Prolonged Exposure

Chapter 18

Sam Preston looked from me to Camille and then back at me. I waited for Camille to say something-anything at all that would let me know what her first impressions of the Gonzalez place might be. We stood in the November sun, Sam Preston leaning on the hood of the Suburban, waiting.

“Can we look inside?” Camille finally said, and her tone was flatly neutral. Not “This house is perfect,” or even “Oh, how cute.” Just “Can we look inside?”

Sam glanced at me, and when the Realtor is skeptical, you know you’re in deep water.

He led the way down the dirt lane to the front door, the pathway dappled in shade by a grove of cottonwoods whose crackling brown leaves still clung stubbornly. The six rooms of the tiny adobe had been built one at a time, added as the need arose. Hector Gonzalez had built the first room, thirteen by thirteen feet, in 1890. He’d married Sara Montano the next year, and by the time the first child arrived, he had completed two more rooms. In 1920, when Sara’s elderly and ailing mother moved in with them, he added two more wings, one off each end. Shortly after, someone in the family decided that indoor plumbing was here to stay, and the final room was added as the bathroom.

“This is a storybook house,” Sam said as he opened the door for Camille.

“Some story,” she muttered. The place was clean enough, in its own dark way, about as clean as any place can stay when it stands vacant for half a dozen years.

“Hector Gonzalez’s son was the last one to live here,” I said to Camille. “Remember Rudy?”

“Is he the guy who used to sit in Pershing Park playing the guitar all the time?”

“That’s him,” Sam said heartily. “He’d walk up there every day. It’s what, two miles? Maybe a little less?”

Pershing Park was a grandiose name for a tiny triangle of land framed by the skewed intersection of Bustos, Grande, and Pershing. I could remember seeing Rudy Gonzalez sitting on the grass, leaning against the steel treads of a vintage army tank that was displayed there-the tank an olive drab testimonial to all the simpleminded ways the U.S. military had tried to catch the Mexican bandit, Pancho Villa. A bright yellow state historical marker implied that Villa had strayed into Posadas sometime in his checkered career.

Camille leaned against the bathroom doorjamb and surveyed the utilities, such as they were. The tub looked as if pack rats had been the last ones to use it. “What do you think?” I asked.

“I think it’s awful,” Camille said matter-of-factly. “You must be out of your mind. But then this part of the country is not featured regularly in Better Homes and Gardens anyway. What’s out back?”

We went out the kitchen door. As the trees shed their leaves, the view to the south and west was impressive, a great sweep of prairie and in the distance the San Cristobal Mountains. The cottonwood grove continued back to the irrigation ditch, a park of great thick-trunked trees whose crowns mingled and filtered the November sun through leaves turning to crisp brown.

“This part of the deal is impressive,” Camille said. “I love these trees.” She turned and looked at the dull brown of the little house. “I’m sure a couple of good contractors and about fifty thousand bucks could work wonders with the house, too.”

“Now there you go,” Sam Preston said. “This is a smart daughter you’ve raised, Bill.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of hiring a cleaning crew for a couple hundred,” I said, and Camille grimaced.

Sam Preston’s beeper shrieked at him, and he held up a hand. “Let me run and get that,” he said. “Don’t go away.”

Camille linked her arm through mine and lead me to one of the old wooden benches by the back door.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” she said.

“No.”

“And at least once when you were up at our house, you said you weren’t even sure you wanted to stay in Posadas when you retire.”

“I’m not.”

“And so…”

I took a deep breath. “The trouble is, I don’t have anywhere else in mind to go, either. I like Posadas as much as I like anyplace.”

“There isn’t a lot to do here.”

“And if there were, I probably wouldn’t do it.” I looked at Camille and grinned. “I’ve kind of gotten used to my own company over the years, sweetheart. If I get the urge to get up at three-thirty in the morning and roam the county, then that’s what I do. I’m not sure that’s something I want to change.”

“Four horses are going to tie you down, though.”

I nodded. “They’ll give me something to think about, that’s for sure.” I looked off toward the cottonwoods, trying to picture the mammoth Percheron draft horses ambling among the gnarled, armored tree trunks. “And I think maybe I need that, too.”

The horses had been my own private version of the white light that some folks claim to see just when their hearts give up.

In my case, it had been visit to an Octoberfest north of Flint a week or so before my surgery. I hadn’t particularly wanted to go, but Camille and family had convinced me that if I liked beer, this was the place to drown in it. That part didn’t sound half-bad, although I detested the loud polka music and the crowds that went with such an event.

I went, and I stood rooted and mesmerized as the great horses competed in deadweight pulling competition. Great concrete blocks were set on the enormous rude wooden sled by a smoke-belching diesel front-loader. Between each round, as they waited for the tonnage to be increased, the handlers walked their teams of horses around the churned arena, and the immense creatures were as docile and plodding as old fat men.

Their heavy leather harnesses were rigged to a single tow bar with one stout iron hook that hung down like a claw. As soon as the driver began to maneuver his team toward the load, the animals came alive, broad hooves smashing into the dirt in a frantic dance. The man had to fight the reins, yelling at the animals at the same time, while a second handler grabbed the tow hook. He had the most dangerous job, since the horses lunged the instant they heard the clank of iron against iron, and he needed to dive to safety.

Four tons of horses lunged into the harness, snapping the front of the sled out of the dirt and surging the pile of concrete weights into motion.

The winning team had pulled twenty-eight tons the measured distance. And in the process, they had captured my imagination as nothing else had in half a century.

After the horse pull, I’d met the owner and driver of the winning heavyweight team, and we’d talked while we stood in the shade of those massive beasts. I’d never made a decision so promptly that didn’t involve arresting someone.

He agreed to sell me a matched team of fourteen-year-olds, animals that were approaching retirement and would need a nice, quiet, shady spot. As the idea took root in my mind, I had let go of what little common sense had been nagging me. I also agreed to buy an eight-year-old mare and her foal.

And in the course of several conversations over the next couple of weeks, he’d agreed to several other things, too. He would deliver the animals himself when I was ready. Perhaps most important, he agreed to take them back, at no charge, if I happened to drop dead one day.

Camille, of course, had thought at first that I’d gone certifiable, but given enough time and argument, she at last shrugged. Horses weren’t new to me, after all. The first eighteen years of my life had been spent around them, including a lot of time at the dumb end of the reins while my father’s Belgians, Hugo and Fred, plowed nice straight furrows in the North Carolina soil.

I had always liked the Gonzalez place, and I had driven by at least half a million times in the past twenty-five years. And I knew that it was for sale-and had been for months. The entire deal had been predicated on my surviving what the doctors had planned for me. That accomplished, I had wasted little of my convalescent time. Telephones were wonderful gadgets.

I heard the clump of Sam Preston’s boots coming back through the house. “That was Detective Reyes-Guzman,” he said. “She wants to stop by if you’re going to be here for a few minutes.”

“We are,” I said. “Why don’t I talk with you later on this afternoon, back at the office?”

Sam nodded. “Place is open. Just make yourselves at home. If you would, be sure the front door locks when you leave, although I don’t guess there’s much to take here yet.”

After he left, Camille hooked her arm through mine again. “What does Estelle think about all this?” She gestured out at the cottonwood paddock.

“I haven’t had a chance to tell her yet,” I said. “It all happened pretty fast, and since we’ve been back, there hasn’t been time for chitchat.”

“Ah,” Camille said. She pointed toward the west. “Let’s walk back to the irrigation ditch.” We did, our shoes crunching the leaves under the cottonwoods. What I had started calling the paddock included seven acres, a vast park that was a delight to the eye. We reached the ditch, now, just a berm on either side of a weed-choked channel.

“Hasn’t been water through here in awhile,” Camille said.

“A long, long time.”

“Where did the water come from? The Salinas is too far west, isn’t it?”

I nodded. Rio Salinas was a seasonal and undependable little rivulet itself. “There used to be a series of springs. But they dried up in the early 1960s, when the mine was getting started.”

“So where does the water come from now?”

“The house has a well-a very good one. I’ll pipe water back to the paddock.”

I collected another of those skeptical glances from Camille. She stood on the bank of the ditch, hands on hips, looking back toward the house. “Quite a challenge,” she said.

“That’s a kind way of putting it. But look at it this way. The grandkids can visit one at a time and ride the horses.”

Camille laughed. “One at a time. I like that.” She shook her head. “You’re hopeless, Dad. I’d like a photo of that, though. A little kid would need a stepladder to climb up on the back of one of those beasts.” She pointed at the house. “That must be Estelle,” she said. “Let’s see if she thinks you’re as crazy as I do.”