She had repeated the same invitation every month, and I always answered that I would try to come to a mass sometime. But for months, I had never gotten around to it.
Now, I had come to tell Regan about the theft of my book, to enlist her help in starting again, but there was no sign of her. And I felt the least I could do was to try to make it to mass, as she had so often requested. I owed her that much for all the help she had given me.
As I was walking back to my Jeep, I saw something on the ground beside the path near the corral. I went toward it and found a rosary that looked to be quite old. It was made of intricately carved wooden beads with a large, ornate, carved wooden crucifix. The drops of blood on Christ’s hands and feet and where the crown of thorns touched his brow were the only places where color had been applied-a red stain of some kind. A larger patch of the same color symbolized where his side had been pierced. I turned the cross over and saw the name A. Vigil crudely carved by hand into the back. The writing had almost been rubbed smooth from repeated handling.
As I examined this find, I heard footsteps coming down the path from the direction of the barn and casita uphill from where I stood. An attractive man came toward me. He was tall and dark haired, wearing a black sweater and jeans. “Hello, there,” he called in a deep, pleasant voice. He smiled as he approached, his white teeth gleaming.
I smiled back.
“Are you here to see Ms. Daniels?”
“Yes. I’m a friend of Regan’s; I hoped I would find her home, but I guess I missed her.”
“She went into town on some errands. I’m a temporary resident-I’m renting her casita for the month.”
“But I saw her car-”
“One of her neighbors drove. I guess they take turns driving when they go for groceries together. What’s that you have there?”
I held up the rosary. “I just found this on the path, right here next to the corral.”
The man smiled at me again and held out a hand. “Mind if I take a look?”
“No, not at all. It’s quite old, I think.” I handed it to him.
“Oh, I recognize this,” he said. “Regan takes it to church with her every time she goes. They only have mass here…”
“I know, once a month. She’s told me.”
“That’s right. But a few villagers gather at the church every morning and a lay member leads a worship service. Regan goes to that most days. I would be happy to give this back to her when she gets back from town. That is, if that would be all right with you.” He smiled and looked at me with handsome dark eyes.
“Sure. That works for me. I’ll just be going now. I’m headed into Santa Fe.”
“It was nice talking to you,” he said, his eyes still holding mine, his lips still forming a pleasant smile.
“Nice talking to you, too,” I said. “Have a nice day.” I turned and started down the drive toward my Jeep. As I came back past the corral, the old mare flinched suddenly as if I’d startled her out of her catatonic state. She shook her head in a slow pendulum motion, from side to side, tossing her strawlike, scruffy mane. I think that was the first time I ever saw the horse move at all. I remembered Regan telling me that twice she had paid a neighbor to dig a grave for that horse in the fall before the ground froze, thinking the nag would not make it through the winter, and twice she had paid the same neighbor to fill the hole again in the spring.
10
In Santa Fe, I stopped at a gas station to use the pay phone. “Father Ignacio Medina, please,” I requested.
There was a long silence. I was about to repeat what I had just said when the woman at the St. Catherine Indian School-the same one who always told me that the father couldn’t take my calls-finally responded in typical fashion. “Father Medina is not available right now. May I take a message?”
“Yes, this is Jamaica Wild. You know, I’m the one who used to call almost every week?”
“Yes, Miss Wild, I remember that. Would you like me to leave a number?”
“I just want to ask the padre one quick question. It won’t take more than thirty seconds. If he’s there, can you tell him that?” I wanted to get the name the father had given me, the one I’d written in my book and couldn’t remember now.
Another long pause. “I am sorry, Miss Wild. I would be happy to take down your number and if I see him, I will give him the message.”
“I can’t leave a number. I don’t have a phone. I’m just in town for an hour or so and I really need to talk to him. Isn’t there somewhere I could reach him?”
“Wait just one minute, please.” I could tell she’d covered up the mouthpiece of the receiver; I heard her muffled voice as she spoke with someone else, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. She came back on the line. “I am sorry. Father Medina is not available at this time. I will tell him that you called.” There was a quick click as she hung up the phone.
Since I couldn’t reach Father Ignacio, I went to the library to look for the tract by Padre Martínez. I found several references to it in other works, but no copies in the system, as I had feared. I asked the librarian for direction.
After making a few search attempts on her computer database, she said, “Let me make a call. I know someone who works at the archives for the archdiocese. I’ll find out if he knows anyplace you can look.”
I browsed impatiently through the section on New Mexico history and found two books I wanted to take home to study.
The librarian signaled for me to come back to the desk. “My friend didn’t have any idea where to find a copy. I’m sorry.”
“But he didn’t dispute its existence?”
“No, he didn’t. I know that some say that tract is just a legend. But I think it is likely that all the copies of it have been lost over time. You see, Padre Martínez and a friend operated the first printing press in New Mexico. The first book published in this state was a cuaderno, a schoolbook that Martínez wrote for the school he ran in Taos next to the church. He probably published other booklets as well. He was known for his political and religious writings at the time. But the tract you are looking for is not something I have ever seen. And if my friend at the archdiocese hasn’t seen it either, I doubt if there are any copies around anymore.”
Frustrated, I shoved the books I wanted across the counter and put my library card on top. She took the card and swiped it in the reader, then said, “Just a minute. There’s a problem with your card.”
“What do you mean, a problem?” Before I could get it out, she disappeared into one of the offices behind the counter and was on the phone again. I searched my memory for any stray books I might have forgotten to return, any unpaid fines I might have on my account. Nada.
A few minutes later, she reappeared. “I don’t know what the problem was; I couldn’t find any reason for a hold on your card. I cleared it.” She zipped the scanner over my books and pushed them across the counter at me. “There you go!”
I threw the books onto the passenger seat of my Jeep and backed out of my parking space, looking over my shoulder. Down at the end of the lane, perhaps five or six car-lengths back, a late-model Lexus sedan idled, not a typical vehicle for these parts. The car was one of those noncolors somewhere between metallic fish scale and wet sandstone. Through its smoked windshield, I could just make out the silhouette of the driver, his elbow bent as he pressed a cell phone to his ear.
“Everyone has to be on the phone all the time these days,” I muttered, as I put my Jeep in drive and proceeded toward the exit. Living and working in remote and mountainous terrain as I did, a cell phone wouldn’t even work most of the time. The world was changing in ways that I didn’t understand.