Back to Wando Passo David Payne (find a book to read .TXT) 📖

fear in the least. Her lack of surprise is what strikes Addie, that and the fact that Clarisse does not seem especially troubled—merely thoughtful—over her mother’s plight. And Addie can’t help noticing her vividness, which is like the grass, radiant with cruel summer health. Her skin has the gauzy freshness of one who’s risen from a pleasant bath, and her expression is as languid as a queen’s at a review, all except her yellow eyes, which seek Addie’s pointedly and first, and, finding them, smolder with hatred that briefly flares into the fire of an exultant and offensive confidence. If I hate her back, she wins, thinks Addie, falling back upon the platitudes of youth. But she, who’s never truly hated anyone before, is miles deep in that dark country now.

“¿Qué has hecho muchacha?” Paloma cries out, struggling to rise. “What in God’s name have you done?”

“Nada malo, Mama. No he hecho nada malo,” she answers, coming through the gate. “Sólo busco la justicia. Only justice,” she says, inside now, lapsing into English, making sure that Addie understands. Clarisse’s eyes have ceased to gloat, and their sobriety is more impressive and frightening by far than all her taunting glee.

“¿Justicia?” Paloma says. “¡Ésto no es justicia, niña! Ayúdame a incorporarme.”

“Lie still, Mama,” Jarry says. “You must rest.”

“Help me up, I said!”

Reluctantly, he supports her elbows as she sits.

“They told me you were sick, niña.” Clarisse address Addie like an acquaintance at a social tea. “You are better, I hope?”

“Much,” she answers, clipped.

“Bueno, china.” And then, to Jarry, in a dark, commanding tone, “Déjenos. Llévese a la blanca de aquí. She has no business here.”

“Who did this?” he says, ignoring her and pointing to the grave.

“Éso no es asunto suyo.”

“He was my father. How is it not my business?”

“Era mi padre, también, hermano. Él y yo lo convenimos.”

“¿Qué?” he says. “What was agreed between you?”

“If you don’t know, ask Mama. She knows the answer, don’t you? Ella sabe muy bien.”

“I won’t allow it!” shouts Paloma. “¡Yo no lo permitiré! ¿Me oyes?”

“I hear you, Mama,” Clarisse replies, “but this is not your business either.”

“Él no sabía lo que hacía.”

“He knew more than you think. Who do you think taught me the secret?”

“Muchacha,” Paloma wails, “muchacha, what have you done? Ven aquí. Come here to me.” She reaches out her one good hand, but Clarisse stays where she is, unmoved. “What has happened to you, child? Have you forgotten Demetrio? ¿Se te ha olvidado lo que él te enseñó?¿Qué, no recuerdas nada?”

“I’ve forgotten nothing, Mamá. No se me ha olvidado nada. I remember things that you know nothing of. You have no right to judge me. Ninguno de ustedes tiene el derecho de juzgarme.”

“And regla, child? What of regla?”

“What of it, Mama? There is no regla here. No hay nadie que nos diga qué hacer. Todo está roto, Mama. Everything is broken. We must make regla for ourselves, like Binah did. Binah hizo lo que ella quería. Haré lo que yo quiera, también.”

“Regla doesn’t come from your padrino, niña. Viene de los muertos. Los ojos invisibles te están mirando. Verán y sabrán.”

“Let them see, then. Let them know. What is it to me?”

“You will suffer, niña. Los dos sufrirán los dolores del infierno.”

“¿Los dolores del infierno?” Clarisse laughs bitterly. “What further terrors do you think hell holds for me? Los sufro ya.”

Paloma now begins to weep. “Hija, le pido que no hagas esto. Por favor. I beg of you.”

“It’s too late, Mama. The pact is made. No puede ser deshecho.”

“You will deny me my last wish?”

“Sí, Mamá, si éste es su último deseo, entonces mi respuesta debe ser no.”

“Go away! ¡Vete!” Paloma collapses against Jarry’s chest, and Clarisse, before she goes, turns to the side and rests her hand on her belly in a soft, proprietary way, making sure that Addie sees the slight but unmistakable new bulge. “I, too, niña, have been unwell,” she says, “but I’m better now, like you.” The outrage Addie feels, the fury and shock, wash over her in an incapacitating wave—and, strange, but no less deep, a pang of shame and grief.

And there they are, the wounded left abandoned in the field, as Clarisse returns the way she came.

“We should get her inside, Jarry, out of this heat,” says Addie.

“No, niña, let me be,” Paloma says. “I want to die outside, Jarry. Deseo morir debajo del cielo.”

“You aren’t going to die, Mama.”

“Sí, niño, estoy muriendo.” His mother looks at him with tender pity now. “I cannot spare you.”

“Not now, Mama. Hoy no. No te vayas.”

“Sí, niño, me voy,” she answers softly. “No puedo esperar. Déjame ir.”

Jarry merely nods his head and weeps. “All right, Mama. All right, then.”

“Pobre muchacho, don’t be sad for me. I’m tired, Jarry. Estoy tan cansada de vivir. No tengo miedo de morir. I welcome it.”

“Go then, Mama.”

“Listen, niño. Los periquitos—¿Los oyes? Remember when you were a little boy? Te conté la historia de los periquitos.”

“Sí, Mamá, the story of the parakeets. I haven’t forgotten.”

Paloma’s features suddenly contract into a rending wince of pain. “Who was there to tell stories to Clarisse? Clarisse nunca tenía a nadie, Jarry, nadie.” She grasps his collar with fearful energy and pulls him down into her face. “Ella es una bruja, Jarry. ¿Entiendes? Your sister is a witch. Encuéntralo y destrúyelo. You must find it and destroy it. Do you understand?”

“¿Sí, Mamá, entiendo, ¿pero cómo? Destroy it how?”

“Las hormigas, niño. Las hormigas harán el trabajo.”

With this, she sinks back, exhausted. The pulse in her neck is fitful. It reminds Addie of the wounded parakeet in Jarry’s hand, the rapid, frantic respiration that so suddenly and absolutely ceased, as this now ceases, too. One minute, Paloma’s brow is fretfully contracted, like someone listening to a dark, demanding overture that only she can hear; the next, an overspreading peace widens there—forehead, cheeks, jaw, lips—moving like a ring from a dropped stone that sinks away to emptiness. A soft breeze rises in the park, rippling the black pond, turning its gleam