When Santane arrived to visit Ruby at the Albuquerque jail, her small husband accompanied her. He and I sat for almost an hour in a waiting room that had the sterile feel of a doctor’s office. I had not desired nor been asked to be present at the meeting between Santane and Ruby, but neither did I want to sit with this man who seemed to be glowering at me. Finally, he said, in perfect English, “Americans believe in the fresh start. Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”
I realized he must be joking, so I said, “Into every life a little rain must fall.”
He laughed, a surprisingly pleasant sound. “Pull yourself up by your bootstraps.”
“When bad things happen to good people.”
“Every cloud has a silver lining.”
“Make that lemonade.”
“I don’t understand that one,” he said.
“When life give you lemons, which are sour, you’re supposed to make lemonade, which is sweet. Who were you in Vietnam?”
“A restaurant owner.”
“And what did you have to do to get out?”
“Be very fortunate,” he said. “What did your own forebears have to do?”
“I understand your point. Three of my grandparents were part of the Scotch-Irish migration. And the fourth—who knows? Cherokee is what I wish, but English is what I suspect. In any case, they were desperate people. What now is called white trash.”
“Americans have no history. It is such a convenience.”
“Of course we have a history. We crushed the natives and brought in the slaves, didn’t we? And you’re an American citizen now too, here in the land of self-invention. History is what keeps pushing us along.”
“Only four generations in this country, and already you are a dangerous family.”
“My brother is dangerous. I’m just obnoxious and well-meaning.”
“I suspect you are nearly as dangerous as he.”
“How?” I asked, genuinely interested. “Because all white people are dangerous?”
“If you understand that, then you know it’s true. But, no, that is not what I mean. You are meddling in our affairs, Miss Burns. You bring your innocence, your hope. You believe there is some larger truth you will discern.” He smiled with a trace of mockery.
“It’s been a long time since someone labeled me innocent.”
“You radiate your innocence, Miss Burns. My wife values it in you more than she wishes to, and I believe it is what she saw in your brother. And, of course, she loves it deeply in Ruby.”
“Maybe the right word is naïveté?”
“Here is the mistake you are making: You may be innocent, but your blood is not. Blood has its own demands. An acorn cannot become a pine tree, no matter how good the quality of the soil.”
“So are we talking symbolically now? Is this a conversation about genetics?”
“We are having a discussion about soil, Miss Burns, and about what can grow in it. You must come to my restaurant. I would like to feed you. And bring your police chief with you. He is a decent man. This is a serious invitation. Let me know when you would like to visit.”
“May I ask why you call him my police chief?”
“Don’t confuse privacy with secrecy, Miss Burns.”
When Santane returned, she looked tired and gravely beautiful. She spoke first to Giang in Vietnamese, and there was something sharp in the exchange. Or maybe it was just the unfamiliar sound of their language. To me Santane turned and said, “Ruby has decided to try to tell you what happened, and I will attempt to do so as well. It is a difficult decision for us. Perhaps even a risky one.”
“Let the chips fall where they may,” Giang said.