refreshed my memory from the telephone book, and picked up the phone. The operator got the number for me right away. A girl’s voice answered.
“Miss Rasmussen?” I said. “Miss Rasmussen, this is Jim Gregory… Gregory. Yes, that’s right: Dr. Gregory, the guy you tried to shoot once. I know you don’t particularly want to see me,” I said, “but I wondered if you’d let me drop around, anyway… Yes, after dinner would be fine. Thank you, Miss Rasmussen.”
I hung up and looked at my face in the mirror. It was obviously the face of a man wondering what the hell he was letting himself in for…
Driving over after dinner, I had for a moment the free and light and somewhat guilty feeling of a kid playing hooky: I had no wife and no job and I was on my way to call on a pretty girl. It was an odd and somewhat disquieting illusion. I suppose every man every now and then wishes for a chance to start all over again; not so much that he’s dissatisfied with what he’s made of his life, as that he’s curious to see what else he might have done with it. I found a place a block off Acequia Madre where I could leave the overgrown coupe without obstructing traffic, and walked up to the door. Nina Rasmussen must have been waiting for me; she opened the door within a second or two of my knock.
Then we stood facing each other in the doorway, both remembering very clearly the circumstances of our first and only meeting. I saw that she was again wearing one of those wide, flounced, southwestern skirts. The one she had worn to the hospital to kill me had been yellow; this one was red and white, topped by a peasant blouse of white cotton with small round sleeves and a loose drawstring neck. Except for a big silver concha belt that must have set somebody back at least a hundred dollars, she was wearing no jewelry, which I liked. Too many women go hog-wild with that Indian silver. She was better-looking than I remembered; a healthy blonde girl in her middle twenties. She still wore her hair quite short; it was almost a boy’s haircut. It had grown out enough so I could not see where she had been hurt by Natalie’s pitcher of gladioli.
“Come in, Dr. Gregory,” she said. Her voice was different from what I remembered, low and pleasant, with no overtones of hatred or hysteria. “I think you’ve met my brother Tony,” she said.
The dark boy who had come to the hospital once was standing by the fireplace, which was one of those small, round, deep corner jobs that look like beehives. A couple of piñon logs were burning inside, without benefit of andirons. The rest of the room was in keeping with the native fireplace, low and dark, with the ceiling supported by the round log rafters that are called vigas and add a couple of thousand dollars to the value of any New Mexico residence. Back east, there’s prestige in an old Connecticut farmhouse. Here, the snob appeal is in a real adobe house with genuine vigas. Tony looked around and gave me a brief nod without taking his hands out of his pockets.
The girl said, “I’ll get my coat, Dr. Gregory. I won’t be a minute.”
Nothing had been said about going out, but I saw no reason to object. The boy had turned back to contemplate the fire. His uncompromising back said that I had interrupted an argument of which I had probably been the subject. I wandered around the room. There were the usual local relics scattered around: a couple of beat-up kachina dolls of more authentic origin than you would find in the ordinary souvenir shops, an old wooden image of a saint set in a wall niche made for the purpose, some silver and copper, a nice bowl of the black pottery that comes, I think, from San Ildefonso, and a couple of the gaudy Jemez pieces that you’re supposed to consider vulgar if you’re any kind of an expert—and we’re all experts here—but which I always like, in small doses. There was a lever-action Winchester over the fireplace. There were two large paintings on the
“Miss Rasmussen?” I said. “Miss Rasmussen, this is Jim Gregory… Gregory. Yes, that’s right: Dr. Gregory, the guy you tried to shoot once. I know you don’t particularly want to see me,” I said, “but I wondered if you’d let me drop around, anyway… Yes, after dinner would be fine. Thank you, Miss Rasmussen.”
I hung up and looked at my face in the mirror. It was obviously the face of a man wondering what the hell he was letting himself in for…
Driving over after dinner, I had for a moment the free and light and somewhat guilty feeling of a kid playing hooky: I had no wife and no job and I was on my way to call on a pretty girl. It was an odd and somewhat disquieting illusion. I suppose every man every now and then wishes for a chance to start all over again; not so much that he’s dissatisfied with what he’s made of his life, as that he’s curious to see what else he might have done with it. I found a place a block off Acequia Madre where I could leave the overgrown coupe without obstructing traffic, and walked up to the door. Nina Rasmussen must have been waiting for me; she opened the door within a second or two of my knock.
Then we stood facing each other in the doorway, both remembering very clearly the circumstances of our first and only meeting. I saw that she was again wearing one of those wide, flounced, southwestern skirts. The one she had worn to the hospital to kill me had been yellow; this one was red and white, topped by a peasant blouse of white cotton with small round sleeves and a loose drawstring neck. Except for a big silver concha belt that must have set somebody back at least a hundred dollars, she was wearing no jewelry, which I liked. Too many women go hog-wild with that Indian silver. She was better-looking than I remembered; a healthy blonde girl in her middle twenties. She still wore her hair quite short; it was almost a boy’s haircut. It had grown out enough so I could not see where she had been hurt by Natalie’s pitcher of gladioli.
“Come in, Dr. Gregory,” she said. Her voice was different from what I remembered, low and pleasant, with no overtones of hatred or hysteria. “I think you’ve met my brother Tony,” she said.
The dark boy who had come to the hospital once was standing by the fireplace, which was one of those small, round, deep corner jobs that look like beehives. A couple of piñon logs were burning inside, without benefit of andirons. The rest of the room was in keeping with the native fireplace, low and dark, with the ceiling supported by the round log rafters that are called vigas and add a couple of thousand dollars to the value of any New Mexico residence. Back east, there’s prestige in an old Connecticut farmhouse. Here, the snob appeal is in a real adobe house with genuine vigas. Tony looked around and gave me a brief nod without taking his hands out of his pockets.
The girl said, “I’ll get my coat, Dr. Gregory. I won’t be a minute.”
Nothing had been said about going out, but I saw no reason to object. The boy had turned back to contemplate the fire. His uncompromising back said that I had interrupted an argument of which I had probably been the subject. I wandered around the room. There were the usual local relics scattered around: a couple of beat-up kachina dolls of more authentic origin than you would find in the ordinary souvenir shops, an old wooden image of a saint set in a wall niche made for the purpose, some silver and copper, a nice bowl of the black pottery that comes, I think, from San Ildefonso, and a couple of the gaudy Jemez pieces that you’re supposed to consider vulgar if you’re any kind of an expert—and we’re all experts here—but which I always like, in small doses. There was a lever-action Winchester over the fireplace. There were two large paintings on the
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