A Candle in the Dark (32 page)

“Do you have some water?” he asked quietly.

Jiméne nodded, pointing to the door. “Outside, there is some cool water in a jug.” Then, as D’Alessandro strode across the floor to the doorway: “Watch for snakes,
amigo
—they like the cold—”

D’Alessandro disappeared outside. Ana shot a glance to Jiméne. “Is he all right?”

Jiméne shrugged. “Who knows with him? I cannot tell.” He acted nonchalant, but she saw the worry in his eyes. “You will check on him,
cariña
?”

She got to her feet, instant concern banishing the light laughter of the morning. She pretended casual efficiency, though her stomach knotted and her throat felt tight. “Of course,” she said, going to the door. “Of course.”

The sun hit her full in the face as she walked outside, and Ana stood there for a moment, blinking and trying to find him in the bright sunshine. In the near distance she heard Amado and Juan shouting orders to each other over the lowing of cattle, and closer to the house howler monkeys filled the air with unearthly yowling. She batted at a cloud of insects and squinted into the light.

But she saw D’Alessandro nowhere. For a moment, she wondered if maybe he had simply disappeared, walked off into the jungle to wander the isthmus like a lost soul. It seemed entirely too possible, and Ana stood there, staring into the jungle, trying to decide if she should follow him.

Then she heard the splashing at the side of the
quincha
. Relief made her light-headed, and she rounded the corner, prepared to confront him, to tell him whatever he wanted to know, prepared to answer any question he might throw at her.

What she was not prepared for was his nakedness.

Ana stopped short, her breath catching in her throat. He had taken off his shirt, and his back was to her as he leaned over the water jug. He lifted the ladle, dipping his head and pouring water over his hair, his neck, his shoulders. Thick strands of hair curled against his skin, shimmered in the sunlight, and droplets spun down the olive skin of his back.

For a moment, she was incapable of moving. She watched the simple grace of his movements, the way he dropped the ladle and cupped water in his hands, splashing it over his face, his chest. Her stomach tightened, her entire body tensed. Then, suddenly, he straightened, throwing back his head so water sprayed from his hair in a sparkling rainbow, and opened his eyes, staring at the bright blue sky for one second before he turned and looked at her.

His eyes widened slightly in surprise, and he wiped at his face with the back of his arm and reached for the shirt he’d left hanging on a splintered piece of cane.

“Sorry,” he said tightly, shrugging into it, though he left it unfastened, hanging open so she could see the dark wet curls covering his chest. “I didn’t know you were there.”

Water dripped from his hair onto his shoulders, making the worn material of his shirt nearly translucent. With effort, Ana drew her gaze to his face.

She clutched her skirt, feeling the reassuring roughness of wool between her fingers, and swallowed. “Is she going to be all right?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. He seemed oblivious of her discomfort, and for that Ana was grateful. He laughed shortly, bitterly. “I’m no better than one of their
curanderos
. For all I know, tamarind water
is
the best cure.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“Don’t I?” He raised a dark brow. “I don’t know what I believe anymore, Ana. Sometimes—” He looked away, swallowing. “I believe I could actually be killing her. For all I know, the medicine is useless. Sometimes I think it’s all up to the patient, whether they want to live or die. Nothing I do makes any difference.”

“You cured Jiméne,” she reminded him softly.

He threw her an inscrutible look. “Maybe. Or maybe Jiméne’s just too damn stubborn to die.” He rubbed his face with his hands, then dragged them through his hair. “Ah, Christ, Ana, I can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

“Of course you can,” she said, taking a step closer. “Jiméne believes you can, they all believe you can.”

He stared at her, and the pain rilling his eyes sliced into her heart, made her feel heavy and lost and alone. She hated it, that abandoned expression in his face, that raw anguish. But mostly she hated that he was hurting, and that she could do nothing about it. How could a person not believe in himself? In the end, that was all anyone had. Even when she had nothing else to believe in, Ana had always trusted herself. Had always believed in herself.

But D’Alessandro—Cain—believed in nothing.

“What about you?” he asked hoarsely. “What about you, Ana? Do you believe I can?”

She nodded shortly. “Yes.”

That was all, just
yes
, but he squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his fingers at his sides. “I need a drink.”

“You can do it without a drink.”

“What makes you so sure?” He opened his eyes and stepped forward threateningly, his wet hair flapping forward into his face, his shirttails flying back. “What makes you so sure?”

“I—” Ana moved back, bracing her hand on the wall. Her good intentions fled. This was not a man she knew, this dangerously frightened man. She saw all his rough edges then, and she wanted suddenly to run. The conversation had grown too deep, she was afraid of what she saw in him, of his pain and her own response to it. Afraid of what she’d felt when she came around the corner and first seen him undressed. But for once there was another fear, a deeper one. She was afraid to run, as much as she wanted to. This time it was more important to stay.

She took a deep breath, stepping forward again, straightening her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter, what happened with John. It was a long time ago. It’s right now that matters—and right now people trust you. They believe in you. The liquor is only false courage, nothing more.”

He exhaled sharply. “I don’t give a damn if it’s false or not,” he said with a snarl, frustration ringing in his words. “Dammit, I need a drink!” He grabbed the ladle, throwing it with all his strength. It cracked against the wall, thudded to the ground and bounced, stopping at Ana’s feet.

She gasped, stunned by the unexpectedness of his anger. For a moment she stared at the ladle, sure she hadn’t really seen him throw it, and then she looked back up at Cain. His gaze was riveted to the ladle, and she saw the surprise in his eyes, and beyond it the fear and pain.

“Ana.” He looked at her, his voice harsh and raw, his face white. “Ana, I’m sorry. I didn’t—I can’t… Christ. I’m sorry.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing. She stood there, feeling unsure, feeling his need and wanting to help him, wanting to put her arms around him and hold him tightly, to tell him everything would be all right even if she didn’t really believe it. He
needed
her to tell him that, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t bring herself to touch him.

Ana swallowed and clutched her skirt. “I don’t know how to help you, Cain,” she said finally. “I want to help you, but I don’t know how. Tell me how.”

He said nothing. She saw the frustration in his face, the fear, yet he said nothing.

Then she remembered.
Comfort me
, he’d said once, and she had done it. Touched him and soothed him. She stepped forward, holding out her hand, and when he made no move to take it, she took a deep breath and kept going, walking into his arms, sliding her hands around his back, pulling him to her. For a moment he stiffened, and she waited for his rejection.

But it didn’t happen. Instead, he grabbed her, pressing her face against his shoulder, holding her so tightly she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She heard the tears in his voice, and desperation. “I don’t know what to do. Christ, I’m afraid. I’m so afraid. I can’t make it go away. I can’t.”

She felt his breath on her cheek as he buried his face in her hair, felt the warmth of his hands against her back. He held her as if afraid she would break loose and run away, and Ana was surprised to realize that she didn’t want to do that at all. She closed her eyes, wanting to feel his arms even tighter around her, smelling the warm, clean muskiness of his skin.
Hold me
, she thought.

The words spiraled in her mind, growing and growing until she heard nothing else, thought nothing else.
Hold me, hold me, hold me
. She wanted it so badly. So badly.

Too badly
. Gently Ana pulled away, stepping back until Cain’s hands fell from her arms and he stood there, watching her, waiting.

She knew she should feel fear. She didn’t. Only a fierce, unrelenting joy. Only a wish that she had stayed in his arms, a faint regret that she hadn’t. The emotions startled her. Her fingers shook as she pushed back a tendril of loose hair. “Are you—are you all right now?” she asked softly, wincing at the banal question.

He smiled. “No.”

“Better?”

“Better.”

“Well, we—we should get back inside. They’re waiting for us.” Ana turned on her heel, looking back over her shoulder at him, feeling strangely awkward, strangely joyous—God, she wasn’t sure how she felt, except that she didn’t want to leave him standing there alone. “They’re waiting.”

“Then we should go.” He buttoned his shirt and stepped toward her.

Together, silently, they walked back to the
quincha
door. Just before they went in, Cain grabbed her arm, stopping her, and when Ana looked back at him, he touched her cheek. Gently, softly. “Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” she answered, and smiled to herself as she ducked her head and went inside.

Doña
Melia was not improving.

Cain watched her anxiously, every two hours giving her another draft of the quinine and opium. That morning he’d added a few grains of tartar emetic as well, hoping the medicine would break the fever. His own desperation was rising, and Jiméne’s constant surveillance didn’t help. It only made Cain’s hands shake more, and muddied his thinking. It only increased his longing for whiskey.

Jiméne believes you can. They all believe you can
. Ana’s words from yesterday tormented him. Cain closed his eyes, remembered the feel of her in his arms, the softness of her hair against his face.
I believe you can
.

He didn’t know what he would have done if she hadn’t said the words. But Ana’s quiet conviction had cut through his fear, gave him strength where he had none.
I believe you can
. Just those words, and he had started to believe. Maybe he could do it.

Even now he felt the raw terror of hope, the same terror that made him lose his temper—as if flinging that hope away would make him forget it existed, give him back the Cain D’Alessandro that was familiar: bitter, afraid, useless. The Cain he believed himself to be.

But it was hard to find that man now. Looking into Ana’s face, into those golden eyes, made it difficult to keep believing in the old Cain. She refused to see he was a failure, and that surprised him. Pleased him. Frightened him.

He curled his hands into fists, remembering his despair and frustration, and the way she seemed to see it. Her touch had startled him. He expected her to run, to draw back into herself the way she always did. To put up the wall.

But there had been no wall, just as there hadn’t been the night before, when she’d relaxed enough to understand that he needed to laugh, to forget. He didn’t know what to think about that, and he decided it didn’t matter. Since he stopped drinking, he no longer trusted himself even to know what he was feeling, or what was real and what was pure frustration. He only knew that Ana steadied him, that when she was around he felt as if there was something to grab on to, something stable and safe.

Doña
Melia stirred restlessly, murmuring in her sleep, and Cain let his thoughts wander, laying his hand on her forehead to calm her. Her skin was still hot and dry. He glanced at the leech box on the bamboo table, scattered among his vials and instruments, and then at the cups, crusted with blood from the last time he’d bled her.

“Will you bleed her again?” Jiméne’s voice came from the doorway, and Cain turned to look at him.

“I think so.”

“You have not said—” Jiméne broke off, gazing at his mother with his heart in his eyes. “You have not said what you think, whether she will die.”

“Jiméne—” Cain was too worn to be anything but honest with him. “I don’t know. I hope not, but I don’t know.”

“Perhaps we should call in the
curanderos
again, eh?” It was a lame joke, the smile on Jiméne’s face held more pain than humor. “They will pray a little, sing a little. Perhaps you should sing.”

“I don’t suppose ‘Oh Susannah’ has any special healing powers,” Cain said dryly.

“I do not think so,” Jiméne said gravely. “It is not even a very good song.”

“No.”

“No.”

They sat there, staring at Jiméne’s mother, silent. Outside, a macaw screamed and flew close to the wall, the flapping of its wings loud in the tiny room. As if in response, Enzo shrieked in the main room, his childish footsteps pounded past the opening, innocent laughter bubbling in his wake.

“
Ten piedad
,” Jiméne began softly, his thin voice wavering with the melancholy tune. “
Ten piedad, piedad de mis penas
.”

Cain joined in. “
Ten piedad, piedad de mi amor
…”

Their voices rose, filling the room, reverberating off the solid cane walls as they sang the sad ballad the boatmen had chanted in Chagres.
Have pity on my sufferings
,

have pity on my love
… It was a song about love lost, and yet it seemed appropriate somehow, the drawling final syllables of each line oddly stirring, full of melodramatic longing. The kind of melody God would like, Cain thought. If God listened…

“You are probably killing her with that song,” Serafina said in Spanish from the doorway, her beautiful face wrinkled in a frown. “She always hated it, Jiméne, and the two of you sound like fighting cats. Let her rest, for God’s sake, and come eat your breakfast.” She turned, disappearing back to the main room.

Jiméne looked chagrined. “She is right,
mi hermana
. I had forgot. You will bleed her now,
amigo
?”