Mexican Gothic(11)

Let Virgil understand, then, that Noemí had an invisible stone in her pocket.

“It was good of you to come on such short notice,” Virgil said, though his tone was flat. Courtesy, but no warmth.

“I had to.”

“Did you really?”

“My father was concerned,” she said. There was her stone, even as his own badge was all around him, in this house and its things.

Noemí was a Taboada, sent by Leocadio Taboada himself.

“As I tried to tell him, there is no need for alarm.”

“Catalina said she had tuberculosis. But I don’t think that quite explains her letter.”

“Did you see the letter? What did it say exactly?” he asked, leaning forward. His tone was still flat, but he looked alert.

“I did not consign it to memory. Enough that he asked me to visit you.”

“I see.”

He turned his glass between his hands, the fire making it glint and sparkle. He leaned back against the chair. He was handsome.

Like a sculpture. His face, rather than skin and bone, might have been a death mask.

“Catalina was not well. She ran a very high fever. She sent that letter in the midst of her sickness.”

“Who is treating her?”

“Pardon me?” he replied.

“Someone must be treating her. Florence, is she your cousin?”

“Yes.”

“Well, your cousin Florence gives her medicine. There must be a doctor.”

He stood up and grabbed a fireplace poker, stirring the burning logs. A spark flew through the air and landed on a tile dirty with age, a crack running down its middle.

“There is a doctor. His name is Arthur Cummins. He has been our physician for many years. We completely trust Dr. Cummins.”

“Doesn’t he think her behavior has been unusual, even with tuberculosis?”

Virgil smirked. “Unusual. You have medical knowledge?”

“No. But my father did not send me here because he thought everything was as usual.”

“No, your father wrote about psychiatrists at the first possible opportunity. It’s the thing he writes about, over and over again,”

Virgil said scornfully. It irritated her to hear him speaking in such a way about her father, as though he were terrible and unfair.

“I will speak to Catalina’s doctor,” Noemí replied, perhaps more forcefully than she should have, for at once he returned the poker to its stand with a quick and harsh movement of his arm.

“Demanding, are we?”

“I wouldn’t say demanding, exactly. Concerned, more like it,” she replied, taking care to smile, to show him this was really a small matter that might be easily resolved, and it must have worked, for he nodded.

“Arthur comes by every week. He’ll stop by Thursday to see Catalina and my father.”

“Your father is also ill?”

“My father is old. He has the aches that time bestows on all men.

If you can wait until then, you may speak to Arthur.”

“I have no intention of leaving yet.”

“Tell me, how long do you expect to remain with us?”

“Not too long, I hope. Enough to figure out if Catalina needs me.

I’m sure I could find lodging in town if I’m too much of a nuisance.”

“It’s a very small town. There’s no hotel, not even a guesthouse.

No, you can remain here. I’m not trying to run you out. I wish you’d come for another reason, I suppose.”

She had not thought there would be a hotel, although she would have been glad to discover one. The house was dreary, and so was everyone in it. She could believe a woman could sicken quickly in a place like this.

She sipped her wine. It was the same dark vintage she’d had in the dining room, sweet and strong.

“Is your room satisfactory?” Virgil asked, his tone warming, turning a bit more cordial. She was, perhaps, not his enemy.

“It’s fine. Having no electricity is odd, but I don’t think anyone has died from a lack of light bulbs yet.”

“Catalina thinks the candlelight is romantic.”

Noemí supposed she would. It was the kind of thing she could imagine impressing her cousin: an old house atop a hill, with mist and moonlight, like an etching out of a Gothic novel. Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre, those were Catalina’s sort of books. Moors and spiderwebs. Castles too, and wicked stepmothers who force princesses to eat poisoned apples, dark fairies cursing maidens and wizards who turn handsome lords into beasts. Noemí preferred to jump from party to party on a weekend and drive a convertible.

So maybe, in the end, this house suited Catalina fine. Could it be it had been a bit of a fever? Noemí held her glass between her hands, running her thumb down its side.

“Let me pour you another glass,” Virgil said, playing the role of the attentive host.

It could grow on you, this drink. Already it had lulled her into a half sleep, and she blinked when he spoke. His hand brushed hers as he made a gesture to refill her glass, but she shook her head. She knew her limits, traced them firmly.

“No, thanks,” she said, setting the glass aside and rising from the chair, which had proven more comfortable than she might have guessed.

“I shall insist.”