Noemí whipped her head up and scoffed at the inane question. “Yeah? I think the more important question is what the fuck is going on in this house?” Noemí said. She wasn’t quite yelling, but she was awfully close.
“What language! Watch how you talk to me, young girl.”
Noemí shook her head and closed the faucet. “I want to see Catalina, right away.”
“Don’t you dare order me around. Virgil will be here any minute and you’ll see—”
She clutched Florence’s arm. “Listen—”
“Take your hands off me!”
Noemí squeezed her fingers harder while Florence tried to push her away.
“What’s this?” Virgil asked.
He stood at the doorway, looking at them curiously. He had on the same pinstriped jacket that he’d worn in her dream. It gave her a jolt. She’d likely seen it on him before, which is why she’d pictured him wearing it in the first place, but she didn’t like this detail. It blended reality and fantasy together. It unnerved her enough to release Florence.
“She’s been breaking the rules, as usual,” Florence said, carefully smoothing back her hair even though it did not need to be smoothed. As if their brief confrontation could have upset her well-coiffed head. “She’s a nuisance.”
“What are you doing here?” Noemí asked, crossing her arms.
“You yelled, and I came to see if anything was amiss,” Virgil told her. “I imagine that’s the same reason why Florence is here.”
“Indeed,” Florence replied.
“I didn’t yell for anyone.”
“We both heard you,” Florence insisted.
Noemí had definitely not yelled. There had been noise, but that was the noise from the bees. Of course there were no bees, but that didn’t mean she had yelled. She would damn well remember if she yelled. The cigarette had burned her hands, but she hadn’t made that much noise and—
They both looked at her. “I want to see my cousin. Now. I swear to God, you let me see her or I’ll knock her door down,” she demanded.
Virgil shrugged. “There is no need for that. Come.”
She followed them. At one point Virgil looked at her over his shoulder and smiled. Noemí rubbed her wrist and looked away. When they walked into Catalina’s room she was surprised to see her cousin awake. Mary was also there. It seemed this would be a group reunion.
“Noemí, what is it?” Catalina asked, a book in her hands.
“I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Same as yesterday. Resting, mostly. It seems I’m the Sleeping Beauty.”
Sleeping Beauty, Snow White. Noemí couldn’t care less about that right now. But Catalina was smiling kindly, like she always used to smile. “You look tired. Anything wrong?”
Noemí hesitated and shook her head. “It’s nothing. Do you want me to read to you?” she asked.
“I was going to have a cup of tea. Do you want to join me?”
“No.”
Noemí wasn’t sure what she had expected to find, but it wasn’t Catalina in high spirits, the maid quietly arranging flowers in a vase, the meager blooms from the greenhouse. The scene struck her as artificial and yet there was nothing wrong. She stared at her cousin, trying to find the faintest trace of discomfort in her face.
“Really, Noemí. You seem a little odd. You aren’t getting a cold, are you?” Catalina asked.
“I’m fine. I’ll let you have your tea,” Noemí said, unwilling to reveal more in the presence of the others. Not that they seemed terribly interested in this conversation.
She stepped outside. Virgil exited the room too and closed the door. They looked at each other.
“Are you satisfied?” he asked.
“I’m appeased. For now,” she replied tersely, intending to walk back to her room alone, but he was going in the same direction, obviously wishing to continue their conversation and not minding her curtness.
“And I thought there was no appeasing you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.
“You’re on a quest to find faults around you.”
“Faults? No. Answers. And let me tell you, they’re pretty big ones.”
“Are they?”
“I saw this awful thing, moving—”
“Last night or now?”
“Now. And last night too,” she muttered, pressing her hand against her forehead.
She realized then that if she headed back to her room she’d have to look at the ugly wallpaper with the hideous black stain on it. She wasn’t ready to face it. Noemí changed course, quickly veering toward the stairs. She could always hide in the drawing room. It was the most comfortable room in the house.
“If you’re having bad dreams I can ask the doctor for a remedy to help you sleep the next time he visits us,” Virgil said.
She walked faster, intent on putting distance between him and her. “That won’t do any good since I wasn’t dreaming.”
“You weren’t dreaming last night? But you walked in your sleep.”
She turned around. They were standing on the stairs, and he was three steps above her.
“That was different. Today I was awake. Today—”
“It all sounds very confusing,” he interjected.
“That’s because you’re not giving me a chance to speak.”
“You’re very tired,” he said dismissively as he began to descend those steps.
Noemí went down three more steps, attempting to maintain the same gap between them. “Is that what you told her? You’re very tired? Did she believe you?”
A moment later he had reached Noemí and bypassed her, descending the final steps to the ground floor. He turned to look at her.
“I think it’s better if we leave it at this for now. You’re agitated.”
“I don’t want to leave it at this,” she said.
“Oh?”
Vigil slid a hand over the shoulder of the carved nymph that grasped the newel post at the bottom of the staircase. A sordid spark danced in his eyes. Or was she imagining that too? Was there something else to that casual “oh,” to that smile spreading across his face?
She descended the steps, giving him a challenging look. But then her courage evaporated when he leaned forward and she thought he was about to transfer his hand to her shoulder.
In the dream there had been a strange taste in his mouth, like ripe fruit, and he, with the pinstriped jacket, hovering above her, taking off his clothes, slipping into the tub and touching her, while Noemí wrapped her arms around him. The memory was tinged with arousal, but also with a terrible humiliation.
You’ll be a good girl, won’t you? He’d told her that. And here they were now, wide awake, and she realized that he was capable of saying exactly that to her in real life. That he’d have no trouble snidely delivering such a line, that his strong hands could find her in the daylight or the dark.
She was afraid he’d touch her and of how she’d react. “I wish to leave High Place. Can you tell someone to drive me back to town?” she asked quickly.
“You’re full of impulsiveness today, Noemí,” he said. “Why would you be leaving us?”
“I don’t need a reason.”
She’d come back. Yes, that was right. Or even if she didn’t leave, if she could get as far as the train station and write to her father, it would all be better. The world seemed to be collapsing around her, becoming a confused mess, dreams bleeding into her waking hours. If she was able to step out, to discuss the strange experiences she was having at High Place with Dr. Camarillo, then maybe she’d feel like herself again. Camarillo might even be able to help her figure out what was going on, or what she should do. Air. She needed fresh air.
“Of course not. But we can’t drive you back with all this rain. I told you, the roads are treacher
ous.”
She could see the raindrops splattered against the colored glass window on the second landing. “Then I’ll walk back.”
“You’ll drag your suitcase in the mud? Perhaps you intend to use it as a boat and paddle away on it? Don’t be silly,” he said. “The rain must cease today, and we can attempt the drive tomorrow morning. Will that suffice?”
Now that he’d agreed to take her to town she was able to breath and unclench her tense hands. Noemí nodded.
“If you really are leaving us tomorrow, then you should have dinner with us one final time,” Virgil said, sliding his hand off the nymph and glancing down the hallway, in the direction of the dining room.
“Very well. And I’ll want to talk to Catalina too.”
“Of course. Is there anything else?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “There’s nothing.”
It wasn’t a lie, but she still avoided his gaze, and for a moment she remained unmoving, not knowing whether he might continue following her as she went toward the sitting room. But remaining wouldn’t do her any good either.
She began walking.
“Noemí?” he said.
She paused to look back at him.
“Please don’t smoke again. It disturbs us,” he said.
“Don’t worry,” she replied and, remembering the cigarette burn on her hand, she looked at her fingers. But the red, raw mark was gone. There was no sign of it at all.
Noemí held up her other hand, thinking that perhaps she’d mistaken which hand she’d injured. Nothing there either. She flexed her fingers and hurried to the sitting room, her steps loud as she walked. She thought she heard Virgil chuckle, but she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure of anything at all.
19
Noemí packed her suitcases slowly, feeling traitorous and second-guessing herself. Yes. No. Perhaps it would be best to remain. She truly did not wish to leave Catalina alone. But she’d said she was going to town, and it was vital that she clear her head. She decided she wouldn’t quite return to Mexico City. Instead she would journey to Pachuca, where she’d write to her father and find a good doctor willing to accompany her back to High Place. The Doyles would be reluctant to allow this, but it was better than nothing.
Emboldened, with a plan of attack, she finished her packing and headed to dinner. Because it was her last night at High Place and because she didn’t wish to seem haggard or defeated, she decided to wear a party dress. It was a buff-colored embroidered tulle dress with metallic gold accents, a yellow acetate bow at the waist, and a perfectly boned bodice. Not as full a skirt as she normally liked to wear, but very flattering and perfectly adequate for a dinner.
Obviously the Doyles had the same thought, treating this as an important, almost celebratory moment. The tablecloth of white damask was laid out, as were the silver candelabra, and a multitude of candles had been lit. In preparation for Noemí’s departure they had lifted the ban on conversation, though this evening she might have enjoyed the silence. Her nerves were still much too raw from the strange hallucination she’d experienced. Even now Noemí wondered what had caused the bizarre episode.
She was getting a headache. Noemí blamed the wine. It was strong and yet very sweet; it lingered on the palate.
The poor company did not make matters any better. She must pretend cordiality for a little bit more, but her patience had been stretched to its limits. Virgil Doyle was a bully and Florence wasn’t any better.
She glanced in Francis’s direction. By her side sat the member of the Doyle family she appreciated. Poor Francis. He looked rather miserable that evening. She wondered if he’d drive her to town the next morning. She hoped so. It might give them time to speak in private. Could she trust him to take care of Catalina for her? She must ask for his help.
Francis eyed her back, a fleeting look. His lips parted to whisper a word before Virgil’s loud voice hushed him. “We’ll venture upstairs after supper, of course.”
Noemí raised her head. She looked at Virgil. “I’m sorry?”
“I said my father expects us to all pay him a visit after supper. To say his goodbyes to you. You won’t mind a short trip to his room, will you?”
“I wouldn’t dream of leaving without saying goodbye,” she replied.
“And yet you most eloquently wished to walk your way to town a few hours ago,” Virgil said. The words had a mordant little twist.
If she liked Francis, then she had decided she could not stomach Virgil. He was hard and unpleasant, and beneath that veneer of wretched civility she knew he could be beastly. Most of all she loathed the way he was looking at her now, which he’d done before, a chilling little smirk on his lips and his eyes fixed on her with a rawness that made her want to cover her face.
In the dream, in the bathtub, she’d felt much the same. Yet there had also been another feeling running all through her. It was pleasurable, but in a terrible way, like when she’d had a cavity and kept pressing her tongue against it.
A panting, ferocious, and sickly lust.
It was a wicked thought to have at the dinner table, with him sitting across from her, and she looked down at her plate. This was a man who could know secrets, who could divine unarticulated desires. She must not look at him.
A long silence stretched between them as the maid walked in and began taking away the dishes.
“You might have trouble getting into town come morning,” Florence said once more wine had been poured and dessert was set before them. “The roads will be terrible.”
“Yes, all these floods.” Noemí nodded. “That is how you lost the mine?”
“Ages ago,” Florence replied, waving a hand in the air. “Virgil was a baby.”
Virgil nodded. “It was waterlogged. Anyway, it’s not like it was being worked on. With the Revolution going on, you couldn’t get nearly enough workers here. They’d all be fighting for one side or the other. You need a constant influx of workers at a mine like this.”
“I suppose it was impossible to get people back after the Revolution ended? Had they all gone away?” Noemí asked.
“Yes, and besides, we had no way to hire new crews, and my father was ill for a long time, so he couldn’t oversee the work. Of course, that’ll change soon.”
“How so?”
“Catalina hasn’t mentioned it? It is our intention to open up the mine again.”
“But it’s been closed for a very long time. I thought your finances were strained,” Noemí protested.
“Catalina has decided to invest in it.”
“You didn’t mention that before.”
“It slipped my mind.”
He spoke so casually that one might be tempted to actually believe him. But Noemí was betting he had kept his lips tightly shut knowing the conclusion she would draw based on that: that Catalina was going to serve as a docile piggy bank.
If he was speaking now, it was because he meant to rile her up a little, to throw in her direction that sharp smile he had deftly shown her on more than one occasion. He wished to gloat. Because she was going away, after all, so a little gloating couldn’t hurt now.
“Is it very wise to do such a thing?” she asked. “With your wife in her condition?”
“It is not as if it’ll make her worse, don’t you think?”
“I think it’s callous.”
“We’ve long been simply existing at High Place, Noemí. Too long. It is now time to grow again. The plant must find the light, and we must find our way in this world. You may consider that callous. I find it natural. And, in the end, it was you who was speaking of change to me the other day.”
How lovely that he should pin this project on her. Noemí pushed her chair back. “Maybe I should say good night to your father now. I’m tired.”
Virgil held the stem of his glass and raised an eyebrow at her. “I s
uppose we could skip dessert.”
“Virgil, it’s much too early,” Francis protested.
He had spoken only those words that evening, but both Virgil and Florence turned their heads in his direction brusquely, as if he’d been saying offensive things all night long. Noemí guessed that he was not supposed to offer any sort of opinions. It did not surprise her.
“I’d say it’s about the right time,” Virgil replied.
They stood up. Florence led the way, taking an oil lamp that rested on a sideboard. The house was very chilly that evening, and Noemí crossed her arms against her chest, wondering if Howard would want to talk for long. Dear Lord, she hoped not. She wished to sneak under the covers and go to sleep as quickly as possible so that she might wake up early and jump into the blasted car.
Florence opened the door to Howard’s room, and Noemí followed her in. A fire was burning, and the curtains around the large bed were closed tight. There was an ugly smell in the air. Too pungent. Like a ripe fruit. Noemí frowned.
“We are here,” Florence said, setting her oil lamp down on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. “We have your visitor.”
Florence then went by the bed and began peeling the curtains away. Noemí schooled her features into a polite smile, ready for the sight of Howard Doyle tucked neatly under the covers or perhaps lounging against the pillows in his green robe.
She did not expect him to be lying there, over the blankets, naked. His skin was terribly pale and his veins contrasted grotesquely against his whiteness, indigo lines running up and down his body. Yet that was not the worst of it. One of his legs was hideously bloated, crusted over with dozens of large, dark boils.
She had no idea what they were. Not tumors, no, for they pulsed quickly, and their fullness contrasted with his emaciated body, the skin grown taut against the bones except upon that leg where the boils grew, as thick as barnacles upon a ship’s hull.
It was horrid, horrid, and she thought he was a corpse, afflicted by the ravages of putrefaction, but he lived. His chest rose and dipped, and he breathed.
“You must get closer,” Virgil whispered into her ear and clasped her tight by the arm.
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