34
After I left the BLM, I drove to my cabin to try to get a few hours’ sleep before I had to go on duty again. When I pulled up, I saw at once that the front door was open. I took my pistol from the glove box, turned off the engine and pocketed the keys, then quietly opened the Jeep door, stepped out, and scanned the area. This was starting to be my homecoming routine.
There was no other vehicle, no sign that any other cars had been there. But the frozen ground wouldn’t have taken a track impression from tires anyway. This time, I wasn’t going to screw around. I holstered my pistol on my belt and reached in the back and got out my pump-action shotgun. I walked quickly to the portal, then eased myself to the side of the doorway and raised the shotgun barrel, holding it with both hands. I pointed the gun into the cabin and swept a semicircular pattern from one side of the room to the other, my eyes following the barrel, my finger on the trigger, ready. I pulled my left hand away, still holding the gun in my right, and pressed the door back until it hit the wall, assuring me there was no one behind it.
Someone had ransacked my cabin, leaving it in total disarray. But my spartan living quarters didn’t offer much place for a person to hide. The log bed made of thick aspen limbs sat high off the ground, its covers torn from the mattress and thrown to the side. Beneath it, I could see the floor all the way to the wall. On the other side of the room was the kitchen, with its stove, fridge, sink, and cupboard, the contents of which had been emptied onto the counter and the floor. The one big chair had been shoved all the way into the corner, and the only other furnishings, besides a small table with two chairs, were my dresser, the open shelves of books, a portable stereo, and my nightstand-all of which had been emptied, their contents rearranged or knocked to the floor. I moved cautiously across the room toward the pass-through closet that led to the bathroom, still holding the shotgun at the ready.
The bathroom door was open. The shower curtain had been pulled aside, revealing the empty tub. The cantilevered doors to the closet, too, were open, and everything had been pulled off the shelves, the clothing pushed aside on the hangers, the shoes strewn apart, and all the boxes that had been stacked on the top shelf had been dumped out onto the middle of the closet floor.
Nobody there. I lowered the shotgun barrel.
I looked down, still in the habit of following my gun with my eyes. Among the scattered items at my feet I saw a yellowed sheet of lined notebook paper with the familiar blue lacy script. I stooped and picked it up, squatting over my boots, and read again what I had read before many times:
A woman
with her head down
gone underground
trying to hide herself
in the tying of a toddler’s shoelaces
the washing of a family’s dinner plates
the gathering of the eggs.
A woman
with her dreams gone
barely holding on
having lost herself
somewhere in all the sunsets
forgetting why she
ever wanted to see the sunrise.
A woman
hollowed out from the wind
burned out by lightning
scorched by dry sun
forgetting who she was
knowing not who she is
blows away like dust.
I felt like I was going to cry. Come on, Jamaica, you better keep it together, I told myself, as I laid the shotgun on the floor next to me and picked up the rest of the poems my mother had written, placing them in the box with the few other things of hers I had kept. I knew that whoever had trashed my cabin was looking for La Arca and knew that I was its guardian now. I grabbed the shotgun and walked back into the main room where the door had swung back to a halfway position, drew back my left leg, and kicked the door as hard as I could. It shook the whole room when it slammed shut.
35
Clouds as dark as flint began to pile up over the Jemez Mountains as I went on duty that night, and the temperature sank with the sun. It looked like snow. It looked like a lot of snow. Roy had briefed us at the meeting that morning that the Forest Service road would have a checkpoint at each end, and the gate to the four-wheel track would be locked because it was Holy Thursday.
Any curious Anglos hoping to see a Penitente crucifixion in this area would have to take the High Road through Trampas and Truchas, where they would be met by menacing-looking villagers, some with rifles slung on their shoulders. The cars of these prying intruders, if they dared park them and set out on foot, would be stripped and looted. Villagers would conveniently have chickens or goats escape from pens and fill the streets so traffic would be stalled. And then the windows of out-of-town cars would be pelted with eggs or fresh animal dung as the occupants sat helplessly within. Law enforcement officers at remote locations would be suspiciously delayed from responding to distress calls from cell phones in Mercedes, if they were in cell range at all. The inhabitants of these vanity rides would be fearful and complaining, waiting hostage with windows rolled up tight, their expensive parkas and fur-lined après-ski boots too much for spending the evening trapped in their car.
I sat astride Redhead at the top of a knoll overlooking the four-wheel track. A thin line of fiery orange still edged the top of the Jemez range as the sun tried to paint blazing colors in a sky heavy and dark with impending snow. Behind me, the full moon would rise unseen, behind rumpled blankets of black and blue vapor held back by the tips of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
To the east, up the slope and through the trees, the Boscaje morada would be empty tonight, according to what Theresa Mendoza had told me. Its members would have gone to Truchas for the rituals, in fear for their safety. Beyond the deserted morada-somewhere higher up-the Calvario would also be abandoned. This was the place where the Boscaje Hermanos would have directed their procession, following the fourteen stations of the cross-and perhaps even raised a cross on which one of their own was hung.
In the old days, this ritual would have been done at noon on Good Friday, after the procession to the church. There, the stand-in for Christ would have his last earthly meeting with his mother, portrayed by a bulto of the Virgin Mary carried by the women of the village. All would then proceed to the graveyard for the crucifixion. But, as Father Ignacio had said, the intrusion of outsiders had forced many moradas to hold clandestine midnight rituals in remote places carefully guarded by villagers.