The Staircase (20 page)

"If Saint Joseph doesn't come, you will finish the staircase for Christmas, won't you?" I asked.

"I will, Lizzy. If Saint Joseph doesn't come."

"They think he's coming," I confided. "Did you ever hear anything so silly?"

He shook his head no and smiled and went right on sewing his sandal.

ELINORA DID NOT COME
to our room that night. She spent the night in the penance chamber. I supposed that she would hate me now more than ever. Strange though it was, I had to keep looking at Cleo and reminding myself of what she had done, to be pleased.

SAINT JOSEPH DIDN'T COME.

Elinora came back to our room, chastened. "I spent the night with Winona and Lucy," she said. "We had sort of a party to celebrate the success of our petition. I'm so glad my uncle saw the light and agreed to stop the carpenter."

She acted no differently toward me than before. To do so would be to admit she'd been punished. And I didn't flaunt what I knew.

Every morning that following week, she and her lieutenants would rush to the chapel early, before mass, to see if the wondrous staircase had been built. And if the saint had come during the night.

Then there would be long faces and doleful looks at breakfast. Which they dutifully ate because the Bishop had agreed to their demands.

All that stood there in the space where the staircase should be was the affair that José had started. His tubs of water and his wood were gone. So was José.

He was nowhere to be seen. Not on the grounds or in the barn. Even his mule was gone. At first I became frightened, thinking he had left for good. Then on Wednesday of that week, Sister Roberta pulled me aside and told me he was at the Bishop's farm.

I had plenty to distract me from both the staircase and José by then.

On Friday night Mrs. Lacey took a turn for the worse, with a high fever and chills. A doctor was sent for.

"What is this bag doing around her neck?" he asked Sister Roberta.

"It is there to prevent the croup," she said.

"Take it off. You don't have to worry about croup. She won't live until Sunday."

He had the face of a bald chicken. His eyes were so cold with contempt that I felt a draft in the room. And I wondered why they called Jesse James a criminal.

Sister Roberta took the asafetida bag off Mrs. Lacey to please him, then without a word to anyone, put it back on after he left.

"Maybe you shouldn't," I offered. And I told her about the discussion I'd had with the Bishop.

"You hold to your promise," she said. "If the Bishop asks, I'll tell him how she was coughing before she went into a coma."

I loved her even more then. And offered to watch baby Elena after my last class today, to give Sister Roberta some free time. The days still held some warmth in early December, though the nights were frigid. I took Elena, all bundled up in her cradle, out to the garden and sat with her under the arbor.

I had avoided her after I told José that if he stayed I would
take her with me to live with my father in Texas. From whence had those words come? It was as if they'd been there inside me all the time, like some kind of an ague, waiting to come out of hiding. Yes, I'd been taken with little Elena since I first laid eyes on her. But only because I'd always wanted a little sister. Those words of mine surprised me as much as they'd surprised José.

So now I offered to watch her again. It was a test for me. I would find out if there was anything behind my words. Certainly I hadn't meant them. Certainly they were said only to convince José to stay. Elena's cunning ways meant nothing to me. I could leave this place tomorrow and never see her again and it wouldn't matter a whit to me. Anyway, the nuns wanted to keep her. And I wasn't going anywhere, as far as I could see. I hadn't even mailed the letter to my father yet.

ELINORA AND I HADN'T
really spoken two civil words to each other since she'd been punished for blinding my kitten. We still shared the same room, but I made it my business not to be in it while she was about, fussing with her hair or dressing. There was an hour at night before bed when we were allowed time in our rooms to read or write letters. But I used that hour to see to Elena's bedtime preparations, and usually came in when lights were already out.

Still, that week one had to be blind and a half-wit not to notice Elinora's anxiety. She never sat still for a moment. She giggled incessantly, at nothing. She scarce ate; she tossed continually at night in her bed. And once or twice in the beginning of the week, I had caught her at the window in her nightdress, staring out.

She was going to run away, I decided, because she'd been switched.

The second time I caught her at the window in her nightdress, I sat up in bed. "What are you doing there?" I asked.

She turned from the window. "Just looking out. The night is so fine."

"You're looking for Abeyta, aren't you? Are you to meet him again?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, so you could go and tell Mother Magdalena."

"I don't care this time, Elinora. You could jump out that window right now, and I wouldn't even tell anybody."

In the half-light from the moon, I could sense, rather than see, her sly smile. "Do you really think I'd go before Saint Joseph comes?"

"Is that what you're waiting for? And what if he doesn't come?"

"I'm determined," she said, and she spun around with a dramatic flair, her white nightdress whirling, "that if Saint Joseph comes, I shall become a nun. How can I do anything else? And if he doesn't come, I shall wed Abeyta. I shall take what happens this week as a sign."

I had nothing to direct me, no unworldly compass. Not even a worldly one to tell me what to do. I envied her and her saints and signs in that moment. I truly did.

BUT SAINT JOSEPH
did not come.

As the weekend came and went, it was as if I were living in the middle of a tornado, as if the whole student body were already caught up in it and being taken away while I stood there, alone and bereft on the ground, watching them go. In the halls girls walked about with downcast eyes, lips mumbling quiet prayers. They voluntarily kept silence at the table. They bent
their heads over their books and chores, never needing chiding or reminding about anything.

But it did no good. Saint Joseph did not come.

ON MONDAY AFTERNOON
the day students left the school with downcast spirits and faces, and we settled into a week that I knew would be unbearable, at best. What would Elinora and her lieutenants do now? Would Abeyta come? Would Elinora leave with him?

On Tuesday morning, just as the early light seemed to be reflected back to us from the west, just as the sun was peeping over the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, there came a knock on my bedroom door.

I crept out of bed, shivering in the cold. It was Ramona.

"Sister Roberta, she say come. It is Mrs. La-cee."

"Is she dying?"

"No. She ask for you."

I threw on my robe and, still in bare feet, followed Ramona with her candle, down the stairs, past the plaster saints in their wall crevices, and into Mrs. Lacey's room. She was indeed awake, looking more frail than ever but waiting anxiously for me.

As I knelt beside the bed, she waved the nuns out of the room. The door closed behind us. She took my hand.

"Thank you." Her voice was raspy, and she smiled and gripped the asafetida bag with her other hand. "You are my friend."

"How do you feel?" I asked.

"I'm dying, child. Tell me, is the staircase progressing?"

I lied and said yes. I told her it would be done by Christmas.

"By Christmas I will be in heaven with Robert," she said.
"In Methodist heaven. I'll keep a place for you. But you will have a long life ahead of you before then. I dreamed about you. Do you know what I dreamed? I saw you as the
senora
in a great courtyard, behind a gateway of a rambling adobe house. You own much land, and you keep a hospitable fireside. There were many children about you. But it is not here in New Mexico, but in another vast and enchanting place much like this."

I had not told her of my father's letter, of his invitation to come to Texas. I had not wished to burden her with it.

"Did Saint Joseph ever come?" she asked. Her voice was growing weaker.

"No," I said.

"These Polly Purehearts wouldn't recognize Saint Joseph if he did come." She laughed at her own joke, then coughed. I gave her some water and she drank a few sips. "Lizzy," she said, "do it. Post the letter to your father, child. Do."

Those were the last words she said to me.

She was looking right into my eyes. Right into them, hard. And then her grip loosened on my hands and I leaned over. But I could not weep, because I had wept all the tears out of me for my mother. And there were none yet restored to me. But I felt the pain of her going. In the distance a clock chimed and then wind rattled the windows. There had been no wind, but there now was. I heard it, though I did not feel it. It was rising all around the house, the garden, the walls, the trees, and the street outside, in an upward spiral motion, taking Mrs. Lacey to her Methodist heaven.

LATER THAT DAY,
I asked special permission to go to town, which I received from Mother Magdalena. I don't think she
would have agreed to let me go—what with the way I looked, which was spent, and the combination of wind wreaking havoc outdoors—except for what I said I wanted to do, when she asked.

She nodded tersely. "Back within the hour, Lizzy. And only one stop. To post your letter."

THE WIND PERSISTED
for the better part of that day and into the night. In keeping with the laws of Santa Fe, Mrs. Lacey was to be buried within twenty-four hours.

I kept watch, with Sister Roberta, over her coffin between eight and ten that night in the chapel. Outside, shutters banged and candlelight flickered and the shadows from José's uncompleted staircase reached out across the wall.

At ten o'clock Sister looked up from her prayer book and bade me go to bed. I went to fetch Cleo from her nest with her mother and siblings, and carried her upstairs to sleep with me, as I'd been doing every night now. I fell asleep immediately, numbed and swirling in a vortex of wind-caught voices of memory. It must have been near midnight when I woke. A shutter was banging outside our bedroom window. I sat up.

Elinora was ahead of me, already by the window, drawing a dress over her head. I saw that distinctly in the shadows.

"What are you doing?" I whispered.

She ran back to her bed, knelt down as if to retrieve something from under it, and pulled out her portmanteau. Then she half carried and half dragged it to the window. "It's Abeyta. He's come for me. And I'm going. Don't you dare tell, Lizzy Enders. Abeyta's father is a man of eminence hereabouts, and I promise you will suffer if you try to stop us."

"I wouldn't dream of it, "I said.

There was a figure outside the window, and I felt a thrill in spite of myself. Only Elinora would elope in such a romantic way, when she could have met Abeyta in any dozen of ways on the ground. I watched her struggle to push up the window sash. It was a very large window, but she managed.

Then, in the next instant, everything went wrong at once.

The wind rushed in, blowing the curtains about and knocking over with a crash a vase of flowers on a nearby dresser. A figure bounded into the room, got himself entangled in the curtains, grabbed Elinora, clung to her, and they both went tumbling onto the floor, where Elinora promptly started yelling and thrashing about.

"Get off me, you oaf! Who do you think you are?"

It was not, to say the least, Abeyta. But I recognized at once who it was. Ramon Baca, Delvina's brute of a husband. Here, in our very room. In his hand he held a large, ugly knife, while he rolled over Elinora, on the floor. "Where is my baby?" he demanded.

"Who
are
you? How dare you? Where is my Abeyta? What have you done to him?"

Ramon pulled Elinora to her feet, and in the scarce bit of moonlight determined, I suppose, that she was not me. "You are not the one!" he accused.

"I certainly hope not," Elinora cried. Then, "What one?"

"The one who sits in the courtyard with my baby every day." Over her head he looked and saw me, groping the covers around me on my bed like a Sally Sissy. "There. She is the one." He started toward me, but Elinora was more angry than either he or I imagined. And a tornado is easier to confront than an angry, thwarted Elinora.

She held on to his arm. "What did you do to my Abeyta?"

Ramon flung her aside. She toppled and fell but grabbed on to his leg, and he came at me that way, with her clinging to his leg, all across the room, until he turned on her with the knife raised.

It was only then that I bestirred myself, that I lost my fear and leaped from my bed, dumping poor Cleo onto the floor as I grabbed the nearest thing I could take up and smash into his head, as he had the knife raised to stab Elinora. But I didn't do it for Elinora as much as I did it for Elena.

In the dark I did not care what I grabbed. I felt it solid and ominous in my hands, a good weapon. I swung with everything in me, both hands on that weapon. And I hit him in the head and sent him reeling.

At that moment the door of our room opened. Mother Magdalena stood there. Behind her were the other nuns, in nightcaps and nightdresses, as I had never before seen them. And I know our room was never before as they had seen it to be, with the window open and the wind whipping the curtains about, and Elinora cowering there, fully dressed, her portmanteau beside her, and Ramon Baca slumped on the floor, knife still in his hand, his head bleeding.

And me with the bottom half of the Virgin Mary in my hands, the part that stood on the serpent. And the top half in blue and cream-colored bits scattered on the floor.

WEDNESDAY MORNING IT SEEMED
as if more people than usual came to mass. Some came for Mrs. Lacey's funeral, others to hear what the Bishop would say about Saint Joseph.