The Pot Thief Who Studied Georgia O'Keeffe Read online

  I started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Women. I don’t understand them.”

  “Well, boo-freakin-hoo. Of course you don’t understand women. You’re a man.”

  “I understand one thing about women.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “If Carl and I had been women, I would have known all about his family. I would have known he was married. I would have known whether he had children, which I didn’t even think to ask Thelma about. I would have known whether he had sisters or brothers and I would have known all their names.”

  “So what did you two men talk about?”

  “Work. Money. Pots.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “It wasn’t sad. We enjoyed talking to each other. But now that he’s dead, I wish I had talked to him about more personal things. It just didn’t occur to me. Anyway, I was going to tell you something about Sharice. After we got back to my place last night, she told me she felt intimidated in your presence. You’re so curvy, and she saw the way all the guys were sneaking peeks at you.”

  “See why you should have told me? Knowing that she … well, I would have worn a loose-fitting blouse or something.”

  “She’s not self-conscious about it, Suze. She mentioned it because she noticed the other guys, not because she’s jealous. And she liked how you seemed self-assured in the bar and wished she could be like that. But she doesn’t want big breasts. She knows she has that gamine look.”

  “You think my boobs are too big?”

  “We’re friends, Suze. I don’t think about you that way.”

  “Give me a yes or a no.”

  “No. They aren’t too big. And yes, even though we’re friends, I do notice them. Happy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Can we talk about something else?”

  “Yeah. How about we go swimming in the stock tank when we get to the ranch? I have this skimpy bikini I’d like you to see.” She started laughing. “That morning sun is powerful. We’ve only been on the road ten minutes and you’re already glowing red.”

  “Very funny.”

  “You didn’t answer me—do you want me to put on that bikini?”

  “I’ll bet you don’t own a bikini.”

  “You’re right. But it’s fun to see you blushing.”

  We reached Highway 14. Not a minute too soon.

  “Why are you turning here?” she asked. “Going through Moriarty is faster.”

  “This way is more scenic.”

  “And?”

  I knew she had it figured out. “It takes us by some of the Tompiro sites.”

  After Escabosa and Chilili, we stopped at the Quarai ruins, a place so quiet and lonely it’s hard to believe it’s on the same planet as Albuquerque, much less an easy commute. The suburbs will reach out here soon. We destroyed a civilization. You’d think maybe we could at least let their spirits rest in peace.

  Susannah pulled a brochure from the box next to the parking area and read it. “‘The Franciscans taught the Indians the Spanish language, new agricultural methods and crafts.’”

  “Crafts? Maybe like making wooden crosses during the winter, when many of the Indians froze to death for lack of firewood.”

  “The Indians aren’t the only people who’ve been mistreated. My grandfather was eighteen when he got here. A guy met him at the railhead. He took him up into the Manzanos and gave him a tarp, bedroll, beans, bacon, cast-iron pot, rifle and canteen. Then he just left him there. At least there was a dog there. He knew a hell of a lot more about shepherding than my grandfather did.”

  “I thought Basques were natural shepherds.”

  “That’s racial profiling, Hubie.”

  After we laughed, she continued her story. “He was actually a cook by profession.”

  “I figured since his name was Gutxiarkaitz he’d be a sleazy politician.”

  “I’m impressed that you remembered his name, but why would you figure him for a sleazy politician?”

  “Because you told me Gutxiarkaitz means ‘little rock,’ which is the home of Bill Clinton and Mike Huckabee.”

  “Groan. Anyway, he contracted a bad case of txamisuek jota.”

  “That’s like Lyme disease, right? Except carried by sheep instead of deer.”

  “Literally it means ‘struck by sagebrush,’ but what it actually means is depression.”

  “How did he get over it?”

  “After he’d been there for several weeks, two cowboys showed up yelling at him. They were probably telling him to keep his sheep away from the land where they were grazing cattle, but he didn’t speak English, so he just ignored them.”

  “Probably the wise course.”

  “Nope. They got his attention by trying to run him down with their ponies.”

  “Obviously, he survived.”

  “Yeah. He had quick reflexes because he was a champion at zesta-punta.”

  “Zesta-punta?”

  “You know it as jai alai. As the first cowboy reached him, Aitona grabbed a stirrup, and in one fluid motion flung himself up to the saddle while pushing the cowboy to the ground. Then he turned the pony and lassoed the second cowboy. A few hours later, he rode into the cowboys’ camp astride one horse with the second one tethered behind and the two cowboys tied across the saddle like bedrolls. The herd owner was so impressed he hired Aitona on the spot. After he learned English, he eventually became the head wrangler, and he ultimately ended up owning the acreage when the state put it up for sale.”

  I already knew that aitona means grandfather. I also knew her father’s name is Eguzki, which means sun in Basque, but he goes by Gus. And her mother’s name is Hilargi, which means moon, but she goes by Hilary.

  They call Susannah Sorne, which means conception in Basque.

  Susannah’s voice pulled me out of my musings about her family. “You ever dig anything up here?”

  “Never tried. Been picked over by too many archaeologists.”

  We leaned against the ancient walls, smelled the salt in the dry air and listened to the wind sing between the stacked rocks.

  “Your parents know you’re dating Baltazar?”

  “Yeah, but they haven’t met him. We aren’t serious enough for that. Yet.”

  “And besides,” I chided, “he never leaves La Reina.”

  “He’s come to see me in Albuquerque twice.”

  “Must be true love,” I said, and she took a swipe at me.

  30

  We climbed into the Bronco and headed south toward the Inchaustigui Ranch. I’d been nervous about the trip because the Inchaustiguis seem to be under the impression that Susannah and I are an item.

  It created some awkward moments, which I handled poorly, largely because I didn’t set them straight. I thought doing so would be stepping on Susannah’s toes. She thought I had simply misinterpreted the situation.

  Which is why I asked her about Baltazar. Since they knew she was dating Baltazar, I no longer had to worry about them thinking she was dating me.

  The Inchaustigui home is an inviting two-story fieldstone structure surrounded by western catalpas and big reddish dogs with pointy snouts and floppy ears. They guard the place by charging at you like rockets and threatening to lick you to death.

  After surviving the Euskal artzain txakurra—Basque sheepdogs—I received a hug from Hilary and three crushing handshakes and rib-rattling slaps on the back from Gus and Susannah’s two younger brothers, Matt and Mark.

  We were seated at the long table in front of the fireplace drinking lemonade when Hilary said, “It’s nice you two are marching to honor the memory of those poor boys. I cry every time I read about it.”

  All the New Mexico papers give it full coverage because almost 2,000 soldiers from the New Mexico National Guard were d
eployed to the Philippines in World War II and ended up in the Bataan Death March. Only half survived, and half of those died not long after the war because they were in such wretched condition.

  After the Americans and their Filipino allies surrendered, 400 Filipino officers were summarily executed. The surviving Filipino and American soldiers were marched through the jungle with no food or water for the first three days of the trip. Those who fell or lagged behind were bayoneted. Some were beheaded by Japanese officers practicing with their samurai swords.

  After the first three days, the prisoners were finally allowed water, but only from filthy water-buffalo wallows, which resulted in dysentery, worsened by the fact that the guards would not allow bathroom breaks. The prisoners had to foul themselves as they walked. The trucks carrying the Japanese guards drove over fallen prisoners.

  Prime Minister Hideki Tōjō and Generals Masaharu Homma, Kenji Doihara, Seishirō Itagaki, Heitarō Kimura, Iwane Matsui, Akira Mutō and Baron Kōki Hirota were found guilty of war crimes and executed. They deserved worse. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing can change what they did.

  There are only fifty survivors of the Bataan Death March. More than half of them live in New Mexico.

  The more Susannah and her family talked about the march in honor of these men, the guiltier I felt. I wasn’t marching to honor them. I was marching to steal a pot.

  And now it seemed to me that I wouldn’t be marching. I’d be skulking.

  I was trying to figure out some way to rationalize it when Hilary asked me how my pot hunting was going—not exactly a topic I was eager to discuss.

  So I shifted the topic in her direction. “We stopped at Quarai on the way here, and that reminded me that I once dug up a Tompiro pot on your land. Of course, I didn’t know you then. I sold that pot last year, and I told Susannah the other day that I should probably pay you for it.”

  Hilary laughed. “Having you with Sorne is payment enough. We always worry about her in the big city, but we feel a lot better because of you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, hoping my discomfort wasn’t too obvious as I wondered what “with Sorne” meant.

  Matt rose and said to me, “Why don’t you show Mark and me where you found that pot.”

  Matt drove his crew-cab pickup along a gravel ranch road for a few miles and then turned off toward Jumanes Knob. As he got closer, I gave directions that got us as near as a vehicle could take us. We walked a hundred yards, then climbed up a gentle slope, went behind an outcrop and then up a steeper slope that required holding on to roots exposed by erosion. A small cave was hidden by the top of the outcrop.

  “Dad showed us this place when we were kids,” Mark said. “I’m not sure I could have found it though.”

  Matt nodded. “You remember what he told us?”

  “Some of it. I think I was about six.”

  “You were seven. I was nine. He held up an arrowhead: ‘Other people lived here many years before we did. They made arrows to hunt buffalo, deer and antelope.’ He picked up a shard. ‘They made pots. They’re broken now, but they used them for water.’”

  “I remember asking for an arrowhead,” Mark said.

  “Yeah. Dad told us we could each pick out one we liked. We made a contest out of it, seeing who could find the best one.”

  “I think I did and you took it away from me.”

  “Sure. I was older. But you found another good one. Then Dad said, ‘Those are gifts from the people who made them. But you have to leave all their other things alone.’ ‘But it’s on our land,’ I said. ‘No,’ he said, ‘the land did not belong to them, and it doesn’t belong to us. We are just the caretakers.’”

  After a moment, Matt smiled and said, “Too bad Dad said that. We might have dug up that pot Hubie found and made a pile of money.”

  I looked at the mesa above us. “That wind farm wasn’t up there when I was searching for pots. It was like I had the whole place to myself. I slept in a tent for three days.”

  “Wind farm,” said Matt. “Strange term. They don’t farm the wind, they just gather it.”

  “The first people here gathered,” I observed. “It was salt. Then there was true farming—pinto beans. Now we’ve gone back to gathering.”

  Judging from the looks they gave me, my anthropological insight did not impress them.

  Matt’s expression grew serious. “Me and Mark talked this over. We think Susannah is just going through a period of uncertainty.”

  “Yeah,” Mark chimed in. “Like when I decided to buy the diesel truck instead of the gasoline model. I was almost to the dealership in Albuquerque when I started wondering if I was about to make a mistake. I loved that diesel, but once you buy it, you can’t just turn it back in. So I started having second thoughts. It was just fear of taking that final step, writing that check.”

  “You comparing our sister to a diesel truck?”

  “No, I’m just saying that anyone can have a bit of doubt before taking a big step.”

  It was about here in the conversation that I realized the topic was me and my relationship with Susannah.

  “We like you, Hubie,” said Matt. “You’re a stand-up guy. Solid. Got a good business. Mom and Dad like you too. This thing with Baltazar will blow over. We hope you won’t bolt.”

  I’d let this confusion continue too long. It was time to be the stand-up guy they thought I was. I gathered up the courage to look Matt in the eyes and said, “Actually, I’m dating someone.”

  They both smiled. “See what we mean about you, Hubie? Straight shooting. That’s what we value out here. Of course we know about Sharice. Susannah told us about her. When Susannah was describing her over the phone the other night, you could hear the jealousy in her voice. Your strategy is brilliant.”

  “My strategy?”

  “We figured it out. Susannah starts dating a guy who’s a bit different, a Hispanic guy who lives in a weird village—no disrespect to the guy or the village. So what do you do—mope around by your lonesome? Nosirree. You start dating someone even more exotic, a black beauty from Canada of all places. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

  I opened my mouth, but my brain passed on the opportunity to supply some words. The Inchaustiguis are a terrific family. It wasn’t my place to break the news that Susannah and I are not romantically involved and never have been. That should be Susannah’s job. My job is to convince Susannah that she needs to do it.

  31

  You must have misunderstood, Hubie. When Matt said your dating Sharice was a strategy, he meant a strategy for getting me away from Baltazar, not a strategy to win me over. I should have expected it. They were noticeably cool when I told them about Baltazar.”

  “What about when Matt said you’re ‘going through a period of uncertainty’?”

  “That’s true. I’m uncertain about how I want things to go with Baltazar.”

  “What about when they said, ‘We hope you won’t bolt’?”

  “It’s natural they’d want my best friend to stand with me during a period of indecision in my life.”

  This wasn’t going the way I’d hoped. “But they said that after you started dating Baltazar, they liked that I didn’t just mope around. That I started dating Sharice.”

  “What’s wrong with that? I mope around when you’re dating someone and it cuts into our margarita time and conversation. Of course, that hasn’t happened much until now.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  I was failing once again to convince Susannah that she needed to disabuse her family of the idea that we’re a couple. Maybe she was right. If they did think we’re a couple, surely they would’ve brought it up to her, ask her if the two of us have wedding plans or something like that. But I still wondered why Susannah was so unwilling to even consider the idea that her family—or maybe just her brothers—might think we’re a couple. And why my attempt
s to convince her they do are so feeble. Maybe it’s just an uncomfortable topic for both of us, so we want to cut short any discussion of it.

  So I did what I too often do when the going gets rough.

  I gave up.

  Dinner conversation at the Inchaustigui table had mercifully stayed away from the topic of who was dating whom and why. So I had waited until the next morning when we were on the road to White Sands.

  After I dropped the subject of Matt and Mark thinking Susannah and I are a couple, I asked her what Professor Casgrail said about the canvas Baltazar had given her.

  “She said I should take it to the museum in Santa Fe and have them judge whether it’s an O’Keeffe.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “That’s because you haven’t heard the rest of it. She said I should be prepared to leave it with them if it’s a genuine O’Keeffe.”

  “Think of all the money you’d be walking away with.”

  “No. I wouldn’t be selling it to them. I’d be giving it to them.”

  “Why would you give it to them? Make them pay. As far as I’m concerned, archaeology museums are just—”

  “Places where pots go to die.”

  I smiled. “You have all my lines memorized.”

  “And I’ll add one of my own: art museums are places where paintings by women go to be explained by men.”

  “Yeah. I remember the big O’Keeffe exhibit you dragged me to. They were her paintings, but most of the wall text was about Stieglitz.”

  “They still make him out to be the one who created her.”

  “And they’re supposed to be experts? Don’t give that painting to them, Suze. I’m sure O’Keeffe would rather it be with you than in that museum.”

  “Like you’re sure the ancient pottery women want you to dig up their work?”

  “Exactly.”

  She smiled.

  Ansel Adams said, “When Georgia O’Keeffe smiles, the entire earth cracks open.” He would’ve said the same about Susannah if he had known her.