The Pot Thief Who Studied Georgia O'Keeffe Read online

Much of New Mexico’s charm derives from its rugged environs and equally rugged people. Gruet adds an unlikely touch of elegance, a bubbly from grapes grown near Truth or Consequences, bottled in Albuquerque and exported to four-star restaurants like the 21 Club in New York, where the wine list boasts Krug Clos du Mesnil ($1,875), Louis Roederer Cristal ($1,375) and of course Gruet ($57).

  Sounds like a bargain unless you know that I can get it in Albuquerque for twelve bucks.

  Madame Lilly Bollinger captured my attitude about champagne when she said, “I drink it when I’m happy and when I’m sad. Sometimes I drink it when I’m alone. When I have company, I consider it obligatory. I trifle with it if I’m not hungry and drink it when I am. Otherwise I never touch it—unless I’m thirsty.”

  I summoned up my meager willpower and stuck the Gruet back in the fridge. I had a date with Sharice that evening—my first sans cast—and wanted to be at my best in case … well, you know.

  I opened the mail I had avoided for fear of what it contained. The mortgage notice was followed by a second notice for a hundred bucks from the doctor who spent five minutes with me to tell me it was okay to remove the latest cast. He offered to have his nurse do it, but I figured that was probably another hundred plus a fee for disposal of hazardous medical waste.

  The mortgage was overdue, the electricity bill was overdue, the bill from the doctor was overdue, my MasterCard bill was overdue. The only bill not overdue was for my health insurance.

  That’s because I don’t have any. Never have. Based on the figure the federal government claims is the average monthly cost of health coverage for someone like me who is self-employed, I’ve saved about $200,000 since opening Spirits in Clay.

  I know, I know. One serious illness could wipe out that savings. It’s a risk I’m willing to take. And one I will now be fined for taking. I don’t mind paying the fine. It’s a lot cheaper than buying insurance, and maybe the money I pay in will help someone.

  I’m happy for people who benefit from the new law. I just don’t want to spend money for something I hope never to use. It would be like owning a gun to protect my business. I’d rather take the risk than own the gun.

  Perhaps this explains why I quit the first job I ever had in order to pursue an interest in pottery. Who wants an accountant who doesn’t believe in protecting against risks?

  The next bill I opened was also from a doctor, a nephrologist who treats Consuela Sánchez, the housekeeper, cook and nanny with whom I spent most of the first eighteen years of my life. The accumulated charges for various procedures I couldn’t pronounce—much less understand—totaled $13,000, making my ankle doc seem like the Walmart of medicine.

  Nephrologist sounds like someone who studies Queen Nefertiti of ancient Egypt. I guess if he called himself a kidney doctor, he couldn’t charge such high fees.

  Fortunately for the Sánchezes, they do have health insurance.

  Unfortunately for me, I am that insurance. Knowing they would not accept money from me, I told them after my parents died that their estate provided health insurance for them. I don’t feel comfortable with that lie, no matter how white it may be, but life is seldom perfect. I thought about trying to get them covered under the new law, but I couldn’t figure out how to do that without them figuring out that I had been footing the bills all these years.

  Which was never a problem for me until Consuela’s kidney problems led to a transplant, which depleted my savings. I hadn’t realized that the after-surgery care would continue to be so expensive.

  One good Tompiro pot would banish my money woes.

  Carl had a buyer. I didn’t have the pot, but I had a hunch where I could find one.

  I opened the shop and spent the day answering questions from a steady stream of customers, all of whom enjoyed their tour of the merchandise.

  But not enough to actually buy any of it. Maybe I would make more money if I converted Spirits in Clay from a pottery shop to a pottery museum and charged an admission fee.

  I closed at five and took Geronimo for a walk. Although he usually walks on my right, he insisted on staying to my left, away from the aromatic ankle, his keen sense of smell reassuring me that he is indeed a dog. I sometimes wonder about that because he has the physique of an anteater with his long neck and swaying gate.

  I took a long shower, giving the stinky ankle a vigorous scrubbing. Cleaning it didn’t improve its appearance—puffy and unnaturally white.

  I hadn’t driven in months. My Bronco was stolen just hours before I sprained my ankle. In fact, it was during the wilderness trek imposed on me by the loss of the vehicle that I sustained that injury.

  Geronimo was supposed to be guarding the Bronco. His being a poor guard dog didn’t surprise me. What surprised me was that he didn’t go along with the thief for the ride. I managed to recover the Bronco without his help, but I hadn’t driven it because of the cast.

  When I turned the ignition switch, the only sound I heard was the tune I was singing, Gershwin’s “Bidin’ My Time,” because that’s what I’d been doing.

  The battery was dead. I sang another two lines:

  But I’m bidin’ my time,

  That’s the kinda guy I’m

  Time and I’m. They don’t rhyme ’em like that anymore.

  A dead battery was almost a blessing now that I could walk. I exited the Bronco and headed to Sharice’s downtown loft, buoyed by the mere fact that I could do so on my own two feet. At the roundabout the city installed on Central—evidently thinking it makes Albuquerque a sort of United Kingdom with adobe—I sat down to rest.

  After not being able to walk for months, I was out of shape.

  A homeless woman emerged from Robinson Park and asked if I had any spare change so she could get something to eat. I pulled a handful of change from my pocket and gave her the four quarters it contained.

  “If I had five dollars, I could get a full meal.”

  I don’t consider five dollars to be change, but she evidently needed it more than I did, so I fished a five out with my left hand and held out my empty right one.

  “Give me my quarters back.”

  She eyed my empty hand suspiciously. “Why?”

  “So I can give you this five instead.”

  “How do I know you won’t just take back the quarters and not give me the five?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said and handed her the five.

  “You don’t really need these quarters, do you?” she asked once the fiver was safely in her possession.

  “Yes, I do. I need them for bus fare.”

  She stared down at the change in her hand, evidently engaged in a moral debate.

  In addition to the four quarters I gave her, I also had three dimes and a nickel, enough to pay the fare for Honored Citizens, the strange title the city has bestowed on the elderly, the young and the handicapped.

  I once was young, I will be officially elderly in a little over a decade and I had been handicapped that very morning. There is no shame in these categories, but neither is there anything especially honorable about them. You don’t earn them. They just happen to you.

  The woman finally said, “I’ll split it with you,” and returned fifty cents to me.

  Great. Now I was still fifteen cents short of full fare and had to use the Honored Citizens card even though I no longer had a cast.

  6

  I was tired and disillusioned by the time I finally punched Sharice’s doorbell, but her radiance made it all better.

  Her downtown condominium is urban chic—polished concrete floors, exposed metal beams, granite counters and enough stainless steel to build a shiny silo. You know you’re in Albuquerque only if you look out the floor-to-ceiling windows toward the Sandia Mountains.

  A black leather love seat, two Barcelona chairs, a glass coffee table and a matching glass dining table give a
sparse look to the living room. I didn’t know what the bedroom looked like because … well.

  Her hard squeeze and wanton kiss made my spirits soar. Homelessness was ended in America. Everyone had a warm bed and food. All people were Honored Citizens. Buses were free for the handicapped, the uncapped and the capped.

  She stepped back and twirled around to show me her back. All of it. Like every other dress in her designer collection, this one came demurely up to her neck in front. But unlike some of the others, it plunged to her waist in the back. It was made from what looked like aluminum filigree.

  “It’s from Alyce,” she said, as if I knew the seamstress.

  “I’m not falling for that again. I thought Vera Wang was an immigrant who worked in the back of a local Chinese laundry, but now that I know your passion for designer dresses, I’m guessing Alyce is from New York.”

  “Close,” she said. “Paris.”

  I was in no mood to quibble, so I let slide the 3,600 miles between New York and Paris and handed her a stalk of yucca blossoms, elected by New Mexico schoolchildren in 1927 as the State flower, and known around here as las velas de la Virgen—the candles of the Virgin.

  She took me by the hand. “I want to show you something.”

  She led me to the kitchen, opened the fridge and pointed to a bottle of Gruet Blanc de Noir.

  “We’ll have this with dessert.”

  “Which is?”

  She flashed a devastating smile. “That depends on how the evening goes. Are you up for a night on the town?”

  “Sure. I said I wanted to show you off as soon as I got rid of the cast.”

  She took my hands in hers. “That’s sweet, Hubie. But remember what I told you. Some people will be unhappy to see us together.”

  “And remember what I told you, some people are—”

  “I know—so unhappy about immigration issues that they won’t like you dating a Canadian. I love that you take the high road, but you can’t ignore the fact that I’m black and you’re white.”

  “Actually, you’re a fascinating shade of sepia and I’m a boring beige.”

  She handed me her jacket. “I’m taking you to Blackbird Buvette.”

  I’d walked by the place but never gone in because the customers look like characters in a B-grade film. On top of that, I didn’t know what a buvette was. What would I say when an employee asked if she could help me? I’d like a massage? A puff on a hookah? A size-7 pith helmet?

  Turns out it’s a French word for a bar. I guess Sharice chose the place because she’s from Montreal. It also has that edgy modern look she favors. Like her apartment, which she describes as form following function, whatever that means.

  She clung to my arm during the walk. Most people just ignored the mixed couple. A few smiled at us. Albuquerque is generally a tolerant place. I wasn’t worried about anyone making a scene.

  But that’s exactly what happened as I was taking the first bite of my green chile stew. A black guy wearing a black T-shirt over black jeans sauntered up to our table, looked at Sharice, flicked his thumb in my direction and said, “You can do better than him, sister.”

  I thought he was probably right, but I hoped she didn’t.

  Sharice replied, “T’as une tête à faire sauter les plaques d’égouts.”

  The guy turned to me as if I were suddenly his ally and said, “Huh?”

  “She doesn’t speak English,” I said. It seemed like the thing to say.

  “Who are you?”

  “Her translator.”

  “Yeah? Ask her if she’d like an English lesson. I speak it good.”

  I looked at Sharice and said, “En croûte flambée crème anglaise.”

  She burst into laughter and said, “Je préfère manger un torchon.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  He put his palms on the table and leaned into me with a mean smile. “Sure you can.”

  In fact, I couldn’t. I don’t speak French.

  He bent in even closer as if performing push-ups on the tabletop, his biceps bulging as he lowered himself. The guy tending bar came out from behind it and was assessing the situation.

  “She said you look like a hockey player.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I have no idea. I’m just the translator. French-Canadians have an odd sense of humor.”

  He stared at us for a moment. “Her loss,” he said, and walked away. The bartender returned to his post.

  “That was quick thinking, answering him in French. What was that first thing you said?”

  “I said he has a face that could blow off a manhole cover.”

  I laughed, and she told me it’s a common French-Canadian insult. Then she asked if I knew what I’d said.

  “Sure. I said, ‘In crust flamed English cream.’”

  “Yeah, but why?”

  “I had to say something. So I strung together some French words.”

  “And you threw in anglaise because you thought he might recognize the French word for English?”

  “It was the best I could do at the spur of the moment.”

  “But why those particular words?”

  “I learned them when I worked in a restaurant.”

  “You worked in a French restaurant?”

  “No, an Austrian one called Schnitzel. But they still used French words. What was that second thing you said?”

  “I said I’d rather eat a dishrag.”

  “Another French-Canadian insult?”

  She nodded. “Here’s another one you should learn: nègre.”

  “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “It does.”

  “You hear that much?”

  “Occasionally. Usually when the speaker doesn’t know I’m a francophone.”

  She ate a bit of her green apple and walnut salad.

  I spooned my stew. It was lukewarm.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Sure.” I smiled at her. “I won’t mind if you say you told me so.”

  “You said we shouldn’t even acknowledge it.”

  “That’s easy for me to say. No one has ever called me a blanc.”

  She giggled. “How do you know that word? Wait, let me guess—buerre blanc.”

  “I learned a lot of French words as a garçon.”

  “A garçon? I assumed you were the chef. I love your cooking.”

  “Thanks. I was at Schnitzel just to make plates, but I got pressed into service.”

  When I finally asked the waitress for our check, she said, “It’s on the house. Sorry about that incident.”

  “It wasn’t the restaurant’s fault.”

  “We want everyone to enjoy this place. We don’t think they should pay if they don’t. Doesn’t matter what the reason is.”

  I left her a big tip.

  7

  When she told me the dessert was beavertails, I figured it was more of that strange French-Canadian sense of humor.

  Turns out it’s a common Canadian dessert. No beavers are harmed during the preparation of the dish.

  It’s basically a buñuelo—fried dough sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. The Canadian version gets its name from the shape of the pastry. Sharice’s was fancier than its New Mexican cousin because she drizzled it with maple syrup and melted butter after it came out of the frying oil.

  It was a good thing the Gruet was cold and dry.

  We chatted about the beavertails and the champagne. We made small talk. No further mention was made of the incident at the café. She seemed nervous. I probably wasn’t my happy-go-lucky self either, because I was struggling with whether to discuss what happened or just let it pass.

  I decided the best course of action was to go home
. “Thanks for the beavertails and the Gruet. What a great combo. It’s late and—”

  She was shaking her head. “I don’t want you to go.”

  Normally, those words would have revved my pulse, but her face was filled with anxiety.

  “Remember that day I gave you a black toothbrush to keep at your place for me just in case?”

  “You want me to run home and bring it back? Even better, you want me to run home and bring mine back?”

  She giggled. “I said there was something I needed to tell you.”

  “You’re going to tell me now?”

  Her anxious look reappeared. “No. I’m going to show you.”

  She took my hand and led me into her bedroom. Forget the anxiety on her face—my pulse was racing.

  “Stand here.”

  She slid the dimmer switch to low then positioned herself so that the bed was between us. She turned her back to me. She unhooked a catch behind her neck. The dress fell to the floor. I already knew she wasn’t wearing a bra, since Alyce of Paris had forgotten to sew a back on the dress and there was no place for any strap to hide.

  The sight of Sharice naked save for white drawstring panties made it difficult to stay where she had put me, but I didn’t want to spoil whatever she had in mind.

  Her shoulders rose and fell from several deep breaths. Then she turned to me and I understood why her designer dresses reveal so much of her limbs and back and so little of her chest. Her petite right breast was perfect.

  The scar where the left one had been was surprisingly small. She was shaking.

  “Wow. You took your dress off. Does this mean we’re finally going to have sex?”

  “I’m showing you my scar, Hubie. It’s awful.”

  “You think that’s awful? That’s nothing. Let me show you something really gross.”

  I took off my pants and hoisted my right leg onto the bed. “Look at that ankle. Did you ever see anything so disgusting in your whole life? It looks like I got a transplant from a mannequin. It’s like something you might see immersed in a vat of formaldehyde in a biology lab. It looks like a slab of pork fat before it’s fried into chicharrones.”

  It just came to me. Don’t ask why, because I don’t know. Having a tendency to react differently from most people is bad enough. But pair that with the lack of enough sense to keep those bizarre reactions to myself, and I frequently face Embarrassing Moments.