Short Story: All The Way To Santa…

Short Story: All The Way To Santa Fe

The tornado hit just a mile from his farm in Missouri. It came in a rolling cloud cover that was ominously dark, green and frightening because of its powerful wind that could destroy even God’s firm standing creations. Thankfully he was not in the path of the worst of it this time. A tornado had taken the lives of his parents years ago, leaving him the farm which he turned into a lucrative market garden. He was not a dreamer, he thought, but was a very practical man. As such he did what he could for his livestock. They were terrorized, but survived the high wind that scattered chickens (because he had not had time to secure them), caused the frightened pigs to squeal for half an hour, and blew up darkness that caused the cows to come bawling in from pasture to be milked in the afternoon.

As for Nigel Farley, thirty and a bachelor, he had gone to the storm cellar and waited it out, alone with Smokey the cat, and Burney his Collie dog. They had slept through it all, but Nigel had fidgeted, snacked, puttered with rearranging his supplies and, in general, tried to be patient with Mother Nature and her whims, which as a farmer he knew to be many.

The outcome of this ten-hour confinement was his irrevokable decision to go to Santa Fe and find Martha Lopez. He had thought about her often after her family closed down the Pico-Tico Café in Joseph City and returned to their former home. He could still see that perfect figure and the wavy hair to shoulder length, which she kept styled up while working in the café but released when she was seen about town with her siblings. Her eyes were big and brown and so expressive . . . especially, it seemed to him, when she talked with him. He would never forget the little silver crosses, trimmed with a tiny ball of turquoise, that dangled in her ear lobes.

Lost in his thought, he found himself yearning to buy her diamonds and rings and combs for her hair. He wanted to hold her, and kiss her full red lips, take her to his bed. He had loved her for such a long time, but he had never told her of his feelings. He had lacked the courage.

Martha had been seventeen, when he first visited the café. She smiled so sweetly as she served the tables, taking care to explain the Mexican recipes to customers unfamiliar with some of the dishes, that he had loved her at once.

Her father, Senor Jorge Lopez, always ordered fresh produce from his market garden and encouraged Nigel to grow corn for them, which they consumed by the bushel. It must be in everything, Nigel had begun to think as he savored most everything on the menu over the couple of years he went there to eat—and to gaze on this gorgeous girl.

Nigel had not offered for her hand. That would not have been fair to her. He was ten-years older than she. A large stocky man who was strong and handsome, he gave no thought to his looks. The mirror showed no defects and he was content with his dark hair and blue eyes. He had nice teeth, shaved regularly and bathed every day. Which in his estimation would have made him a candidate for her love. But, prejudice was an ugliness that he did not like about some folks in his life. They clung to their ideals like barnacles on a whale. Sucked the life out of anyone stupid enough to try to change things.

In the end, love gave Nigel this eternal courage to pursue her, to make Martha his wife, mother of his children. She was of good stock, beautiful, kind and had all the patience in the world with the little children in her family. He’d lost the opportunity to woo her, so she was not aware that he cared for her. Had he lost her, he wondered, to some handsome fellow in Santa Fe? He had to find out; he had to find Martha.

He arranged for a man to stay on the place and take care of things until he returned. Then he bought a late model Honda SUV, and struck out for the west. He bought a map, and highlighted the shortest route across Oklahoma, to Amarillo, Texas, and across to Santa Fe. Calmly he set out one early morning, and kept up a steady pace on the busy highways.

As usual, his planning would have done credit to any professional scheduler. He arrived in Santa Fe three days later and discovered a very old world where people still lived in earthen houses. Adobe is what they were called. They were pueblo style, restful and beckoning. Cool in summer and cozy in winter, he was told, they beckoned to him. He turned in at last to El Cierro Camino Inn parking and went in to register.

He left with a smile and a key. He drove around to his assigned parking number, and went in to luxury that was definitely not old world. His drab farmhouse was comfortable and suitable for the man who lived there, but this was new, colorful and very Santa Fe. There were all the modern conveniences in this riot of Southwestern color, so he brought in his suitcase, unpacked and prepared for a stay that he hoped would settle his yearning when at last he found Martha.

Having satisfied his need for lodging and meals, Nigel took out Senor Lopez’s last brief letter — a reply to his own note — and searched for the address. It was difficult in the old city . . . he kept being sidetracked by the ambience. Adobe everywhere, narrow streets, the river running through town, crowds of people on the narrow streets going from shop to shop and in a small park he stopped to listen to a small Mariachi Band. It was like stepping into the past, except for the crowd of artists with paints and easels grouped nearby. He didn’t linger, he wanted to find Martha.

When he found the address, he was impressed. At the end of town toward the mountains on the west the Lopez hacienda was to all appearances an estate. No vast green lawns, but red earth, cactus, sage and some other hardy shrubs he could not identify. He parked at the end of the hard-packed dirt road, in front of the house that was encased in a high adobe fence. He got out, "Whew!" he said. "This has to belong to a very wealthy family. I wonder if I should even be here."

Nigel tucked in his shirt, adjusted his trousers, brushed back his hair and opened the aged oaken gate. From austerity outside, he stepped into the courtyard where a circulating, shallow bowled fountain supported a huge sculptured angel. A figure of a small child played in the water. Pots of geraniums, red, orange, and white were everywhere; Bougainville climbed the adobe fence. The entire scene was paved with creme and sienna floor-tile and, under vines-entwined pergolas, wrought iron benches beckoned to the weary traveler.

He whistled softly, approached the door and pressed the one modern allowance – the doorbell. There were no sounds from within, nevertheless the door was pulled open in a moment or two by a lady he recognized. Senor Lopez’s sister, Olivia, was elderly, but a very dignified woman who spoke seldom when he had been in her presence at Pico-Tico in his home town. She was clad from head to foot in black garments.

"Mrs. Cordova," Nigel bowed to her, "do you remember me? Nigel Farley from Joseph, Missouri where we once met at the café?"

"But of course, Mister Farley. Jorge tells me you were coming. Please, Senor, come in. I will get Jorge. Please, sit down over here." She indicated a plush brown velvet couch.

Nigel sat carefully on the edge. It was not unduly soft so that it swallowed you, but he didn’t want to crush the cushions or pillows. The room was expensively furnished in old wood, and contained many artifacts in bold colors. The drapes at the deep windows were red velvet. Andalusian rugs were scattered about the dark wood floors. A corner fireplace held a small log waiting to add more romance to this room. Nigel sighed and gazed at a small niche in the wall where a picture of the Virgin Mary hung above a burning candle.

Olivia had gone so quietly he wondered if she were perhaps barefoot. But that was dispelled when she came back with Jorge Lopez whose slim brown hand was extended, and whose gaunt face wore nothing but a delighted welcome. "Nigel. I am glad to see you, Senor. Have you come just to visit your old friends, or does some other thing bring you to Santa Fe? Your letter just said you would be coming here sometime this month."

"I’ve come for a visit, Jorge. I have missed your family and your business. Since you left, I’ve have to do my own cooking. That is not too great."

Jorge smiled and began chuckling, "You could sell the farm and come and cook for me. I could teach you very quickly. But of course, you would not get rich as a taco cook. No, not for you — now what can we do to entertain you, my friend? We are in mourning, you see Olivia still wears black. My wife of nearly fifty years has gone to God. The tenth of this month, actually. So we don’t go about so much, have to give her respect. And my God, how we miss her!"

Nigel stood up instantly.

"Forgive my intrusion. I didn’t know. And the rest of the family? Are they all well?"

Jorge eyed him a moment, "I think you ask about Martha, don’t you? I always thought you would speak up for her, court her, but you said nothing, Nigel. Her heart was broken when we left, but we needed to be here among relatives so that my wife could die in her beloved home." He moved over to a chair, gestured Nigel to sit again and sat himself comfortably, throwing the pillows over the side of the plump arm.

"Martha wanted me?" Nigel croaked, cleared his throat. "I . . . I always wanted, I didn’t know . . . I have made a bad mistake, haven’t I? But I didn’t think I was worthy of such a young beautiful girl."

"Ah, Nigel, those people with their prejudices influenced you, didn’t they? But we were sorry not to have you for a son-in-law. You are a fine man. So —" He adjusted himself in the chair, "I have very bad news, Nigel. I don’t like to tell you this, but you see our Martha married one of our friends, Enrique Baca, soon after we came home. She had no hope of ever seeing you again. He is older than me . . . he has given her a child to be born in two months and she looks forward to having a son, perhaps. She tells me she is happy enough."

Jorge sighed deeply, "We believe that she will be a widow before too many more years."

"A widow!" Nigel exclaimed. "She is too young . . ."

"Enrique is not a well man. But he is good to her, as is his family. They will take care of her and the child. You need not worry my friend." He grew silent but aroused, and said wistfully, " I truly wish you had married my Martha. She would have had a happy life and many children with you, Nigel. But that is how it is and we cannot change the facts. So, my friend, will you join me in a little wine before we enjoy our dinner? You will stay and eat a meal with me? Mi casa es su casa — my house is your house, remember?"

Nigel did not reply immediately. He sat with bowed head, chastizing himself. "Oh, God, the pain," he said under his breath. He had lost the only woman he had ever really loved. How could he have been so remiss? How could he have not seen her love for him? He took a breath, "I will be honored to dine with you Jorge. Will I see Martha and her husband? I would like to tell them my good wishes."

"Oh, I am so sorry, Nigel. They live in Albuquerque. She just returned there yesterday after her mother’s funeral. She will not be coming home soon again."

Nigel swallowed the urge to weep.

"I am so sorry," murmured Jorge. He stood up and went to a mahogany table and poured wine into small stem glasses and handed one to Nigel.

"Go in peace, my friend. Return at six o’clock and have dinner with me. We are two lonely men who will miss the loves of our lives forever. So, we will dine together and, tomorrow or the next day, you will return to your farm. I will return to my Pico-Tico Café. Life goes on, my friend."