Beyond the Grave

ONE

Mas alia del sepulcro. Donde Maria.

The words repeated in my mind as they must have in John Quincannon's. They echoed as I waited in the strange motel bed for sleep to come. They haunted my troubled dreams. The dreams were peopled by the vague figures of Felipe Velasquez, Luis Cordova, James Evans, Bamaby O'Hare, and Oliver Witherspoon, who spoke and moved and did various things, although I couldn't really see them. The only person who appeared perfectly clear to me was John Quincannon.

I could visualize him: a big man, maybe bearded, with a slightly ruddy complexion, possibly from a fond indulgence in drink. And I could hear him talking over the events that had transpired, speculating on what their significance might be in a low, contemplative voice. By the time the fog-filtered morning light had crept around the poorly fitting motel curtains, Quincannon and I had had quite a talk.

Who had killed Luis Cordova? And what was the meaning of mas alia del sepulcro and donde Maria? Had Quincannon found out?

I continued mulling over these questions as I drove north toward Santa Barbara. I'd waited until most of the rush hour traffic had cleared before I'd started, but even so, it was slow traveling until I was past Van Nuys. The delay didn't bother me as much as it normally would have, however; I had other things to occupy my mind.

I was terribly disappointed that this second section of Quincannon's report had also ended abruptly. Had still more of it survived? And if so, where was it? Of one thing I was certain: If the report had survived to the present day, I would find it one way or another.

At Thousand Oaks, the freeway widened, and I put on speed as I began to descend the Conejo Grade. My attention began to wander further and further from my driving, and I resumed my imaginary dialogue with Quincannon. We discussed the problem of what he and I should do next all the way to Ventura, and it was only when I had to slam on my brakes for a slowdown caused by a closed lane that I realized how strange my internal conversation sounded-even to me.

The truth was, I'd developed an eerie connection to a man who had probably been dead for forty years or more. I wasn't viewing Quincannon or his long-ago investigation as something out of a history book. Instead I was living it along with the detective, at the same time that I was driving on this twentieth-century freeway. I could speak mentally with him, almost see and touch him. It was almost as if John Quincannon were trying to reach out of the past and tell me something.

The thought made me feel strange and a little frightened. I tried to laugh it off, blame it on my heritage from my superstitious ancestors. When that didn't work, I turned the car radio on to a country-and-western station-I'd developed a fondness for that kind of music after a trip last summer to Bakersfield, the self-proclaimed country-and-western capital of California-and tried to take my mind off 1894 by singing along to songs about present-day heartbreak and drunkenness the rest of the way to Santa Barbara.

When I arrived in town, it was time to visit Mama, so I drove directly to the hospital. I'd called her the night before from the motel, and she'd been somewhat short with me. I hoped she'd be in a better mood this morning, and when I first entered her room, it seemed my wish had been granted. She was on the phone, but she ended the conversation quickly and looked up at me with a smile.

“That was Tia Constanza,” she said.

“Funny, I was just thinking about her yesterday. How is she?”

“Not so good. Tom is coming out of prison next week, and she doesn't know what to do with him.”

“Is he going to live with her?”

“For a while, she says.”

“So why does she have to do anything with him? Tom's an adult. He needs a place to stay and a job, not a lot of mothering.”

Mama glared at me. “You are all alike, aren't you? You think you're so grown-up and wise, but you're really just children inside.”

I proved her point by shrugging sullenly, but at the same time I felt a bit of relief. That glare told me Mama was getting better.

“So,” she said after a moment, “why did you go to Santa Monica?”

I didn't want to go into the subject of Quincannon and his report right now. If I got started, I might confess about the odd relationship I'd developed with a dead man, and the last thing I needed was my practical, hardheaded mother telling me I was loca. “Museum business,” I said.

“What? I thought you were on vacation.”

“I am, sort of.”

“I thought you were going to use the week to relax and spend some time with Dave and see about getting the house painted.”

I was silent, fingering the Venetian blind cord on the window next to me.

“Well? You know if you don't get that house painted, you could have serious problems. The last time it was done was in 1968. Another winter with the kind of rains we've been having, and you'll see moss growing on it, and next you'll have to replace the stucco-”

“I'll call a couple of painters today.”

“I thought you already had an estimate.”

“That was over a year ago. Prices have probably gone up. And besides, I'm not sure it was the cheapest one I could have gotten-”

“Cheapest is not always best. What about Dave?”

“What?”

“How come he hasn't been to see me?”

The pathways that my mother's mind follows are twisted and impossible to chart. Suddenly I felt weary and went to sit on the chair by the bed.

“Well,” Mama said, “did you have a fight or what?”

“We didn't have a fight. It's just that.…” I stopped, feeling trapped by the web of motherhood that they weave and throw over you. “Dave and I broke up.”

Mama's brow knit. “Broke up? You broke up with him?”

“He broke up with me.”

“Por Dios, por que?” When Mama gets upset, she usually starts speaking in Spanish.

“He said it wasn't working out. I don't know why.”

Mama became silent, picking at the border of the blanket with her fingernails. Then she said, in English again, “I think that should be pretty clear to you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, take a good look at the two of you. Dave's an Anglo-”

“Mama, you're the only one who thinks that's a problem.”

She went on as if I hadn't spoken. “And he was raised different from you. He's from a nice middle-class Anglo family, and they never had trouble making ends meet. He expects different things from life than you do.”

“That's not true!”

She sighed. “Oh, Elena, you were always fighting over those differences.”

“We were not!”

“Think about it.” Mama held up her hand and began to tick items off on her fingers. “Last winter when you went away for five days: You wanted to go to San Francisco, see some shows, eat in some new restaurants. Why? Because those were the things we never could afford to do when you were growing up. But Dave is used to shows and nice restaurants; instead he wanted to go skiing, which is something no Oliverez has ever considered doing. You went to San Francisco, but not until you'd had a terrible battle. And I have a feeling neither of you had much fun. Then, a few months ago, he bought some expensive camera equipment. Remember? You said you thought it was extravagant and unnecessary. So he turned around and told you that he thought your buying the Candelario cloud sculpture to go with the sun face was stupid. You didn't speak for days after that.”

It was true, but then Dave had only been learning about Mexican art, and Candelario's works could be a little bizarre. Besides, I'd had no business telling him how to spend his money-and I'd admitted as much.

“Even Christmas was almost spoiled by those differences,” Mama added. “Dave told you your tree was gaudy. And he didn't say anything, but when we all went to Jesse Herrera's party, I sensed he was secretly laughing at the nacimiento.”

I didn't contradict her, because I, too, had sensed that. Jesse's nacimiento-the boxlike Christmas scene many of our people place in their front windows-had been especially beautiful, containing not only the traditional manger, but also miniatures of some of Jesse's own animal creations, the fantastical papier-mache camaleones. One of the highlights of the party had been the adoration of the figure of the Christ child before it was placed in the manger, and I'd felt Dave found it all very foreign. Well, it was very Mexican. But very American, too.

“So you see,” Mama went on triumphantly, “you and Dave were always having trouble. It comes as no surprise to me that you broke up.”

My temper flared at her smug look, but I tried to control it. After all, she was not yet a well woman. “Dave and I never had any serious problems,” I said mildly.

“Yes, you did.”

“We did not!” So much for mildness.

“You just refuse to see them.”

The anger I'd been holding in check broke loose. Why did Mama always have to have the last righteous word? Who was she to talk about refusing to see things? Look at the way she'd been acting since she'd been in the hospital!

I stood up and said, “Is that so? You're a fine one to talk. I'm not the only one in this family who refuses to see the obvious.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“I mean you. You're also denying reality. Ever since you got sick, you've been lying there and acting shocked that you have an ulcer and feeling sorry for yourself. You've been pretending you were never sick before, when you know that just isn't so. And you've been making Nick and Carlota and me miserable. You've got to face facts, Mama-and one of those is that you'll have to take better care of yourself in the future!”

Mama's eyes grew wide, and then she looked down at the covers. Her mouth began to work, and her roughened fingers squeezed together spasmodically.

My anger evaporated. I felt sorry for her, sorry I'd hurt her, and I wanted to take her in my arms and pet her and tell her I didn't mean a word of it.

But I had meant it-as much as she'd meant what she'd said about Dave and me. We'd both needed to say what had been said.

Tears began to slip down Mama's cheeks. Horrified, I turned and fled before I began to cry myself.