Estelle wanted nothing so much as to go home, but that would have to wait. Irma Sedillos, nana to the boys and a dear friend, would hear Francisco’s version of events, and Estelle trusted Irma’s instincts to say and do the right things. The Romeros, however, did not need to face a hospital staff without answers to their questions.
In another few minutes, she walked around the large ambulance that was parked near the emergency room entrance, its diesel engine rumbling gently.
Inside, she passed the small cubicle where the admission clerks worked.
“Mrs. Romero?”
One of the clerks looked up from the computer screen. “Oh, she’s in the ER, sheriff.”
A large hand on her shoulder startled her. Dr. Francis Guzman had padded up behind her without a sound.
“Airlift,” her husband said, and Estelle groaned. “It left Cruces about five minutes ago, so we’re getting him prepped for transfer here in a minute.”
“How is he, oso?”
“Por diós, ” Francis said. “If Butch didn’t have bad luck, he wouldn’t have any at all.” He held up his right hand, index finger and thumb about half an inch apart. “He’s got a fragment of rattlesnake fang like that, pegged right through his eyelid and into the cornea. And that’s just the start. He got his grimy little hands into the act. Had to hurt like hell.”
“Will they be able to save the eye?”
Francis shrugged. “I’m not a betting man, querida. They’ll give it a shot. By the time we get up there, they’ll have a team ready. They’ll do what they can.”
“You’re flying up?”
“I don’t think I need to. They have a good flight crew, and to tell the truth, there isn’t a hell of a lot that I can do now. He’s stable and sedated. The anti-toxin will either work or it won’t. Matty said it was a Western Diamondback?”
“Yes.”
“Lots of venom there, even when the delivery system is hacked up. No way to tell how much the boy actually got in his system. Maybe some, maybe none. But that’s a dangerous place to be bitten.”
Estelle felt the air pressure change, and turned to see George Romero slip through the automatic doors. The mechanic thrust his hands in his pockets, perhaps feeling out of place in this antiseptic setting with its hushed tones and air of medical authority. He shook hands with Dr. Guzman and nodded at Estelle.
“So what’s the story?” A burly man, his pleasant face now looked as if he wanted to backhand someone-a wayward son, perhaps.
“We’re about to transfer him to University Hospital in Albuquerque,” Francis said. “There’s a team waiting for him there.”
“That’s a six hour drive,” Romero said.
“He’ll be flying Medivac. We’re about to take him out to the airport now. The plane will be here shortly.”
“Jesus. So what’s the deal, then? Estelle was saying that the boys were playing with a rattlesnake or something like that?”
“There’s what looks like a fragment of the snake’s fang embedded in the eyeball,” Francis said. “That and other matter from the snake’s mouth. It’s a mess.”
“So why can’t you just pull it out? The fang, I mean.”
Estelle shuddered at that thought.
“Well, it’s not that simple,” Francis said. “The fang is curved, for one thing, and we’re not sure what damage it did on entrance. We don’t know how much venom was involved, if any. And it must have hurt like hell, George.” The physician made a fist and mimicked grinding it into his own eye. “Something like that happens, it’s hard to leave it alone, so there’s ancillary damage to consider as well. We flushed the hell out of it, but we’ll let the ophthalmologists put it all together.”
“Tata’s going with him? On the airplane?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’ll be okay, then. Can I talk to him?”
“He won’t make much sense, George. We’ve pumped him full of enough sedative to keep him quiet. But I’ll take you in. Let’s see how he’s doing before they pack him up for transfer.”
George stopped just shy of the ER door and looked at Estelle. “What were they doing with the snake?”
“Teasing it with a Weed Whacker.”
“Well, that’s a new one,” he said in wonder. “Freddy got his bare foot caught up in the big gas trimmer once. Just about skinned his toes down to bare bone. Blood and bits of stuff all over the inside of the garage. But an eye…now that’s not so good.”
“No sir, that’s not so good.” Estelle reached out and touched her husband on the sleeve. “I’ll be home if you need me.”
“You bet.”
George thrust out his hand. “Thanks, neighbor.” His grip was calloused and almost too hard. He turned and followed her husband into the ER.
Chapter Three
As if retreating to a more familiar, safe world, Francisco had settled at the piano. Estelle paused on the front step and listened. His scales sounded almost pensive as Francisco worked around the circle of key signatures. Not pushing for speed as he usually did, but working like a little human metronome set on adagio, he played through the sharps and then the flats, the minor and diminished keys, pushing each scale up and down through a full five octaves. The scales then blended into enormous chords that walked from one key signature to the next.
He stopped as his mother opened the front door. “Carlos is out back,” he announced, apparently fearful that she would think he wasn’t paying attention. Estelle could see through the sliding door of the dining room that led out into the back yard. Sure enough, six-year-old Carlos was industriously excavating another tier in his open pit mine, the over-burdened Tonka truck carrying a load to the tailings pile. “And Irma’s making corn bread,” the pianist added.
“That smells wonderful.”
Francisco turned away from the keyboard. “Will Butch be okay?”
“He’s going to Albuquerque, hijo. We’ll see.”
Irma Sedillos, Gayle Torrez’s younger sister and the on-call nana for the two little boys, appeared around the foyer partition. “You’ve had a day, I hear,” she said.
“Not me so much,” the undersheriff replied. “The mighty hunters met their match, though.”
“Is papá going to Albuquerque on the plane?” Francisco asked.
“No. He’ll be home in a bit.” She stepped into the kitchen. “What magic are you up to?” She hugged Irma’s shoulders.
“Your mom wanted a chicken salad, so that’s what you get,” Irma replied. “By executive order, the salad has to be chilled, the chicken and green chile have to be hot.” She grinned at Estelle. “And a message from Padrino, ” she continued. “He has a question for you.” Irma frowned. “Is Butch going to be all right?”
“We’re not sure yet. Nasty thing.” She pointed at her own right eye. “The trimmer shot a fang right into his eye.”
“Ay!” Irma shivered.
Estelle picked up the pile of mail along with the yellow Post-it note with Irma’s exquisite handwriting. “Padrino and jaguars, ” she read.
“He has a question about jaguars. He said that he remembered your great uncle talking about them.”
“Reubén and jaguars? Es muy curioso. Is Padrino coming over for salad?”
“I told him that he should. But he grumbled something about health food.”
“It has chile in it, though.”
“I told him that. But you know how he is.”
“Oh, sí. I know exactly how he is. I should call him and tell him not to be so fussy.”
“He wondered if Bobby was coming back from Cruces this evening, and I told him that I thought so.”
“Your brother-in-law won’t stay in the city any longer than he has to.” Estelle leafed through the rest of the mail, stopping at a fancy envelope with no stamp. She became aware that Irma was watching her.
“I brought that over with me,” Irma said, and Estelle looked up, alerted by the quiet tone of the young woman’s voice. The envelope was the sort one would expect with an invitation, and Estelle instantly knew what it was…hints had been in the air for some months. Once again, she was jolted by an odd mix of emotions-a euphoria for Irma, a deep, almost selfish sadness for herself and the family.