“I am an American,” he said. “Do you speak English?”
“Yes! I understand you.”
“What is your name, ma’am? Where did you come from?”
“I—” A blank look came over her face. “I don’t know.”
She clutched at her blanket again. “Where am I? How long have I been here?”
Sammy started to explain how he had found her in the water. “Estabas en el mar. Te trajo a nosotros.”
The plantation man started to explain but the woman interrupted.
“The sea brought me here? When did this happen?” It seemed she understood some Spanish but only spoke English.
The American translated.
“Two months you have been here. You had a very high fever and were delirious at times.”
She accepted this news with a gentle nod but when they asked her name she became agitated again.
“I don’t know! I can’t remember anything. Not about my life or how I got into the sea.”
“There is a doctor at the plantation,” the American said. “I will fetch him. Maybe he can provide answers.”
But the bespectacled old man seemed stymied as well. “She’s got no injuries to her head. Perhaps the fever harmed her brain,” he said as he packed away the few instruments he’d brought along. He turned to Sammy’s mother. “Did she have any personal items with her?”
“No, Señor, only her undergarments.”
Sammy, who had waited outside while the doctor performed his exam, came back into the common room just then. “There was one thing. A box.”
He located it on the shelf above the cook stove where it had been drying, picked it up and held it out. “You had this in your arms when I found you in the water.”
“Do you recognize it?” the doctor asked, watching her face closely.
She shook her head. No sign of familiarity showed on her face.
“Only time will tell,” said the doctor as he picked up his bag. “Send for me if she gets worse. Otherwise, I’m afraid there is nothing I can do for her.”
“Let me get you some clothing,” Mamá said. “You will stay with us. Meanwhile, we need to call you by a name. Sirena—she is a maid from the sea.”
“Find a skirt and blouse,” she directed Yolanda, who did not look pleased. “She is close to your size.”
“I can help with the housework,” Sirena said, “and I can make some clothing for myself later.”
What will become of her? Sammy wondered. Perhaps he should consider applying for work at the plantation. The house had been too full of women before this one woke up and began adding her own ideas. Mamá would welcome the help, but Yolanda had a deep crease between her eyebrows.
* * *
Mary Conway opened the picnic basket that James had carried from her buggy. Sunday dinners after church had become their routine, the four of them sitting on a big quilt under the shade of the tall elm beside the church along with other families on their own blankets.
Families. James realized he and his daughters were increasingly thinking of Mary as part of theirs. She uncovered a bowl of potato salad and set it beside the plate of fried chicken before handing plates and cutlery to each of the girls.
“Hold still and let me tuck a napkin here at your neck,” she said gently to Constance. “We don’t want to mess up your pretty dress.”
“Mrs. Johnson says there’s ice cream for dessert,” James said with a wink at each of the children. “Her boys began cranking the freezer right after Sunday School.”
Nancy let out a cheer and nearly upset her plate.
“All right, one thing at a time,” Mary said. “Hold that chicken leg tight until you’ve finished it. Then we’ll think about ice cream.”
Those thoughtful words and touches, so like Elizabeth would have done. He turned slightly and stared off across the open field to the north of the church. Five months and he still missed her so badly that his heart literally hurt at times. The grief would hit at the oddest moments—as he tied his own tie instead of her doing it for him; when Nancy stared at him with Elizabeth’s eyes; when Elvira complained that she couldn’t seem to get the pancake batter just right, the way Miss Elizabeth always did. His eyes would water and a strange prickle would start on his upper lip, and the only way to get past the moment was to bite his lip and blink and make himself very busy with some inconsequential task.
And then there were Sundays like this one. Mary bringing a homemade dinner, serving it under the tree and the four of them sitting together and conversing, acting like a real family. She would be a wonderful mother. A wonderful wife, too, he suspected.
Convention said it was too soon. Mourning should last a full year. A year, he knew, was far too short a time in which to forget the person you had loved with all your heart, the mother of your children, the sweetheart you had known since the fourth grade and had traveled with from the east coast to the wild land of the Texas territory. But then his heart ached in a different way at the sight of his daughters and the way they sometimes wandered the house with lonely expressions on their faces.
James had to admit that he was lonely too, and that his Tuesday night visits to Fancy were no substitute for what he really needed.
“One more bite of your green beans,” Mary was saying, “and then you may run off and play with the others.”
Nancy seemed itchy to move but she complied. Constance had cleaned her own plate and was picking the fried crumbles from her sister’s.
“Now when Mrs. Johnson announces the ice cream, I expect you both to act like ladies and await your turn with manners and decorum.”
Yes, James thought. He definitely needed a wife. He took a generous bite from the chicken breast Mary had served and watched as she gathered the children’s plates and stacked things neatly back in the basket.
“Can we take a walk, out to the grove?” he asked. “There’s something I want to ask you.”
* * *
Sirena carried the heavy water bucket toward the house, her blue cotton skirt dragging against her legs in the heat of the day. Something told her that September weather should not be this hot, this sticky. Wherever she had come from, she suspected, it was not a tropical climate like this one. She was, it seemed, the mystery of the Yucatan.
As happened more frequently in the month since she had regained her health, she found herself thinking of the future, more so than the past. The Avila family had been extraordinarily kind to take her in and she hoped that her contribution was helping—fetching water, pitching in with the cooking and cleaning. But it didn’t change the fact that she was not a daughter of the household and had no real right to be there. She considered getting a job to support herself and finding a small home of her own.
Perhaps she could teach English to the village children, although most of them had no real use for it. Those who got jobs at the plantation were hired as labor to tend the banana plants and the yards around the company housing built for the supervisors and scientists who were here to study how to grow varieties hardy enough for shipment to other parts of the world. Female workers generally were hired only for cooking and cleaning. So far, few of the Americans had brought their families down here, but when they did maybe Sirena could suggest starting a small school. She seemed to remember enough of her language and mathematics skills certainly to teach at an elementary level.
Meanwhile, she would help the Avilas prepare for Cornelia’s upcoming wedding and do her best not to cross Yolanda.
In the kitchen she poured some of the water into a dishpan and began to scrub the breakfast dishes. The rest of the common room had simple furnishings: a shelf beside the stove where dishes and pans were stored, a built-in banco for sitting, chairs around a table, and the bed where she had convalesced which she later learned was Sammy’s. The dear boy had slept on one of the bancos for weeks until Sirena insisted that she exchange places. It was another reason she felt the need to find herself a separate home.
She set the dishes to
drain on a towel while she tidied the rest of the room. Sammy tended to leave shoes in the middle of the earthen floor and whichever of his three shirts he had dirtied would be draped over the back of a dining chair. She gathered the things and put them in their correct places.
A layer of dust coated nearly everything, stirred by their walking about, so she found a rag and began going over the surfaces. Beside the longest of the bancos, a small table held the lantern they usually lit at night and beside it sat the wooden box Sammy once told her she had brought with her from the sea. It was not an attractive piece, certainly more crude than the rustico style of furniture found so prevalently here. The carved lines on it were fairly straight and the rounded areas of the quilted pattern were burnished smooth with age. The color was, frankly, ugly—a stain that had been unevenly applied and then darkened to a murky brown. Of course, the discoloration might be blamed on its time in the sea; it might have been beautiful once in its life. Funny, she felt no connection to it. Why had she clutched it in her arms as he described?
Most likely it was simply something floating in the water and she had gripped it in a moment of desperation. Surely it was impossible that the small object had kept her afloat. She picked it up, dusted the table beneath, then decided to sit and have a closer look. Previously, she had not noticed the hinged lid. It came open with a squeal of swollen wood and a shower of rust flakes from the metal. Faint markings showed on the inside of the lid but they were nearly worn down. The first stroke could be part of the letter V. She worked it back and forth a little until the hinges loosened. A bit of oil could help, but it would be better to have the hinges replaced. She supposed the box belonged to her, but did she really care?
She started to set it back in place on the table but noticed that the box seemed more attractive now. The wood had taken on a golden glow and it felt warm to the touch. She raised the lid once more and looked inside, touched the inner surfaces tentatively with her fingertips.
Almost immediately, pain stabbed at her temples. She dropped the box to the floor and grabbed at her head.
“Sirena— ¿Qué pasa?” Sammy crossed the room and rushed to her side.
“My head. It—”
“Iré a el doctor.” He was gone before she could respond.
By the time Sammy, Manuelito, Señora Avila and the doctor came back, Sirena felt much better. The pain had come and gone with a jolt, leaving only a disoriented feeling.
The American doctor knelt beside her. “Can you tell me where it hurts?”
“The pain is gone. But I have the oddest feeling. I remember things.”
“The boat wreck at sea?” Sammy asked.
“My name is Elizabeth, Elizabeth Cox. I lived in Galveston, in Texas.”
Four sets of eyes stared at her. The doctor spoke first.
“My dear Miss Cox, how on earth did you arrive in this part of Mexico?”
She sat very still, memories returning in bits and scraps, like wisps of cloud that formed and vanished.
“I think—” She shook her head with a jerk. “I think there was a balloon.”
The doctor sent her a look of disbelief. The Mexicans clearly had no concept of what on earth she was talking about.
“I think I had better lie down for a moment.”
When she awoke, dinner was on the table and her first conscious thought was another memory: a man with a loving look on his face, a man who called her Elizabeth. Two little girls. Their sweet faces broke her heart. She wiped at the tears that streamed down her face, rose and offered to help Mamá Avila serve the tortillas. Before they had finished their meal, a knock came at the door. The American doctor was back.
“I have some good news for you, my dear. Our next shipment of bananas leaves day after tomorrow and the destination is the port of Galveston. I have secured you a cabin.”
She stared at him.
“You’re going home.”
* * *
Mary Conway stared into the mirror, past her own shoulder. Her mother was moving fussily about the room, holding one glove and apparently looking for its mate.
“Your glove is probably right there with mine,” she said, “beside my bouquet. Now stop worrying and let’s get into that sanctuary. James is waiting.”
Wasn’t the bride supposed to be the nervous one, the mother offering reassurance? She imagined it had to do with the unconventionally quick marriage, barely six months after James’s being widowed. Or the fact that he was older and Mary was becoming the mother of two? She handed her mother the second glove and took her by the elbow.
“Go on now, take your seat. Daddy and I will be right along.”
Mary watched her mother bustle through the church’s small vestibule, say something to Dad, then go inside. She took a final glance in the mirror, tucked in a stray wisp of hair, and went to join her father. She had dreamed of this day, as she supposed most girls did, all her life. Had dreamed of being with James since those first tentative days of courtship with the Sunday picnics under the big elm tree.
Her father smiled as she approached. “You look radiant, my dear.”
She took his elbow and faced the double doors leading to the sanctuary. Behind them, the outer door opened, casting a shaft of light into the dim space. They paused. A last-minute guest. Mary turned and saw the silhouette of a lone woman against the sunlit doorway. Then the door closed and the woman spoke.
“I … Sorry to interrupt. No one was home and I saw all the carriages here …”
Elizabeth Cox.
Mary felt her face go pale. Her dream shattered into a million tiny bits.
* * *
Sammy Avila whacked with his machete at the tall grass beside one of the plantation houses. Robert Smith always wanted the grass trimmed short, a silly custom he thought. It always grew back. The grass had grown back every few weeks for the ten years he had held this job. Sammy’s wife worked inside—cooking, cleaning, washing the clothes of the Americano family. Each week they accepted their pay and laughed together at these people and their funny habits.
This week Sammy made sure the boss did not catch them laughing. He needed a favor, an advance on his salary. He had fallen into the habit of playing cards with some of the younger jardineros and last week he’d gone beyond his usual limit. He’d lost the money they needed for his little granddaughter’s surgery. He spotted Robert Smith, who was walking toward his office in the main building. Sammy dropped the machete and caught up with him.
“Sammy, you asked me the same thing two months ago. What are you doing with all this money?”
Sammy looked down and kicked at the ground. “Okay, Mister Robert, how about it’s not a loan, instead I sell you something?”
Smith looked at him skeptically. “What would you sell?”
“Avocados.”
“Which you picked from my trees.”
“A dinner especial prepare by Dora and me, you invite all you guests.”
“Dora does that anyway. It’s part of her job. Look, I’m late for a meeting with my boss. Let me think about this.”
Robert Smith walked away and Sammy went back to the grass, thinking of another way to solve his problem. Leaving his machete behind, he walked to the tiny casita where he and Dora lived behind the Smith’s house. One thing came to mind.
He went to a cabinet and pulled out the wooden box that the strange lady they had called Sirena had left behind. Sammy hardly remembered her after all these years but had always found a certain fascination with the odd artifact. And what use did he have for it, really? He remembered showing it once to Robert Smith’s young son and the boy’s eyes lit up when he saw the dark wood and the little colored stones. Perhaps this could be his bargaining chip. He carried the box outside, set it near the base of a palm tree and resumed cutting the grass.
When Robert Smith emerged from the supervisor’s office near lunch time, he seemed in a good mood. Sammy seized the opportunity.
“Señor Robert! I have something,” he said, a little
breathless from dashing across the yard. “This box—very old, very special. It has been in my family a long time. Your little boy would like it very much.”
“But your family—”
Sammy made a serious face. “My grandbaby’s operation is more important. We want to part with the box.”
Smith reached into the pocket of his trousers and drew out some paper money. “You are sure? You want to sell the box, not simply have a loan?”
Sammy nodded vigorously. His eyes were on the cash as he handed the box over without a second glance.
“Thank you, señor. Muchas gracias, muchas gracias.”
Smith smiled and tucked the box under his arm before walking the rest of the way to his house. Sammy thought of the next card game. Tonight he could probably double this money.
* * *
Robert Smith walked into the kitchen where the maid, Dora, was preparing lunch. Some kind of fish with chopped hot peppers and tomatoes, her homemade tortillas, and plantains for dessert. Always some form of banana in the meals here.
“Smells good,” he said, setting the wooden box on the table.
He noticed her eyeing the box.
“Sammy sold it to me,” he said. “I felt badly taking it, being a family heirloom and all.” He realized she probably understood half of what he’d said. He slowed down. “If you want it back …?”
She got that. She shook her head. “I do not want.”
“The money for your granddaughter, for her operation … You may keep it anyway, even if you want the box.”
Dora looked out the window to where Sammy was again cutting the grass. A knowing look came over her face. She shook her head and went back to the melon she was cutting.
“Darling, I’m so glad you are home for lunch!” Susan Smith came into the kitchen and gave her husband a kiss on the cheek. “What a busy morning I’ve had. The wives club—”
Robert was bursting with news and Susan saw it on his face.
The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 18
