“Never alone with you, my dear. Just the two of us. Woman to woman.”
Coughing into her mittens, Norah remained where she stood until the moment passed, stalling for time. “You could have asked me anything in front of Grandma. I would have—”
“You don't understand, you …” She collected her thoughts, strewn across the graveyard. “There are certain subjects I don't feel comfortable bringing up around my sister. For her sake, I bite my tongue.”
“Once I bit a boy on the shoulder because he didn't believe what I said.”
The red flash of a cardinal landing in a buckeye startled Diane, and the matter went missing. “So, child, are you Catholic? Your mother takes you to church?”
“I'm not anything, but there are lots of churches in New Mexico.”
“Right, yes, New Mexico. I've been meaning to ask you about that—”
“And the Masses are the same, only Spanish.” Norah held out her index finger spaced above her thumb. “I only know that much.”
“You must have picked up something, since you're a native. Give us a bit of the old espa?ol.”
“Ojalá escuchen hoy la voz del Se?or—”
“Oh, excelente”
“Wait, I'm not finished. No endurezcan el corazón. Do you speak Spanish, Auntie Di?”
“ Un poco. Where did you say you were from?”
“I didn't. I'm not supposed to tell you this, but my mother lives in a small town called Madrid.”
“Like in Spain? The same name, how interesting. What is it like in Madrid?”
“Oh, you know, roadrunners and coyotes, mesas and cliffs and mountains.”
“I thought New Mexico was a desert. Prickly pear and dunes—”
“No. New Mexico is three places in one. In the north, forests of juniper and huge snowy mountains, and in the central, the high lonesome hills. You're thinking of the south, Tía. Trinity site where they set off the bomb.” Her voice changed, quickened, and the words seemed transparent. “Do you know what the man said about the atomic bomb? ‘I am become Death, destroyer of worlds.’ Robert Oppenheimer.”
“How do you know such things, child?”
“I read about it in a book,” she stammered. “I saw it on a plaque when my mother took me to White Sands. Angel of destruction.”
At the mention of the cult, Diane felt faint, leaned over, and grabbed onto a headstone for support. With great effort, she bent her stiff knees and stared at the child. “Tell me about your mother.”
“She is an artist. Paints bleak houses, the changing sky, the falling apart of lives in the middle of nowhere. She creates her art out of her sorrows.”
“What is she like? Why is she there?”
“She is afraid to come home.” With great excitement, she pointed to a spot just behind Diane. “There it is…”
They stepped through the snow to Paul's grave. Six feet beneath the clay, Paul Quinn rested under a simple marker—an engraved name, the dates of his coming and going, a crucifix, and a caduceus. Diane remembered those last years with Erica, how he watched over her every move. By trying to protect her, he had driven her away. When her sister first called with the news, Diane had told Margaret not to worry, that the girl was acting out, typical teenage rebellion, and that she would be back soon. The last time Diane had talked with Erica, her niece confessed how much she hated her father, how much she wished both parents would just trust her to make decisions. How she would never be like them, keeping the truth from each other. And now both father and daughter were gone. To Paul's right a blank space on the stone for Margaret Quinn, end unknown. For a moment, they stared at the stone, not knowing what else to do or say.
“He was a good man,” Diane said. “Basically. Did your mother ever talk about her parents?”
“My mother is like my grandmother. Most of her life below the surface. Her feelings buried deep in her heart. But the quietest ones often pray the loudest and bring their answers into being.”
“Your grandmother nearly lost her faith when your mother ran away from home, and I can't say that I fault her. What kind of God allows the good to suffer, the innocent to be punished? I have my own doubts, but hers were greater, and from a greater cause. But she had moved on. She fashioned her own peace, until you came along.” From the top edge of the stone, Diane brushed off loose snow, which stuck to her gloves. She clapped her hands, the muffled noise echoing from stone to stone. The scattered flakes glittered in the bright sunshine. “Why did your mother send you here? What happened to your father?”
“My father? One of the great mysteries of life. Maybe she thought it was time I met my grandmother? I don't ask, just do as I'm told. Oh, I thought of another one, just right for you.”
“Another what?”
“A Spanish prayer. Que los ángeles te lleven al paraíso.“