The highway became the main thoroughfare of Taos. Gas stations, taco joints, adobe motels lined the road which seemed perpetually under construction. He rolled on, slowed to a dusty crawl into town center. He pulled into the plaza and drove around the square, out a side street. He parked near the library, opened the back of his station wagon and took out three canvases.
“Evan!” came a voice.
He shut the tailgate and looked up to see a middle-aged woman at the gate of the library courtyard. “Hello, Gert,” he said.
“Hello, Gert? Is that all I get? I haven’t seen you in three months.” She stepped toward him.
“Long time no see?”
She was smiling and shaking her head as they embraced. She leaned back, her hands on his shoulders. “You’re looking good.”
“Go ahead and finish it. ‘For an old man.’”
“Hardly.”
“You look good, too. How’s it going?”
“It’s going. New paintings? May I see?”
“Why don’t you buy one so I can pay a few bills?”
“You’re out of my range these days.”
“Give me a bid.” He hoisted the canvases and secured his grip. “Come on with me to the Junction.”
“I’m not going in there with that bitch.”
Evan Keeler laughed. “Are you two still at it. Even high school girls take a breather now and then.”
“She’s no schoolgirl.”
“Yeah, well, you’re both the reason I live so far away from everything. The women in this town are good for only one thing.” He was sorry for what he’d said even before the last word was out.
Gert’s gaze fell to the ground and her sandals. She faded a bit.
“Listen, Gert, I’m sorry I said that.”
“Why?” She straightened her shoulders. “You’re absolutely right.” She looked ready to cry. “What else is there to do?” She forced a smile.
“I’m going to take these on over there.”
“Okay. Call me later?”
He nodded.
As he walked away he wanted to kick himself. He considered them. Matrons of the arts. Women with more money than sense. Most living on stipends from trusts left by husbands or monied families. Most nice enough, but concerned mainly with positioning themselves beneath a name they recognized.
In the Junction Gallery, he found a young couple standing in the front room moaning over a Rod Breedlove print. If you’d seen one Breedlove you’d seen them all and all those to come. Besides, Breedlove chased boys. Not a bad thing in itself, but a guy who did that ought to have talent. Evan Keeler leaned his canvases against the desk. The young couple noticed him, mumbled to each other, pointing at the covered packages he’d just set down.
“Karen!” Evan Keeler called out.
A tall, blonde woman came from the back room. “Evan Keeler,” she said, spreading her wings for a hug.
He squeezed her, knowing that she had said his full name loudly for the benefit of the couple.
“What have you brought me?”
He hated this sort of display. “You can look at them later. You have something for me?”
“Yes, I do.” She opened the drawer of the desk and pulled out an envelope. She handed it to him.
He smiled at the man and woman. He opened the envelope and looked at the check. “It’s always less than you expect,” he said. “The nature of checks.”
Karen laughed politely.
He’d upset her by not participating in the selling game. She would chide him about it later, but he didn’t care. “I saw Gert,” he said.
“How wonderful. But why are you telling me?”
“Just keeping things square,” he said, knowing she wouldn’t understand.
“Are you staying in town tonight?”
He hadn’t decided. “No, I don’t believe so. Gotta get back to my desert.”
“At least stay and talk a while.”
The couple began to make their way to the door. If he were to get out of there without a hassle he needed to go now. “I really need to hit the road.”
“Someone’s interested in Hachita.”
He stopped. She had him. Hachita was probably the best of his paintings of recent years, a medium-sized canvas with deep reds and rich yellows, of children in the street of a little hole of a New Mexican town. He’d never known what to ask for it. The agent he used for a while suggested six thousand as the bottom. Karen was asking five. Secretly Evan Keeler wanted to take it home. Instead he lied to himself, saying he could paint another like it. The young couple left. Karen waved to them. He watched the door slowly shut.
“I’ll never understand you,” Karen said.
“Okay. I should have said—”
“Not that. Listen, Evan, if you want to sell your paintings you’ve got to play the game. Those people who were just here had bucks. It’s fine if you want to play the bohemian artist for young girls over at De la Peña’s, but this is the real world.”
“Point taken. Who wants Hachita?”
“Why do you care who wants it? They want to pay for it. Five, just what we were asking. Why do you look so damn sad?”
“Five will be fine.”
She studied him for a second, then went to the coffee-maker on a table in the corner. “What’s bugging you, Evan?”
“When is all of this going to happen?”
She poured herself a cup of coffee. “You want some?”
He shook his head.
“They’re coming by this afternoon. A couple of doctors from Portland.”
“A syndicate is buying it?”
“No, a husband and wife.”
“Do they like the painting?”
“Evan, they’re about to pay five thousand dollars for it.”
“Do they like it? Or are they just collectors? Will they hang it in a place where children can see it?”
“You’re sounding crazy.”
“I guess. Mind if I watch the deal go down?”
“I would love it if you were here.”
“No, no. I don’t want to be here. I just want to watch. From the back room or something.”
She sighed. “Whatever you want.”
“Thanks, Karen. Can I take you to lunch?”
A reluctant but warm smile worked its way over Karen’s face.
They went to De la Peña’s on the square. With the coming of summer new crowds were appearing, the skiers having left. The spring had seen only one good snowfall, shortening the season and making the merchants anxious for the next wave of tourists. De la Peña’s never seemed to suffer, however, being the favorite spot of gringo locals. Evan Keeler sat with Karen at a table near the back.
While they were ordering, Rod Breedlove walked in. The fat Navajo had with him a young man, boy-faced and blond, and an overly made-up, tight-jeaned woman.
“Every time,” Evan Keeler said. “I can’t sit down to eat in this town without that clown walking in.”
“He sells,” said Karen.
“He’s a bum.”
“He sells.” She sipped her Gibson.
Evan Keeler drank water. He was watching Karen’s face when she sat up and her eyes brightened. She waved to someone across the room behind him.
“It’s them,” she said “The doctors from Portland.”
“Oh, no,” he muttered.
“Hello, Dr. McNally, Dr. McNally,” Karen said “I have a treat for you.”
Evan Keeler stood.
“I’d like to introduce Evan Keeler. Evan, Dr. and Dr. McNally.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Evan Keeler said.
“No, the pleasure is all ours,” said the excited female Dr. McNally while the male McNally nodded.