When the Owl Cries Part 11

"I'll call her."

He went to the patio window and called, and Carmela answered immediately.

Back at Caterina's side, Raul said: "Carmela's coming right away. You know, Caterina, I think the sun will be out soon. The hail has stopped. The wind's rough but it may blow off the clouds."

She did not respond.

As he waited for Carmela, he thought about the timbre of her voice, how frail it had become, frightened, hurried.

Carmela changed her and made her comfortable.

"Thank you, Sister," Caterina said.

"You're welcome, dear."

Carmela, a whipcord woman, could have carried the Master's cross. She had a dusky mustache above Mayan lips. Her hair was sheep-thick and done in twin buns that had long pins sticking in them. Tufts of hair grew in each of her ears. She walked with a rustler's tread--years of convent living and nursing had not tamed her tread. Yet she had the essence of sanct.i.ty in her face, and people said that she never lost patience.

When she left the room, Raul sat on the bed at Caterina's feet.

"She's nice," Caterina said.

"Big," he laughed.

"Papa ... when will my stomach stop hurting?" She began to cry and covered her face with one arm. "Oh, Papa ... Papa ... ask G.o.d..."

"What is it?" asked Carmela, returning.

"Pain."

"Deep in your stomach?" the nun asked, pushing back her white collar.

"Yes."

"Let me give you more laudanum," said Carmela, going to the medicines on a tray at the dressing table.

"No. It makes me sleep. No. No-ooo."

"Sleep is best for you. It'll make you strong," the nun said, vigorously rattling the bottle and spoon; she yanked the cork from a blue bottle sniffed the contents and said, "Ah." Her starched clothes sounded the same as the rustle of distant hail.

"No..." Caterina said feebly.

"Please," said Carmela.

"Papa ... no!" (Frightened)

"Then later," said Raul.

"Yes, Papa."

The syrupy medicine went back into the bottle.

Gusts swirled through the garden, and the rain-heavy foliage bent low; window curtains fluttered, their red and white cotton billowing now inside, now outside.

"Papa, can I give Mona to Lucienne? I want to. Papa, will you read to me?"

He did not answer her question about the dog. Mona had been Caterina's pet for over two years. What was her insight into his relationship with Lucienne? Was she expressing approval ... did she feel she was about to die?

"Yes, yes, I'll read to you. What would you like? Your Grillo?"

The _Grillo_ was an Italian book about the adventures of a cricket.

"Yes, Papa ... Grillo."

By the time he found the book, she had fallen asleep. The cricket, printed in orange on the cover of the novel, crept away from his hands.

Sparks of lightning whisked over the blue and white pattern of floor tiling. He laid her book lovingly on the circular table, cluttered with the child's things: cutouts, a sewing kit, some dried figs, doll dishes.... It was a small corner room, with white enameled furniture.

Above her bed hung a pastel portrait of her mother. The portrait, done with too obvious care, was gilt framed, and dangled from a long wire.

The picture began to sway.

"Another quake," said the nun, from her chair by the window. "That's the third."

They stared at each other questioningly. Sister Carmela fingered her beads, and shivered. She hated quakes, and remembered the devastation caused by the last big shock in Colima.

The quake lasted a little longer than the others; the dolls rocked together on the floor; a dish clattered; someone shouted, "Don Raul, Don Raul!"

Stepping to the window on the patio side, Raul saw Salvador.

"A tree has blown down on the stable. Can you come?" Salvador shouted.

"I'll be down."

Raul went down the stairway. Angelina stood on the bottom steps, a cup of broth in her hands.

"Raul, there was another quake.... How is Caterina?"

"No better. Her stomach pains her a great deal. She's asleep."

"I'll go up anyway. Maybe she'll wake soon and have some broth."

They pa.s.sed one another without really seeing one another.

"Your father wants to know how Caterina is," Angelina said, as she went up.

"I'll tell him."

He crossed the hail-splattered patio to his father's room, resenting the chill. Fernando had ordered his bed moved--to avoid seeing the distorted landscape. He now faced the patio and Raul paused in the doorway, sensing his father's gaze.

"How is she?" he asked.