I mouthed the words behind Lupita’s back as she said, ‘She’s a perfect saint.’ She said, ‘And you, you got so many books in your room, your shelves are groanin’ under their weight. Now, shoo and do some readin’. Leave me to my work!’
Lupita pushed me out of the warm kitchen and slammed the door behind me. I shuffled back to bed and flipped through my dog-eared copy of Poe’s Arthur Gordon Pym. I must have fallen asleep at some point, because I dreamed I was trapped in the dark, dank hold of a ship, just like the boy in the book. I started at the sound of my door slowly creaking open. It was Lupita. Her hand was trembling on the doorknob. Her face was ashen grey. She clutched a piece of paper in her other hand. She stumbled into the room and dropped onto my bed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Oh, Lupita,’ I asked, ‘whatever’s the matter?’
‘¡Es mi hermana!’ she said and burst out crying. Holding her hands to her eyes, she said ‘I was just sweepin’ up the entranceway, when I sees this telegrama stickin’ under the door. There’s never no good news that comes early in the mornin’.’
‘What’s happened to your sister?’ I asked.
‘She’s got the flu, God bless her! La influenza maldita.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’
Lupita continued, ‘She’s got the fever, the chills. She’s not gonna last long. The only thing she wants . . .’ she said, letting out a peal of sobs, ‘is for me to see her before she passes. Oh Virgilio! Virgilio! she’s my only family!’ and collapsed in my arms. I stroked her wiry, grey hair. I felt so helpless. The woman had helped raise me. She’d made my life bearable. Now she was in agony, and there was nothing I could do for her.
‘Oh, mi pequeño Virgilio!’ she sobbed, ‘My sister’s so far away. It’ll take a day or two to walk to the road. Then, if I’m lucky, I could take the mail truck up to her cabin. . . . Oh, but I can’t leave you. Your papá won’t be back for weeks.’
‘You could send a telegram to Father,’ I ventured. ‘He’ll know what to do.’
‘No,’ she said, clenching her fist around the telegram. ‘He told me under no circumstances should I try to contact him. He said he’s on a mission from God and can’t be interrupted.’
Without realising what I was saying I blurted out, ‘Go to your sister, Lupita. I can take care of myself for a few days.’
She looked up at me with blurry eyes and said, ‘No. I promised your papá I’d take care of you . . . and I promised your lovely mamá long before that. Virgilio, you’re a little boy. You can’t take care a yourself.’
I puffed my chest up and said, ‘I’ll be fourteen in a week.’
‘What if you have one of your fits?’
‘It’s been months since I had an attack.’
‘Ay, Virgilio, no seas mentiroso . . .’ she said and shook her head. ‘It was just last Friday.’
‘Look,’ I said, ‘why don’t you ask someone in town to look in on me now and then? And if somethin’ happens, Doc Evans is close by.’
Lupita kept shaking her head and said, ‘Verge, I still don’t. . . .’
I cut her off, ‘Look, Lupita. She’s your only sister. Every minute you waste arguing with me is a minute less with her. Go to her now. She needs you.’
She said softly, ‘If I do this, you gotta promise you take care of yourself. Wear your flannel pyjamas. And don’t do nothin’ tontito like goin’ out in the garden in the rain.’
‘I swear.’
In a soft, unsure voice, she said, “Well. . . . I’d only be gone a few days. There’s some steaks in the icebox. All you gotta do is fry ’em up. There’s some ham. And the bread’s just from yesterday.’
Taking my hands in hers, she looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Oh, Virgilio, do you really think this is the right thing to do?’
‘Sure. Family comes first.’
Lupita blurted out, ‘¡Eres un angelito!’ and she squeezed me so hard she left me breathless. Then she burst out of the room. Before I knew it, Lupita was standing in front of me with a huge felt hat pulled down over her ears, a carpet-bag in one hand and an umbrella in the other. Kissing me on the cheek, she said, ‘You’re so much like your mamá, you make me wanna cry.’ As she dashed towards the door, she said, ‘I’m gonna drop off the keys at Mr Bellows’ store, with a note explainin’ everything. ’Member to take your medicine,’ she ordered, pointing to the bottle of molasses-like mixture on the kitchen counter. My stomach turned just thinking of it. Then she closed the heavy oak door behind her and turned the only key.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As Lupita’s steps faded away, I realised that, for the first time in my entire life I was alone. At first this filled me with a sense of exhilaration. No rules. No one telling me what to do. Wasn’t that what I’d always dreamed of?
But then I heard the scratching of twigs against the windows and the droning of the rain. The wind whistling through the gaps in the roof sounded like a far-away voice. I was truly alone. If I had another attack, there was no one to call for the doctor. The garden walls were too high for me to climb. The windows were barred. I doubt if even a passing neighbour could hear me shout.
I tried not to dwell on fanciful ideas. After all, I’d been trapped in my house for years. The only difference now was that I was alone. All I had to do was to wait for Mr Bellows to open up his store across the street. He’d find the note and keys Lupita had left for him, and then he’d come in and check on me. I liked Mr Bellows. He was a gentle giant of a man in his sixties. He had a kind smile, ham-like hands, and hair all over his back. He was still considered a newcomer, having only arrived in Incarnation in 1905.
If the rumours were true, he’d studied Fine Arts back in Dallas, where he’d specialised in sculpting nude women. But he was involved in some scandal—probably with a model—and he was forced to leave. Some said he was involved with a married woman. Others that he was running from the Law. I always liked these stories, because they gave him an air of mystery. The biggest mystery, however, was how he’d ever married his wife, Betty. Betty Bellows was a heavy-set woman her husband’s size, with a hairy upper lip and the massive arms of a professional wrestler. She was also as crazy as a goat. On the rare occasions I convinced Lupita to let me cross the street to buy some flour, Mrs Bellows would say, ‘Now, Luke, you be a good boy. And don’t go playin’ with matches, you hear? Empty hands do the Devil’s work.’
I’d given up long ago trying to tell her my name was Vergil. She’d just roll her eyes with the crazed look of an Old Testament prophet and say, ‘If you go lyin’, I gotta go to church and pray for your soul. The Good Lord knows who’s been justified and who ain’t.’
I never thought the woman was dangerous, and I never saw her all that often. Mr Bellows only left her in charge when he was having ‘one of his spells’.
I pressed my ear to the front door, trying to hear any movement from the street. All I could hear was the rattling of windows and the rain. For a moment I thought I heard something, a whispering in the leaves. No, it sounded more like weeping, and it was coming from the garden. I slowly trudged out through the kitchen door to the garden patio. The black of early morning was just beginning to transform itself into the sleeting grey of dawn.
I noticed the old wind chime my mother had made for me, a collection of shells and bones. It hung from a rusty nail, chiming gently in the breeze. It was one of the few things of hers that remained. I strained my ears but couldn’t hear anything but the tinkling of the chime. I shouldn’t let my imagination get away from me. I stood there for a little while as the rain misted down, and my eyes fell on the rusting pile of old bedsteads, hat racks and odds and ends of pipes. Soon after Mother disappeared, Father had made Carlos do a thorough spring clean of the trunk room. He had removed centuries of junk and stacked it on the grass. More than anything, I think Father had wanted to get rid of old memories. The pile was supposed to have been temporary, but Carlos left us before he could take it to the dump on the edge of town. So the rusting mount
ain of discarded things remained. As I peered out at the wild undergrowth, it looked like a barricade against the twisted forest.
I went back into the parlour, put my feet up on the sofa and continued leafing through Arthur Gordon Pym. After a few minutes, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the knob to the front door suddenly rattle. It almost made me jump right out of my skin. A muffled, childlike voice from behind the door called, ‘Luke, you bein’ a good boy in there? I come to check on you.’
It was Mr Bellows’ crazy wife. She, and not her husband, must have picked up Lupita’s note! I ran to the door and called out, ‘Mrs Bellows. Yeah, it’s me . . . little Luke. I’m all right. Could you please unlock the door and let me out?’
‘You’re such a funny boy, Luke! You know I can’t do that. Lupita wrote me such a nice note, sayin’ you got the influenza. Can’t take no chances with the influenza. Little babies get sick and die. Gotta stay where you is and stay warm.’
Her voice grew faint, as she started to walk away, singing to herself, ‘I had a little bird, and its name was Enza. I opened up the window . . . and in-flew-Enza.’
I cried out, ‘No, no, Mrs Bellows. Come back. You’ve got it all wrong. I don’t have influenza. It’s Lupita’s sister. Now, if you just give the note to your husband, I’m sure he’ll tell you. . . .’
‘I can read,’ she said. ‘Don’t you go callin’ me ignorant, boy.’
‘Now look here. . . .’ I said. I was on the verge of yelling at her, but I bit my lip and said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you’re ignorant. I’m just saying, perhaps, if you just took the note to your husband. . . .’
She interrupted me, ‘But it says right here, plain as day: “I gone ’cause of flu. Close to death. Check in to see li’l Luke”. ’
At that point I totally lost it, shouting, ‘It does not say Luke, you crazy old coot! For the millionth time, it’s Verge. Lupita’s gone, because her sister’s got the flu. She left the key for your husband, your husband, not you. Now, unlock the door this instant and let me the heck out of here!’
A silence followed that lasted several seconds.
I called out, ‘Mrs Bellows? Mrs Bellows, are you still there?’
A series of sobs erupted from the other side of the door. ‘Oh, Lukie,’ she cried out, ‘You must’ve got that influenza real bad to shout at me that way. I gotta go to church now an’ pray for your soul. You can’t die, with such sins upon you. I gotta go now.’
‘No-no-no!’ I shouted. ‘Don’t leave me here all alone. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Of course, my name is Luke. You’re right. It’s just the fever driving me crazy. That’s why you’ve got to go and tell your husband I’m here. Now, give him the key, and. . . .’
‘No, no,’ she said, her voice going softer. ‘He’s havin’ one of his spells. No tellin’ how long he’s gonna be like this. Could be days. No, I gotta get to church and pray for your soul. You be a good boy now, and no playin’ with matches,’ and then her voice faded completely.
‘Mrs Bellows?’ I called out. No response. ‘Mrs Bellows?’ I screamed. ‘Are you still there? Please, come back!’ I wailed. But Mrs Bellows had gone. She was heading to the empty church with its chained-up door to say a prayer for the feverish Luke.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I rested my head against the unmovable front door, wondering when Mrs Bellows would—if ever—let me out.
What if Lupita had an accident on the road to her sister’s place and died? What if Father got the flu in Bosque County? No one except Mrs Bellows knew I was in the house alone. I could be dead for weeks before someone would come looking for me. My skin grew all prickly. My breath got short. I was on the verge of one of my attacks. I desperately looked about for any object I could use to break down the door. The silver candlesticks on the coffee table were not heavy enough. Grandfather’s old wooden chair would make a good battering ram, but it was too heavy for me to move.
Then my eye fell on the rusty bayonet hanging above the fireplace mantel, next to the small, crystal-rotating clock. It had been there long before Grandfather moved into the house. I grabbed the bayonet and began to hack at the massive door. Splinters flew in all directions. In my ineffectual frenzy, the blade slipped, and I slashed open my right palm.
I held the bayonet up to the dim light. As I watched the blood trickle from the blade, I was overcome with the most horrible sense of déjà vu. I stood stupefied, staring at my bloody palm, paralysed with a fear I couldn’t explain. I had seen all of this before, right here in this very room.
Was it when Sebas and I had become blood brothers?
No . . . it was something else.
I remembered crouching behind the fireplace. I could hear voices raised, arguing and I could make out shadowy figures, but I couldn’t see their faces. A veil hung between me and them. I turned the corner of the fireplace, and I saw. . . .
The memory vanished as quickly as it had come.
The pain in my hand brought me to, and I dropped the bayonet on the floor. I stumbled into the kitchen, dripping blood along the hallway. As I washed my hand out in the basin and bound it up with a rag, the crystal clock on the mantel chimed. I looked at the awful brown bottle on the countertop and knew it was time to take my medicine.
My life was rules and commandments, exhortations and threats. Take your medicine! Be a good boy! Don’t go outside! Don’t get wet! Don’t ask about your mother! Don’t talk about your brother! Go back to your room and read another book!
I was furious with all the rules that stifled me in that lonely old house. I was furious at having been left alone. I picked up the stinking bottle of medicine, feeling it heavy and hateful in my hands. I dashed the bottle against the floor. Glass shattered everywhere, the sticky substance spraying like glue against the walls, the icebox and the cabinet doors.
There! I couldn’t take my medicine now if I’d wanted to! If I had one of my attacks, then I’d die. That would serve them right for having left me all alone. I’d like to see the look on Father’s face at my funeral, while people whispered in the pews. ‘Left his own son?’ they would ask. ‘And drove his other son away?’
I felt a sudden flash of anger for Lupita, too. She’d said her sister was her only family. Wasn’t I her family, too? I went back into the parlour and lay down on the couch. My hand throbbing, I closed my eyes, just for a minute, to order my thoughts. What was it I’d remembered about the bayonet?
I tried to retrieve the memory, but it was like pulling up a heavy bucket of water from a well with a long, thick rope. Something about the voices. . . . Something I saw, as I turned the corner. But I was worn out by all the excitement of the day and I let the memory slip from my grasp. Then I fell into a deep sleep.
I had a strange and troubling dream: I was running barefoot through broken glass from my medicine bottle. I cut my foot on a shard. As I pulled it out, painfully, I saw it wasn’t glass any longer but the old bayonet. I smelled fresh earth all around me. I was trapped in a coffin deep underground. I could no longer breathe. . . .
I woke up in a cold sweat, trembling. It was dark all around me. I must have slept all day.
There was no electricity in Incarnation, and there were no gas lamps in the streets, so the house was bathed in darkness. Holding my arms out in front of me, I stumbled towards the hearth, guiding myself by the tick-ticking of the crystal clock. I felt along the mantel until I found an old candle nub and lit it with a box of Lucifers. I carried the candle to the front door and wondered whether a passer-by could hear me if I shouted. It was then I saw the corner of an envelope sticking out from under the door. The telegram delivery man had come when I was asleep, and I’d lost my chance to ask him to get Mr Bellows to let me out of here!
I picked up the soggy envelope, covered in muddy blotches. I sat down and placed the candle on the coffee table in front of me. What now? I wiped my hands and carefully opened the telegram, trying not to tear the wet paper. It was from my brother! I still remember his words quite clearl
y:
Muladona coming for you, midnight.
Can’t reach you in time.
Put cotton sheets on bed.
Tell Lupita, get away as far as she can.
Don’t believe what it says.
For God’s sake, don’t guess.
Coming fast as I can.
I screwed up my face, reading the lines over and over again. My first thought was that Sebas was writing in some sort of code. He’d probably suspected Father was intercepting his letters.
Or maybe it was a joke.
Yes, that was it! Sebas was back to his old tricks, trying to scare me with stories of the Devil. Good, old Sebas. He could stay with me in the house without Father finding out. We’d have the place all to ourselves, and he could tell me about his adventures.
As I moved the telegram closer to the candles, I saw a smudge after the last sentence. I rubbed it a bit, and a word emerged. It changed everything.
It was ‘Constantinople’.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I sat rigid on the sofa, my head full of tumult. Sebas had to be joking. But by writing ‘Constantinople’, he was breaking our most solemn oath! Maybe he’d gone wrong in the head? Maybe, because of the deprivations he’d suffered in the mountains, or under the effects of some hallucinogen administered by the Indians, he’d begun to believe the stories he was collecting? Either he was making a mockery of everything we’d ever shared, or he’d gone insane.
I felt a tightness in my chest. I was gasping for breath. I shouldn’t have been so rash as to have destroyed my medicine. As I put my head between my legs to keep from hyperventilating, a thought entered my mind. . . . It was ridiculous. It was impossible.
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