for you in the studio.” Margaret’s pulse throbbed in her neck, and she could feel her head warming. With Autumn here, the day already had a holiday feel to it. They’d stay up late, drinking wine and laughing. She looked at Carmen. “If you want.”

Carmen shook her head. “We couldn’t.” Her voice was uneasy.

Autumn pulled on her grandmother’s shirt. “Yes! Yes!”

“It’s just one night. At least have dinner. If you change your mind I can drive you guys home before bed.”

While Margaret cooked, they listened to Autumn’s CD on the stereo — pop music sung by some blond girl in a tube top — and the three of them danced around the house. In the studio, Margaret had set up a new canvas and adjusted the easel so it was Autumn’s height. Soon Carmen seemed to relax. They stood around talking and laughing, drinking wine, while Autumn squeezed the bright acrylics onto a fresh palette — too much, but Margaret didn’t stop her.

After dinner, Carmen dug through her purse for a bottle of pink nail polish. She propped her feet on the coffee table and buffed and painted her toenails. “Here,” she said, waving the bottle at Margaret. “I’ll do you.”

Margaret sipped her wine and shook her head. “No. My toes look terrible. I’d hate for anyone to touch them.” She thought of her feet, long and pale, the skin thin and dry. An old woman’s feet.

“You’re sure? I used to do hair and nails professionally.”

Margaret hesitated, nearly changed her mind. Autumn was stretched on the carpet with Margaret’s oversized sketchpad, drawing intricate lines with a pencil.

“If you wanted, you could do something with my hair,” Margaret said shyly.

Carmen nodded. “Sit.”

Autumn glanced up. “She’s really good.”

Margaret sat on the floor between Carmen’s knees, and Carmen began to rake her fingers across her scalp. Autumn’s pencil scratched. After a moment Margaret allowed herself to relax against the couch, her whole body warm and electric with Carmen’s touch. She was drunker than she thought.