The Hacienda(25)

Had he heard something? Did he understand why I had invited them here?

Would he believe me?

A small bud of hope fluttered behind the hollow of my throat. I cradled it tenderly, praying to I knew not whom that at least one of the priests would not think me mad as I brought them to the north wing.

The day before, when the sun was at its zenith—for I could not force myself when there was anything less than the brightest light possible—I went back to the north wing. It was as it had been when I brought Juana and Paloma to see: smooth, unblemished stucco mocking me. Sometimes when I headed upstairs, I would cast a glance over my shoulder, thinking I had spied a tumble of bricks out of the corner of my eye . . . but whenever I turned to face it, it was gone.

Had I imagined it? Was it there or not?

It was time to end this, once and for all.

“This is where you wish to begin the blessing?” Padre Vicente looked around the dark hall, frowning at the cobwebs, a crease deepening between his brows.

I turned to face the priests. I accidentally met Padre Andrés’s gaze; he must have been watching me with a scholarly focus. There was something in his eyes, an understanding frankness that stole the words from my lips.

He knew.

Intuition was a cool hand on my fevered brow.

He would listen.

“I know this sounds shocking, but someone died in this house, Padre Vicente,” I said, the authority in my voice echoing through the narrow hall. “Someone died and was buried in a wall. Covered with bricks. I know because I found a body. This house is diseased because of it. There are . . . there is a spirit. A malevolent one . . .”

“That is quite enough, Do?a Beatriz,” Padre Vicente snapped, his brows now drawn close together.

My cheeks flushed hot. I don’t quite know what I expected, but I certainly should not have expected it to go well. Perhaps it was because I described the house as diseased. Perhaps it was because I had no proof of this body I claimed to have found buried in the walls of the house.

“I will do what I came to do. That is all.” He turned on his heel and stalked toward the front hall, muttering prayers of blessing and sprinkling holy water on this wall and that. That wasn’t what I wanted.

“This house needs an exorcism, Padre,” I said, following him toward the front door. “I beg you.”

“I said, that is enough, Do?a Beatriz.” Padre Vicente gave me a sharp look that indicated how obvious it was to him that something on San Isidro’s property needed an exorcism, and it wasn’t the house. “Do not give me further reason to believe you mock me with Satan’s tongue.”

My breath caught. I trod on dangerous ground. We must bear this with dignity, Mamá often said—the well-worn habit of fear bade me be silent. I should have held my tongue. But the cold of the north wing sank its claws deep into marrow. I could not shake it. I would never be free of it. I needed help. I needed someone—anyone—to listen.

“Please,” I repeated softly, and caught Padre Andrés’s forearm as he trailed behind Padre Vicente.

The young man paused, his eyes falling to my hand on his arm. I dropped it as if I had been burned—laying hands on a priest was not something a woman like Rodolfo Solórzano’s wife should do. Something no sane woman would do.

Yet I had.

For there was a curl of fear in the way Padre Andrés held his shoulders, a bent to his posture that told me he felt there was a predator nearby. That he was ready to spring away, because he, too, felt there was something breathing down his neck.

He raised his gaze to mine.

He believed me.

“Padre Andrés, my work here is done,” Padre Vicente called. He was already in the garden.

“No, please,” I breathed. The holy water and begrudging blessings were not enough. I couldn’t face another night like the previous. I would lose my mind, or—

“Andrés, boy!” That was the cross bark of a superior who would not tolerate being disobeyed.

“Come to Mass often, Do?a Beatriz,” Padre Andrés said. His voice was low, sonorous—low enough that Padre Vicente could not overhear him in the garden. “The sacraments remind us we are not alone.”

Then he dipped his head and stepped into the light. I watched his dark silhouette, slender as a young oak, as he crossed the courtyard in Padre Vicente’s wake.

There was a lilt of invitation in that final phrase, in the urgent shade of his eyes.

Come to the church, it said. I will help you.





10





THE NEXT LETTER I received from Rodolfo opened with the same piloncillo-sweet well-wishes as the first, but quickly dovetailed into harsh scolding.

Evidently, Padre Vicente had found it prudent to report my troubling behavior to my husband. And he had either embellished my state or truly believed I had taken leave of my senses.

I stood in my study as I read, my back to the wall. Two sleepless nights had passed since the visit from the priests. No matter where I was, no matter where I hid, it was as if the house knew where I was. Cold swept through the halls like flash floods through arroyos, gluttonous from rain, sweeping me away.

That morning, as I uncurled the stiffness in my back and watched the lilting smudges of bats returning outside my bedroom window, I wondered if I should try sleeping outside. Far from the house rather than in its belly. But the idea of being so exposed, of having no wall to put my back to, no door to shut if those eyes . . .