Shutter(57)

I put my duffle bag in the truck, hoping to hide my tears from Grandma. I could see Arvis, Mrs. Bitsie’s grandson, coming down our driveway with his hands in his pockets.

“So, I hear you’re leaving us.” Arvis offered a huge smile. “Moving to the big city.”

“It’s not that big. But, yeah, I’m going to school. How are things going over at your house?”

“My mom has stopped fighting us and finally just left us alone. I’m glad, too, because my little girl doesn’t know any place else as home. Just here.”

“I don’t either. This is home.” I tried to hide a tear that had escaped. “Can you please check in on my grandma for me?” I pulled out a piece of paper from my pocket and wrote my phone number on it. “If anything happens to her or she needs anything, can you call me?”

“Yeah. I can do that. That’s no problem.” He stared at me for a moment. “We owe you and your grandma a lot. She’s like my grandma too. We’ll take care of her.”

The slam of the screen door turned my head. Grandma was on the porch in her coat, her purse clasped to her arm, her hair in place. She looked so together, suddenly twenty years younger in my eyes, standing in front of the house that she built. Just seeing her like that, so full of power, made me feel better. It made me remember all the things that my grandma had already endured in her life. She was so much stronger than I was giving her credit for. That, and I now knew that Arvis would watch out for her. He just seemed like someone I could trust, someone who had the same heart as his own grandmother. He smiled and waved goodbye as he walked back toward his house, wedging his hands back into his pockets.

Grandma pulled the truck into gear and drove out onto the highway with several feisty reservation dogs following us to the cattle guard, barking and nipping at the rubber. I watched Grandma’s house until it disappeared under the first hill, the roof sinking beneath the rows of sagebrush.

The Gallup train station had been newly renovated, with art on its walls and benches. It had a clean bathroom with shiny mirrors and electronic hand dryers. Inside the station, two elder Navajo ladies were selling their jewelry on a red-velvet table spread, their laughter filling the room to the high ceilings. I walked to the platform window. The silver Amtrak was sleek, modern, and looked like it went on for miles. This was my first train ride, and I was excited to watch the world go past, to see the small, significant details I missed when I traveled the highway. When Grandma stepped up there with me, she stared straight ahead. It made me think of her time on this same track, a path that led her away from home for thirteen years. I could see the memory in her eyes.

Grandma pulled a box—wrapped in lavender paper with tiny honeysuckle clusters traced in white—out of her purse. I was surprised I hadn’t seen it earlier. She smiled and handed it to me. When I opened the corner, I could see a glossy black box with a brand-new Nikon F5. This was the first camera I had ever seen with a green digital display.

“Grandma, you can’t afford this. Where did you get it?” I caressed the camera box, pressing it into my chest.

“I wanted you to have a good camera for school. Your own. Not a hand-me-down, but something that can finally really be yours.” I grabbed and hugged my grandma so fast that it startled her. I held on to her as I watched everyone getting on the train, didn’t let her go until the attendant began her last calls. I fought hard to keep my tears back, the lump in my throat a throbbing ache. Neither of us said goodbye.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Sony Cyber-shot S-G00

I KNEW I was going to have to find the former Detective Armenta if I wanted to get any information on Garcia. I had gone to a party at his house once after one of those policemen vs. firemen softball games—some of us from forensics were invited. Armenta lived in the north valley in a modest but nice house with an acre or two attached to the back. It was surrounded by a tall adobe wall, and the yard was full of rose bushes that his wife grew.

I drove to the valley, weaving through hibernating lavender fields on the Los Poblanos Farms. I remembered how their fragrance had permeated the party. I followed the long driveway past the old adobe wall to the house. It was empty, a FOR SALE sign attached to the outside gate. I got out of my car and peered in. All the rose bushes were brown.

“Can I help you, miss?” A frail man came to the wall from next door, leaning on a muddy shovel. Behind him, I saw a second man still digging.

“I was looking for a Detective Armenta. I thought that he lived here.”

“Armenta has been gone for a while now.” He looked into the sky as if trying to retrieve a memory. “His wife has Alzheimer’s. He had moved her up by her family.”

“Do you remember where?”

“Hey, Miguel!” he shouted to the other man. “Where did they move? Armenta!”

“Taos. A la vuelta de la esquina.” They both laughed.

“That’s right. Now I remember.” The man took off his hat and scratched his white hair. “His wife is at a facility up there in Taos.”

“Thank you. I didn’t mean to interrupt your work.” The two men waved and went back to digging.

I stopped for coffee and gas on my way north to Taos, which was about two hours away, with an approaching storm at my back. By the time I arrived in Taos, it was starting to snow. I followed the highway to the one nursing home in town and headed inside. When I asked to see Mrs. Armenta, the woman at the front desk glared at me.