Chapter 21 in the R.M. Dolin novel, "What Is to Be Done"
Read companion poem
“I would have said yes just to make you happy.” Jake settles back in his camping chair soulfully sipping bourbon while looking toward the magical moon still hovering just below its mountain enclave. “But May’s have never been more magnificent.”
The first thing Emelia and Jake did after moving in was raze the old barn. In its place they built the winery, distillery and barrel aging rooms. As a French chemist, Emelia’s lifelong dream was to open a winery but, winery operations aren’t technical enough to keep someone like Jake engaged so on her insistence, they added the distillery. Emelia proved to be a gifted winemaker and quickly mastered the chemistry of distilling. While she eagerly pursued her craft, Jake focused on the engineering aspects of their enterprise. First, he designed and fabricated their Alembic Still for brandy, then he set up a bottling line. All of that done while undertaking building construction. After a couple of years, Emelia began teaching Jake the art of wine making and distilling with a subtleness that went undetected. “Together Louie,” she liked to tease, “we’re two sides of the same coin.”
Emelia’s initial foray into distilling was fine brandies, but soon she was making grappa from left over grape pressings. Grappa is wildly popular in Italy, but there’s not much of a market for it here. Still though, she was committed to being green and found the prospect of making something marketable from something that was going to be composted too alluring to resist. Two years in Jake started campaigning for bourbon, in part because he was bored with brandy but mostly because bourbon gave him an excuse to build the Pot Still, he designed to optimize their high elevation. It’s the same reason he convinced her to make vodka. The challenge of designing a Column Reflux Still to operate at high elevation was too tempting to resist. Jake still makes brandy in the Still he fabricated from sheet copper, but not as well as Emelia. He enjoys making vodka the way Emelia taught him but prefers utilizing the Reflux Still for gin. Hands down though, his favorite spirit is whiskey. Everything about whiskey production is inspiring, from malting the grains all the way through the multi-year aging process, every step filled with decisions, discoveries, and at times, equal portions of amazement and frustration. “Making Bourbon is the American equivalent to the Japanese Tea Ceremony,” he tells tourists. “It’s a journey not a process.”
Jake makes bourbon in the traditions of prohibition era moonshiners, employing a functioning thumper and worm. “I’m the only distiller in America to use a thumper and worm together,” he boasts to the select few he allows to tour his distillery. “Worms have been around since the Arab’s invented distilling in 700 AD, but the Thumper’s total Americana.” Invented during prohibition, Thumpers accelerates the time between when freshly fermented mash can be optimally distilled. The one-time Jake can be counted on to behave around customers is when he’s explaining distillation, he gets so caught up lecturing, stupid questions don’t set him off. “Thumpers allow single run refinement, which for moonshiners anxious to finish before being found by revenuers is of paramount importance.” There’s nothing special about worms, they’re just a copper coil immersed in water to slowly and naturally covert spirit vapors leaving the thumper back to a liquid. However, Jake’s learned that how vapors return to liquid has a huge influence on the final character. His Pot Still, with slight modifications, is also used to make Mula. Evaristo showed him how to enhance Mula’s desert nuances while yielding its unmistakable edge. According to Evaristo, Jake’s Mula configuration is as authentic as the setup his dad employed during prohibition when Mula became the quintessential spirit of legend and lore.
In addition to wine making and distilling, Emelia ran the tasting room. Her charm and knowledgeable way of engaging customers, coupled with her ability to retell the story of how they came to be New Mexico’s first distillery, and how they carefully hand craft each of their wines and spirits, made their distillery a must-see destination for Santa Fe tourists and scholars visiting Los Alamos. While Jake found contentment with their post-retirement enterprise, Emelia absolutely flourished, which is why after recovering from his desperate drive to Santa Fe the night Emelia began her goodbye, Jake decided to shut down operations. He couldn’t face the crippling pain of continuing alone and was convinced he wouldn’t make wine or spirits worthy of her memory. In the end he couldn’t close, making wine and spirits is how they connect. It was nonetheless, with great sadness that Jake pushed into those early lonely nights, but it was only then he realized how well she prepared him.
Jake relights his cigar as the moon grows restless in its mooring. “I don’t make wines worthy of you, but you’d like my progress.” An intense orange glow back-lights the top of the spruce trees dotting the saddle’s rim. Jake drains his last drop of bourbon lamenting not having better prepared. He considers siphoning from a barrel but knows he can’t risk the back corner on nights like this. Resigned to fate, he settles in his chair ready for what happens next. Suddenly from across the parking lot, the quiet of night is shattered by the sound of Quando’s ID tags clanking in syncopation with his happy gait. “I knew you wouldn’t miss the moonrise you old fart.” With an explosion of utter enthusiasm, Quando darts toward the edge of the parking lot where the crashing bushes and broken branches is Quando’s quintessential sound of unbridled happiness.
“Pardon, Senor?” Sympatico says, stepping out of the darkness.
Jake shoots out of his chair knowing the last thing he needs is a repeat of last night. “I- ah- was talking to Quando.”
“I do not see a Quando.”
“Damn dog’s still screwing with me.” Jake mutters under his breath. He peers into the darkness for any sign of his questionable friend and when that doesn’t materialize, he points toward the saddle in hurried redirection. “Check out my moon.”
“Is this where Quan-” Sympatico stops mid-rotation, stunned by the sight of a spectacularly large bright orange ball beginning to crest between two monstrous peaks. As if suddenly under the influence of a seductive trance, she reaches up to touch the dazzling ball. “Never in my life have I witnessed any such thing.”
Jake steps up beside her not clear what to say. After all, how does one talk to a woman like her? How does one even begin to relate? In the midst of resolving his conflict, he notices the moon casting her in a way that not only hides the ugliness of her cuts and bruises but miraculously hides the ugliness of the life she’s been forced to endure. In the magic of the May moon, Jake sees her as God intended; beautiful, proud, enchanting. “They say Northern New Mexico moons highlight the person we really are.”
“I would not like that very much,” Sympatico answers fixated on the orange moon.
Perhaps it’s the magic of the moon, or that he’s just now paying attention; maybe it’s the time he spent with Emelia, it’s hard to say why Jake’s struck by Sympatico’s splendor. He sees her not as a broken woman, but the way the world one day will. He considers offering a compliment but, given last night’s fiasco, passes. “In about two minutes the moon will fully crest the saddle, then for just a moment, the mountain will cradle this ginormous orange ball.”
Together they stare as the mountain gently begins its lullaby. Jake attempts to focus on the fantastic show but is compelled to use the revealing light to further study his guest. “We’re about to witness the instant earth and heaven connect, a portal to the cosmos allowing mere mortals to gaze upon the infinity of forever.” Jake ponders the tragedy of someone like her having to endure so much and somewhere between the metaphysical moon and seeing her in the multicolored light flooding down the mountain, he gets lost in the moment. “Makes you question God.”
“Perhaps this is why the mountains are named for Christ.”
A wave of sadness cascades over Jake as he thinks about the regrettably few moonrises encircling a person’s life. “I have this theory that on nights like this, the extra gravity of the incredibly close moon gathers up the world’s tragedies until they’re absorbed in a single groan. All that burden is what turns the moon blood orange.” Jake and Sympatico watch in silence, each incremental click along the moon’s trajectory drawing them closer, each breath carrying them deeper into the portal of lost souls, to that tranquil place where peace seems plausible. “I have never seen a New Mexico moonrise,” Sympatico states devoid of emotion.
Jake initially dismisses her claim, how is it even possible she could be here two years and not see a moonrise? The tragic fact he quickly realizes is that by this time most nights she isn’t allowed out of her room until morning. “It’s really something huh?” He wishes he could wish on the moon. If he could, he’d wish there was something profound he could say to help her feel better, to let her know her past is behind her. But if words like that exist for moments like this, they’re beyond him. “The moon starts off looking sad and heavy, but as it arcs across the sky, it grows small and distant. Along the way a metamorphose from blood orange to brilliant white occurs, as if the sadness of the world might at first hold the moon prisoner. That the burdens of our lives prevent its escape. That’s why the moon seems in stasis as it rests in the saddle. Then, in an explosion of sheer determination, it propels itself into space where it jettisons its payload. Once all the sadness and sorrows are off-loaded, the moon turns pure white; and in the process, our souls have their heaviness lifted.”
Epitomizing the very essence of light and happy, Quando suddenly re-emerges somehow managing to smile while clutching a grimy tennis ball. The obsessive Lab drops the ball at Jake’s feet, staring with eager alertness. “There,” Jake instructs with an excitement reserved for intellectuals showing fresh minds something new. “See how the moon rests perfectly in the bowl? It only happens once a year and for less than a minute. You’re lucky to be here.”
Sympatico looks with amazement as the larger-than-life brilliant ball of orange with its yellow aura suspends its assent. As proof positive of this metaphysical transformation, the very color of the moon starts to change while resting in its docking station. As the sorrows of the lost and suffering are gathered, the moon seems too burdened to continue. “Senor, I am blessed to be here for many reasons.”
Labradors are revered for their calm patience, but a Quando can only take so much. He uses his nose to push the grimy tennis ball toward Jake and then for added measure, barks to declare his unwillingness to be ignored. When that doesn’t achieve the desired result, he nudges Jakes hand. “Okay,” Jake laughs, “you know I can’t stay mad.” Jake picks up the slobbery ball and tosses it in the air several times. Each time Quando hops up and down barking with uncensored joy. “Heal!” Jake sternly commands to initialize the start of their ball throwing ritual. Quando enthusiastically darts around Jake’s right side abruptly sitting down beside his left leg. “Ready.” Jake places a flat hand in front of Quando’s nose because it’s all Quando can do not to explode. “Stay.” Jake commands before throwing the ball into the trees at the south edge of the parking lot. Against all known laws of dynamics, Quando somehow finds the resolve to remain sitting. His entire body shakes in anticipation, every ounce of his soul striving to jump from its furry hide to find that ball that so desperately needs retrieving. Jake waits a few seconds to focus his friend. “Okay!” he finally shouts. With that, Quando explodes across the parking lot slashing into the darkness of the trees with the intense abandon of a soul at one with its nature.
“That’ll keep him busy.” Jake says returning to Sympatico’s side.
As the moon agitates on the edge of the cradle intimating launch. Quando’s hidden from the orange-yellow glow cascading night shadows down the mountain and around the buildings and trees, but from the sounds of his thrashing, it’s clear he’s surrendered his soul to the ball’s rescue.
Sympatico continues to stare in awe. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Moonrises are meant to be shared,” Jake shoots back too focused on the light show for distraction. For the next few moments these two burdened souls stand together in solitude. There should be words, but then again, maybe words would only muddle the magic. Sometimes the most profound thing one can do, is simply stand in silence appreciating being a part of something spectacular, but even that only lasts so long.
“I brought you this.” Sympatico hands Jake a whiskey glass. “I made it the way Senor Armando taught me.” As soon as Jake secures the glass Sympatico returns to moon watching. “It has just the right ratio of ice to whiskey.”
Jake’s impressed she remembers the recipe Armando taught her in the midst the most insanely surreal situation where the success of her rescue seemed less than probable. He decides she’s both smart and resourceful and will enjoy getting to know her. He noses the bourbon and is even more impressed. How did she know?
“I used the bourbon with the blue top.”
“Why?” Jake assumes she’s either divinely inspired or psychic.
“You were drinking the green top bourbon at the bar the night of my rescue and that, well, that is what it was. You drank black top bourbon last night, and we don’t need to revisit that. Your red top bottles are for sale, things for sale have no value.”
“I don’t drink blue bottle bourbon often, but when I do it’s on nights like this. I’ll teach you how to mix a blue bourbon cocktail.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“This is great, it’s just each of my bourbon’s are different.” He’s not sure how, or why, he keeps screwing up, but it seems no matter what he says he winds up in recovery mode. Just then, Quando races to the rescue running up to Jake with the slobbery ball. “Drop it!” Jake commands. Quando dutifully obeys, but as the ball rolls toward Jake, small pieces of loose gravel stick to the slobbered surface. Gingerly, Jake picks the gooey ball up with two fingers, “I hate when you do this.” Before Jake can initiate commands, Quando takes the initiative and circles around healing beside Jake’s left leg. They reenact their ball throwing ritual only this time, Jake throws the ball to the opposite end of the parking lot since the first area is contaminated. Again, Quando thrashes through the pinon-juniper forest in an all-out search.
Quando’s departure creates and awkward silence, perhaps ‘vacuum’, and as the old adage goes, ‘nature abhors a vacuum.’ “Senor Jake.” Sympatico turns to face her benefactor. She’s wanted to have this all-important talk since Sunday, but out of fear keeps putting it off. It’s hard for anyone whose had so much taken, so much lost, ask anyone for anything; to hold out hope for kindness or that anything good is possible. The longer she waits though, the more she needs clarity, even if what she learns is tragic. “I want to thank you for everything you did.”
Jake sees past her stoic facade to the tragedy and loss she wears on her expressionless face and in the darkness of her eyes reflecting in the moonlight. He sees beyond her exterior survival shield to a scared girl with no place to go and no one to rely on. He sees the angst of a world boiling with evil, of beautiful souls ravished by unchecked brutality and for the first time since losing Emelia, he understands the universal sadness in others beyond the depth of his private despair. In the brightness of the May moon, his symbol of hope and happiness, Jake gets that the goals of his subversive cabal can’t just be about righting a dysfunctional government; it has to stand for more. He has to stand for more. He has to help those with similar sympatico find their freedom and happiness. Jake realizes he no longer helps this woman out of a commitment to Padre, but because he wants to be someone she can depend on. He wants to be that boy Padre talked about. “First of all, it’s just, Jake.” He moves in front of her attempting to make eye contact but each time he catches her eyes, they dart away.
As kind and generous as Jake’s been, Sympatico cannot allow her inner soul to be pierced, that could lead to hope, and hope has a history of ending poorly. What’s left of her soul is the only piece of who she once was that’s not been taken. For all these years, protecting it’s the only thing that’s made survival possible. ‘This man who sees the unseen in shadows and moonlight,’ she reiterates to herself, ‘cannot be allowed to see how much I need him, men exploit weakness.’
Jake needs to make eye contact. He’ll never find the words he wants to convey; that she needs to hear. When it becomes clear eye contact is not possible, he proceeds as best he can. “You don’t have to thank me; any man would have done the same.” Without thinking he reaches for her hand but instinctively, she pulls back. After a moment though, with conscious deliberation, she’s able to maneuver around her defenses to allow his touch. “Especially given everything you’ve been through,” he adds.
It’s a bit strange given what she’s endured, but Sympatico doesn’t know how to talk to men and it’s been years since she’s had a believable conversation. How do you open up to someone seeming to be kind when every other time the results have been so horrific? “Gracious, Senor.” She struggles to push past her protective barriers and while she’s trending toward openness and belief, there’s still so far to go. It’s like walking on a fallen log spanning a raging river, every step perilously slow, deliberate, and fraught with fear, while the consequence of doing nothing is no less palatable, so she forces herself to make eye contact but only for a second before being overwhelmed by what she finds. She remembers that same empty look in her Abuelo’s eyes whenever he talked about her Abuela; a ghostly gaze of utter emptiness.
She sees Jake’s suffering and feels a sympatico so strong she withdraws her hand and retreats to night shadows. She cannot look into the soul of someone who has no hope of understanding what she’s endured yet understands so completely her loss. “I know now why you call me Sympatico, your soul is as damaged as mine. Our sympatico is muy strong, she must have been very special.”
Jake’s not surprised by her insight and accepts without understanding what she said about their souls. “Emelia was special.” He clears the lump in his throat.
“You loved her very much.”
“In ways no one can.”
“I believe that death is death,” Sympatico says as much to herself as Jake.
“If I did, I’d already be dead.”
“I already am.”
Jake stares into the dark infinity that lags beyond the moonlit sky while taking in aromas emanating from his blue corn cocktail. “Most days I wish I were.”
While the journeys of these tired travelers have been vastly different, their souls have arrived at the same destination. Sympatico’s memories are something she manically strives to purge while Jake cherishes each of his. Her only hope for survival lays in finding ways to forget while his only chance for peace is to remember. Together, they are two sides of the same coin watching in silence as the moon grows smaller, its orange hue transitioning toward brilliant white as it arcs across the night sky ready to deposit the world’s woes into the vastness of space.
“You are wrong,” Sympatico softly says, “most men would not have done what you did.”
“Maybe not the ones you have known, but most men are not like that.”
“One thing I have learned, Senor, is all men are like the men I have known.”
Jake understands from the forcefulness of her response it’s best not to debate. Luckily Quando returns just in time to save the moment. Eager to embrace Quando’s exuberance Jake willfully re-engages their ball throwing ritual, this time tossing it toward the house.
“How long can I stay?” Sympatico finally blurts out the question she’s wanted to ask but was afraid to have answered.
“For as long as you need.” Jake looks for Quando in the darkness not appreciating how hard this is for her.
“A week, a month? I won’t stay longer than you say.”
“I measure time in seasons not seconds. Seasons start and end when they do. A grain doesn’t ripen a fixed number of days after it blooms. It’s ready when it’s ready, and when that is, is based on things we can’t know in spring. Stay until your season of healing is complete, however long that is.”
“Gracious, you are generous beyond expectation. I will work; cook, clean, whatever you need.”
“Of course I’ll pay you.”
“I cannot accept money.” Sympatico’s calculus is pretty clear, taking money obligates her to leave sooner and since she has nowhere to go, she cannot possibly work for wages.
“I insist.” Jake’s convinced not paying Sympatico makes her feel she’s a burden that needs to leave quickly.
“I will not take it.”
“I’ll hold it then, someday you’ll need money to go home.”
“I’m alone, the worst kind of alone, no one left to miss me.”
It’s essential for Jake that she understand he wants her to stay. “Someday you’ll want to move on with your life.”
“I have no life.” Sympatico struggles to understand why Jake would tell her she can stay as long as she needs and then put limits on the duration.
He doesn’t understand why she asks to stay while laying the groundwork to leave. “You’re a very beautiful woman who will find a man who loves you the way you deserve, you’ll need money to start a life.”
“I could never be with a man.”
Jake regrets his insensitivity and wonders if he should say something to fix things but decides that strategy hasn’t been working. Luckily Quando saves the moment. Jake bends over and scratches Quando behind the ear and the happy Lab immediately rolls on the ground exposing his belly. After a vigorous belly rub Jake initiates their other monthly ritual. “Are you ready to serenade our guest?” Quando jumps up giving Jake a slobbery kiss. Jake looks over his shoulder, “he’s ready.”
Sympatico forces a smile, at least their conversation’s over, even if unresolved.
Jake stands up tilting his head to the moon, then, taking a deep breath, bellows out a large lobo howl as loud as he can. Just as he’s running out of breath, Quando steps up beside him and joins in with an equally large howl that reverberates with ancient instinct. Jake turns to Sympatico grinning, “your turn.”
“I cannot.”
“Sure, you can, you just do this.” He draws another deep breath and bellows out a booming serenade. Again, Quando joins in harmony. “Don’t leave us boys hanging.”
Sympatico’s too removed from such frivolous displays of absurdity to answer.
“You said you’d do whatever I need, I need you to howl.” Again, he and Quando howl at the moon. “Trust me, it feels good all the way to your soul. This is how you jettison the negative baggage encasing your soul. I’ll start.” Before Sympatico can object, Jake rips another howl that Quando quickly joins. As they wind down, Sympatico attempts a short somewhat awkward addition.
“Feel better?”
“A little.” She smiles slightly before immediately feeling guilty for momentarily feeling good.
“Let’s do it again, only this time all together with mucho gusto.” Jake rips into another howl. Quando quickly joins in as does Sympatico, this time though, with much more purpose. Before it’s done Jake and Sympatico are both laughing loudly trying to catch their breath. Far in the distance, two Coyotes respond. When they’re done, Quando steps into the moonlight to send a solo reply. Another Coyote joins the first two in a triangulated response.
Jake smiles at Sympatico, “we’re obliged to answer.”
“Okay,” Sympatico laughs. In harmonious and somewhat hilarious syncopation, Jake, Quando, and Sympatico unleash a cathartic howl; a rich serenade reserved for lost souls given a brief dispensation from darkness. Half-way through the three Coyotes join them. As the harmony subsides the moon miraculously completes its transformation from mournful orange to brilliant white, the last of the world’s woes for now, deposited into the deep empty void of space. The sorrows of damaged souls, at least for that instant, a lasting part of the payload.
It’s not by accident that full moons affect people’s behavior. This is because the monthly pattern of earth’s orbiting cousin is not measured in time as most assume, it’s a season unto itself; something anyone who correctly interprets the Anasazi calendar already knows. Howling at the moon is nature’s way to unburden the gravity of this season while welcoming the next with a brightness of hope and optimism. Pessimists persist that memories aren’t real, but if that’s true, how could yesterday’s touch so profoundly linger on the sides of sensitive souls?
And what about time, the elusive dimension even Einstein couldn’t conquer? For all anyone knows the ancient Anasazi of Northern New Mexico are still traveling home suspended in time. The only absolute, as Einstein correctly observed, is that time is relative and for two wayward souls bound together by fate on a journey they don’t yet realize is underway, the magic of the moon provides a sense of renewal, and with it, optimism; something guardian angels always leave behind when they take their share.
