Stealing Fire Read online

  I checked in with local headquarters. Made sure my boss knew I was on duty with Mr. Wright, and that this one was private. He knew about the job from headquarters, but not the particulars. I filled him in with as much information as he needed and less than he wanted. He got the main issue: If there was a sudden emergency on the train, I wouldn’t be there to pitch in. It was up to the detective assigned to the run.

  His boss had called ahead and cleared things for me, and the facts I’d requested about Wright had been sent by messenger to my home. After a few days, when things cooled down and we had a solid story on the fire, I’d escort Wright to Taliesin West. In the meantime, not a word about Wright’s whereabouts.

  “Mr. Dennis, one more thing,” I said. “Did you send a car for us?”

  “Yes, as we discussed earlier.”

  This was going to be touchy. I had probably ousted their employee, and I was going to have to do some fancy footwork.

  “We sent you a roadster and a man who’s been one of our drivers for fifteen years,” he said. “But—”

  I interrupted him. “Listen, I—”

  He interrupted me. “We’ll send another car to the station. No intention of leaving you stranded.”

  “Wait. I have the car. Your car.”

  “What? Goldman, this doesn’t make sense.”

  “I pulled your driver out of the car at the depot. Just in case.”

  “Goldman, five miles outside ABQ, on his way to pick you up, someone yanked our driver at a gas station when he stopped to fill her up. That person took off in the Caddy.”

  “Have you found your man?”

  “He’s sitting in my office right now. He’s headed to the police to make a report, but I wanted to hear from you first. Find out if you were okay.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “That makes two of us,” Mr. Dennis said.

  “Listen, can you hold up on that?”

  “Hold up reporting a car theft and an assault?”

  “How is your driver doing?” I said.

  “Mad as hell, some scrapes from hitting the pavement, but okay.”

  “Yes, hold up on it, please.”

  “Why?”

  “I want whoever pulled your driver—I’m assuming it was the guy who tried to pick us up at the railroad station—to think he’s free and in the clear.”

  “Too complicated. I want the man tossed in jail, and I want our car back.”

  “That man wants my client, Mr. Wright. If I’m lucky, he’ll follow us around, and I’ll turn the tables and nab him. One less worry.”

  Reluctance. “Okay, we’ll hold up on the police, but not for long.”

  Some fussing on the other end, two voices batting words across the office like ping-pong balls. I put the phone back on the receiver.

  When I scooted into the booth, Iris and Mr. Wright were talking. As soon as they saw me, they stopped midstream and the table went quiet. I filled them in on the latest and didn’t leave out any details. Mr. Wright drew himself to his full height, and his eyes twinkled. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or pleased. Honestly, I didn’t care.

  “Mr. Goldman,” he said, “are you planning to use me for bait?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “Brilliant. I’m all for it.”

  Olgivanna said, “Frank is a master of disguises, and he doesn’t even have to change his clothes or cover his face.”

  I caught Iris looking down at her shoes. It’s the thing she does when she’s trying not to laugh.

  * * *

  I figured that women were good for a few things. For sex, of course. To manipulate their men. I was sure there must be something else, but either I couldn’t remember or I didn’t know. Most of them wore their feelings on their sleeves. Even the smart ones were silly.

  I only had a few memories of my mother, dressed to please people like herself—wealthy and shallow. I remembered her perfume. Gardenias. Still could not tolerate that smell. Remembered her waving good-bye so many times, blowing me kisses. Remembered her funeral. My father’s funeral, too, but their deaths? It was her fault, everyone knew that. He’d do anything she wanted, including being reckless. I never had the details. I didn’t care. The end-design was the same. I was alone, and that wasn’t all bad.

  I stood with the reporters at the train station and watched Mr. Wright humiliate himself by acting like a dancing monkey. The Indian man looked my way. I disappeared.

  Nine

  The sun had finished coloring the sky in ways that no one can believe until they fall under the wonder of day turning into night in the high desert.

  When we pulled up in front of our Santa Fe house, relief filled every corner of my body. This is our longtime family home. Not where I was raised, but where Grandpa grew up, and Iris’s mother, and my great-grandparents. When Grandpa struck out on his own, he went to Old Mexico. Some trouble there, I never knew what, but the place hadn’t worked out for him. Itching for adventure, he decided to become a trader—not an unusual profession for a young Jewish man aching for a new life, hungry to make his mark in the world. He’d fallen in love with the wildness of Oljato. In love with the Navajo. In love with my grandmother.

  When my grandmother died, he was alone in that whirlwind-wild piece of the earth. And that is where I was born. So I have two homes, an ideal situation as far as I see it. One with spirits, thousands of years old, who sing and howl with the winds. A place where coyotes and bighorn sheep birth babies each early spring. A place I am always happy to go. Also the place I am happy to leave when it’s time to get back to Santa Fe and a big, cozy bed.

  I pulled the roadster into the carriage house to park. I didn’t want anyone to find that car, or Mr. Wright, while we were asleep. Also, it was a very fine machine that didn’t belong to me. Best to keep it safe and out of sight.

  I carried our luggage in through the back door. Mom pulled our company into the living room, and everyone buzzed around the hive. My great-aunt Frieda was completely bowled over—like Iris, she recognized Wright right off the bat. Grandpa made a joke about having to find Frieda some smelling salts. You would think Gary Cooper had walked through our back door. In our household, it seemed, Frank Lloyd Wright was bigger than a matinee idol.

  My aunt and my mother fussed around the Wrights and waved a breezy hello to me. I couldn’t blame them. Everyone had followed the career of this nutty architect for years, and me they see all the time. Plus, for my mother and Frieda, classy visitors with stories were their idea of heaven.

  Iris pulled presents galore out for our family. Frieda asked Mr. Wright to go with her to the college the next day to hear a guest cellist. He said music was the ultimate pair of wings to lift your spirits, let you soar, and yes, he would love to go. I was uncomfortable about Wright being in a crowd. Also, I was pretty sure it meant I’d have to go to the concert, too, and I wasn’t excited about that. On the other hand, Frieda wanted to show off her new friend. Olgivanna begged off when she heard there were Indians selling blankets and jewelry in the plaza, just a few blocks away. Not the big once-a-year market, but plenty of Indians sitting on blankets with merchandise. My mom said she’d be happy to take her and strike bargains.

  The ladies went upstairs, talking nonstop, and choosing a suite of rooms to get ready for Olgivanna and Frank Wright. Afterward they tumbled down the stairs, laughing and chatting like old friends, and went into the kitchen to cook and talk some more. Women have such an ease making friends.

  My grandfather sat in the company room, looking at Mr. Wright sitting on a settee. Grandfather’s body filled a leather and oak chair, carved in Mexico over one hundred years before. His hands were spread flat, one on each knee. They were worn and used and spotted, hands that had lived. He had not spoken one word since we’d arrived, and I was getting nervous. It seemed to me he was giving Wright a double whammy—the fish-eye and the silent treatment.

  Then my grandfather, Mose Goldman, rose to his feet. He and Wright looked at each other. Without s
peaking one word, they recognized each other in ways that common souls do. They got to their feet and patted each other on the back. Grandfather leaned forward and said, “I love your work.” He embraced Mr. Wright. Wright was covered with Grandfather’s bear hug in the way that a small child would be wrapped in a blanket. He looked a little embarrassed, and Mose let him go.

  Mr. Wright backed up. “Please, call me Frank.”

  “Frank, it’s not very often that I get to meet someone who is older than I am.”

  “And who is still living a big life!” He clapped his hands together as if they were a musical instrument.

  Grandpa walked him into the study to share his Indian art. Soon Grandfather’s Mahler recording filled the room. It was not what I had expected. I imagined two marvelous creatures vying for power. Instead, they were comrades in this war we call Life. I couldn’t have been more pleased.

  Ten

  A peaceful night alone with my wife, deep inside our own covers, our private universe. Sleeping in my own bed, I could almost pretend life was normal.

  We’d fallen asleep with our second-floor windows open to the courtyard. Frieda played her viola to the moon, as she does each night before going to bed. Bougainvillea and trumpet vines wound up around the posts to the balcony and then wove through the patterns of the iron railing. Their blossoms were a sweet umbrella over the flagstone below. Soon we would have to close the windows at night. But for now, we enjoyed the beginning of autumn, the sharp scent of last flowers, and the weight of the air as it turned like a dancer in our trees.

  My great-grandparents had furnished the house with only the best. The thick mattresses in the Santa Fe house were feathered down. I’m certain there was long-lingering magic that my great-grandmother tucked inside the quilts with those feathers—stories had been passed down about her curandera powers. You felt as if you could never have a bad dream within the embrace of her linens and embroidery. That every bed made life brand-new. That any secrets rolling through your body and heart during the night would be held as sacred. That making love in those beds was a form of glory calling for children to be born. Iris and I had been careful in that department—we weren’t ready for kids yet. But you sit on the edge of our bed and you feel that life could spring up. That anything was possible. That sex was a silly tale to explain the real story of how people came into this world, of how babies chose their parents, and how much older they are when they are born than their parents. Look into a baby’s eyes. It’s obvious. Many things, small and large, are obvious when you pay attention.

  There is also the kind of magic that happens in the high desert. Sleep under those stars, and you see the constellations dance as they have every night, long before people arose from the center of the earth.

  * * *

  Mr. Wright and Grandpa, who both got up with the sun, sorted through old photographs of early Oljato. I sat in the company room with them, eased onto the couch, tried to be invisible. Seemed like Mr. Wright was in love with stone and rocks and earth. He ran his fingers between the photos, full of wonder, smiling.

  “I can’t take farm life,” he said. “It’s all pulling tits and shoveling manure. But this, this is different.”

  “It’s real life. Untamed. No sense of time.”

  “More than that, it’s Nature with a capital N.”

  “Nature isn’t God,” Grandfather said, “but…”

  “Everything we can learn about God we can learn from Nature. It is the body of God.”

  “I’m not big on God, with a capital G. I’ve lived a long time with people, including my family, who believe in a crowd of gods.”

  “But couldn’t all of them be part of one God?” Wright said.

  “If you could get everyone to agree on all the gods and stitch them together, maybe. But everyone has different ideas about who the gods are.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Puzzling,” Mose said.

  “Maybe we pick the gods we need.”

  “For protection from what we’re most afraid of and for help with what we want most,” Grandpa said.

  “And maybe if you put them all together, yes, then that makes God.”

  I looked at Grandpa. “Maybe,” he said to Wright.

  We’d had conversations with every sort of religious person that came through the Southwest. Navajo medicine men, Mormon traders, Jewish businessmen, Catholic priests, Episcopal priests, missionaries of every stripe. After a short time in the desert they’d leave dismayed, convinced we were all going straight to hell, do not pass go. If they stayed for a longer period of time, they began to wonder about their own faith. They began to wonder if it could be broader.

  Myself, I thought there was plenty of time to figure this stuff out after I was dead. Being alive, and doing it right, is tricky enough. I do believe in healing ceremonies, in plant medicine, and I believe in white-people medicine, too. All are helpful to the patient if they have an open heart. And for some things, there is no cure, but there is a healing. The healing is peace and acceptance. That’s true for everyone.

  My mom helped bring a few children into the world. My grandmother brought more than a few, but that was before I was born, so I can’t say how many owed their lives to her. One life is enough to save. Then you are even. Healing the heart? Hardest of all. Often you bring the roiling pain of fire into your own life, and it’s you, yourself, who are responsible for cooling the flames of your misery. A medicine person can show you the path, but you’re the one who has to walk it.

  Mr. Wright and my grandfather could talk for a century or more. My thoughts drifted in and out with theirs. Frieda came in and dragged Mr. Wright out of his chair. It was time for the concert at St. Michael’s. The only tussle we had was right before they left. Mr. Wright was not allowed to wear his cape with the purple lining. I was hard about that.

  I dropped them off, found security, asked them for a few favors, said I’d be back fifteen minutes before the concert ended.

  Mom prepared Mrs. Wright for the Indians selling from their blankets. She schooled her on how to act aloof, not to act too interested in any one piece of jewelry, and to have a price set in her mind that she would not go above. Maybe Mom would take her to Acoma later, a place where the sky is a bottled blue like no other. It truly sucks the breath right out of your chest. I promised Mrs. Wright I would take her when her life had settled down. Not now. Indian blanket-shopping, and looking for unique jewelry, would be okay, just a few blocks away. And I couldn’t have stopped her from going to the plaza if I tried. In the beginning of autumn, Navajos and Zunis would make good bargains, and there is often dancing. A small vacation from Mrs. Wright’s real life.

  As soon as I got home from St. Michael’s, I walked into the hall and made a phone call. One I didn’t expect to need or use, but I thought it would be handy to have in my back pocket.

  * * *

  At the train station Mrs. Wright and that snazzy little Jewish woman had climbed into a car. Wright clambered in after, but not the tall Indian. There were words, and he rousted the driver.

  I really was worried about that man. A wild card. Unexpected.

  “Taxi!” I called. “Follow that car!” I liked the sound of that. It was just like being in the movies.

  Easy drive, no detours. I’d been worried about their route. We drove about an hour, went into a town, and ended up in front of a gorgeous home. No one designed or built them like that anymore. The craftsmanship, the artistry … so gentle, so fine. Every floor plan basically the same. When something is perfect, no need to change it. That was something Mr. Wright would never understand.

  I sat in the cab and waited. Yes, they all got out. They were together. I asked the cab driver to take me to the nearest hotel. La Fonda, right on the square. Also delicious. I wished I could just stop time and sit in the center of it. But there were things to do.

  The next morning I walked from the hotel to the beautiful home. Did the Indian live there? Hard to believe, but it was possible. Most
of them had left the house. While a maid hung laundry in their backyard, I tiptoed inside—this would have to be quick and quiet.

  I looked for a way to leave my calling card. A way to change their plans. To get them off balance.

  There it was, next to the piano, and I knew exactly how to set the next phase in motion.

  Eleven

  It was late afternoon when Mom and Mrs. Wright got home from the Indian arts market. I picked up Frieda and Mr. Wright from the concert in our old pickup truck and drove them home. They were in high spirits, laughing when they walked in the door.

  “I wanted to go in through the back of the auditorium so Frank wouldn’t cause a disturbance,” said Frieda, “but, no, he wouldn’t have that.” Her cheeks were colored pink and happy.

  “Of course not,” said his wife.

  “So we walked right in through the front door, and no one recognized him! Do you believe it!”

  I believed it. “The best way to be invisible is to blend in, maybe wear a plain hat or jacket, be part of the larger crowd. Trying to hide makes you obvious.”

  Iris kissed me. “How did you get to be so smart?”

  “From living with you.”

  “You know all the right things to say, don’t you?”

  To my wife, yes. She loved to be loved. That was easy.

  Mom had put dinner together before they’d left that morning, so it was just a matter of heating up one of her extraordinary stews, and throwing together a pan of green chile corn bread. We had fresh honey from our neighbors. The smells coming out of the kitchen were mists struck by sudden shards of heaven. I felt full, and I hadn’t eaten yet.

  We sat comfortably around the company room another thirty minutes until dinner, according to Mom, so we all chattered away, and I made sure everyone was there. Like a guard dog, I was doing my best to keep everyone in sight, and I admit—it was making me a little dizzy.