All dogs are spirits. They carry potent brujería so we must always be careful in our dealings with them.
“And in those places,” Nuala said, “you will always find him waiting: the dog, the wolf, the fox, the coyote. In some guise or other. And no matter what he promises you, death is the secret he keeps hidden in his eyes. In the end, there is always death, and it isn’t his.”
Bettina shivered. But her father had spoken of that as well.
Remember, they bring the little deaths, too: sleep, dreams, change, the step from this world into la epoca del mito. You don’t need to be afraid of them, but you should respect them.
Bettina touched one of the colorful carvings that she’d placed on the table before her.
“I’m not afraid of them,” she said.
“No,” Nuala told her. “The innocent never are.”
Bettina frowned, but Nuala was already turning away, back to the counter where she had been chopping vegetables for a stew. Gathering up the carvings, Bettina returned the colorful dogs to their box, along with Janette’s painting and her sister’s letter. She stood up from the table, the box in one hand, her coffee in the other.
“What?” Nuala asked, the steady rhythm of her chopping falling silent for a moment, speaking now as though their earlier conversation had been about nothing more profound than the weather. “Won’t you have some breakfast?”
“No, gracias,” Bettina said and returned to her room where she set out los cadejos around the base of la Virgen.
She regarded them thoughtfully, sitting on the end of her bed, finishing her coffee. If death was the secret in a dog’s eyes—and Bettina knew that Nuala had really been speaking about los lobos—then what was the secret in Nuala’s eyes?
Setting the empty mug down on the floor, she took the rosary Mama had sent from the pocket of her vest. She fingered the beads, saying a decade of Hail Marys before she even realized what she was doing. A smile touched her lips when she was done. It had been a while, but the comfort she’d once gained from the simple act could still affect her. She started to lay the rosary at the base of the statue, making room for it among the carvings, but then replaced it in the pocket of her vest.
It was time to go. She was supposed to sit for Chantal this morning. But first she made the sign of the cross before the statue, lowering her gaze respectfully. She would have to phone Mama and thank her for the rosary.
Chantal de Vega had a studio on the ground floor, on the other side of the house from Lisette’s. She was a sculptor, a tall, square-shouldered woman with a long blonde braid, a healthy ruddy complexion, and a penchant for loose-fitting clothes. Bettina always thought of her as an incarnation of Gaia, a statuesque earth mother, larger than life and generous to a fault. She had the easy good nature that Bettina remembered from her father’s amicable, if somewhat laconic, Indios cousins, and the most beautiful hands, large and strong, capable of easily lifting fifty-pound bags of clay, or pulling the finest detail from a sculpture. Bettina didn’t think she’d ever seen her in a bad mood and today was no exception, although she was apparently packing up her studio when Bettina arrived for her sitting.
“¿Ybien?” Bettina said, her unhappiness plain in her voice. “What are you doing?”
Chantal gave her a cheerful smile. “Got handed my walking papers this morning.”
“But how can that be possible? You’ve only been here a few months.”
And of all Kellygnow’s residents, Chantal would be the last person to be asked to leave because she didn’t get along or fit in.
Chantal shrugged. “Well, it’s sooner than I thought it’d be, but it’s not like it’s some big surprise or anything. Everybody who comes here knows it has to end sooner or later.”
Bettina crossed the room to where Chantal stood, filling a line of cardboard boxes with the materials she’d brought to outfit the studio last autumn. She knew that this residency had meant a lot to Chantal, allowing her a comfort zone to explore a new direction with her art.
“I loved what I was doing,” she’d explained to Bettina once. “But I needed something more. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those people who draw a strict boundary line between craft and fine art, but I’d been a potter for too long, and frankly, I’d been too successful at it as well. I was always in that enviable position—at least from a business point of view—of getting more orders than I could fill. It’s pretty amazing in this day and age to work at something like I was doing and have to turn away commissions.
“But for all that I love making art you can use—you know, teapots and mugs and vases and bowls and the like—I’ve always wanted to do more fine art. More sculpture. Not just a piece here and there where I could fit in the time, but to really devote myself to doing it full time. The trouble is, it was a real struggle turning my back on the cash flow just to find the time to see if I could do it. If I even really wanted to do it. That’s what Kellygnow’s giving me. The opportunity to find out who I want to be.”
“And will you give up your pottery if you find you do like being a sculptor more?” Bettina had asked.
“Lord, no,” Chantal told her. “I couldn’t ever give up the feel of the clay between my hands when it’s turning on the wheel. I just don’t want to have to do it.” She grinned. “I want the luxury of doing whatever I damn well feel like doing and have somebody out there willing to pay me for the results.”
Now what was she going to do? Bettina thought.
“It’s a little early to say,” Chantal replied when Bettina asked. “I still have some money in the bank, but you know how quick that can disappear in the real world. Except for what I’ve got here, most of my stuff’s in storage. Truth is, I’m tempted to put it all in storage and just take off for a while.”
“It doesn’t seem fair,” Bettina said.
“Well, I won’t deny that I wish I could have finished that piece I was doing of you.”
“Just tell me when you’ve set up a new studio and I’ll come sit for you.”
Chantal smiled. “You’re okay, Bettina. I appreciate that.”
“De nada. Don’t worry about it.” She sat down on the windowsill, feet dangling. “But I still don’t understand why they want you to leave.”
“That’s simple. They need the space for someone else.”
“I wonder who.”
With perfect timing, Nuala appeared in the doorway carrying a suitcase in one hand, a small bundle wrapped in cloth in the other. Entering the room behind her with a cardboard box in her arms was the woman Bettina had met yesterday. Ellie Jones. Various art supplies poked out of the top of the box she was carrying, sculpting tools, books, sketchpads.
¡Mierda! Bettina thought. This was all her fault. If she hadn’t helped Ellie out yesterday, Chantal wouldn’t have lost her residency.
“Hello,” Nuala said, greeting them, her voice mild, guileless. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?” She set down the suitcase and placed the cloth bundle on a nearby table. Turning to Ellie, she added, “I’ll leave you all to get acquainted then, shall I? You remember where I said your bedroom will be?”
“Yes. Only—”
But Nuala was already out the door, as suddenly as though she’d been carried away on a sudden gust of wind, and an awkward silence rose up to fill the space she’d left behind.