Corazón colored under the golden tone of her skin. “People say the ghosts are angry that someone is disturbing the hieroglyphs. That someone is trying to understand their secrets which are not to be understood.”
“But ghosts, Corazón? Surely you don’t believe in these whisperings.”
She looked away. “I only know that it is since she arrived these events have occurred. That’s what people are saying. Nothing else has changed in our small town.”
“But you aren’t saying you think she killed these two people, are you?”
Corazón shook her head. “No, señor Dominic, I don’t say that. I only say that Elena may have disturbed something much, much bigger than she is. Maybe it is better she leaves. Then maybe the ghosts will settle down and leave us alone.”
Dominic thought about what Corazón had said as he helped with the line of people who formed in the late afternoon. He tried to fix his mind on their plight, their complaints and illnesses, the sad stories of their lives, but his mind turned over and over what Corazón had suggested, that Elena somehow was the cause of all of this. That somehow she had started a wheel turning that hadn’t turned in a long time. He wasn’t sure it was ghosts, even though Elena thought she saw one. No, it was possible that she disturbed some kind of crooked operation in which the director had been involved.
Elena had told him of the director’s odd behavior. What if he had gotten involved in something he couldn’t get out of, that had threatened his life, his livelihood, his family, his reputation. Something so bad he couldn’t live any longer.
What would that be?
Nine
Alone, Elena sat for a long time trying to make sense of what happened. The shadows were long when she finally roused from her seat in the living room. Her feet rested on the cool tile of the floor. It was the only cool thing in the room. Everything else was unbearable. Heavy. Hot. Close. Like an unwelcome lover.
What she needed was a sane life at a normal university teaching normal students Mesoamerican archaeology. Maybe she should leave the field altogether. But what else could she do? She was unemployable outside of her field. And besides, she loved epigraphy. She always had. She was good at it.
A shower would help, and she made her way to the tiny bathroom and stripped, dropping her clothes on the floor. On second thought, she tossed them in the trash can. She never wanted to wear those filthy things again. She scrubbed and washed and rinsed till she felt like a smooth polished stone.
She shimmied into a dress, a yellow jersey with a pattern of small red and white roses. Somehow a dress put her outside and away from the events of the morning. It was a simple sundress with flared skirt that she had picked up in the beggars market in Rio de Janeiro. It was the kind one could wring together for packing, then shake out, and wear. Its design reflected her state of mind, formless, wandering.
She took time blowing her hair dry, brushing and brushing and brushing until it was shiny and fell into natural waves around her bare shoulders. She took even more time applying her makeup. Shadow, eyeliner, mascara, blusher. The full regalia.
Studying her reflection in the mirror, she wondered about taking so much time with her appearance, like she had a date or something. Maybe she was trying to erase memories, call into being a world she was used to that had parties and laughing people. She looked down into the white porcelain bowl of the sink. What she really wanted to do was to throw up. Throw up all the bad things and flush them down the toilet. But the events of the last few days were so terrible they wouldn’t fit in this bowl or the toilet and besides they wouldn’t be done with. They would always be with her.
To try to take away the horrid taste of the day, she brushed her teeth and then applied lipstick. She needed was a stiff drink, something cold and potent and tangy, that would relax into her bloodstream. There would be nothing in doña Carolita’s house that fit that bill.
In the kitchen she lifted the lid on the pot of soup but the smell turned her stomach, and she hastily replaced the lid. In the refrigerator she selected a cola and poured a glass. She drained the glass, feeling the bubbles calm her upset stomach. A martini would taste even better, like at the clinic party the other night. Could it have been only two nights ago?
The sound of a vehicle in front of the house caught her attention, and she glanced at her watch. It was after seven. Dominic was at the front gate.
“Hi,” he said. “How you doing?”
A smile of welcome was her answer. She opened the door, and he stepped inside the iron barred gate into the dim shadows huddling around the front of the house.
He held out his arms. She sighed and let him enfold her in his embrace. For a long time they stood holding each other, she lost in the solidness of him, in the strength of his arms, in the safety of his caring. She never needed this more than now.
“Would you like to come over to my place?” he asked. “I’m on my way home. I don’t want you to be alone. Not now. Not today.”
She nodded, not speaking, got her purse, locked the house, let him lead her by the hand to the Jeep. His house was three blocks from the clinic on the other side of the plaza from doña Carolita’s place. It was neat with flowers blooming in the front garden. He led her into the small living room.
“Can I get you anything? Have you had dinner?”
“I can’t eat but I could use a drink. Something strong.”
“Anything in particular?”
“A martini?”
“Coming right up.”
He led the way to the tiny kitchen and deftly mixed martinis in a glass jar.
“Sorry,” he said as he poured and handed her a water glass. “I don’t have martini glasses.”
He poured another for himself.
“Salud,” he said as they clicked glasses.
“Salud,” she said and took a sip, savoring the combination of gin, vermouth, and a twist of lime, and a slow smile spread across her face. “Tonight I could get lost in a few of these.”
“I can understand why,” he said. “Sure you’re not hungry? The housekeeper always leaves me more than enough food on the stove.”
The mention of food reminded Elena of her promise to Armando.
“Oh, dear,” she said, putting her drink on the counter. “I promised the maintenance man at the Museum that I would bring food for his family this evening. The little ones have been sick. With everything, I totally forgot.”
“Hey,” said Dominic, “look at all this food. We can pack it up and drive over there.”
“Are you sure?” Elena looked at the black beans with fresh tomato and onion, rice with peas, boiled chicken, plantains and tortillas. A salad of fresh vegetables sat on the counter by the stove. There was enough food for the Honduran army. “Oh, Dominic, could we? This will be wonderful for the children. Can we go now? It’s getting late, isn’t it? This day has been such a nightmare jumble for me.”
Dominic found a basket, and they lifted the pans of food into it. Without finishing their drinks, they headed for San Pedrito. She pointed out the hovel the family called home, and Dominic parked.
Armando was sitting at the door on an overturned plastic bucket, his hands draped over his knees, staring into the ground. He broke into a smile when he saw them pull up. He removed his hat and placed it over his heart. “Buenas tardes, doctora. I thought you forgot us with all the excitement at the Museum today. I did not think you would come.”
“I almost did forget, I confess. But Dominic kindly provided some food for your youngsters.” She handed the basket to him which he accepted with a smile of thanks.