Mexican Gothic(67)

“It slipped my mind.”

He spoke so casually that one might be tempted to actually believe him. But Noemí was betting he had kept his lips tightly shut knowing the conclusion she would draw based on that: that Catalina was going to serve as a docile piggy bank.

If he was speaking now, it was because he meant to rile her up a little, to throw in her direction that sharp smile he had deftly shown her on more than one occasion. He wished to gloat. Because she was going away, after all, so a little gloating couldn’t hurt now.

“Is it very wise to do such a thing?” she asked. “With your wife in her condition?”

“It is not as if it’ll make her worse, don’t you think?”

“I think it’s callous.”

“We’ve long been simply existing at High Place, Noemí. Too long.

It is now time to grow again. The plant must find the light, and we must find our way in this world. You may consider that callous. I find it natural. And, in the end, it was you who was speaking of change to me the other day.”

How lovely that he should pin this project on her. Noemí pushed her chair back. “Maybe I should say good night to your father now.

I’m tired.”

Virgil held the stem of his glass and raised an eyebrow at her. “I suppose we could skip dessert.”

“Virgil, it’s much too early,” Francis protested.

He had spoken only those words that evening, but both Virgil and Florence turned their heads in his direction brusquely, as if he’d been saying offensive things all night long. Noemí guessed that he was not supposed to offer any sort of opinions. It did not surprise her.

“I’d say it’s about the right time,” Virgil replied.

They stood up. Florence led the way, taking an oil lamp that rested on a sideboard. The house was very chilly that evening, and Noemí crossed her arms against her chest, wondering if Howard would want to talk for long. Dear Lord, she hoped not. She wished to sneak under the covers and go to sleep as quickly as possible so that she might wake up early and jump into the blasted car.

Florence opened the door to Howard’s room, and Noemí followed her in. A fire was burning, and the curtains around the large bed were closed tight. There was an ugly smell in the air. Too pungent.

Like a ripe fruit. Noemí frowned.

“We are here,” Florence said, setting her oil lamp down on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. “We have your visitor.”

Florence then went by the bed and began peeling the curtains away. Noemí schooled her features into a polite smile, ready for the sight of Howard Doyle tucked neatly under the covers or perhaps lounging against the pillows in his green robe.

She did not expect him to be lying there, over the blankets, naked.

His skin was terribly pale and his veins contrasted grotesquely against his whiteness, indigo lines running up and down his body.

Yet that was not the worst of it. One of his legs was hideously bloated, crusted over with dozens of large, dark boils.

She had no idea what they were. Not tumors, no, for they pulsed quickly, and their fullness contrasted with his emaciated body, the skin grown taut against the bones except upon that leg where the boils grew, as thick as barnacles upon a ship’s hull.

It was horrid, horrid, and she thought he was a corpse, afflicted by the ravages of putrefaction, but he lived. His chest rose and dipped, and he breathed.

“You must get closer,” Virgil whispered into her ear and clasped her tight by the arm.

The shock had prevented Noemí from moving, but now that she felt his hand closing around her, she attempted to shove Virgil away and rush to the door. He yanked her back, though, with a vicious strength that threatened to snap her bones, and she gasped in pain, but still she fought him.

“Come on, help me here,” Virgil said, looking at Francis.

“Let go of me!” she screamed.

Francis did not approach them, but Florence grabbed Noemí’s free arm, and together Virgil and the woman dragged Noemí toward the head of the bed. She twisted her body and managed to kick the night table, sending a porcelain chamber pot crashing onto the floor.

“Kneel down,” Virgil ordered her.

“No,” Noemí said.

They shoved her down, Virgil’s fingers digging into her flesh, and he placed a hand behind her neck.

Howard Doyle turned his head upon the pillow and looked at her.

His lips were as bloated as his leg, crusted with black growths, and a trail of dark fluid dripped down his chin, staining his bedclothes.

This was the source of the bad smell in the room, and up close the stench was so awful she thought she would retch.

“My God,” she said and tried to get up, to scuttle away, but Virgil’s hand was a band of iron around her neck, and he was pushing her even closer to the old man.

And the man was rising in his bed, turning and stretching out a thin hand, his fingers digging into Noemí’s hair and pulling their faces closer.

She was able, at this disgustingly intimate distance, to clearly see the color of his eyes. They were not blue. The color was diluted by a bright, golden sheen, like flecks of molten gold.

Howard Doyle smiled at her, showing off his stained teeth— stained with black—and then he pressed his lips against hers. Noemí felt his tongue in her mouth and then saliva burning down her throat as he pressed himself against her and Virgil propped her in place.