Saving the World

by Julia Alvarez

  My little Francisco nodded readily. “I have been helping, haven’t I, Doña Isabel?”

  “You have been indispensable!” I drew out the word as if it were a proclamation.

  I doubt the boy knew exactly what the word meant, but he could tell he was being praised. His tearful face broke into a wide grin.

  “Six will scarcely take up two berths. Little Benito can sleep with me. And sir,” I added, addressing Don Francisco. I took a deep breath and confessed the secret I had held in my heart for months.

  No one said a word. In the silence we could hear the crowd milling in the square. The hearty greetings, the laughter seemed so at odds with what was now to be decided in this room: my fate.

  “So you cannot vouch for the boy?” Don Francisco finally spoke up. “He is not your son?”

  I had only presented Benito as my own so that if he were not selected as one of the carriers, he might still go with me. There had not been enough time for me to adopt him in La Coruña. Upon my return, or in New Spain, I would institute the proceedings. “He is not my child, but he is my son,” I explained, “as they are all my sons.”

  Our director and his assistants had come quite determined to carry out their plan. They had not anticipated the opposition they had encountered from the quiet, accommodating rectoress.

  “We have been quite crowded on board, as you say,” I went on. “And I know our mate has been most inconvenienced by ceding his cabin to me.”

  Don Francisco held up his hand in contradiction. “That is not it, Doña Isabel.”

  “My place is with the children,” I persisted. “Had I not been so ill, I would not have abandoned them.” I was determined not to accept any further favors. But the thought of the lewd steward only a thin partition away from where I would be sleeping qualified my determination. “Perhaps some other spot can be found for me on the ship.”

  I had a spot in mind. Soon after our arrival, and before the outing to Oratava, I had returned to the María Pita in hopes of retrieving Doña Teresa’s treats. Those cases, which I had marked with my own hand, had not been delivered, along with our chests, to the convent. I had brought several of the older boys along to help me carry them back. Our captain was ashore—for which I was secretly glad—but his first mate, Lieutenant Pozo, had been left in charge. Correct and stern while sailing, the mate seemed to be rendered powerless by being becalmed in a quiet bay. And by the presence of a woman inquiring after some missing items. The steward was summoned and it was soon clear that some thievery had been going on. Candied almonds, dried fruits, sugar balls?

  “Rats, sir,” the steward replied to each item.

  “See that those rats are discharged from the crew,” Lieutenant Pozo ordered.

  The steward put on a face of baffled innocence. “I do not understand, sir.”

  “See that you do!” Lieutenant Pozo shot back.

  The surly man muttered that it was not his fault the cat, Sirena, had fled our ship, what with two dozen damned boys pulling at her bloody tail, but finally he withdrew.

  “I will report this to our captain upon his return,” Lieutenant Pozo promised me.

  “No need for that, Lieutenant,” I put in quickly. I did not want to give our captain another instance of the rectoress being a bother.

  The lieutenant stiffened as if I’d been encouraging him to mutiny. “It is the rule,” he informed me.

  “Oh, but you are more than equal to this task, Lieutenant.”

  He wavered. I could see, as if through the tiniest of cracks, a ray of pride enter the forthright face. “I suppose … I could handle it myself.”

  “I would be most grateful, Lieutenant Pozo. Our captain has plenty to do. I am sure he depends on you to resolve minor problems with the crew.” Had I always been so adept at handling men’s natures? Why should it surprise me? For a dozen years, I had been handling younger specimens in similar situations. I, too, worked by calculation. Why then judge Don Francisco so harshly for his shrewdness? Why else? Because he was using it against me.

  Our lieutenant seemed to expand with the increased responsibility I had conferred on him, offering me and the boys a refreshment before our return. He had a drink on hand, an experiment, he explained, which Don Francisco would be conducting during our crossing. A daily infusion meant to combat the dreaded scurvy. It consisted of a lemon drink sweetened with molasses. I complimented it, and Lieutenant Pozo agreed it was very tasty and refreshing. “Whether it is a medicine against the scurvy, I cannot say.” He himself was a believer in “a daily dosing of vinegar.”

  “But this will do the men no harm,” he added, holding up his glass and quaffing it in one swallow. “And as long as Dr. Balmis does not experiment with denying the men’s daily ration of rum, we should be all right.” I almost detected a smile on the stern but not unkind face.

  At the boys’ request, Lieutenant Pozo obliged us with a tour of the ship. Often I was on the point of reminding him to beware a beam—the man’s height ill befits the low ceilings between decks! But it seems the first mate has lived much of his life at sea, as have many in his family—two cousins are among the crew—so he knows as if by instinct when to stoop and where to watch his step.

  I had never fully understood how our wooden house was put together, as the various compartments seemed to roll around on the heavy seas. How wonderful to peer into all its little spaces! At the entrance to the wardroom and officers’ quarters we passed a compartment where Don Francisco’s five hundred copies of the Tratado had been stowed along with some of his instruments. That space was now vacant. Perhaps room could be made for me to sleep there?

  The church bell startled us with its sonorous tolling. Once, twice, three times. In the ensuing silence, we could hear the crowd in the plaza. The afternoon vaccinations would soon begin. I needed to fetch our next carrier: the sure José in place of Benito. Still, I lingered. I had yet to receive his assurance that we would all continue together.

  As children often do, sensing the unasked question among their elders, the boy spoke up. “Am I to go on with you?” he asked Don Francisco directly.

  Our director nodded toward me. “We must ask your rectoress.” The color flew to my face. Was he jesting in anger or was he in earnest? “What do you say, Doña Isabel? Do we continue?”

  He knew my answer. Why was he forcing my hand? Perhaps it was the largesse of someone with power, flattering an underling with the control of an empty purse’s strings. Surely, he could overrule whatever I chose. “We continue all together,” I answered him, my trembling voice betraying me.

  “We continue all together.” Don Francisco held up his hands as if he had no power against such a ruling. But there was a leniency to his tone and a smile on his face that belied such surrender. He was being gracious, to be sure. I swallowed, my face burning, my hands in fists lest he be mocking me. But the boy took him at his word. He leapt up, wild with relief and joy, so much so, that Dr. Gutiérrez stepped forward, alarmed less his jostling break the vesicle before we could make use of its precious fluid.

  As I turned to go, my eyes met Don Francisco’s. I could not be sure, for I was indeed flustered with my triumph and still angry with him, but the look he cast my way seemed to say, I see that I have brought along a formidable foe as well as a noble friend to our mission. It will not be an easy journey.

  I dared not reply, You are right, Don Francisco.

  6 enero 1804

  Nati, dearest, how many times haven’t I meant to continue and now must resign myself to make a hurried finish. The wind is in our sails and we are off before the day is over. The last of the water casks are being rowed on board as well as those provisions that would have spoiled if stowed earlier. All our chests are readied, and the cart should be here any minute now to carry them away. I will entrust this letter to the Sisters to send along with their own letters to the Espíritu Santo when the wind turns in its favor.

  We will again parade down to the docks just as we did in La Coruña. The prep
arations outside are in progress, as I write. A large crowd is gathering, which will accompany us, led by the marquis and the marchesa and the bishop, singing a Te Deum, in gratitude for our work. The cannons at Castillo San Juan will fire and no doubt terrify the boys. The Sisters are presently helping them dress in their red and gold uniforms, finally at ease (just as we depart!) with these little men who are, they have discovered, not much different from little women.

  And so farewell, Nati. Who knows when I shall be able to send you a letter again? But please do not worry on our account. I give thanks to be granted this opportunity to serve, for I am convinced that this is God’s work, especially when I review the great labor that has been accomplished here in Santa Cruz. Hundreds of souls vaccinated! How apt that we leave on Epiphany. Like the three wise men of long ago we bear a precious gift to all—or most of our brothers and sisters. May God bless our journey.

  Please give each and every one of our boys a sweet kiss from Doña Isabel and my greetings and gratitude to Doña Teresa for her thoughtfulness toward us. (I trust you will not tell her about the missing cases as her righteous rage would surely make her ill!)

  As for me, I am not much changed: good only because I am not often given the opportunity to behave otherwise! I assure you I have not had to use your pin once. And though the sun has improved my complexion and the salt air invigorated me, I am afraid I will go to my grave as immaculate as the Blessed Virgin.

  I miss you, my dear friend, and hope you are all, every one of you, well. Trust that we are in God’s hands and safe in His care.

  I finished just as Sor Octavia came to my door to announce that the cart was here. Could the men come up to carry my chest downstairs?

  “I will be ready shortly,” I assured her. “They can start with the boys’ chests in the front room.”

  She hurried away with my instructions.

  I folded up the letter. There was no time to seal it properly as my wax and seal were packed away. Hopefully, the Sisters would not read my missive and pale at my blasphemous comparison, though by then I would be far away.

  And yet … God’s eyes were all-seeing. He might well send down a heavy rain and a stormy sea to punish me!

  And so it was that with so little time for such frivolity, I took up my quill again and blotted out the sacrilegious sentence. Quickly, my eyes ran down the page and caught at the mention of the steward’s lewd offer. Why worry Nati with news that could only trouble her? That passage, too, I blotted out, and refolded the letter.

  Enough! I had better hurry. I cast a quick glance around the room to make sure all my possessions were packed away. Only what I could carry in my small purse would go with me on the parade down to the dock. I knelt at my chest to lock it, and as I did, I heard the heavy tread of the men downstairs moving the trunks, the shouts and excitement of the boys among them, the steward ordering the little devils out of his goddamn, bloody way.

  The steward … His image rose before me: his wet breath in my ear; his flushed, drunken face; his hands fumbling in the dark for me.

  Quickly, I pulled open my chest and rummaged about until I found the small box with needles and thread. I withdrew Nati’s gift and pinned it to the inside bodice of my dress. May the Virgin protect me, I prayed, and keep me from having to use my only weapon as I crossed the unchaperoned sea.

  4

  November 12, late Friday afternoon

  TO: Mi amor

  FAX: 802-388-4344

  FROM: Ricardo

  FAX: 809-682-0800

  ¡Hola, querida! I’m so sorry you’ve been having problems reaching me. Hard to believe it’s already been almost a week and I haven’t heard your sweet voice. The clinic phone/fax machine was down, as you probably guessed, but a tech guy from the capital got it up and running, and your faxes all came through, so I know you’ve been trying. Turns out nothing was wrong with the machine. The cable outside had been cut. Some campesino with his machete hacking away at the yerba. Getting pretty good with the old español, eh?

  I didn’t make it down the mountain all week: been doing a survey of the area—what the needs are, what’s viable. Locals have been a little pulled back, which is natural, given earlier trouble with clinic, but you know how hard it is to resist that old Midwestern charm. By the way, you mentioned that Emerson left a message? Weird. He knows I’m here. Maybe he’s been trying to reach me, too, and thought you might have had better luck?

  I’m staying with Bienvenido in a casita next to the clinic. Well, he doesn’t spend all his nights here. Every Saturday he goes to see his wife and kid in the capital. Turns out women here—once they get a little up on the class scale—develop a downright phobia of el campo! I guess the age of women following their beloveds to the ends of the earth is over. (Sigh.) Just joking!

  I’ll write more later, just wanted to send this off before the clinic closes, so you don’t worry. I’ll also try calling, but I think you said Tera was coming this weekend, so you’re probably out on a picket line. How’s Helen? Give her my love. You can give Tera my love, too. And as for you, querida, I love you with a love too big to put into words, Ricardo.

  Richard’s fax is waiting when Alma gets back from having to pick up Tera, as Paul needs their one car for the weekend. Alma is so relieved, she reads it through greedily—no gunshot wounds, no scorpion bites—Tera at her side. Just in time, Alma spots her friend’s name in the last paragraph and pulls the sheet to her bosom, suddenly a demure heroine from the nineteenth century.

  “Excuse me! This is a love letter!” Alma gives Tera a coy look.

  “A love fax,” Tera corrects. “What’s this about trouble and a clinic?”

  Alma hasn’t told Tera about the clinic, knowing her friend will probably plug it into some high-voltage story she has read about and blow Alma right off the worry charts. All week she hasn’t heard from Richard. Actually, there was a call from Bienvenido’s wife, Charmin, who’d heard from Bienvenido, who’d asked her to call Alma with a message from Richard that he was fine, that the phone/fax wasn’t working, that he hadn’t been down the mountain as he’d been involved in a survey, everything he later explained in his fax. But all Alma was thinking was how come Bienvenido could find a way to call his wife and Richard couldn’t do the same for her.

  Tera’s glancing around—she hasn’t been down to visit in a while. Probably looking at all the extras Alma doesn’t need. “I thought you told me Richard was setting up some green center?”

  “He is. This is just some clinic that’s nearby.” Alma shrugs it off, but then her own Achilles’ heels, yes two of them, double strength, trip her up: her need to tell the dear ones in her life the intriguing little stories that happen left and right. “It’s actually an AIDS treatment center of some kind, which is really strange, because remember that call I got a few weeks back? I mean, back to back, like that.”

  “AIDS is an epidemic.” Tera states matter-of-factly as if, of course, Alma already knows this and shares all the feelings appertaining, which is something refreshing about Tera. She’s not righteous with her outrage. It’s a bright light shining in her own as well as everyone else’s eyes. “So what’s the clinic about, an offshore drug-testing site of some kind?”

  It doesn’t sound good, and Tera does keep up on everything horrible. “No, it’s a center for treating AIDS patients who can’t afford treatment.” Alma can’t keep the righteousness out of her own voice, which is ridiculous as she is improvising on what this clinic is all about.

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm what?” But before Tera can elaborate on her hmm of suspicion, Alma blurts out, “I’m going to ask you a big favor, Tera. I don’t want to worry about Richard, okay? I know it’s politically regressive of me to say this, but let’s have a moratorium on south-of-the-border horrors this weekend, okay?” Alma is surprised at her own angry words, even more so, when she glances over and sees the hurt look on Tera’s face. Is she really the bully who just stomped on the fat girl’s sand castle and then smashed he
r pail in the bargain? And because Alma knows that she is partly that mean kid, she backs down. “Ay, Tera, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it—”

  “Of course, you meant it,” Tera says intelligently. “I know what a pain in the ass I can be. Cassandra syndrome. You start talking truth to power and you can’t stop.”

  She said it better than Alma could. She looks away so Tera can’t see in her eyes that Alma agrees with her. “It was still a mean way to say it,” Alma admits, then goes on to tell Tera about the week of worrying, about how Helen is going downhill, how she might not even make it to Christmas, before Alma leaves for Florida, where the plan is to meet up with Richard at her parents’, who aren’t doing so well themselves. And all these things are true. But there’s still just the sheer rush that comes from letting her mean streak have a go at it. Honestly, and she talks about her capricious Mamasita!

  “If it weren’t for you, I’d have such a petite soul, I mean it, Tera. You keep us all on our toes.” Alma goes on defending Tera, as if ganging up on herself will make up for wanting to hurt her friend, turning the meanness on herself, more of the same.

  Tera has started unpacking her overnight bag, which looks like a big flowered carpetbag. Everything in it seems to be pamphlets. She stops for a moment, a stack of info in her hand, and scowls. “Who wants to be on their toes all the time?”

  Alma can’t help herself. “You do!”

  Tera narrows her eyes at Alma in mock anger, then hurls the stack in her hands, pelting Alma with pale blue hospice care pamphlets.

  November 13, Saturday noon

  TO: Mi amor FAX: 802-388-4344