Who She Wasn’t
by
Scott Archer Jones
I admit it,
I ran away. After I was sacked in my mid-fifties and I drove my wife back into
the arms of her daddy's money, I had no way back to what I had done well in my
life. There wasn’t even a way to get a new job—in 2009 laid-off managers with
few friends were unemployable. Because I had a little money I rented a cheap
tumbling-down house on the river in the cottonwoods, miles northwest of
Albuquerque and the scenes of my failure. I waited there for a job to find me.
The house was just upstream from Consuela Romero, the woman I would destroy.
I was picking up my mail at the boxes on the
road when she first spoke to me, in the early summer just as the sporadic rains
finish. She approached me like a bird about to fly up and away. “Excuse me?
You’re my new neighbor?”
“Depends I
suppose on where you live and where I do.” It was easy to be smart-ass at
first, before she fell under my dominance and into my imagination.
She took it
seriously. “You shouldn’t pretend, señor. We have seen each other. I am
Consuela.” She offered her small brown hand, but she didn't look at me—she
gazed at the dust down to her right. Maybe she didn’t like men thirty years
older. Grandfathers.
“Right you
are. I’m pleased to meet you, Connie. My name is Charles. I’ve admired your
place as I drove by. Mine is run down.”
“You rent
from Ramon? He’s a nice person if you’ve been here for a while. He probably
won’t fix anything. But he might help you, if you were doing it.”
I told her I
didn’t care enough to fix up the Gutierrez place, but that I did wish I had a
garden like hers. “You’re out in the garden all the time—you must really like
it.”
“No, Señor
Carlos. It’s just part of the old ways. I do it to honor my mother and father,
and my grandparents. It is my grandfather's house.”
“I’m sorry, but I prefer to be called
Charles.”
“Sí, I understand.” She tried it out.
“Charles.”
“You live with your parents?”
“No, they have all gone now. I live by
myself.”
Reflecting
back on it, I was wrong to always call her Connie. It was my first failure of
acknowledgement.
A week later
she drove up to my house. I stepped out past my tattered screen door to greet
her, leaned on the front of the adobe, breathed in the dust raised by her
truck. She was in silhouette—I was squinting into the bright sun. “Here. I’ve
brought you something.” She handed me a paper bag, then stood twisting the end
of her belt back and forth.
I peered
into the sack, picking out vegetables—early squash, early tomatoes, cilantro
and fresh lettuce. I thanked her and thanked her again, enjoying myself as I played
her.
“De nada,”
she said, but it was something, not nothing. While I handled the sack, I worked
around to the right and sneaked glances at her. Not the country-club type of
woman I liked.
“I tell you
what, Connie, I can cook a bit. Why don’t you come back for dinner? I’ll make
pasta with a cilantro pesto. We can use these things up while they’re really
fresh.”
She turned
away from me and stared into the distance. I think she was considering the
offer, and considering also who made the offer. She was shorter than I and thin
to the point of pain. It was her hair that got me—black and shining as
obsidian. Unlike me, she didn’t dress in town clothes but in the denims of a
field worker, under an old straw hat. I wondered what it would be like, to cut
myself on those sharp angles and jutting bones.
She said, in
a mouse's voice, “Okay.” She turned and slipped back to her truck. I shouted.
“Let's say at six!” But she didn't answer. In that moment, she had given in. I
think she knew where it would end. But she was that lonely.
After that,
we were like the river below us, roiling swift towards a sea beyond. Anytime
the bugs in my head were too much, I reached out to find her fluid skin beneath
my hand, there in my room under the old window. Her hair flowed out on the
pillow, shining in the desert moon, smelling of soap, of rosemary.
If she never
admitted we were together, I didn’t want to know. I ignored her quirks, like
how she fiddled with her fork endlessly, the long silences. And the way she
wouldn't look me in the eyes. A shame. They were beautiful eyes, if a little
bruised deep down.
At times she
came across so childish. She sat on the edge of the bed wrapped in the
sheet—after I had strained my way to a sweaty finish. Not talking, hunching her
shoulders. She would leave me in my bed, to go sleep alone in her grandfather's
house. That was the thing I resented, that declaration of shame.
She didn't
need a social life—but I did. We went out to dinner in the village whenever my
budget could afford it. I introduced her to my new friends—I had been in sales,
I knew how to attach friends to me like limpets. I dressed her in the style I
liked—bought her a couple of summer dresses and accessorized her. She rebelled
at the white one, I thought, because of its plunging neckline. “Charles, que
meustra demasiado y—the color of death.”
“I like it, Connie. You look great in white.”
“The old ones will not like it.”
No one I
knew had ever said things like that. Her superstition embarrassed me. A creepy
idea, dead people watching over us.
We flowed on
like that, two streams half-coiled together, through the summer and winter and
into the time where the snow pack melts and the rivers wake up. She would come
to me in the morning and make my breakfast, then disappear for the day. At
dusk, she would be there with whatever pitiful offering of food she could make
and we would cook together while I drank. And talked. I told her of my wild
plans, for a new company, for an old friend in Chicago who would surely hire
me, for a way to turn my little stake into a fortune as soon as the market came
back. Sometimes she would touch my hand, and I would fall silent. That was the
only time I surrendered command.
I claimed it
was the priest’s fault for a long time. He was perched there on her porch that
early spring day when I dropped her off, at her grandfather's house. The priest
brought the dusty black clothes and piercing stare of another century with him.
She walked up to her porch, wearing a new white dress I had bought. I could
tell by the way she skittered up to the door that she would be upset for days,
more twitchy, even quieter than usual. She didn't come to me that evening. Only
the next morning when I drove down to her house did I learn something about
her. Her actions told me that day what I had never asked. She told me a little
of who she had been, and what she had wanted.
An empty
white dress fluttered from the branch of a tall tree beside the house. Shoes
and underwear, pitiful cotton, lay beneath it in the soft sunshine. The river
ran wild below, just across a short meadow, filled with meltwater and the
rippling trace of an unknown woman.
About the author
Scott Archer Jones currently lives in New Mexico, after stints in Louisiana, Texas, the Netherlands, Scotland and
Norway. He is on the masthead at the Prague Revue, and launched a novel last year
with Southern Yellow Pine, Jupiter and Gilgamesh, a Novel of Sumeria and Texas.
Jupiter was a finalist in the 2014 New Mexico-Arizona Book awards in four
categories and won a 2015 Bronze IPPY and a 2015 FAPA Silver President's Award. His novel The Big Wheel arrived in March and received a Silver and Gold
President's Award. Fomite Books will publish A Rising Tide of People Swept
Away in 2016.