The Weather and Women Treat Me Fair (2 page)

My wife’s eyes opened and she looked at me calmly. “How could such a thing happen?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“What
has happened?” She sat up and gazed at the water.

“It rained
real hard.”

A Good Home for
Hachita

Vista. It was a view that could make you not just pause, but set up house. So thought Evan Keeler as he craned to observe more clearly the Rio Grande Gorge snaking across the plateau below, carved deeply and cleanly through earth and the ages. His eyes moved to the ochre hills, their shadows creeping in on them, as he began the roll down the other side of the mountains toward Taos.

He’d stayed in Santa Fe longer than he’d have liked, haggling over prices with a couple of gallery people. He had little to say about art peddlers that was good, except that they kept a bit of money in his pockets. In fact, he wasn’t doing so badly. His prints were popular. His canvases found homes. But he hated dealing with the owners and managers of galleries. Nor was he crazy about the kinds of people who bought his works or any work for that matter. It was unfortunate that those coughing up dollars for his paintings were wheeling and dealing, trading and bickering, anticipating in the high grass anticipating his death and a jump in the value of his signature. He liked the infrequent shows. He’d perch off in corners and watch children study his paintings, watch those with no money summon a friend to share a look, a feeling, a bit of something, anything, breathing easily or hurriedly, maybe smiling. That was rare. Too rare. It made him question himself and his talent. Such insecurity was for younger men, however. If an old man fell to such doubt, his organ would shrivel right up, like a plastic straw above a flame. And that would be it. Evan Keeler needed his organ.

Evan Keeler liked women. Loved women. Liked loving women. If the art world beat down his faith in mankind, women re-ignited a kindling flame of human possibilities. A flame, a light that his being, he thought, served more to dim than fuel.

It had been a short marriage. It had been his over-fondness of women which ruined it. There had been a spark, a flame; a belief that time was upon him. She was not beautiful. He
told
himself that beauty did not matter. He lied. The spark was not enough, not enough to sustain his interest, for in the end that was all it was,
interest
. When his wife figured out not only that he had been with other women, but why, she became what Evan Keeler termed agressively insecure. He entertained fleetingly the notion that had he married earlier in life all would have been fine. That was dismissed as excuse; a rather pitiful attempt not to seem so pitiful. Finally she left, talking to herself, taking with her the only construction of their marriage—their one-year-old daughter.

He did not know his daughter. Since her departure he had seen her but three times. Twice in two summers while he was still living in Albuquerque and once when he dropped in to visit her in Seattle. In Seattle the child’s mother had not allowed Evan Keeler to their house, but arranged a meeting in a mall. He did not blame her. He had been a shit. Better to be mad than a wimp, he had told her when they broke up, which only made her angrier.

Elaine was seventeen now and, in recent photos at least, very pretty. She was discovering boys in Seattle and they were no doubt discovering her. The only bit of advice offered to her by her father was etched on the back of a postcard with a thirsty jackass on the front. It read:
Stay away from boys and men
. It surely upset the girl’s mother to have to agree with him. He could hear her adding,
“—men like your father.”
It was sound advice. It was the very advice he offered most women both before and after he slept with them.

He wondered how his daughter imagined him, whether her mother had, sadly, painted a reasonably clear picture. Was he, in the girl’s eyes, a bum who hustled young women in galleries? Was he the artist whose work she’d seen in the several art magazines in which he’d been featured over the last ten years, vital, bright, innovative? He laughed to himself, at himself, contemplating which in fact he was. He was a little of both or all of the former. Elaine’s mother’s desire to be a liberal had certainly supported a more favorable portrayal of her father, lest her hatred of him be construed as racially rooted.

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.

“Sit down, join us,” Karen said.

“Just for a minute.”

“We’ve decided to buy the painting,” said Dr. McNally, the man. “We’re quite thrilled over it.”

Evan Keeler nodded. “I’m glad you like it”

“May I ask you a question?” asked Dr. McNally.

“Of course.”

“How old are you?”

The vultures! Counting down the days of a man’s life. “Forty,” he lied.

The McNallys looked at each other, frowning, puzzling.

Karen laughed loudly. “He’s such a clown. How old are you, Evan? Sixty? Sixty-two?”

“I’m fifty-nine.”

“Why, you’re a young man,” Dr. McNally said, playing with the bracelet on her wrist.

“Yes, I am.” Evan Keeler drank some water, but it went down the wrong way. He coughed, closing a fist in front of his mouth.

“Are you okay?” the McNallys asked.

“Fine,” he tried to say through the choking. He tried so hard to stop that he couldn’t. His face flushed. “Fine.” Cough. “Really.”

The McNallys examined his eyes and measured his pulse. He couldn’t believe this was happening. The whole restaurant was watching.

“How is he?” came a new but familiar voice.

Evan Keeler looked up and saw the fat Indian Breedlove. He got mad and coughed some more.

“Have you ever had heart trouble?” asked one of the McNallys.

“No!”

“Yes,” Karen said.

“Karen!”

“It’s okay,” Dr. McNally said. “Often, people don’t like to admit to heart problems.” He smiled at his wife, who smiled back.

Evan Keeler finally relaxed. He was resigned. The painting was gone.

Evan Keeler left the restaurant and went back to the gallery with Karen’s key. He just wanted to stare at the painting for a while, be alone with it, say goodbye. Five children played on a fresh blacktop, a dirt road the color of plywood rising behind them, a lot on one side of the dusty way, a row of adobe dwellings on the other. The larger of the girls was wearing a bright yellow dress, a simple but beautiful dress, her black eyes looking away from the barefoot boy who talked to her. Two younger boys played catch, but their attention too was turned to the girl. The smaller girl wore a red, a blood-red dress, her dark hair falling over it in braids. She also watched the older girl. The little girl smiled the smile of Evan Keeler’s daughter. Light played off the dark hair and eyes of all the children. Their brown feet were powdered with dust. Wisps of clouds gathered far off in the robin’s-egg-blue sky over the hills. One who knew the desert might see the slow formation of a thunderhead. Evan Keeler loved the painting.