Chapter 1: Sunday
Cedar Post in March is very much like Cedar Post in early September. Windy, arid, and bedecked in three hues of brown from less red to extra gray. Although the best kept secret among high school students in Cedar Post is the annual Color Codes Contest – Last Spring, the class of 1951 chose aptly-renamed Beave of the class of 1953 as the winner; he recoded the medium grayish brown with a cool undertone as Grandma’s Shrubbery – their art teacher, Miss Juel of Juel’s Crown Clothiers fortune, rejoices that her students seem to thrive on the class plein air project for learning brown color codes. Miss Juel came to Cedar Post straight from a Texas State Normal School in 1949, aspiring marriage and artistic muse. She is the newest resident. Few of the deep-rooted folks understand her zeal.
Deep-rooted dwellers of Cedar Post and the greater tri county area understand hope, unlike zeal, which time and again dashes hope. Brown is the color of the sky when wind tosses tilled earth, and the color when the wind withers Llano Estacado natural grasses. Hope is how desert and high plains dwellers greet March…hope for soaking rains, early spring planting, and lots of babies. Hope equally welcomes late summer and early fall…hope for lower temperatures and good harvests. But hope is wistful. Knowing that March is often a storm of fruit bud-killing snow blizzards and unstoppable southwesterly winds that dry morning dew and crack human resolve explains the inflexibility of Cedar Post folks. Knowing that September is likewise a storm of extremes and surprises explains their dogmatism. Survival is not about luck or love. Survival is about conceit. If one is unwilling to weaponize greed for a place, one is likely to lose the place.
From her front garden where she tends to wild roses and early peach buds, Miss Llana watches the exit of First Baptist Church Sunday morning worshippers. Some gather around the preacher and his wife while others hurry away. A few with canes step carefully along gravel walks. Children chase each other until adults urge them to hurry home for Sunday dinner. Miss Llana glances occasionally at the crowd and stragglers while fully committed to her garden chores. On this March morning, she relishes the few hours of warmth and calm.
“Good morning, Miss Llana. How are you feeling? Heard that you were put down last week with a fever and flu. We lifted you in prayer during our ladies’ Bible class. You must save your strength and hire my boy to do these outdoor chores.” The Mmes. Schwartz, one the wife of a living Mr. Schwartz and the other, a widowed sister-in-law, speak as one person.
Miss Llana approaches the picket fence without hurrying while they empty thoughts upon her. “Good morning to you. I come out here for vitamin D and warmth before I’m chased indoors by the Lion.” She faces the Mmes. Schwartz. They squint, adjust their Sunday hats and raise gloved hands to shade their eyes from sunlight. “Although I was ill for a few days, I was not put down. I rested. And I thank you for praying for my good health. I feel much better after resting and consuming plenty of hot liquids.”
“Our prayers were answered. Have you heard that Mrs. Gallegos is back in town? We saw her step off the Tuesday Greyhound bus. Which means that she arrived here from the Albuquerque direction. But Louis, her poor, poor husband, said that she went to Texas before Christmas. Miss Juel was not in church this morning. It’s no wonder that she wants to hide. You know of course that her engagement to Mr. Pritchard is over. Saw her at the grocer’s Friday afternoon without the ring on her finger. I hope she kept it. Certainly not! It belongs to the Pritchard ranch. Well. Promises made; promises broken. We’ll walk by her house. The extra two blocks will whet your appetite, Jeanine. As if. And the preacher’s wife regularly receives parcels from Chicago. Why should she when her family lives down Roswell way? No need to ask. We’ll hear more about it at tomorrow’s Tea and Tittle-Tattle. Won’t you join us tomorrow, Miss Llana?” The sisters-in-law carry this conversation with each other, seldom looking at Miss Llana. Therefore, they do not notice her noticing people’s movements across the park. “Onward, Lucy. If we don’t get home soon, Mr. Schwartz will pour himself a second bourbon and let the help steal some of our Sunday dinner.” Miss Llana hears them talking even as they approach the next city block.
Across the tree-lined park two men sit on a bench nearest the pavilion. They sit with a valise between them and gesticulate as if talking about the trees and Cedar Post’s downtown. One man who wears a dress shirt and tie holds his suit jacket over the shoulder with one hand and a valise with his other hand. The other man has not removed his jacket or his hat; he raises one leg across his knee to wipe his shoe with a handkerchief. Dressed in matching suits, they might have attended one of three local church services or met for business. Except for the town’s silence, a typical Sunday tranquility before local teenagers leave the dinner table and borrow their fathers’ cars to drag the two main streets in town, their conversation is drowned in the birdsongs of hopeful nesters. A siege of whooping cranes captivates the men as it does Miss Llana, their rowdy migration toward northern nesting grounds unconvincing to the smaller birds who come to the Llano for summer. When Miss Llana lowers her gaze from sky to city park bench, she sees that both men are gone. A quick search and the soft sound of footsteps on brick road finds one man approaching a car that is parked facing west in front of the post office. Before entering the car, he opens the trunk and rummages inside it, produces a large manilla envelope and closes the trunk. Then he opens the rear passenger door, seats himself, and the car pulls away from the curb, leaving town as if driven by a ghost. “Well. Most curious. He wore light-colored socks; now they are dark. Both valise and the second man have quickly disappeared. There it is. Our faithful March wind...but too fucking early today.” Miss Llana steps inside. “Is tea ready, Amelia? I’ll have it in the sitting room.”
Hours later, Sunday tranquility ends as gusts whip dirt in the city park where Bermuda grass waits to emerge with April rains and in winter pastures from which cattle need rotation. Teenagers rev the cars’ engines and cruise Cedar Post streets until friends beckon loudly for them to pull over. Miss Juel addresses her model, “You should hurry now. Don’t be silly. Posing for art is an art form, and you’ve done well. I can finish this painting without you now. My sketches are good. The money is on the table…there by the door. Goodbye.” And six-year-old Alice who lives with her grandmother on the sunrise edge of town returns home after searching all morning for stones with vivid color. Her apron pocket is heavy with stones; her gait is slowed as she heaves a valise behind her, her jump rope tied to its handle.
“What have you collected?” Mrs. Cooper helps her granddaughter Alice untie the apron and sets its load on the floor. “What a wonderful bunch of colorful stones. They will brighten our flower bed. But what about this portmanteau? Where did you find it? You must be exhausted from hauling it back here.”
“May I have cookies and milk? First things first, grandmother.” Relieved of her heavy loads, Alice sits at the kitchen table. She gulps half the milk, munches on a cookie, exhales loudly and begins her story. In the meantime, after serving the milk and cookies to her hungry charge, Mrs. Cooper searches through the valise. “Past the stone circle and the big mesquite where the barn once stood, and past the farm road to the Montoya place. It was behind the rocks that are too big to move. But not where it couldn’t be seen. I sat there for a little while. Nobody came.” Alice shrugs. While quickly scanning a handful of papers from inside the valise, her grandmother pauses her search.
“Come with me, dear. We should seek Miss Llana’s advice.” Together, Alice and her grandmother walk to Miss Llana’s house on the other side of Main Street.
“Come in. Come in.” After answering the knock at Miss Llana’s front door, Amelia welcomes the pair and leads them into the front sitting room. “I will get everyone some fresh iced tea. Just made it an hour ago.”
Miss Llano had observed their approach…Alice’s ceaseless talking and a gust of several large tumbleweeds that hit the front gate before being driven farther east had awakened her. “Sit down, please. I wish you had called first; I would have discouraged you from walking in this wind and dirt. But here is Amelia with some lovely refreshment. Alice, have some of these sandwiches. Amelia makes the best cream cheese filling. Thank you, Amelia. You are so thoughtful.” Miss Llana doesn’t reach for a sandwich. She smiles at her friend, Mrs. Cooper, and nods inquisitively at the valise.
“Oh, yes. This is why we rushed over. Alice returned from her Sunday Walk with this baggage. She pulled it behind her…so very clever. I quickly rummaged through it. But you should have a look. I am worried that Alice stumbled upon another person’s important loss.” She rises to set the valise next to Miss Llana’s chair. “We’ll just munch on these treats while you peruse the papers.”
Several minutes pass quietly while Miss Llana reads papers from the valise and pauses to think. Alice slumbers against the sofa pillow and her grandmother reads the newspaper. “Interesting. Very curious. Adele, what are your thoughts?”
“Jane, I read snippets. Only snippets. Although I am not as intelligent as you, I did get the impression that these papers should not be tucked behind rocks where animals and wind could scatter them among the willingly ignorant masses, much less end up in the hands of our country’s enemies. But admittedly, I don’t understand the documents’ substance. Do you?”
“Oh, no, Adele. I agree with you. I must make a phone cal. Don’t you agree?”
“Oh, yes, dear Jane. This is a matter for police.”
“I will call my nephew first. He works inside the Los Alamos Labs. He will know what to do.” Miss Llana walks to the telephone in the hallway near the stairs, looks through her contact book and dials a number. “Hello, Walter. This is your aunt Jane. I am so sorry to disrupt your Sunday rest. But there is something in my possession that you should know about…”
Three hours later, Walter arrives at his aunt’s home in a new black Oldsmobile. He is accompanied by three other men. “Hello, Aunt Jane. I’ll save our catch-up talk for another time. I know that you understand.” Miss Llana leads them to the dining room where the valise is atop the large table. She closes the door behind them. Before she has time to complete the ACROSS category in the Sunday puzzle, they join Miss Llana in her sitting room. “Where is the child who found this valise, Aunt Jane? We need to speak with her and see where she found it.”
“Before you go, I must tell you what I observed today. The church service had ended, and the worshippers had all left…so the time was nearly half past noon. Two men…” She describes the men and the event while her nephew takes notes. “Their home is north and east of the parsonage, truly on the edge of town. You’ll see yellow trim and blue curtains in the front window. I’ll wait here.”
The men approach their car, and one speaks aloud to the others, “I don’t mean to be unkind about your old aunt, Walter. But I wonder how much of what she said can be taken seriously. I mean. What was that about socks?”
“You would be wise to take every detail seriously. She is older and sharper than any of us will ever be. She sees details in shadows and darkness that others miss.”
“Okay. But we need to hurry. We’ll lose daylight soon.”