Marta speaking marked a turning point. What nectar of brevity, the time they had remaining in the house. With the girls—Juanita and Victoria—giggling once again in the bodega. Glorious sun. Fuchsias in abundance. Time letting them be indolent, letting them take a minute or an hour to talk or cry or pray or laugh. When laughter finally came, they let it.
Yet there was no ignoring monthly anniversaries. The day she’d left Nicaragua. The day Maggie had died. The day Marta had come to live with them. The day they’d found Hector in the cloisters. Shifts in direction. God makes demands.
Four months after Maggie died—October 14—Kate awakened with a cold, stopped up, her bones achy. Her head felt heavy. And she’d slept late; Marta was already out of bed; her voice drifted down the colonnade from the direction of the kitchen. “Naranjas—o—” Kate barely heard. And Dix—the two of them quiet so as not to wake her. Kate started to roll out of bed, then relaxed, turned over, sighed back into the covers.
“Knock, knock,” Dixie said.
“It’s you,” she said.
“Catarina?” Marta said.
“I’m not feeling so good,” Kate said.
Dixie came to the edge of the bed, sat down. “What’s the matter?”
Marta crawled up on his lap. She’d gotten dressed all on her own; Marta had her choice of ladino clothes or indigenous clothes and that morning she had chosen pink pedal pushers and a white T-shirt. “What’samatter?” she said.
“I think it’s a cold—”
Dixie put his hand on her forehead. Kate brushed against his hand like a cat petted. She was not so sick that she didn’t relish his touch.
“You feel a little warm,” he said. Then, “Marta and I’ll do the marketing. You want us to fix you brekkie and bring it in?”
“I’m not so hungry—”
“Tea?”
“Tea would be nice.”
“Aspirina, también?”
“That’s a good idea.”
“Catarina está un poco enferma,” he told Marta. “Let’s take care of her.”
Dixie brought a tray to her room, a pot of hibiscus tea, her favorite mug, a packet of soda crackers, two aspirin, and set the tray on a chair beside the bed. Marta stood at the door, waiting. A string bag looped around her wrist.
“Wear your hat, sweetie,” Kate said.
And Marta ran to get her hat.
The front door ka-chunked when they went out. Kate sat up against the hard pillows, went to the bathroom, came back, and weakly drank her tea without much interest in it. She knew she needed liquids. Then she sank back into bed.
Voices awakened her. She did not know how long she’d slept; it might have been ten minutes, it might have been an hour.
“This stuff’s like important stuff.”
Ginger.
“Whatever you can leave behind, leave behind,” a woman said. Kate thought it must be Mrs. Clark. “We can go shopping when we get there.”
“You don’t understand. I’m attached to this stuff.”
“All right, Ginger.” Exasperated, as though the conversation were an old one.
Kate got up and went to her bedroom door.
“Kate!”
“Ginger. Mrs. Clark—hello.”
Ginger said, “Did we wake you up?”
“I’m not feeling very well.” Kate buttoned the top button of her nightgown.
Ginger looked bloated and pale. She had on a man’s shirt over mouse-gray leggings. Her hair was bedraggled; she’d pulled it back in a beaded barrette. She wore mismatched silver earrings, one quetzal, one quarter moon.
Mrs. Clark said, “I’m sorry.” She wrung her hands. She had her traveling clothes on: a lavender linen pantsuit. Her makeup was the worse for wear, as though she’d put it on slapdash.
“For what?”
“We didn’t know anyone was home. I really didn’t think we should just come in. But Ginger—”
“What’s up?” Kate said. “I didn’t know you kept your key.”
“We’re going to the States—” Ginger began. She dangled the key.
Mrs. Clark looked at Ginger as if to silence her. “It’s just that the medical care we’ll need will be easier there, and Mr. Clark—his work is nearly over. For now.”
Ginger said, “What happened to that box I left here?”
“It’s in the bodega,” Kate said.
Ginger went into the bodega at the back of the house. Mrs. Clark stared at Kate for a moment but said nothing. Then she raised her voice a notch and called to Ginger, “I’ll wait outside.” She left without so much as a backward glance. Ginger came out of the bodega bearing a large cardboard box.
“Is it heavy?” Kate said.
“Not so heavy,” Ginger said. She set it down at Kate’s feet. “Where’s Father Dixie?”
“Out.”
Ginger took a deep breath. “Tell him I said good-bye. Okay?”
“I’ll tell him.” Kate took the key Ginger offered.
“I didn’t think I’d leave so soon.”
“Where are they taking you?”
“Maryland. They’re moving to Maryland.”
“Are you—all right?” Kate said. She didn’t feel all right herself; her stomach was queasy.
“I guess I am. The Clarks are nice enough. But—” She sighed.
“What?”
“Being pregnant makes me feel like—”
“Like what?”
“Like things are out of my control.”
“Do you want to sit down? Do you want to talk?”
“Our flight leaves at noon.” Ginger looked around at the courtyard, the house. “I lived here for six months.”
“Sunny and Ben are selling the house. We’re moving next week.”
“Wow.” Then she inched closer to Kate. She said, “Do you think my baby’ll look like me?”
“I’m sure.”
“Do you think he’ll—I think it’s a he—do you think he’ll have my toe?” She lifted her sandaled foot to make sure Kate understood. The pink polish on her toes had peeled away in spots.
“He might,” Kate said.
“Then they’ll never be able to forget me.”
“You’re right about that,” Kate said.
Ginger picked up the box and started for the front door. Kate said, “I’ll open the door.” And she followed.
But Mrs. Clark had left the door ajar. Just as Ginger stepped across the door sill, just as she turned to say one last word, Kate heard a bossy drone from out on the sidewalk: “Jesus Key-rist. Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
His voice was unmistakable. Mr. Earl Clark.
Kate’s heart pounded. She was in her nightgown and weak; she had every excuse to simply shut the door and not go out.
Good-bye, she said, good-bye, Ginger. Good luck. They never heard from her again. She was absorbed by the great sponge of comfort to the north.