A Stranger in My Grave

by Margaret Millar

  “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.”

  “Well?”

  “My name is Steve Pinata. If you don’t mind, I’d like to—”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “Your mother does.”

  “He’s a detective,” Mrs. Rosario said dully. “Tell him nothing.”

  “I’ve brought Mrs. Harker with me, Mrs. Rosario. She wants to talk to you about something that’s of great importance to her. May we come inside?”

  “Go away. I can’t talk to anyone. I’m sick.”

  Pinata knew from her color and her labored breathing that she was telling the truth. “You’d better let me call a doctor, Mrs. Rosario.”

  “No. Just leave me alone. My daughter and I were having... a little argument. It is no business of yours.”

  “From what I overheard, it’s Mrs. Harker’s business.”

  “Let her talk to her husband about it. Not me. I can say nothing.”

  “Then I’m afraid I’ll have to ask Juanita.”

  “No, no! Juanita is innocent. She knows nothing.”

  Using the table as support, Mrs. Rosario tried to push herself to her feet, but she fell back into the chair with a sigh of exhaus­tion. Pinata crossed the room and took her by the arm. “Let me help you.”

  “No.”

  “You’d better lie down quietly while I call a doctor.”

  “No. A priest—Father Salvadore...”

  “All right, a priest. Mrs. Harker and I will help you to your bedroom, and I’ll send for Father Salvadore.” He motioned to Daisy to come into the house, and she started up the porch steps.

  Up to this point Juanita had been standing, blank-faced, beside the open door, as if what was happening was of no concern or interest to her. It was only when Daisy reached the periphery of light that Juanita let out a gasp of recognition.

  She began screaming at her mother in Spanish. “It’s the woman I used to see at the Clinic. She’s come to take me away. Don’t let her. I promise to be good. I promise to buy you a new crucifix, and go to Mass and confession, and never break things anymore. Don’t let her take me away!”

  “Be quiet,” Pinata said. “Mrs. Harker’s had no connection with the Clinic for years. Now listen to me. Your mother’s very ill. She belongs in a hospital. I want you to help Mrs. Harker look after her while I call an ambulance.”

  At the word ambulance Mrs. Rosario tried once more to get to her feet. This time she fell across the table. The tabled tilted, and she slid slowly and gracefully to the floor. Almost immediately her face began to darken. Bending over her, Pinata felt for a pulse that wasn’t there.

  Juanita was staring down at her mother, her fists clasped against her cheeks in an infantile gesture of fright. “She looks so funny.”

  Daisy put her hand on Juanita’s shoulder. “We’d better go into the other room.”

  “But why does she look so black, like a nigger?”

  “Mr. Pinata has called an ambulance. There’s nothing else we can do.”

  “She isn’t dead? She can’t be dead?”

  “I don’t know. We—”

  “Oh, God, if she’d dead, they’ll blame me.”

  “No, they won’t,” Daisy said. “People die. There’s no use blam­ing anyone.”

  “They’ll say it’s my fault because I was bad to her. I broke her crucifix and the door.”

  “No one will blame you,” Daisy said. “Come with me.”

  It was only by concentrating on helping Juanita that Daisy was able to keep herself under control. She led Juanita into the front room and closed the door. Here, among the shrines and madon­nas and thorn-crowned Christs, death seemed more real than it had in the presence of the dead woman herself. It was as if the room had been waiting for someone to die in it.

  The two women sat side by side on the couch in awkward silence, like guests waiting for a tardy hostess to introduce them to each other.

  “I don’t know what it was all about,” Juanita said finally in a high, desperate voice. “I just don’t know. She asked me to lie, and I wouldn’t. I never met any Mr. Harker.”

  “He’s my husband.”

  “All right, then. Ask him. He’ll tell you himself.”

  “He’s already told me.”

  “When?”

  “Four years ago,” Daisy said. “Before your son was born.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he was the boy’s father.”

  “Why, he’s crazy.” Juanita’s fists were clenched so tight that the broad, flat thumbs almost covered the knuckles. “Why, the whole bunch of you are crazy. I don’t even know any Mr. Harker!”

  “I saw you getting out of his car at the parking lot outside the Clinic just before your baby was born.”

  “Maybe he just gave me a ride. A lot of people give me rides when I’m pregnant. I can’t remember them all. Maybe he was one of them. Or maybe it wasn’t even me you saw.”

  “It was you.”

  “All right, maybe I’m the one that’s crazy. Is that what you’re getting at? They oughta maybe come and take me away and lock me up someplace.”

  “That isn’t going to happen,” Daisy said.

  “Maybe it’d be better if it did. I can’t make sense of things like they are now. Like the business about my Uncle Carlos and the money—he said my mother had been lying about Uncle Carlos.”

  “Who said?”

  “Foster. Or Fielding. He said Uncle Carlos was an old friend of his and he knew a lot about him and what my mother told me was all lies.”

  “Your uncle’s name is—was Camilla?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think my fa—Mr. Fielding was telling you the truth?”

  “I guess so. Why shouldn’t he?”

  “Where is he now, this Mr. Fielding?”

  “He had an important errand, he said. He asked to borrow my car for a couple hours. We made like a bargain. I gave him the car; he gave me the dope on my uncle.”

  Daisy had no reason to doubt the statement: it sounded exactly like the kind of bargain her father would make. As fo
r the impor­tant errand, there was only one logical place it could have taken him—to her own home. Fielding, Juanita, Mrs. Rosario, Jim, her mother, Camilla, they were all beginning to merge and adhere into a multiple-headed monster that was crawling inexorably toward her.

  Outside the house the ambulance had come to a stop with one last suffocated wail of its siren.

  Juanita began to moan, bent double, so that her forehead pressed against her knees. “They’re going to take her away.”

  “They have to.”

  “She’s scared of hospitals; hospitals are where you die.”

  “She won’t be scared of this one, Juanita.”

  After a time the noises from the kitchen ceased. A door opened and banged shut again, and a minute later the ambulance pulled away from the curb. Its siren was mute. The time for hurrying had passed.

  Pinata came in from the kitchen and looked across the room at the moaning girl. “I called Mrs. Brewster, Juanita. She’s com­ing over to get you right away.”

  “I’m not going with her.”

  “Mrs. Harker and I can’t leave you here alone.”

  “I got to stay here and wait, in case they send my mother home. There won’t be anybody to look after her if I—”

  “She’s not coming home.”

  The strange blankness had come over Juanita’s face again, as concealing as the sheet that was used to cover her mother’s. With­out a sound, she rose to her feet and walked into the bedroom. The candle in front of Camilla’s picture was still burning. She leaned down and blew it out. Then she flung herself across the bed, rolled over on her back, and stared up at the ceiling. “It’s just wax. It’s just ordinary beeswax.”

  Daisy stood at the foot of the bed. “We’ll stay with you until Mrs. Brewster gets here.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Juanita, if there’s anything I can do, if there’s any way I can help you—”

  “I don’t want no help.”

  “I’m putting my card with my telephone number on it here on the bureau.”