The roads must not be too bad, she thought, or they’d all be talking about it, but she still wondered if she hadn’t better take Miguel down to Escondido early. She hated to give up her day with him, but his safety was the important thing, and the snow wasn’t letting up at all.
When Miguel came into the living room and asked when they could go outside, she said, "After we pack your suitcase, okay? Do you want to take your Pokémon jammies or your Spider-Mans?" and began gathering up his things.
By noon Eastern Standard Time, it was snowing in every state in the lower forty-eight. Elko, Nevada, had over two feet of snow, Cincinnati was reporting thirty-eight inches at the airport, and it was spitting snow in Miami.
On talk radio, JFK’s assassination had given way to the topic of the snow. "You mark my words, the terrorists are behind this," a caller from Terre Haute said. "They want to destroy our economy, and what better way to do it than by keeping us from doing our last-minute Christmas shopping? To say nothing of what this snow’s going to do to my relationship with my wife. How am I supposed to go buy her something in this weather? I tell you, this has got Al Qaeda’s name written all over it."
During lunch, Warren Nesvick told Shara he needed to go try his business call again. "The guy I was trying to get in touch with wasn’t in the office before. Because of the snow," he said and went out to the lobby to call Marjean again. On the TV in the corner, there were shots of snow-covered runways and jammed ticket counters. A blonde reporter in a tight red sweater was saying, "Here in Cincinnati, the snow just keeps on falling. The airport’s still open, but officials indicate it may have to close. Snow is building up on the runways–"
He called Marjean. "I’m in Cincinnati," he told her. "I managed to get a flight at the last minute. There’s a three-hour layover till my connecting flight, but at least I’ve got a seat."
"But isn’t it snowing in Cincinnati?" she asked. "I was just watching the TV and . . ."
"It’s supposed to let up here in an hour or so. I’m really sorry about this, honey. You know I’d be there for Christmas Eve if I could."
"I know," she said, sounding disappointed. "It’s okay, Warren. You can’t control the weather."
The television was on in the hotel lobby when Bev came down to lunch. ". . . snowing in Albuquerque," she heard the announcer say, "Raton, Santa Rosa, and Wagon Mound."
But not in Santa Fe, she told herself firmly, going into the dining room. "It hardly ever snows there," the travel agent had said, "New Mexico’s a desert. And when it does snow, it never sticks."
"There’s already four inches in Espanola," a plump waitress in a ruffled blouse and full red skirt was saying to the busboy. "I’m worried about getting home."
"I’d rather it didn’t snow for Christmas," Bev had teased Howard last year, "all those people trying to get home."
"Heresy, woman, heresy! What would Currier and Ives think to hear you talk that way?" he’d said, clutching his chest.
Like she was clutching hers now. The plump waitress was looking at her worriedly. "Are you all right, seńora?"
"Yes," Bev said. "One for lunch, please."
The waitress led her to a table, still looking concerned, and handed her a menu, and she clung to it like a life raft, concentrating fiercely on the unfamiliar terms, the exotic ingredients: blue corn tortillas, quesadillas, chipotle–
"Can I get you something to drink?" the waitress asked.
"Yes," Bev said brightly, looking at the waitress’s name tag. "I’d like some sangria, Carmelita."
Carmelita nodded and left, and Bev looked around the room, thinking, I’ll drink my sangria and watch the other diners, eavesdrop on their conversations, but she was the only person in the broad tiled room. It faced the patio, and through the glass doors the rain, sleet now, drove sharply against the terracotta pots of cactus outside, the stacked tables and chairs, the collapsed umbrellas.
She had envisioned herself having lunch out on the patio, sitting in the sun under one of those umbrellas, looking out at the desert and listening to a mariachi band. The music coming over the loudspeakers was Christmas carols. As she listened, "Let It Snow" came to an end and the Supremes began to sing "White Christmas."
"What would cloud-seeding be listed under?" Howard had asked her one year when there was still no snow by the twenty-second, coming into the dining room, where she was wrapping presents, with the phone book.
"You are not hiring a cloud seeder," she had laughed.
"Would it be under ‘clouds’ or ‘rainmaker’?" he’d asked mock-seriously. "Or ‘seeds’?" And when it had finally snowed on the twenty-fourth, he had acted as if he was personally responsible.
"You did not cause this, Howard," she had told him.
"How do you know?" he’d laughed, catching her into his arms.
I can’t stand this, Bev thought, looking frantically around the dining room for Carmelita and her sangria. How do other people do it? She knew lots of widows, and they all seemed fine. When people mentioned their husbands, when they talked about them in the past tense, they were able to stand there, to smile back, to talk about them. Doreen Matthews had even said, "Now that Bill’s gone, I can finally have all pink ornaments on the Christmas tree. I’ve always wanted to have a pink tree, but he wouldn’t hear of it."
"Here’s your sangria," Carmelita said, still looking concerned. "Would you like some tortilla chips and salsa?"
"Yes, thank you," Bev said brightly. "And I think I’ll have the chicken enchiladas."
Carmelita nodded and disappeared again. Bev took a gulp of her sangria and got her guidebook out of her bag. She would have a nice lunch and then go sightseeing. She opened the book to Area Attractions. "Pueblo de San Ildefonso." No, that would involve a lot of walking around outdoors, and it was still sleeting outside the window.
"Petroglyphs National Monument." No, that was down near Albuquerque, where it was snowing. "El Santuario de Chimayo. 28 mi. north of Santa Fe on Hwy. 76. Historic weaving center, shops, chapel dubbed ‘American Lourdes.’ The dirt in the anteroom beside the altar is reputed to have healing powers when rubbed on the afflicted part of the body."
But I hurt all over, she thought.
"Other attractions include five nineteenth-century reredos, a carving of Santo Nino de Atocha, carved wooden altarpiece. (See also Lagrima, p. 98.)"
She turned the page to ninety-eight. "Chapel of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, Lagrima, 28 mi. SE of Santa Fe on Hwy 41. 16th century adobe mission church. In 1968 the statue of the Virgin Mary in the transept was reported to shed healing tears."
Healing tears, holy dirt, and wasn’t there supposed to be a miraculous staircase right here in town? Yes, there it was. The Loretto Chapel. "Open 10-5 Apr-Oct, closed Nov-Mar."
It would have to be Chimayo. She got out the road map the car rental place had given her, and when Carmelita came with the chips and salsa, she said, "I’m thinking of driving up to Chimayo. What’s the best route?"
"Today?" Carmelita said, dismayed. "That’s not a good idea. The road’s pretty curvy, and we just got a call from Taos that it’s really snowing hard up there."
"How about one of the pueblos then?"
She shook her head. "You have to take dirt roads to get there, and it’s getting very icy. You’re better off doing something here in town. There’s a Christmas Eve mass at the cathedral at midnight," she added helpfully.
But I need something to do this afternoon, Bev thought, bending over the guidebook again. Indian Research Center–open weekends only. El Rancho de las Golondrinas–closed Nov-Feb. Santa Fe Historical Museum–closed Dec 24—Jan 1.