ABOUT TEN MILES from the New Mexico border, I stopped in the town of San Luis and parked in front of an empty storefront. Next door was a restaurant. In the window they advertised enchiladas and tacos for seventy-five cents. There was a little historical fiesta going on in the town. I crossed the street to go to the bathroom in the gas station. On the way I passed a secondhand store and stopped to look in the window. There were three green melmac plates on a shelf, a candelabra—probably made of tin but painted gold—on the windowsill, and a pile of comics in a corner. There wasn’t much to look at, but I kept looking. I touched the pane of glass in front of me. The glass became water under my fingertips and the sidewalk rippled. A breeze lifted the cottonwood leaves above my head and rustled my hair. Suddenly I remembered. Gauguin had bought a pair of khaki pants in this store once. They were from the 1950s. He got them for twenty-five cents. Banana Rose and Gauguin had been here. At that moment I thought I would never get those two names out of my head. The Midwest full of rivers rose in my face, the miles of highway, South Dakota, Gauguin’s grandmother—I looked at my reflection. My hand was spread out on the glass. My hair was short. My sandaled feet were planted on the cement sidewalk. I breathed so deeply, a bouquet of carnations bloomed in my chest. I was full of sorrow and love and there was no way out of it.
I walked slowly toward the Exxon station. People dressed in festive costumes rode by on horseback. Everything passed me: color, wind, time. The bathroom was locked. I went to the office for the key. I’m returning to New Mexico, I thought, as I opened the locked wooden door.
South of San Luis the land spread out the way I knew it would. Lots of sage; naked, treeless earth; blue-gray mountains in the distance. Most of all, big sky and tremendous space. My heart flung open.
WELCOME TO NEW MEXICO. THE LAND OF ENCHANTMENT. That sign always made me smile. I pulled over, got out, leaned back against the hood of the car, and just gazed around, enjoying the sun on my face. I was home. I turned and walked off into the sage.
“Sage,” I cried. “I haven’t seen you in so long.”
I picked a few thin twigs and brought them to my nose. That smell again. I inhaled it and my whole body dissolved into the land.
I went back to the sign, leaned against it, and sang the Shehecheyanu at the top of my lungs. I thanked God for bringing me to this day.
When they were released from the concentration camps, instead of grabbing guns and going mad, the Jews slowly walked past the barbed wire, came together in a bedraggled circle, and sang the Shehecheyanu. I was no Jew in a concentration camp. Still, I sang the prayer and held the sage up so I could smell it. When something as good as returning to New Mexico happens, there isn’t much to say. The sky and the sage were better than anything I had remembered.
I realized that for a time I had thought Gauguin and New Mexico were one, so when he left, I believed I could never have it back. But the land was always here. It would be here after Gauguin was gone. After I was gone, too. But now I could return. I remembered a poem I had read by Pablo Neruda just before I left Minneapolis. It said, “Those who return never left.” A part of me had always been here, moving among the chamisa, the Sangre de Cristos, the gorge. A part of me had traveled the goat path in Talpa, sat in the rain under a piñon, even as I waited for a bus in the brutal December cold on Hennepin Avenue. That part of me kept me alive, even while my marriage crumbled. I didn’t know much else, but I knew this: I was not homeless. I had survived.
I got back in my car and drove to the mesa. When I got there, Blue was feeding the chickens. She put down the pail she was holding and cried, “Sugar, you’re back! Got your postcard a few days ago. I thought you’d be here by now.”
“I am here by now.” I flung my arms open.
Blue hugged me, then paused. “I have some bad news. Sylvester ran off a day ago. I can’t find him anyplace. I never heard of a rooster just running off—but you know Sylvester. He was very special”—she scrunched up her face—“and weird.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll help you look for him.”
“Well, never mind.” She waved her hand. “I got the school bus all ready for you, and then Lightning and his friends made a mess in it. I shipped him off to his father in Texas two days ago.” We walked into the greenhouse.
“It’s okay, I’ll clean it up. I’m so happy to be back.” I trailed after her into the house.
We had tortillas and beans for dinner, just the three of us. I was glad. It felt ordinary and natural, as if I’d always been there.
But then Blue said, “I made something special for you, Nell. Or should we call you Banana?”
I put my head to one side. “Lets stay with Nell for now. I have enough to adjust to.”
“I made you a noodle cake.” She went to the refrigerator.
“A noodle cake? Never heard of it,” I said.
“It’s Blue’s original recipe,” Sam said.
“Yes, it’s spaghetti noodles. I cooked them, mixed them with lots of honey, and put them in a cake pan. Then I put it in the freezer. When it set, I frosted it with chocolate. Chocolate’s still your favorite, isn’t it, honey?”
“My, what a novel idea,” I said. “Have you tasted it?”
“No, this is her first,” Sam said, beaming at Blue. “She’s an artist.”
Blue brought the cake to the table. “I wanted to print ‘Welcome Home’ with jelly beans, but I didn’t have any.”
“That’s fine. I understand.” I took a forkful. “Hmmm, this is quite a taste sensation. Going to have it at your restaurant? What was the name of it?” I asked.
Blue laughed. “Something about unusual combos. You made it up.”
“I guess this fits.” Sam smiled.
“Blue’s Babies.” I snapped my fingers. “That was the name of your restaurant.”