Cave of Little Faces. Aída Besançon Spencer

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ What else does Danny have—and what have I ever done to help her find more in herself? And then Ben—his trump cards were devastatingly exacting.

      Sick and helpless before pent-up feelings she could no longer hold at bay, Jo staggered off to the bathroom. The reckoning she had been holding off for two years followed inexorably and banged on the door of her heart like a summons server. This time she had no escape into her daily routine. “I’ve got to work this through,” she muttered to herself. “I’ve been putting this off too long. I’ve got to face the inevitable. What on earth am I doing? This whole job change, the way things are working out with the family, this is all a mess.” She felt like the summons had been shoved under the bathroom door and “Inadequate” was stamped on it as the charge. “It’s all worse because I’m sick,” she cried.

      Three days in the Dominican Republic with its different water—all bottled now because you could not drink anything from the tap—its own current flus of the week that everyone was passing around and sharing communally, its specific subtropical mosquitos and microbes that formed a welcoming committee with the attention of a Bravado casino dealer sensing new amateur blood, usually meant the next three days were given over to té criolla and the mandatory proximity of a network of lavatories wherever one had to go. This time, however, she had not even made it through twenty-four hours. “I must have brought this with me,” she lamented, “or I must be getting old.” Thirty was looming like a watchful security guard outside a Barahona bank, looking her over intently. Reckoning was now like a financial counselor, shuffling through her personal accounts with a jaundiced eye and challenging, “Are you putting anything in reserve from this decade you just spent in overactivity? Have you got anything at all to show for it? Remember, energy is like income; it’s not inexhaustible. . . .”

      “Uhhhhhhh,” Jo groaned and stumbled from the bathroom to the bed. “I’m not ready to do anything, but sleep.” And that’s what she did.

      About eleven a.m.—nearing the witching hour of the Polarians, on tap twice daily whenever they needed it, and which, at this point, Jo, providentially, knew nothing about—Doña Lucia decided it was more than time to go up and see how her new guest was faring.

      She peered in and said, softly, “Josefina, are you up?”

      “Uhhhhh,” groaned Jo.

      Doña Lucia opened the curtains wide, letting in the light, and took in the situation at a glance. “Do you want some té criolla this morning, Jo?”

      “No,” murmured Jo, “but I think I need it.”

      “I’ll be back,” said Doña Lucia. “You rest.”

      Down in the kitchen, Lucia Romero took a dozen cherries out of the freezer, broke off two, and put the rest back in. Next to them, in another plastic bag, she retrieved a chunk of passion fruit, the seeds still in it, and then a medium-sized onion from which she cut a quarter on the cutting board on the counter. From the cabinet came a stick of cinnamon, and then she went out the back door to a tree over by the compound wall, picked off a green lemon, brought it back inside, and sliced it twice so that the four quarters were half separated, but still joined. All these she washed down with bottled water, then added enough to cover them in a small pot, placed a lid on it, and put them on to boil. When the mixture was bubbling away, she turned the range down and let it boil at close to simmer for about six minutes, then turned off the gas and let the concoction stand for ten more minutes. At the end of the time, she strained the liquid out through a metal colander, discarded the pulp, put in a tablespoon of brown sugar, and filled a mug with the pungent juice. This she presented to Jo, who sat up, drained it with a grimace, thanked her in muffled tones, and went back to sleep. Doña Lucia kissed her on the head and tiptoed out.

      About midafternoon, Jo finally marshaled herself together and stumbled downstairs. She slogged her way to the back porch and eased into a rocking chair. “Uhhhh,” groaned Jo.

      Don Ramón, alerted that Josefina was finally among those present by a text message from Doña Lucia—since they both considered it undignified to shout from the main house across to the bungalow—found Jo slumped in her chair and sat down beside her. “Can you handle some breakfast, Querida?” he asked gently.

      “I don’t think so, but thank you, Don Ramón.”

      “My wife has already fixed you up with some té criolla, I assume?”

      “She has indeed,” murmured Jo.

      “It will work wonders for you.”

      “I’m banking on it.”

      “The old ways are always the best ways,” said Don Ramón Romero. “That’s why they are still with us, because, in so many cases, they are best.”

      Jo had heard that adage times without number from this gentle couple who had practically reared her and her siblings each summer when their parents and Uncle Saul were gone, so she merely nodded. No reply was necessary.

      “I’m sorry you are not well, Josefina. The lawyer was coming in from Villa Bahoruco to meet with you today.”

      Jo turned bleary, bedraggled eyes toward her surrogate “uncle.” “Don’t let the cracks in this earthen vessel deter you,” she murmured, waving her weary hand down the length of queasiness that was today’s Jo in the flesh. “Rallying is what I do best. I need to know what happened to my parents for peace of mind. Without that, I can’t get better.”

      “Yes, that is you, Jo. But you don’t want to overdo it.”

      “It is a family failing.”

      Don Ramón smiled, “It runs down the generations, but I really think you should rest today. Tomorrow is soon enough, and you will hear much. I promise it will be a lot for you to process. My wife is even now making you some chicken soup,” he added reassuringly.

      “What would I do without you both?”

      Don Ramón beamed.

      “What would Uncle Sol have done without you both? You have been so wonderful to our family—I can’t imagine life here without you and Doña Lucia. In fact, I don’t want to. . . .” She sent her gratitude to him with what would have been a dazzling smile, if she could have mustered it.

      “It is our mission in life,” said Don Ramón softly.

      She thought he was joking.

      “I’m sorry,” said Jo in what was going to have to pass for hasty on this morning. “I have to use the bathroom again.”

      “Of course,” he said, rising. “After that, go back to bed and sleep a little longer. Lucia will have some nice chicken broth ready when you awaken.”

      “Bless you,” said Jo and staggered off. This was the best advice she could have received, and Jo was a lifelong connoisseur of good advice.

      The day passed with applications of chicken soup, sweetened gelatin, steady glasses of bottled water, and one more steaming mug of criolla tea, and then Jo slept all night long. Her sleep debt, she mused, as she drifted off, must rival that of Ben’s blackjack losses at Atlantic City—and then she was gone.

      The next morning, Jo realized she was on the mend: not there yet completely, but definitely on the way.

      Doña Lucia was delighted to see her up already when she peeked in. “Ah, СКАЧАТЬ