A Stranger in My Grave (27 page)

“Try reading my face again.”

“I can't. You just look mad.”

“Why, you're a regular face-reading genius, Mrs. Harker. I
am
mad.”

“What about?”

“Let's just say I'm a sorehead.”

“That's not an adequate answer.”

“O.K., put it this way: I have dreams, too. But I don't dream about dead people, just live ones. And sometimes they do some pretty lively things, and sometimes you're one of them. To be any more explicit I would have to go beyond the bounds of propriety, and neither of us wants that, do we?”

She turned away, her jaws clenched.

“Do we?” he repeated.

“No.”

“Well, that's that. To hell with dreams.” He went to the door and opened it, looking back at her impatiently when she made no move to get up. “Aren't you coming?”

“I don't know.”

“I'm sorry if I've frightened you.”

“I'm—not frightened.” But she hunched in her raincoat as if she had shrunk during the storm, the real one on the other side of the window or the more turbulent one inside herself. “I'm not fright­ened,” she said again. “I just don't know what's ahead for me.”

“Nobody does.”

“I used to. Now I can't see where I'm going.”

“Then you'd better turn back.” There was finality in his voice. It was as if they had met, had come together, and had parted, all in the space of a minute, and he knew the minute was gone and would not return. “I'll take you home now, Daisy.”

“No.”

“Yes. The role of good little girl is better suited to you than this. Just don't listen too hard and don't see too much. You'll be all right.”

She was crying, holding the sleeve of his raincoat against her face. He looked away and focused his eyes on an unidentifiable stain on the south wall. The stain had been there when he moved in; it would be there when he moved out. Three coats of paint had failed to obscure it, and it had become for Pinata a symbol of persistence.

“You'll be all right,” he repeated. “Going home again might be easier than you think. This past week has been like—well, like a little trip from reality, for both of us. Now the trip's over. It's time to get off the boat, or the plane, or whatever we were on.”

“No.”

He turned his eyes from the wall to look at her, but her face was still hidden behind his coat sleeve. “Daisy, for God's sake, don't you realize it's impossible? You don't belong in this part of town, on this street, in this office.”

“Neither do you.”

“The difference is, I'm here. And I'm stuck here. Do you understand what that means?”

“No.”

“I have nothing to offer you but a name that isn't my own, an income that ranges from meager to mediocre, and a house with a leaky roof. That's not much.”

“If it happens to be what I want, then it's enough, isn't it?”

She spoke with a stubborn dignity that he found both touch­ing and exasperating.

“Daisy, for God's sake, listen to me. Do you realize that I don't even know who my parents were or what race I belong to?”

“I don't care.”

“Your mother will.”

“My mother has always cared about a lot of the wrong things.”

“Maybe they're not wrong.”

“Why are you trying so hard to get rid of me, Steve?”

She had never before called him Steve, and the sound of it coming from her made him feel for the first time that the name was finally and truly his own, not something borrowed from a parish priest and tacked on by a Mother Superior. Even if he never saw Daisy again, he would always be grateful to her for this moment of strong, sure identity.

Daisy was wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. The lids were faintly pink, but unswollen, and he wondered whether a really powerful emotion could have caused such dainty and restrained weeping. Perhaps it had been no more than the weeping of a child denied a toy or an ice cream cone.

He said carefully, “We'd better not discuss this anymore tonight, Daisy. I'll take you back to your car.”

“I want to come with you.”

“You're making this tough for me. I can't force you to go home, and I can't leave you alone in this part of town even with the door locked.”

“Why do you keep referring to this part of town as if it were a corner of hell?”

“It is.”

“I'm coming with you,” she said again.

“To Mrs. Rosario's house?”

“If that's where you're going, yes.”

“Juanita might be there. And the child.”

A spasm of pain twisted her mouth, but she said, “It may be a necessary part of my growing up, to meet them both.”

19

Memories—how she cried before you were born, day in, day out, until I wished there were a way of using all those tears to irrigate the dry, dusty rangeland. . . .

 

She had taken
the children to the Brewsters' house and left them without explanation, and Mr. Brewster, who was crippled and liked to have company while he watched television, had demanded none. On her return trip she avoided the lighted streets, using shortcuts across backyards and driveways, hunched under her umbrella like a gnome on night business. She was not afraid, either of the dark or its contents. She knew most of the people in the neighborhood stood in awe of her because of the candles she burned and the number of times she went to church.

The thin walls of poverty hold few secrets. Even before she reached the porch, she could hear Juanita slamming around inside the house as if she were looking for something. Mrs. Rosario shook the water off her umbrella and removed her dripping coat, thinking,
Maybe she's got it in her head that I am spying on her again, and she is looking for me all over the house, even in places I couldn't pos­sibly be if I were a midget. I must hurry. . . .

But she couldn't hurry. Weariness dragged at her legs and arms, and ever since the scene with Juanita in the afternoon, there'd been a sickness in her stomach that didn't get worse but wouldn't go away. When she'd fed the children their supper, she had eaten nothing, just sipped a little lemon and anise tea.

She let herself quietly into the house and went to the bedroom to hang up her coat. With Pedro's help she had taken the broken door off its hinges and carried it out to the backyard, where it would lie, with other damaged pieces of her life, to warp in the rain and bleach in the sun. Next week she and Pedro would go to the junkyard and hunt for another door until they found one almost the right size. They would fix it up with sandpaper and a little paint. . . .

“Next week,” she said aloud, as if making a promise of improve­ment to someone who'd accused her of being slovenly. But the thought of the long trip to the junkyard, the grating of sandpaper, the smell of paint, increased her nausea. “Or the week after, when I am feeling stronger.”

Even without the door, the bedroom was her sanctuary, the only place where she could be alone with her grief and guilt. The can­dle in front of Camilla's picture had burned low. She put a fresh one in its place and lit it, addressing the dead man in the language they had used as children.

“I am sorry, Carlos, little brother. I yearned to see justice done, out in the open, but I had my Juanita to think of. Just that very week you came here, she had been arrested again, and I knew wherever she went in this town from then on, she'd be watched; they'd never let her alone—the police, the Probation Department, and the Clinic. I had to get her away where she could start over and live in peace. I am a woman, a mother. No one else would look after my Juanita, who was cursed at birth by the evil eye of the
curandera
masquerading as a nurse at the hospital. Not a penny did I touch for myself, Carlos.”

Every night she explained to Carlos what had happened, and every night his static smile seemed to indicate disbelief, and she was forced to go on, to convince him she had meant no wrong.

“I know you did not kill yourself, little brother. When you came to see me that night, I heard you telephoning the woman, telling her to meet you. I heard you ask for money, and I knew this was a bad thing, asking money from rich people; better to beg from the poor. I was afraid for you, Carlos. You acted so queer, and you would tell me nothing, only to be quiet and to pray for your soul.

“When the time came that you were to meet her, I went down to the jungle by the railroad tracks. I lost my way. I couldn't find you at first. But then I saw a car, a big new car, and I knew it must be hers. A moment later she came out from the bushes and began running towards the car, very fast, as if she was trying to escape. When I reached the bushes, you were lying there dead with a knife in you, and I knew she had put it there. I knelt over you and begged you to be alive again, Carlos, but you would not hear me. I went home and lit a candle for you. It is still burning, God rest your soul.”

She remembered kneeling in the dark in front of the little shrine, praying for guidance. She couldn't confide in Juanita or Mrs. Brewster, because neither of them could be trusted with a secret, and she couldn't call in the police, who were Juanita's ene­mies and hence her own. They might even suspect she was lying about the woman in the green car in order to protect Juanita.

She'd prayed, and as she prayed, one thought grew in her mind and expanded until it pushed aside all others: Juanita and her unborn child must be taken care of, and there was no one else to do it but herself. She'd called the woman on the telephone, know­ing only her name and the shape of her shadow and the color of her car. . . .

“It is a bad and dangerous thing, Carlos, asking money from the rich, and I was afraid for my life knowing what she'd done to you. But she was more afraid because she had more to lose than I. I did not tell her my name or where I lived, only what I had come across in the bushes and her running away to the car. I said I wanted no trouble, I was a poor woman, but I would never seek money for myself, only for my daughter, Juanita, with her unborn child that had no father. She asked me whether I'd told anyone else about you, Carlos, and I said no, with truth. Then she said if I gave her my telephone number, she would call me back; there was someone she had to consult. When she called back a lit­tle later, she told me she wanted to take care of my daughter and her child. She didn't even mention you, Carlos, or argue about the money, or accuse me of blackmail. Just ‘I would like to take care of your daughter and her child.' She gave me the address of an office I was to go to the next day at 12:30. When I went in, I thought at first it was a trap for me—she wasn't there, only a tall blond man, and then later the lawyer. No one talked about you, no one spoke your name, Carlos. It was as if you had never lived....”

She turned away from the picture with a groan as another spasm of nausea seized her stomach. The lemon and anise tea had failed to ease her, although it was made from a recipe handed down by her grandmother and had never failed in the past. Clutching her stomach with both hands, she hurried out to the kitchen, with the idea of trying some of the medicine the school doctor had sent home to cure Rita's boils. The medicine had not been opened; Mrs. Rosario was treating the boils herself with a poultice of ivy leaves and salt pork.

She was so intent on her errand, and her pain, that she didn't notice Juanita standing at the stove until she spoke. “Well, are you all through talking to yourself?”

“I was not—”

“I got ears. I heard you mumbling and moaning in there like a crazy woman.”

Mrs. Rosario sat down, hunched over the kitchen table. In spite of the pain crawling around inside her like a live thing with cruel legs, merciless arms, she knew she must talk to Juanita now. Mr. Harker had warned her; he'd been very angry that she had per­mitted Juanita to come back to town.

The room felt hot and airless. Juanita had turned the oven up high to cook herself some supper, and she hadn't opened the win­dow as she was supposed to. Mrs. Rosario dragged herself over to the window and opened it, gasping in the cold fresh air.

“Where are my kids?” Juanita said. “What have you done with them?”

“They're at the Brewsters'.”

“Why aren't they home in bed?”

“Because I didn't want them to overhear what I am going to say to you.” Mrs. Rosario returned to her place at the table, forcing herself to sit erect because she knew the disastrous effects which a show of weakness on her part sometimes had on her daughter. “The man who was with you—where is he?”

“He had some business to look after, but he'll be back.”

“Here?”

“Why not here?”

“You mustn't let him in. He's a bad man. He lies. Even about his name, which is not Foster but Fielding.”

Juanita masked her annoyance with a shrug. “I don't care. What difference does it—”

“Did you tell him anything?”

“Sure. I told him my feet hurt, and he said take off your shoes. So I took—”

“There is no time for insolence.” The strain of holding herself erect had weakened Mrs. Rosario's voice to a whisper, but even her whisper had a sting in it.

Juanita felt the sting and resented it. She was afraid of this old woman who could invoke saints and devils against her, and her fear was compounded by her knowledge that she had talked too much and too loosely to Fielding. “I never told him a thing, so help me God.”

“Did he ask you any questions about your Uncle Carlos?”

“No.”

“Or about Paul?”

“No.”

“Juanita, listen to me—I must have the truth this time.”

“I swear by Mary.”

“What do you swear?”

Juanita's face was expressionless. “Whatever you want me to.”

“Juanita, are you frightened of me? Are you afraid to tell the truth? I smell drink on your breath. Maybe the drink has made you forget what you said, eh?”

“I never said a word.”

“Nothing about Paul or Carlos?”

“I swear by Mary.”

Mrs. Rosario's lips moved silently as she bowed her head and crossed herself. The familiar gesture loosened angry memories in Juanita's mind, and they came crashing down like an avalanche of gravel, covering her fear with dust and noise.

“Do you call me a liar, you old witch?” she shouted.

“Shhhh. You must keep your voice down. Someone might—”

“I don't care. I got nothing to hide. That's more than you can say.”

“Please. We must have a quiet talk, we—”

“For all your moaning and groaning to God Almighty, you're no better than the rest of us, are you?”

“No. I am no better than the rest of you.”

Juanita's loud, harsh laughter filled the little room. “Well, that's the first thing you ever admitted in your whole damn life.”

“You must be quiet a minute and listen to me,” Mrs. Rosario said. “Sit down here beside me.”

“I can listen standing up.”

“Mr. Harker was here half an hour ago.”

Juanita had a vague memory of Fielding mentioning the name to her. It had meant nothing to her then and meant nothing now. “What's that got to do with me?”

“Mr. Harker is Paul's father.”

“Are you crazy? I never even heard of a guy called Harker.”

“You are hearing now. He is Paul's father.”

“By God, what are you trying to do? Prove I'm so spooky I can't even remember my own kid's father? You want me to get locked up so's you can keep the money from the trust fund for yourself?”

“There never was a trust fund,” Mrs. Rosario said quietly. “Carlos was a poor man.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“It was necessary. If you told anyone about Mr. Harker, the money would stop.”

“How could I tell anyone about Harker when I don't even know him?” Juanita pounded the table with her fist, and the salt-shaker gave a little jump, fell over on its side, and began spilling, as if it had been shot.

Hurriedly Mrs. Rosario picked up a pinch of the salt and put it under her tongue to ward off the bad luck that plagued a house where there was waste. “Please, there must be no violence.”

“Then answer me.”

“Mr. Harker has been supporting Paul because he is Paul's father.”

“He's not.”

“You are to say so, whether you remember or not.”

“I won't. It's not true.”

Mrs. Rosario's voice was rising in pitch as if it were competing with Juanita's. “You are to do as I tell you, without arguing.”

“You think I can't even remember Paul's father? He was in the Air Force, he went to Korea. I wrote to him. We were going to get married when he got out.”

“No, no! You must listen to me. Mr. Harker—”

“I never even heard of a guy called Harker. Never in my life, do you hear me?”

“Shhhh!” Mrs. Rosario's face had turned gray, and her eyes, darkened by fear, were fixed on the back door. “There's someone out on the porch,” she said in an urgent whisper. “Quick, lock the door, close the window.”

“I got nothing to hide. Why should I?”

“Oh God, will you never listen to your mother? Will you never know how much I've endured for you, how much I've loved you?”

She reached out to touch Juanita's hand with her own, but Juanita stepped back with a sound of contempt and disbelief, and went to the door.

She opened it. A man was standing on the threshold, and behind him, at the bottom of the porch steps, a woman, faceless in the shadows.

The man, a stranger to Juanita, was politely apologetic. “I knocked on the front door, and when I didn't get any answer, I came around to the back.”