The Mortifications (5 page)

I've been in here, Isabel told him.

What you wanted. Your speech brought this on, and, considering what you told me last year, this seems to be more of the same. Couldn't you have waited? Done this properly? You could have gotten in later just the same and kept Ma from hurting so badly.

I wasn't doing the right work, Isabel said. It was wasteful, and people were suffering when I could have helped.

How do you help the dying? They are dying. They're not going to get any better. They have families to sit by their beds.

Some do, Isabel said. A lot of them don't. But you're right. They're dying, which is why doctors or nurses can't help. They need a person to help them pass.

And that's your calling?

No, the calling was Ma that night in November when we couldn't sleep and stood around in the kitchen listening to her and Henri.

You don't have to remind me, he told her. But I can't imagine God speaking to you through Ma's moaning.

That's not how it works, at least, not for me. You think it's some message that gets sent, but it's not words. It's just a sound, and when you hear it, you can't unhear it. It stays with you and lives between your ears, and eventually you figure out how to make the noise go away by
doing
something. You do something, and the noise finally stops. I heard Ma in my head for months, and then when I sat next to that dying boy, I couldn't hear her anymore. It went away, and I was cold and then hot, but the sound was gone, and I could finally hear other things again.

You were sick, Ulises said. You were soaked from helping the boy, and an infection got into your lungs. It gave you a fever, and you sweated through some hallucinations.

I've been told that before, Isabel said.

They went for a walk, but only around the cloister and its lawn. Isabel told Ulises that she had been happy at the convent, but she did miss Sunday dinners at home. She was not allowed to visit with any sick or dying. The hospital had quietly asked her to resign her volunteer post and was undertaking an investigation to ensure that each patient Isabel had visited had died of natural causes. On occasion an ailing person came to her, though none had died at the convent with Isabel at his or her side. Instead, she was now working with deaf children, learning how to sign.

So, has the noise returned? Ulises asked. Can you hear Ma again?

No, she said, it hasn't returned.

You've gotten your fix, then.

Isabel smiled at him, and for a moment she looked like the older twin, partly because of the perfunctory clothing and partly because when she smiled, she seemed to know something that he did not, or, at least, she believed she did. Ulises thought that there was no real difference between the two, the product of both being a sense of confidence, and he suffered a pang of envy, because Isabel was moving in a strange and destructive direction but along a path that was clear nonetheless. She followed it recklessly, without apology.

The noise was a warning, Isabel said. I know that now.

Of what?

Henri, she answered. Or something like Henri—the kind of man he is and where his energies go.

He grows tobacco, Ulises said, but his heart skipped as he remembered his dream from the night before. Henri rolls cigars and goes on walks with Ma.

And that's the extent of it. He lives only in this world.

Where else should he spend his time?

I couldn't say, but don't you find it sad for him to ignore what's happened?

What's happened? Ulises asked.

Ghosts, his sister said. Ghosts in his past. His father's past. His grandfather's past. The spirits of the slaves.

He's embarrassed by it, Ulises said. Family folklore, and you saw how sad he felt about his father, who
wouldn't
ignore the past. I'd stay away from it as well if I were Henri.

He's running from it, Isabel said. What's he doing in Connecticut? There's no Dutch embargo on Cuba. He can go down there whenever he wants.

There's a communist regime, Ulises said. That's what's down there. No money in that.

Maybe. But what about those ghosts? He pretends they don't exist, Isabel said.

What would you have him do? Hold a séance? Sacrifice a lamb at the start of every spring?

I think it's eating away at him, Isabel said. You told me once it made him better at his job, which is true, but I think that's because he's scared all the time. You know why he runs his hands through the soil and touches every seed he plants? Because he wants to make sure it's real. He wants to make sure there are no ghosts hiding in the sacks or any limbs growing up from the ground. He walks his fields every day to check for body parts, not ladybugs and grasshoppers. And I was doing the same. I was changing bedpans and tending to sheets.

I don't understand, Ulises said.

I was working with bodies when I should have been working with spirits. I was sinking into this world. I was growing tobacco and rolling cigars when I should have been lighting fields on fire and letting the spirits out. I spoke with the bishop about this—snuffing out the fire of the Holy Ghost by heating too many pots with it. I'd split my flame among smaller, pointless candles.

The bishop told you this?

Yes, she said.

He sounds indulgent, Ulises said. He sounds like the kind of man who saw a sick girl and didn't want to wound her with the truth.

He read to me from St. Theresa's diary. He said my brain works in a mystic fashion. We also spoke about Joan of Arc. The French thought she was crazy at first. I'm sure it's hard for you to understand. You should read St. John of the Cross. It will help.

I understand how far away you've moved, Ulises said, and he was being honest with her. I'm scared for you and what this means. Have you told this to Ma? If not, please don't. It might kill her. And that stuff about Henri is shit. I think you hate him. I think you hate how different he is from Papi, so it's easy to twist him into a villain.

I don't hate him, Isabel said. But I do pity him.

Ulises's visit with Isabel left him with an unbearable sadness. His sister, he believed, had bought in completely to her own self-delusion, and to support that delusion she was reinterpreting the world at hand, namely the motives and psyche of their mother's lover. Worrisome also were the names she'd thrown about on her and Ulises's walk, Joan of Arc the most troubling. The saint was not only touched by God, but also called to action, and Ulises could see nothing but struggle and pain for any young girl who might answer a similar call or, at least, think she was hearing one.

In his worry Ulises immersed himself in work, which was not a hard thing to do when one worked on a farm. The men he oversaw—a band of eight Texas Mexicans Willems had hired on a recent trip he took to Houston—moved quickly and needed new assignments constantly. In the morning they would replace faulty irrigation hosing, reinforce the weaker shading tents, fertilize whole fields by hand, and sift topsoil for rows out of rotation. By the afternoon they were hand-checking seed bags for crushed or split kernels, stitching small tears in the shading tarps with travel sewing kits, and repairing patchy fences along farm boundaries. There were days Ulises invented things, not necessary but often helpful things, for the men to do. They were relentless, and the crop was impeccable.

The oldest of the Mexicans was Orozco, and he was the one to show Ulises how to roll cigars, both the long and the short ones, and how to finish flat or with a tapered snout. During lunches, huddled beneath the shade of an oak grove abutting a Habano field, Orozco gave Ulises lessons. Ulises had noticed that the men were smoking foot-longs at almost every meal break. Of course, Orozco and the other men were filching here and there from the crop, but they showed Ulises that what they took were the weaker leaves, the ones chewed on by ladybugs or altogether worthless for Willems's Imperial stogies. They cured them on the eastern windowsills of their houses, drying out the fronds in the full heat of the morning sun. Eventually, they stacked the leaves on their shaded stoops to let them ferment in the dark.

By the start of August, when Henri and Soledad were at last scheduled to make their trip west, Ulises was smoking three cigars a day, two of a rustic quality with his men at work and one of exceptional craft every night with Willems. By the time he saw them off from the platform of a train station just east of Hartford proper, Ulises was in the habit of smoking a cigarillo with his breakfast coffee, rolling a longer blonde at the same time, chewing the blonde throughout the morning, smoking the mild cigar at lunch, and taking a much longer time with whatever Willems brought over that evening. Ulises was beginning to taste the differences among the leaves and not just between plants. Soon his tongue could tell him from what part of the stalk the filler came. If it was a vague, easy flavor, he knew the leaves were closer to the ground and away from the sun; if the filler left a syrupy impression on his palate, then the leaves were from the top of the plant and had absorbed an excess of light.

He also began to speak Spanish exclusively. With Willems absent, Ulises was left in charge of everything east of Hartford and south of the river: five hundred acres total. Willems's laborers were mostly Mexican, with a handful of Nicaraguans, and all of them preferred to take orders in Spanish. Willems's attempts at Spanish possessed a formal nuance he was unaware of, but the men responded favorably to Ulises's Cuban inflection. He slipped back into his native tongue without noticing, and the men grew fond of him.

It was during Soledad and Willems's vacation that Ulises forced himself to return to the convent.

Are you trying to hurt me? Isabel asked the moment she saw him.

What do you mean? he said.

You look just like Willems, she said. Your front teeth are yellow at the tips. Your hands are brown, but your face is white. You've got dirt under your fingernails. Are you checking for ghosts while he's gone?

Maybe this is my calling, Ulises said. Or maybe I can't get your voice out of my ears, and the only time it's quiet is when I'm tending to the rows out in the sun.

Isabel shook her head.

I could do worse, he said.

They were standing outside a classroom in a small building behind the chapel. Through an open door, Ulises could see a handful of young children sitting quietly at desks and gesturing to one another, which struck him as an odd silence amid the echoes from the other rooms, which were only divided by cheap metal partitions. One boy in particular was watching Ulises and Isabel from near a chalkboard and appeared to be signaling what he saw to a few of his peers.

What's that boy doing? Ulises asked.

Gossiping, said Isabel. The nuns aren't really allowed male visitors.

But you're not a nun.

I've begun the novitiate.

You're barely eighteen.

The Reverend Mother and I have spoken, Isabel said, and I've been allowed to skip forward because of circumstance.

What circumstance? Ulises asked. That you're supposedly trapped in here? That people are worried about a killer candy striper in Hartford?

My exceptional service, she said. The strength of my calling, which is palpable to anyone who cares to listen.

Isabel blushed, and Ulises could see that he'd upset her. He handed her the clothes his mother had instructed him to bring, a new ankle-length skirt and a blouse, one dark blue, the other hunter green, and both made from a lightweight cotton fabric ideal for the month of August.

I'm sorry, he said. But you seem to be leaving us all the time.

I'm compelled, she said, and she left him in the hallway. He watched her in the classroom for a moment and saw her hands flicker in response to the silent signals from the children. He left without saying good-bye.

In the fields the next day, Ulises asked Orozco about his sister's observations. Do you ever confuse me for Henri? he asked.

No, said Orozco. Willems never smokes in the fields. He also wears canvas pants instead of jeans. And your Spanish is much better. Willems's is classroom Spanish, but you can tell yours is from a place. You sound a bit like my cousin Simón, who grows bananas in Cuba.

But are there similarities between us? Ulises asked.

You both touch everything, though you more than him, I think. You should wear a baseball cap instead of that farmer's hat. Willems wears that, but he's an older man. You look funny in it. Also, you both clearly buy your boots from the same store.

Ulises looked down at his shoes, at the boots Willems had given him for Christmas. They were still in fairly good condition compared to Orozco's, which sagged everywhere.

Ulises got his mother on the phone.

Isabel is worse, he said.

The two lovers were in Oklahoma City and on their way to Phoenix. The trip was going fine, Soledad reported, but she could not sew or knit on the train because the vibrations were too strong. She had enjoyed the South for its architecture but was happy to pass through it quickly. No one travels by train anymore, for obvious reasons, she said, and I feel a bit stupid for not getting on a plane. I could be home by now. I should be visiting my daughter.

She asked Ulises, What's worse?

Isabel has taken steps toward vows, he said.

His mother sighed on the other end. How is that news? She's been taking vows all her life, self-imposed or otherwise. I'm surprised she even bothers with the formalities of the Church.

Her stay was supposed to be temporary. If she takes vows, she'll never come home.

Did she say that?

No, but we argued over it.

If you want to blame someone, Soledad said, then blame me. She's doing what I've allowed her to do.

It's fate to her, Ulises said. A calling.

I could have done more, Soledad said. Much more. I could have, at least, taught her to ask permission before doing things like this.

She's stubborn, like her father, he said.

Like her mother, Soledad sadly corrected. But then she said, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you there all alone. You're out there, and Isabel, even when she's right next to you, feels far away. I didn't think you'd get lonely. You have your work, the fields.

Isabel has her prayers. Her morning Mass. Her rosary beads.

Are you thinking of going, too? Is that what you're saying? Soledad asked.

Isabel and I are different people, Ulises said, but when you left her behind, you also left me.

I'm coming home soon. Then we can really talk. I don't doubt what you're telling me about her condition.

But?

But I'm tired. And I'm afraid of your sister. There are maybe threads left between her and me. I want them to grow in my absence. But any sort of push, and I think she'd just break off and float away, without a word. Besides, she's where she wants to be, and, thank God, I know exactly where that is. I know this is an indulgence, but that's what I mean when I say blame me. It's my indulgence. Can you forgive me this?

Yes, Ulises said.

Willems, when he got on the phone, wanted to know how the August crop was shaping up. The question was a sympathetic diversion. Still, Ulises told him in great detail more than the man expected to hear, down to the color of the leaves in certain rows. Ulises, without prompting, also made suggestions for wrappers and fillers, which impressed the Dutchman.

You're learning, Willems said.

My sister thinks I am turning into you.

Willems paused before saying, Not so bad?

Of course not, Ulises answered, and yet some pity echoed in his chest. Perhaps his sister had poisoned his view of Willems. Perhaps someday he would have trouble respecting the man, once they knew all the same things. Ulises asked Willems how he thought his mother was doing. Was the trip helping? Did she seem happier?

Sometimes, Willems said. If we see something beautiful out the train window, then yes. But we've left the South now, and the land is flat without trees. It's beautiful for some but not for your mother. I'm looking forward to the desert.

Ulises wanted to tell the man to
make
his mother happy, rather than hoping for pleasant scenery. Willems was simply waiting for Soledad to remember their love. Meanwhile, Ulises waited for Isabel to listen to reason. They were two men waiting for miracles. But what had they accomplished to believe that such miracles could occur?

Ulises confided in Orozco. The older Mexican had noticed that the youthful
guajiro
was, as August wore on, chewing the ends of his cigars more and more, like a dog gnawing on a bone. While rolling cigarillos at lunch, Ulises told Orozco who his sister was: the Death Torch of Hartford. He steeled himself for Orozco's response, expecting condescension, but the laborer only shook his head.

That's a wild thing, he said. I saw her picture in the paper. She looks like you. Makes me think she can't be half as mad as they say she is.

Orozco lit his cigarillo.

I have a crazy cousin named Chuy, he said. His father was an idiot cowhand from New Mexico. He tried to abort Chuy himself, but, of course, he botched it. He scraped Chuy's mother's womb with something, but he couldn't find the egg. When Chuy was born, he was retarded, which, of course, the mother thought had more to do with the fucked-up abortion than with the pink wine she always drank. Chuy doesn't look retarded, not really, but when people talk to him, they think he's nuts. But he's good for something. Whenever his mother loses her key ring or a book or an earring, Chuy's always the one to find it. He's like St. Anthony, the patron of missing shit. Most people call him crazy. But others—namely, his mother—think he's blessed.

Isabel isn't helping anyone, Ulises said.

What about those deaf kids? Anyway, that's not the point.

What is the point? Ulises asked. That she's insane and blessed all at once?

The point is that pretty much the two are the same.

Two weeks later Orozco brought Ulises a copy of the
Hartford Courant.
The headline was Hospital Confirms All Deaths Natural, and there was a supplementary interview with the archbishop, who was quoted as saying, Of course they were natural. We knew they were all along, and it's a shame that for three months we've had to shield a devout young woman from the media because of a few misconstrued statements. We're fortunate, however, that she's kept her faith and decided to pursue it further. I look forward to blessing her first vows myself in a few days' time. She's a marvelous Catholic.

Ulises picked up the phone immediately. If Isabel was going to take her vows in a few days' time, Soledad needed to return. But reaching his mother proved to be impossible: the hotel clerk in Phoenix informed him that Soledad and Henri were on a five-day rafting trip along the Colorado River. The clerk put Ulises in touch with the park patrol, but the only promise they could make was to deliver his urgent message if a gatekeeper should recognize his mother by her description. Ulises was certain no one would. He would have to go to the convent himself to bring his sister home.

At the convent, Isabel's response was predictably diminutive. Why bother? she said. Her voice was again oddly soft and tapering; it seemed to evaporate just beyond her teeth. There's no point in going back for just a few days. Quite frankly, I'm comfortable here. I have everything I need.

Don't say that to Ma, Ulises said. And what's this business about a few days? What happened to the trial?

It's finished.

Says who?

Mother Superior, Isabel said. And the archbishop.

He was in the paper today, talking about you, Ulises said. Have you met the man? He wants to hear your vows. I think he wants to make another spectacle of you.

He's visited once before, Isabel said, and, yes, you're probably right.

So why let him?

It's the only way I can join the order right away. Isabel paused for a moment. Will you come to the ceremony? she asked.