The Replacement Child - By Christine Barber Page 0,31

it. The relative was probably only distantly related.

“Come to think of it,” his mom said as she dried a cup, “the woman your dad almost married was a Baca.” Gill looked up quickly. His mother didn’t notice and continued, “Oh, that’s right, she was a C’de Baca.”

“Dad was engaged before you?”

“Hmmm, but it didn’t work out.”

“Why?”

“The Judge wouldn’t let them get married. He didn’t like her family.”

The Judge. First District Court Judge Gilbert Nazario Estevan Montoya. Gil’s grandfather. When his mother said The Judge didn’t like the woman’s family, it probably meant that they weren’t Castilian enough for him. Her family was probably part Mexican. The Judge disapproved of anyone who was not from Spanish nobility.

Gil finished the last of his posole and put his dish next to the sink. His mother picked it up and started washing it, saying, “Oh, hito, don’t forget to get the statue of St. Joseph that Susan needed.”

He hadn’t forgotten. “Where is it?”

“Over in the Old House in The Judge’s rooms.”

Gil watched his mother for a few more seconds as she rinsed his dinner plate, then he put his coat on and went across the driveway, following a small dirt path in the darkness to the Old House. As kids, he and Elena had used the ruined part of the Old House as a fort against his invading cousins. One room had been the armory and Gil had constructed a complex system of walls and moats. He’d drawn maps of the minefields and rigged booby traps out of boxes and rabbit holes. Eventually all the cousins had defected and ended up inside the fort with Gil and Elena, protecting it from invisible attacking Indians.

The Judge’s rooms were in the only part of the Old House still standing. The house had actually been built as both a house and a fort. At one point, a relative had built a circular watch-tower on the east corner.

His grandfather’s rooms were in the west corner over by the family chapel. Ironically, The Judge’s rooms were in what had been the Navajo slave quarters. The slaves had been mostly captives from the Indian invasions or bought in Santa Fe on the auction block on the Plaza. According to local custom, the slaves had become part of the Montoya family, with the Navajo sons getting pieces of land and the daughters getting dowries when they married. So, somewhere in Gil’s distant past he was probably part Navajo or some other type of Indian. The Judge always left that out of their family tree.

Gil stepped through a small doorway and flipped a switch. He looked around the living room for the statue. The room itself was still clean; his mother dusted it every week. The walls were plastered in white and had a few pictures of The Judge with various political bosses. There was one with a governor. Another with President Eisenhower. There was an old carved crucifix over the smooth kiva fireplace, with bright blood painted on Jesus’ face and legs. Gil stepped through another doorway. The Judge’s old law books covered the walls in the room. On one low table was a collection of saints. Gil walked over to it and picked up the one of St. Joseph. It was about a foot high, made of alabaster. St. Joseph was carrying Baby Jesus and had a lily on the top of his staff. St. Joseph and the Baby Jesus both had very pale skin. But someone had painted dripping blood on Baby Jesus’ hands, feet, and head, in the tradition of the Spanish colonial santos.

Gil carefully carried St. Joseph back to the New House. His mother was kneeling in front of the family shrine, clicking off the beads on her rosary. He leaned down to kiss her cheek, saying, “Good night, Mom.” She didn’t answer him and he left, going back down the creaking wooden stairs.

By the time he got home, Susan and the girls were already in bed. He put the statue of St. Joseph on the kitchen counter and went to bed himself.

Lucy was attempting to unlock the front door of her apartment in the dark. She had forgotten to leave her porch light on. It took her three tries before she managed to connect the key with the lock. She clicked PLAY on her answering machine, then went around her house turning on lights.

“Lucy, you really need to change the message on your answering machine to ‘We’re not at home’ instead of ‘I’m not at home.’