N
oemí decided they’d have themselves a mini casino night. She’d always loved casino night. They’d sit in the dining room, and everyone dressed the part, using old clothes picked from their grandparents’ trunks, pretending they were high rollers in Monte Carlo or Havana. All the children played, and even when they were way too old for games of pretend, the Taboada cousins would gather around the table and put the record player to good use, tapping their feet to a snappy tune and carefully laying down their cards. It couldn’t be quite like that at High Place since they had no records to play, but Noemí decided the spirit of their casino nights could be captured if they tried.
She slipped the deck into one large sweater pocket and the little bottle into the other, and then she peeked her head inside Catalina’s room. Her cousin was alone and she was awake. Perfect.
“I have a treat for you,” Noemí said.
Catalina was sitting by the window. She turned and looked at Noemí. “Do you, now?”
“You must choose, the left or right pocket, and then you’ll have a reward,” Noemí said, approaching her.
“What if I choose the wrong one?”
Catalina’s hair fell loose past her shoulders. She had never taken to short hairstyles. Noemí was glad. Catalina’s hair was sleek and lovely, and she had fond memories of brushing it and braiding it when she was a little girl. Catalina had been so patient with her, allowing Noemí to treat her like a living doll.
“Then you’ll never know what was in the other pocket.”
“You silly girl,” Catalina replied, smiling. “I’ll play your game.
Right.”
“Ta-da.”
Noemí placed the pack of cards on Catalina’s lap. Her cousin opened the pack and smiled, taking out a card and holding it up.
“We can play a few hands,” Noemí said. “I’ll even let you win the first one.”
“As if! I never met a more competitive child. And it’s not like Florence would let us play late into the night.”
“We might still play at least a little.”
“I have no money to bet, and you don’t play if there’s no money on the table.”
“You’re looking for excuses. Are you afraid of that dreadful, nagging Florence?”
Catalina stood up quickly and went to stand by her vanity, tilting its mirror and setting the pack of cards next to a hairbrush while she looked at her reflection. “No. Not at all,” she said, grabbing the brush and running it through her hair a couple of times.
“Good. Because I have a second present for you, and I wouldn’t give it to a scaredy-cat.”
Noemí held the green bottle up. Catalina turned around, wonder in her eyes, and carefully grabbed the bottle. “You did it.”
“I told you I would.”
“Dearest, thank you, thank you,” Catalina said, pulling her into an embrace. “I should know you would never abandon me. We thought monsters and ghosts were found in books, but they’re real, you know?”
Her cousin released Noemí and opened a drawer. She took out a couple of handkerchiefs, a pair of white gloves, before finding her prize: a small silver spoon. Then she proceeded to pour herself a teaspoon, her fingers trembling a little, then another and a third. Noemí stopped her at the fourth, taking the bottle from her hands and setting it on the dresser, along with the spoon.
“Jeez, don’t have so much. Marta said you might have one tablespoon and that would be enough,” Noemí chided her. “I don’t want you snoring for ten hours straight before we even get a chance to play a single hand.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Catalina said, smiling weakly. “Now, shall I shuffle or will you do the honors?” “Let me see.”
Catalina slid a hand across the deck. Then she stopped; she lifted her hand and her fingers remained hovering above the pack of cards, as if she’d been frozen in place. Her hazel eyes were open wide and her mouth was closed tight. She looked so strange. Like a woman who has gone into a trance. Noemí frowned.
“Catalina? Are you unwell? Do you want to sit down?” she asked.
Catalina did not reply. Noemí gently grabbed her by the arm and attempted to maneuver her toward the bed. Catalina wouldn’t move. Her fingers curled into a fist, and she continued to stare forward, those large eyes of hers looking wild. Noemí might as well have attempted to shove an elephant. It was impossible to get her to budge a single inch.
“Catalina,” Noemí said. “Why don’t—”
There was a loud crack—dear God, Noemí thought it might be a joint cracking—and Catalina began to shiver. She shivered from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, one sweeping, rippling motion. Then the shiver became more frenzied, and she was convulsing, she was pressing her hands against her stomach and shaking her head, and the most vicious scream escaped her lungs.
Noemí attempted to hold her, to drag her toward the bed, but Catalina was strong. It was amazing how strong she was considering how frail she looked, yet she managed to resist Noemí, and they both ended up on the floor, Catalina’s mouth opening and closing spasmodically, her arms rising and falling, the legs shaking wildly. A trail of saliva slid down the corner of her mouth.
“Help!” Noemí yelled. “Help!”
Noemí had gone to school with a girl who had epilepsy and although the girl never had a fit on school grounds, she remembered how she once told her she carried a little stick in her purse so that she might place it in her mouth if she had a seizure.
With Catalina’s attack growing in intensity—which seemed impossible yet was undeniably happening—she snatched the silver spoon from the dresser and placed it in Catalina’s mouth to keep her from biting her own tongue. She knocked down the card deck, which had also been resting on the dresser. The cards spilled and fanned out on the floor. The knave of coins stared at Noemí accusingly.
Noemí ran to the hallway and began yelling, “Help me!”
Had no one heard the commotion? She rushed forward, banging on doors, and yelling as loud as she could. Suddenly Francis appeared and behind him came Florence.
“Catalina is having a seizure,” she told them.
They all ran back to the room. Catalina was still on the floor; the tremors had not stopped. Francis sprang forward and sat her up, placing his arms around her, attempting to subdue her. Noemí was going to help him, but Florence stood in her way.
“Get out,” she ordered. “I can help.”
“Out, out now,” she ordered, shoving Noemí back and slamming the door in her face.
Noemí knocked furiously but no one opened. She could hear murmurs and once in a while a loud word or two. She began pacing the hallway.
When Francis came out he quickly closed the door behind him.
Noemí hurried to his side.
“What’s happening? How is she?”
“She’s in bed. I’m going to fetch Dr. Cummins,” Francis said.
They walked briskly toward the stairs, his long stride meaning she had to take two to keep up with him.
“I’ll go with you.”
“No,” Francis said.
“I want to do something.”
He stopped and shook his head before clutching her hands together. He spoke softly. “You come with me, it’ll be worse. Go to the sitting room, and when I return, I’ll fetch you. I won’t be long.”
“Promise?” “Yes.”
He dashed down the stairs. She rushed down the staircase too and pressed her hands against her face when she reached the bottom, tears prickling her eyes. By the time she walked into the sitting room, the tears were falling hard, and she sat on the carpet, clutching her hands together. The minutes ticked by. She wiped her nose with her sweater’s sleeve, wiped her tears with the palms of her hand. She stood up and waited.
He lied. It was a long time. What was worse, when Francis returned it was in the company of Dr. Cummins and Florence. At least there had been enough time for Noemí to compose herself.
“How is she?” Noemí asked, swiftly walking up to the doctor. “She’s asleep now. The crisis has passed.”
“Thank God,” Noemí said, and she sank onto one of the settees. “I don’t understand what happened.”
“What happened was this,” Florence said sharply, holding up the bottle Noemí had fetched from Marta Duval. “Where did you get it?”
“It’s a sleeping tonic,” Noemí said.
“Your sleeping tonic made her sick.”
“No.” Noemí shook her head. “No, she said she needed it.”
“Are you a medical professional?” Dr. Cummins asked her. He was distinctly displeased. Noemí felt her mouth go dry.
“No, but—”
“So you have no idea what was inside this bottle?”
“I told you, Catalina said she needed medicine to help her sleep. She asked me for it. She’s taken it before, it couldn’t have made her ill.”
“It did,” the doctor told her.
“An opium tincture. That’s what you shoved down your cousin’s throat,” Florence added, pointing an accusing finger at Noemí.
“I did no such thing!”
“It was very ill-advised, very ill-advised, indeed,” Dr. Cummins muttered. “Why I couldn’t begin to understand what you were thinking, procuring a filthy potion like that. And then, attempting to put a spoon in your cousin’s mouth. I suppose you heard that silly tale of people swallowing their tongues? Nonsense. All nonsense.”
“I—”
“Where did you get the tincture?” Florence asked.
Tell no one, Catalina had said, and so Noemí did not reply even if the mention of Marta Duval might have shifted the burden of her guilt. She gripped the back of the settee with one hand, digging her nails into the fabric.
“You could have killed her,” the woman said. “I wouldn’t!”
Noemí felt like crying again but could not allow herself this release, not in their presence. Francis had moved to stand behind the settee, and she felt his fingers upon her hand, almost ghostly. It was a comforting gesture, and it gave her the courage to clamp her mouth shut.
“Who did you procure the potion from?” the doctor asked. Noemí stared at them and kept on gripping the settee.
“I should slap you,” Florence said. “I should slap that disrespectful look off your face.”
Florence stepped forward. Noemí felt that perhaps she really did mean to slap her. She pushed Francis’s hand aside, ready to stand up.
“If you could please go check on my father I would be very grateful, Dr. Cummins. All the noise tonight has him a little anxious,” Virgil said.
He had strolled rather casually into the room, and his voice was cool as he ventured toward the sideboard and inspected a decanter, as if he were alone and pouring himself a drink like any other evening.
“Yes. Why yes, of course,” the doctor said.
“It’s best if you two go with him. I wish to speak to Noemí alone.” “I am not—” Florence began.
“I wish to be alone with her,” Virgil replied acridly. The smooth silk of his voice was now sandpaper.
They left, the doctor mumbling a “yes, at once,” Florence walking in a somber silence. Francis was the last to step out, slowly closing the doors of the sitting room before throwing her one nervous glance.
Virgil filled his glass, swirling the liquid in it, staring at its contents, before approaching her and taking a place on the same settee she occupied. His leg brushed against hers when he sat down.
“Catalina once told me you were a very strong-willed creature, but I didn’t quite understand how strong-willed until now,” he said, setting the drink down on an oblong side table. “Your cousin is a bit of a weakling, isn’t she? But you have a certain mettle in your bones.”
He spoke so blithely it made her gasp. He talked as if this were a game. As if she were not sick with worry. “Have a little respect,” she said.
“I think it’s another person who should be showing respect. This is my home.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re not sorry at all.”
She could not read the expression in his eyes. Perhaps it was contempt. “I am sorry! But I was trying to help Catalina.”
“You have a funny way of showing it. How dare you constantly upset my wife?”
“What do you mean I constantly upset her? She is glad to have me around, she told me so.”
“You bring strangers to look at her and then you bring her poison.”
“For God’s sake,” she said and stood up.
He immediately grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her down. It was her bandaged wrist, and it hurt when he touched her; the skin burned for a second and she winced. He tugged at her sleeve, revealing the bandage, and smirked.
“Let go.”
“Dr. Camarillo’s work, perhaps? Just like the tincture? Was it him?”
“Don’t touch me,” she ordered.
But he did not release her; instead he leaned forward. He clasped her arm tight. She thought Howard looked like an insect and Florence was an insectivorous plant. But Virgil Doyle, he was a carnivore, high up the food chain.
“Florence is right. You deserve to be slapped and taught a few lessons,” he muttered.
“If anyone is slapped in this room, I assure you, it won’t be me.”
He threw his head back and laughed a loud, savage laugh, and he reached blindly for his drink. A few dark drops of liquor spilled on the side table as he lifted the glass. The sound of his voice practically made her jump. At least he had released her.
“You’re mad,” she said, rubbing her wrist.
“Mad with worry, yes,” he replied, downing the wine. Rather than placing the glass on the table again, he carelessly tossed it on the floor. It did not shatter, but rolled across the carpet. But what if it had shattered? It was his glass. His to break if he wanted. Like everything else in this house.
“Do you think you are the only person who cares what happens to Catalina?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the glass. “I imagine you do. When Catalina wrote to your family, did you think, ‘ah, at last we can pry her away from that troublesome man’? And right now you must think ‘I knew he was bad.’ Your father certainly didn’t like me for a groom.
“When the mine was open, he would have been glad to see Catalina married to me. Back then I would have been worthy. He wouldn’t have thought me inconsequential. It must still irk him, and you, to know Catalina picked me. Well, I’m no two-bit fortune hunter, I’m a Doyle. It would be good of you to remember that.”
“I don’t know why you bring all this up.”
“Because you believe I am so inadequate that you had to go and medicate Catalina. You thought the care I give her is so atrocious that you must sneak behind my back and pour garbage into her mouth. Did you think we wouldn’t notice? We know everything that goes on in this house.”
“She asked for this medicine. I told your aunt and the doctor already, I didn’t realize this would happen.”
“No, you don’t know very much, and yet you act as if you know everything, don’t you? You’re a spoiled brat and you’ve hurt my wife,” he said with a brutal finality.
He stood up and picked up the glass, setting it upon the fireplace mantel. She felt twin flames inside her heart, anger and shame. She hated the way he was talking to her, hated this entire conversation. And yet had she not done a foolish thing? Hadn’t she earned a reprimand? She did not know how to reply and felt tears pooling in her eyes again as she recalled poor Catalina’s face.
He must have noticed her turmoil or else he was simply done berating her, because his voice wavered a little. “You almost made me a widower tonight, Noemí. You will forgive me if I don’t feel very gracious at this time. I should head to bed. It’s been a long day.”
He did look tired, frankly exhausted. His blue eyes were very bright, with the brightness of a sudden fever. It made her feel even worse about the whole mess.
“I must ask you to leave Catalina’s medical care to Dr. Cummins and never bring any other tonics or remedies into this house. Are you listening to me?”
“I am,” she replied.
“Will you follow this simple directive?”
She clenched her hands. “I will,” she said, and she felt very much like a child.
He took a step closer to her, carefully looking at her, as though trying to discern a lie, but there was none. She spoke in earnest, and yet he brushed close to her, like a scientist who must analyze and jot down every detail of an organism, taking in her face, her pursed lips.
“Thank you. There are many things you cannot understand, Noemí. But let me make it clear that Catalina’s well-being is of the utmost importance to us. You’ve harmed her and in harming her you’ve harmed me.”
Noemí turned her head away. She thought he’d leave. Instead, he lingered at her side. Then, a small eternity later, he stepped away from her and out of the room.
