Mexican Gothic(37)

She rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward, smiling, until her eyes were level with his. They looked at each other.

“You’ll think it in a minute because I have to ask you for a favor,”

she said, unable to forget the question she had on her mind.

“What?”

“I want to go into town tomorrow, and your mother said I can’t take the car. I was thinking you might give me a ride there and pick me up, say, a couple of hours later.”

“You want me to drop you off in town.”

“Yes.”

He looked away, evading her gaze. “My mother will not have it.

She’ll say you need a chaperone.”

“Are you going to chaperone me?” Noemí asked. “I’m not a child.”

“I know.”

Francis slowly walked around the table, stopping close to her and leaning down, inspecting one of the plant specimens on display. His fingers brushed lightly over a fern.

“They’ve asked me to keep an eye on you,” he said, his voice low.

“They say you’re reckless.”

“I suppose you agree and you think I need a babysitter,” she replied, scoffing.

“I think you can be reckless. But maybe I can ignore them this one time,” he said, almost whispering, his head lowered as if to reveal a secret. “We should leave early tomorrow, around eight o’clock, before they’re up and about. And don’t tell anyone we’re going out.”

“I won’t. Thank you.”

“It is nothing,” he replied and turned his head to look at Noemí.

This time his gaze lingered on her for one long minute before, skittish, he stepped back and rounded the table again, returning to his original position. A bundle of nerves is what he was.

A heart, raw and bleeding, she thought, and the image lingered in her mind. The anatomical heart, like in the Lotería cards, red, with all veins and arteries, rendered bright crimson. What was the saying?

Do not miss me, sweetheart, I’ll be back by bus. Yes, she had spent many lazy afternoons playing Lotería with her cousins, declaiming the popular rhyme that went with each card as they played and made their bets.

Don’t miss me, sweetheart.

Could she get Lotería cards in town? It might give her and Catalina an activity to pass the time. It would be something they’d done before, which would conjure memories of more pleasant days.

The door to the library opened and Florence walked in, Lizzie following her behind with a pail and a rag. Florence’s gaze swept across the room, coldly assessing Noemí and settling on her son.

“Mother. I didn’t realize you’d be cleaning the library today,”

Francis said, quickly standing up straight and shoving his hands in his pockets.

“You know how it is, Francis. If we do not keep on top of things they fall apart. While a few may consign themselves to idleness, others must observe their duties.”

“Yes, of course,” Francis said and began gathering his things.

“I’d be happy to watch over Catalina while you do your cleaning,”

Noemí offered.

“She’s resting. Mary is with her, anyway. There’s no need for you.”

“Still, I’d like to make myself useful, as you say,” she declared, uttering a challenge. She wasn’t going to let Florence complain that she did nothing.

“Follow me.”

Before Noemí exited the library, she glanced over her shoulder and shot Francis a smile. Florence marched Noemí into the dining room and gestured to the display cases crammed with silver.

“You were interested in these items. Perhaps you might polish them,” she said.

The Doyles’ silver collection was quite staggering, each shelf lined with salvers, tea sets, bowls, and candlesticks that sat dusty and dull behind glass. A lone person could not hope to tackle this whole task alone, but Noemí was determined to prove herself in front of this woman.

“If you give me a rag and some polish, I’ll do it.”

Since the dining room was very dark, Noemí had to light several lamps and candles in order to see exactly what she was doing. Then she set about meticulously working the polish into every crevice and curve, sliding the rag over enameled vines and flowers. A sugar bowl proved to be exceedingly difficult, but for the most part she managed well.

When Florence returned, many pieces lay gleaming on the table.

Noemí was carefully polishing one of two curious cups that were shaped in the form of stylized mushrooms. The base of the cups was decorated with tiny leaves and even a beetle. Maybe Francis could tell her if this was based on a real mushroom species and which one.

Florence stood there, watching Noemí. “You’re industrious.”

“Like a little bee, when I feel like it,” Noemí replied.

Florence approached the table, running her hands over the items Noemí had polished. She picked one of the cups up and spun it between her fingers, inspecting it. “You expect to win my praise this way, I think. It would take more.”

“Your respect, perhaps. Not your praise.”

“Why would you need my respect?”

“I don’t.”

Florence set the cup down and clasped her hands together, her eyes admiring the metal objects, almost reverently. Noemí had to admit it was a bit overwhelming to look at so many glittering riches on display, though it seemed a pity they had all been locked away, dusty and forgotten. What good were mountains of silver if you didn’t use them? And the people in the town, they had so little. They didn’t keep silver locked in cabinets.