In the rare day they had off, Sandra and Marie explored Taos. Marie was up early every morning making coffee. Rambling around the big house in the morning was one of Sandra’s favorite things. She liked to get up early—Marie was usually the only other person up at that hour—and they’d sit on the back porch sipping coffee. Marie was a wealth of knowledge about the artistic history of Taos—D. H. Lawrence, Georgia O’Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz, Paul Strand and Rebecca Salsbury James, and Mabel Dodge Luhan.
As they headed into town, Sandra noticed that everything in Taos was worn, from the jeans to the boots, to the Navajo blankets with thin places like bald spots, to the old Chevy truck that Marie drove around the town square to canvass the outdoor market for chilies. Marie was an excellent New Mexican cook, roasting red and green chilies with garlic and adding them to pork and chicken dishes. Sandra had never seen, smelled, or tasted anything like Taos. In contrast with Los Angeles’s busyness, Taos was calm.
Hugh taught Lily and Sandra how to shoot a gun. They’d get on dirt bikes and head deep into the desert to shoot beer cans, jackrabbits, and—once—even a rattlesnake. Bex and Ezra routinely went into Santa Fe, everyone keeping a watchful eye on any changes in Ezra’s behavior, but he maintained focus during the recording sessions.
As the weeks passed, the four of them recorded a total of eight songs for the album. The time locked away together both as artists and people had made their songs better. They had been so proud of their first recording—the one that Lenny had given them to preview in the Chrysler—but upon listening to it again Hugh had requested they re-record it. They’d developed a sound around the fourth song that they didn’t have in the earlier works.
Despite his Marxist lectures, Hugh made an allowance for one big capitalist industry—music—receiving new shipments of records from his friends back in LA: new Janis Joplin, Melanie, and the Doors. Sandra’s favorites were the 13th Floor Elevators’ “You’re Gonna Miss Me,” the Guess Who’s “No Sugar Tonight,” and Can’s “Mother Sky,” although Donovan’s “Season of the Witch” was the song she played the most, leading Hugh to call it “her song.” Upon hearing the news of Janis Joplin’s death of an overdose in early October, they all spent a whole day together on the sofa mourning, playing “Try” over and over again, until they had to go into town to buy another record needle.
After dinner one evening, Sandra saw Ezra standing alone looking at the sunset. She closed the door quietly so as not to startle him. “You okay?”
“Don’t you wonder how many times you’ll see the sunset again?”
“Very Paul Bowles of you,” said Sandra.
He laughed.
Sandra knew how many times she’d see the sunset. She’d die at thirty-four, just like Nora, unless it all became too much for her. But Ezra was different. He could choose a different ending for himself if he wanted. “I want you to be happy, Ezra.”
He shook his head. “That’s not possible, I’m afraid. I want this record to matter, Sand. As proof that I was here.”
Her legs almost buckled when he said it, but Sandra understood exactly what he meant. Like Nora leaving her the composition books, this album was her proof that she’d lived and that she’d done something good with this fucked-up situation she was born into.
“I’ve promised myself that I’ll see this record through.”
Sandra could read the spaces between Ezra’s words—he knew he didn’t have long. She reached out and touched his hand. They stood there together for a silent moment and she leaned her head on his shoulder.
The final two songs on the album were ones that Ezra had written. The first was called “Angel of the Canyon,” and the lyrics were poignant. By now, the group could get a suggestion of a riff or basic melody line and begin to layer a song around it. Hugh went back to the Fender and upped the reverb on the chords. The song had a distinctive lushness to it. It was a fuzzy, atmospheric song, and Hugh went off on a guitar solo after the first two verses. Lenny was glad he’d recorded the whole thing because everyone in the room felt it was a departure from the other songs and really pushed their sound.
By now there was a feeling that what happened in the studio was sacred—this thing among them would never be re-created with another group of people—it required them in this moment. As Halloween approached, there was a heaviness in the air as the album was coming to an end and a feeling that every moment from then on for them would somehow be lesser.
“Does every fucking musician feel this way?” Hugh had worked his way around the recording console by now and he knew exactly which combination of buttons and levers made their songs come alive.
“If they know their record is good, they do.” Lenny leaned back in his chair. “And this is a fucking good album. There’s a superstition to it, that you’ll never be able to create it again. Any artist feels that way, I think—that everything they’ve done, every ritual they’ve created is sacred.”
Right before Halloween, Sandra found a letter for her sitting on the hall table. The writing was familiar. She’d seen it etched on photos in grease pen, offering cropping suggestions or captions on the back. Opening it, she was surprised at how she’d been able to put Rick out of her mind. The sheer foreignness of Taos and the dreams she’d been having had overloaded her senses and given her space from him. But seeing his handwriting again made her ache for him, like he was imprinted on her.
October 20, 1970
Sandra:
I hope you are well. Hugh tells Kim that the recording sessions are great. I always knew that band six would be the one. I think about you all the time, but strangely I can’t imagine you in New Mexico. I hope you are happy. You surely deserve to be.
I’ve written and rewritten this letter so many times. Words just seem to come up short for the emotions that I feel for you. I understand why you left, really I do. Distance and time have given me perspective on what happened between us, but they have not diminished my love for you. Nothing can do that.
I’ve accepted a photo assignment in Vietnam. There is a story to be told over there and I’m going to capture it—I guess I need to feel a part of something bigger. I learned that from you. There is something about us that transcends this time and place. I know I’m not describing it well, but the whole thing—my feelings for you and what happened to me in the hospital have changed me. You’ve changed me.
When I’m done, I’m coming to find you. You are my “raison d’etre” as the French say. We should be together—I think you know that, too.
I’ll love you always,
Rick
Luke found her, letter in hand, sitting on the old church pew in the foyer.
“Bad news?”
“Rick is going to Vietnam.” She gathered her hair up into a rubber band to give her hands something to do. She sniffed and when she did, she felt something trickle down her lip and she touched it—blood again.
He moved to get her a tissue, but she waved him off, wiping it on her shirttail. He tried to help but she put her hand out to stop him.
He sat down beside her, the old boards on the pew creaking.
“The bargain I made with you.” She looked over at him and down at the letter. “It was for him. He died—”