Read Online Wild Indigo by Sandi Ault - Free Book Online

“I mean, you know…there were some problems.”
    I studied him. He was clearly nervous. Either he’d said more than he meant to or he thought I was privy to some information I wasn’t. “I’m not sure I understand you, Gilbert. Can you clear it up for me?”
    His eyes darted briefly to my face, then away again. He looked alarmed. “You know, things have just been hard for some people,” he said, and he turned abruptly and walked to a slick red Mustang convertible parked beside the station. He got in and looked at me in the rearview mirror. Then he fumbled in his shirt and drew out a small pouch. He appeared to be rummaging through it for something, then withdrew pinched-together fingers. He made a little gesture, circling his head with one hand, and then he threw something over the side of the driver’s door. I saw tiny particles sprinkle toward the asphalt. Gilbert started the engine, backed out of his parking place, and drove away.
    I went to the place where he’d been parked and studied the ground. Tiny specks of something white and granular clung to what appeared to be crushed chile seeds, little clumps of which were embedded in the pits of the asphalt. I wet my finger and pressed against a pocket of the stuff, and then I examined the tip of my finger. I sniffed, then I tested it with my tongue. Salt. Chile. And something bitter, acrid. But what?
    Momma Anna would know. I’d seen her make that same gesture before, with a similar concoction. It was at the bake.

7
The Bake
    Earlier in the summer, I had been privileged to be a part of what Momma Anna called a “bake.” Her grandson was to marry. For several weeks, ceremonies and rituals prepared the couple for the sacred vows they were about to take. Elders gathered at the family homes and shared their experience and wisdom with them. The two lovers were kept apart during this time while their families questioned them about the seriousness of their intentions, the extent of their commitment, and the possibilities of both failure and success in the lifelong journey of marriage. Finally, they were gathered together, along with their clans, at the end of these arduous few weeks, and there was much feasting and gift giving.
    Throughout the long period of instruction, there had been feasting every night. But for this last night before the wedding, when the two clans came together, the responsibility for the largest repast of all fell on the family of the groom.
    In preparation for this final banquet, the night before it was to take place, a dozen women gathered at the home of my medicine teacher—just an hour after all the food had been put away and the dishes washed from the large meal for the Santana clan that evening. It was late by then, and we were just beginning. Anna’s son Frank, father of the groom, brought in three large plastic trash cans with lids. Lupé, his wife, carried huge galvanized washtubs, the kind you might set out in the yard to shampoo a big dog. A pair of young men set up two long wooden benches in Momma Anna’s living room. Others carried in twenty-five-pound bags of flour, and one of these was emptied into each of the twelve washtubs, which sat in a row, six on each bench.
    â€œYou! White Girl!” One of the pueblo women pointed to me. “Pull back hair.”
    I gathered my tresses into an elastic band and pulled them back at the nape of my neck. I rolled up my sleeves, ready to do anything that was required of me.
    The women giggled and spoke to one another in Tiwa. One of them said in English: “Let White Girl do it.”
    Lupé pointed at a washtub. “Get ready,” she said. I went to stand beside the vessel she had indicated.
    Serena mixed yeast with warm water in a large camp-style coffeepot, stirring the slurry with a wooden spoon. She poured some into the first few tubs, then went to make more. An auntie I knew, Momma Anna’s sister-in-law Yohe,