Green Chile and Grievances
After a solar disturbance leaves nearly everyone serenely agreeable, cranky Santa Fe building inspector Gordon Krantz keeps naming the hazards—and discovers that prolonged company with him brings other people’s buried objections back to life. When a forced forgiveness dinner threatens to smooth the way for his estranged sister to surrender her home, Gordon refuses an empty apology but must also face the hurt caused by his own three-year absence. His sister keeps her house, his assigned companion reclaims her judgment, and Gordon takes a tentative step toward repair by promising to return, without forgiveness or relief from his aching leg.
By MyAudioBooks.ai ·
This free listen has rotated out. The story remains available to read.
I hit the city truck's horn before the neighbors finish spreading their checked cloth beneath the cracked roof wall.
They wave.
At fifty-six, with a city building inspector's badge and a pension everyone else wants to discuss, I apparently resemble a parade. Beyond the windshield, a contractor opens his arms to welcome me.
I put the truck in park. Getting out sends a hot line from my hip to my heel. Behind my seat, green chile waits in a cooler for my younger sister, Peggy. I have managed to buy her food without sitting at her table for three years.
This early October afternoon, on Santa Fe's east side off Acequia Madre, that still counts as progress.
We are on the third day of the calm. A solar disturbance passes without damaging a single electrical appliance, and nearly everyone becomes serenely agreeable. Doctors call it benign. Since then, I have received blessings for discovering an overloaded balcony and a gas heater vented into a pantry.
My back still hurts. My objections still work. Today I need to keep a potluck out from under a wall.
The contractor advances with both arms extended. I step aside and pay for it all the way down my left leg.
“Hold the damn hug. That crack goes through the parapet. The little wall above the roof. Those cap bricks can fall.”
“Your concern honors the work.”
“Then honor it from the curb.”
He ushers the neighbors away. The tables remain beneath the wall, with coolers clustered around their legs.
Before I can get those moved, the new Harmony Committee chair, Dale Pacheco, arrives beside my door.
“We've found you a companion, Gordon.”
“Try the pound first?”
Beside him, a woman folds her hands over an empty shoulder bag. Dale introduces former divorce lawyer Brenda Ibarra.
“She'll ride with you for a week. Get to understand you before the sharing circle.”
“I inspect buildings.”
“And we'd love to understand that experience.”
“The buildings generally keep quiet about it.”
Dale offers to suspend my route instead. Three households are waiting for inspections. One family needs to know whether they can sleep upstairs.
I unlock the passenger door.
Brenda settles in beside the cooler. “Should I move that?”
“Leave it.”
“Are we going to your sister's?”
“We're going to a retaining wall.”
Dale leans toward my window. “Wesley promises nobody will sit beneath the parapet.”
“I'll be back before they serve.”
“We appreciate your blessing.”
“You're going to appreciate it from the street.”
I drive before he can thank me for that too.
Behind the permit counter, I stop in the alley and peel open a sardine tin. Payroll emerges from beneath a rusted stair.
“Why Payroll?” Brenda asks.
“Only one here who comes when called.”
She waits while the cat eats. No joke follows, no observation about my hidden sweetness. I leave the tin where Payroll can finish it and climb back into the cab.
Over the next two hours, Brenda accompanies me through a foundation inspection, an unfinished stair, and a roof with a drain blocked by somebody's decorative pebbles. I explain each problem in ordinary words. Every owner thanks me. Two ask whether the problem might be an invitation.
“Water accepts those,” I tell the second.
Between stops, Brenda asks about my back, then accepts “sciatica” without suggesting gratitude. By the time we return to Wesley's, she has stopped smiling at every answer.
Wesley Pruitt meets us on his porch. Behind him, neighbors lift covered dishes from the coolers. Nobody has sat down, but the checked cloth still waits under the cracked wall.
“Move the tables into the street,” I tell him. “Past the truck. Leave the traffic lane clear.”
“We wanted the shade.”
“See that brick projecting above your door? Imagine it falling onto a plate.”
He follows my finger. A small piece of mortar drops and breaks against the porch step.
“Oh,” Wesley says.
We move the tables. I carry one end badly, with my left leg stiff, until Brenda takes it from me. Wesley keeps checking above the door.
Once the food is clear, he grips my sleeve. “My wife stands there every morning.”
“Have someone take down the loose section. Keep that entrance closed until then.”
He goes to find Dale.
Brenda presses two fingers against her jaw.
“Something wrong?”
“I'm clenching my teeth. I haven't done that since the sun thing.”
“It's a useful skill.”
“I liked not needing it.”
We have spent most of the afternoon within arm's reach. She studies her own hands, then sets them flat against her thighs.
“Your sister's married to Lloyd Hargrove?”
“Yes.”
“He's on the committee.”
“Of course he is.”
“What happened?”
I open the truck door. “We're done here.”
Before Brenda can follow, Wesley returns with Dale.
“I keep thinking about the brick,” Wesley tells him. “Now I'm thinking about every repair I've put off.”
Dale rests a hand on his shoulder, but Wesley steps out from under it to check the porch again.
Dale turns to Brenda. “Perhaps you could help Gordon release some of this publicly.”
“Release the brick?”
“The distress.”
Brenda holds the passenger door. “I used to represent a woman whose husband called their settlement generous. She would have lost her home. I made him say exactly what he meant.”
“I'm sure you brought them peace.”
“I brought her a better settlement.” Brenda rubs her jaw again. “I'd forgotten how much I hated him. I'd rather have kept forgetting.”
Dale lowers his voice.
“Peggy's forgiveness meal is this afternoon. Lloyd hopes Gordon will come.”
I keep one hand on the wheel through the open window.
“What forgiveness meal?”
“Before Peggy puts the house into the wellness co-op.”
“Her house?”
“It's only proposed. Lloyd wants the family comfortable first. Your blessing would mean a great deal.”
“My blessing can't transfer a house.”
“Certainly not. It would make things easier.”
Peggy inherits our mother's adobe. Lloyd contributes opinions about its potential.
I pull my leg into the truck.
“Get in, Brenda.”
The drive takes a few minutes. I park outside Peggy's gate and leave the chile where it is. Dale follows in his car.
Peggy opens her kitchen door before I knock.
“You came.”
“I hear you're feeding people.”
“I've always been feeding people.”
She steps aside.
I enter with Brenda behind me. The familiar smell of toasted bread makes three years of staying away seem briefly difficult to explain.
Lloyd rises from our mother's chair. He wears linen, including around the wrists, where it seems optimistic.
“Gordon. Let's put all this behind us.”
“Which part?”
“All the hurt.”
Peggy sets a plate beside her keys. “I'd like an easy family meal. Just once.”
I sit.
For the first hour, ease requires substantial supervision. Lloyd steers every conversation toward the co-op. Peggy offers bread when I ask who would own the adobe. Dale describes the value of shared space.
“It would belong to the organization,” Lloyd eventually says. “Peggy would always be welcome.”
“In her kitchen?”
“In the whole property.”
Peggy smooths her napkin. “Nothing's happened yet.”
“Good.”
Brenda accepts a plate of salad and leaves it untouched.
Lloyd asks about my retirement. I ask about the deck outside the kitchen. Peggy brings more bread.
Through the open door, I can see the rail I warned them about three years ago. Its bottom fastening has pulled farther out.
“We're planning a welcoming outdoor space,” Lloyd says.
“Keep the welcoming indoors until somebody fixes that.”
He smiles across the plates. “Some of us see possibility, Gordon.”
I know the short route back to my truck. Straight through the kitchen door, down the path, no difficult conversation required. My leg aches under the table. I shift my chair toward the exit.
Peggy catches the scrape.
“Already?”
I put both feet down.
“No.”
Tea replaces the meal. We spend another hour discussing a kitchen Peggy already owns as though she might someday qualify to use it. She starts straightening things that are already straight.
When Lloyd reaches past her for the bread, she holds the basket.
“You could ask.”
He pauses, then extends an open hand.
She gives it to him.
Across from me, Brenda lets her shoulders drop. Dale folds his napkin smaller.
Lloyd clears his throat.
“Gordon, I'm sorry for whatever pain has remained between us. I hope you can finally accept that.”
“That's a hell of an apology.”
Peggy closes her eyes, then opens them. “Please.”
“I told him the deck was rotten. He told the whole table Joan finally found a way to stop listening to me.”
Brenda's fork stops against her plate.
Joan died four years ago. A year later, I made my last visit to this kitchen.
Lloyd pushes his cup away. “It was a joke.”
“Yes. I remember who laughed.”
“I've offered an apology.”
“You've offered me the job of making it one.”
Dale leans forward. “Could accepting the intention be enough for today?”
I want the cab. I want Peggy to remember the insult exactly as I do, without asking me where I have been since. My hand closes around the chair seat.
Then I turn toward her.
“What do you want, Peggy?”
Lloyd starts to answer.
“Let her,” Brenda says.
I stay seated.
Peggy places her palm beside her keys.
“I want my house.”
Lloyd gives a short, patient smile. “You'd have it.”
“I want to own it. I'm not transferring it.”
“We've talked about this.”
“Yes. And I'm telling you now.”
He draws himself upright. “I suppose your brother gets to decide everything again.”
“No,” Peggy says. “He gets to hear something too.”
She faces me.
“You left me with him after that dinner. You went home, and then you stayed home. Three years, Gordon.”
“I know.”
“You could have called.”
“I could.”
Her mouth tightens. I keep my hands on the chair and wait.
“I want you to tell me what's wrong with that deck. Without making me feel stupid for asking.”
“All right.”
“And that doesn't settle this.”
“All right.”
Lloyd stands so abruptly his chair strikes the cupboard.
“You can enjoy each other's grievances. I have people waiting who appreciate what I'm building.”
“Then go see them,” Peggy says.
He leaves through the kitchen door. Nobody follows. Peggy's keys remain beside her plate.
Dale turns to Brenda.
“We need to acknowledge a hazard here.”
She pushes her salad away from his reaching hand.
“What hazard?”
“People are hurting again.”
Outside, Lloyd's car door shuts.
Dale's voice gets smaller. “My son called yesterday. He's thirty-two. He asked how I was. We haven't had that sort of conversation in years.”
Brenda waits.
“What if that goes?” Dale asks. “What if he remembers everything?”
“I can't promise you he won't.”
“Then surely Gordon needs—”
“Gordon needs room to straighten his leg. He has for the last hour.”
I move my chair back. The relief reaches only as far as my knee.
“He's also been difficult,” Brenda says. “That isn't a diagnosis.”
Dale keeps his folded napkin between both hands until Peggy gently takes it from him. He thanks her and leaves, pausing at the door without finding anything else to say.
Peggy begins stacking plates. I reach for mine, but she points through the kitchen door.
“Deck first. Before you find another reason to go.”
I follow her onto the boards and stop where the wood is firm. She moves toward the rail.
“Stay beside the door. That fastening has pulled loose, and the board beneath the post is soft. The rail can't hold somebody leaning on it.”
“Can it be repaired?”
“Yes. The post needs sound wood underneath. Whoever does it should check the rest before pricing the job.”
“Will you come when they do?”
“Yes.”
She folds her arms. I wait for more.
“Tomorrow,” she says.
“I can come after work.”
She nods once, then goes inside to finish clearing her table.
Brenda carries her untouched salad out to the truck. I get behind the wheel with a grunt and leave my hand off the ignition while she settles into the passenger seat.
“You're coming again tomorrow?” I ask.
“I've made my own decision about the rest of the week.”
She sets the plate on the dashboard. Behind us, the cooler still holds Peggy's chile.
I wait until Brenda fastens her belt.
“Five hours,” I say, “and they send us away with this damn salad.”
At the neighboring gate, a man opens his arms to someone approaching. Halfway into the embrace, he hesitates and says something I can't hear.
I ease the truck away from the curb. My left heel burns all the way to the corner.