A Candle in the Dark (29 page)

Serafina plunked a stack of bowls onto the table, along with a blue pitcher. Drops of red wine splattered from its lip onto the wood.

“I must talk to Serafina a moment,” Jiméne said quickly, his face suddenly white. He motioned to the doorway. “Please, D’Alessandro, if you would go—”

D’Alessandro nodded, his gaze fastened on the pitcher, on the spilling wine. Ana could read the yearning in his eyes, saw the burning hope.

She touched his arm, and he looked at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. He was as strained as she’d ever seen him.

He nodded shortly, distractedly, and started to walk across the bamboo-matted floor to Jiméne’s mother’s room. Ana watched him, feeling the heaviness in her stomach grow with every step. She wanted to curse Serafina for putting out the wine, even though Jiméne’s sister could know nothing of D’Alessandro’s struggle. Though Ana knew Jiméne would make sure there was no trace of the wine when D’Alessandro returned, she also knew that D’Alessandro wouldn’t forget it was there. By the look on his face, it was already tormenting him.

Behind her, Jiméne jabbered to his sister. The baby gurgled, and Enzo laughed—a shrill, innocently happy laugh. But Ana couldn’t take her eyes off D’Alessandro’s slow, even walk. Once he was at the doorway, he stopped and looked in, and then he pushed aside the curtain and leaned heavily against the jamb, the pain in his expression so pronounced his profile looked sharp and harsh.

Her heart ached, her chest felt so tight she couldn’t breathe. She had an unexpected, absurd urge to break into tears, to rush over and take him in her arms, to ease the pain since she couldn’t erase it. To do
something
.

She stared at him, realizing suddenly that she was afraid for him, afraid that he would live up to his prediction and fail, afraid that he would care too much. She wished she could protect him from that, wished she could show him how people lived in Five Points, how pretending you didn’t care kept you alive, how loud bravado was more effective than miserable tears.

But she couldn’t. He was nothing like her. The misery on his face was there for anyone to see. It wouldn’t inspire confidence, only doubt, and Ana knew that if Jiméne’s family saw him like that, they would question Jiméne’s judgment, question D’Alessandro’s skill. They would see only a doctor too uncertain to begin.

What she saw was a man who believed he murdered someone he loved. A man desperately afraid he might do it again.

Ana picked up her skirts and walked to where he stood, staring into the darkened room. Quickly, quietly, she touched his clenched hand. He looked down at her, startled, and that second was all she needed. His hand loosened, she slid her fingers between his.

“So, Doctor,” she said with forced brightness, squeezing his hand. “Tell me how you treat a fever.”

Cain stared at her, stunned at the warm, sweet feel of her hand in his. It was as if she understood, as if she
knew
… But that was impossible, wasn’t it?
Wasn’t it
?

“I—” His words caught in his throat, he looked at her helplessly.

“You healed Jiméne, didn’t you?” Her voice was infinitely soft. “You can heal her too.”

“I didn’t heal him. You know that.”

She looked stricken for a moment, and then she shook her head. “I was wrong to say those things before.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Yes, I do,” she said quickly. “Those doctors did nothing but pray. Jiméne was right.
You
saved his life.”

Her words held the quiet, clean heat of conviction—honest conviction, he was sure, and that was even more shocking than the slender fingers curled around his. He didn’t understand, it was too foreign to understand, and he started to move away from her.

Then she squeezed his hand again, and Cain forgot that he didn’t understand her, forgot the sight of the wine staining the tabletop like blood. He even forgot the fear that the woman lying motionless in the dark, stifling room had roused in him.

“
Aquí!” Amado
raced into the house, holding out the medical case, and with him came all the attention in the room. Cain felt the pressure of several sets of eyes. He swallowed nervously as he took the case from the boy and thanked him.

Ana stepped back, starting to take her hand away, but Cain grasped it tightly. “Don’t,” he said, feeling as if he walked on the edge of a dark and dangerous cliff. “Don’t go.”

“But I—” She tensed.

“I need your help,” he said. It was the truth, anyway, he did need her help. But not for doctoring. Not for anything but keeping away the fear. She was the only thing keeping him from turning away from the illness and death in the room. The only thing keeping him from drowning his fear in drink.

The darkness in the tiny room was cloying, the air thick with the odor of sickness and musk and smoke, sharp with the acidic scent of tamarind. Jiméne’s mother was a mound of shadow in the corner, her ragged breathing rattled through the still darkness.

Cain felt Ana’s hand slipping from his, and he let it go, telling himself that he couldn’t diagnose Jiméne’s mother while clinging to Ana’s hand like a child. Still, his fingers were suddenly ice cold. He clenched the case closer to his body and glanced over his shoulder at Ana.

Jiméne was suddenly in the opening. “Mama,” he breathed. He shot a glance at Cain.

“I need a light.” Cain’s voice sounded rough and uneven. Jiméne dashed from the doorway and was back again in seconds with a lamp. Quickly he lit it, setting it on the bamboo table beside the bed. The small room was instantly illuminated.

Señora
Castañeras lay on a high pallet, covered only with a thin, multicolored blanket, a lump with a thin black braid trailing from the covers. The light danced over her body, flickered on the cane walls, and sent shadows into the darkened corners, and Cain swallowed, feeling trapped. Jiméne was watching him expectantly, and Ana had drawn away into the corner. There but not there. He remembered suddenly her strange aversion to doctors, and wondered that she’d stayed at all.

He wanted to run from this room, grab the wine and hide in the jungle, but he knew already that Jiméne would have hidden the liquor well, and there was no escaping anyway. He had promised to help—he had to at least try, even though the thought of trying made that deep, hopeless darkness in the pit of his stomach swell.

Cain ran a hand through his hair and moved to the short stool beside the bed. His medical case was hard and reassuring in his hand, the brass tacks warm against his skin.
It’s all right
, he told himself, sitting heavily.
Everything will be fine
. He stole a glance at Ana. Her arms were crossed over her chest, she looked stiff and unyielding. But she caught his gaze and smiled—a small reassuring smile that made him feel if not confident, then at least capable.

He took a deep breath, fighting the urge for drink, and touched the woman’s shoulder. “
Señora
,” he whispered. “
Señora Castañeras, despertese
.”

She shrugged off his hand, moaning, and Jiméne was instantly at her side. “Call her
Doña
Melia,” he said quickly. “It is what she prefers.” Then, before Cain could oblige, Jiméne leaned over his mother. “Mama,” he said anxiously. “Mama,
esta Jiméne. Jiméne
—
estoy di regreso
. Mama.”

The woman’s eyes flickered open, she rolled onto her back, blinking in the dim light. “Jiméne? Jiméne,
mi hijo
?”

“
Sí, Mama
.” Jiméne grabbed her hand, holding it to his lips. “
Si, Mama, su hijo
.”

Cain waited while Jiméne explained to his mother that he’d brought a doctor to look at her. Jiméne’s mother’s eyes were glazed, her breathing shallow, and when Cain touched her shoulder, her skin was hot and dry. Jiméne was right, it was
el pasmo
, a fever, and curing fevers was an elusive business.

Too elusive. Cain remembered attending lectures on the subject at Massachusetts General. No one really knew much about fevers, where they came from, why they went away. His own experience had taught him that people either got better or they died, and nothing he did made much difference.

His mouth was dry. He would give anything for a drink.

Jiméne finished talking and sat back on his heels, looking at Cain worriedly, waiting. There was no more time to delay; Cain set aside his case and leaned forward. In Spanish, he told
Doña
Melia to sit up, and his voice was harsh and strained. Weakly she did as she was told, turning her back to him. His hands were trembling again as he laid his fingers against her body and began the sharp, pounding movements of percussion.

He was acutely aware of Jiméne’s eyes following his every movement, but Cain said nothing, merely kept pounding, listening for the dull thud that warned him of liquid in her organs. He heard it, just as he thought he would—a solid, resistant sound where her lungs were.

Cain sat back, reaching for his case. “What have they been giving her?” he asked.

Jiméne hesitated. “Tamarind water and sour orange rind with cinnamon.”

“I suppose that can’t hurt,” Cain said, though he had no idea if it would or not. He unbuckled the straps of his case, willing his fingers to stop shaking, and lifted out the layer of instruments. The perforated tin box of leeches he set carefully aside, hoping that the animals were still alive after the wretched journey and his worse care. He reached for his lancet and bleeding cups, and then, finally, for the small vial of quinine salts.

“Get me some water, Jiméne. And sugar if you have it,” he directed. Then, when Jiméne left the room, he smiled into the frightened eyes of the sick woman in front of him. “
Acuéstate, Doña
Melia,” he said gently, pushing her back again. She lay back obediently. In the lamplight, her eyes looked large and liquid, the flesh around her face loose from weight loss. She must have been an attractive woman when she was young, Cain thought. But now she looked only sick, the dark circles beneath her eyes accentuated by shadow.

She responded to his smile, as he knew she would. They all did, even those—and there were many—who regarded all doctors as quacks. Sickness had a way of making everyone helpless, of reducing everyone to blind hope and supplication. Even doctors. Especially doctors…

Cain banished the thought and tried to concentrate on his patient. She made no sound as he lifted her chemise and brought the blankets up to cover her nakedness, leaving only her stomach bare. Jiméne came back into the room, his eyes wordlessly searching Cain’s as he handed over a jug of water and a lump of raw brown sugar.

“I’m going to bleed her,” Cain explained briefly, mixing a small bit of sugar and water in a cup and setting it aside. He reached into his case and pulled out a piece of linen, and then dropped some of the sugar water onto
Señora
Castañeras’s abdomen. Finally he took the tin leech box and opened it carefully.

They were still inside, rearing up on their tails when he took the lid off, still lively despite the jouncing they’d taken. He hated the sight of them; much of the time Cain ignored them simply because he wanted them to die, to relieve himself of the slimy feel of them, the parasitic plumpness. This time was no different. Painstakingly he lifted them into the linen, suppressing his shudder as he placed them on
Doña
Melia’s stomach while Jiméne explained to her what was happening. Cain watched her eyes close as the bloodsuckers grabbed for the sugar water and latched on to her skin.

Behind him, he heard Ana’s gasp. Cain lifted a bleeding cup from his case, squeezing the vulcanized rubber bulb at the top of it as a test. He heard the quick gasp of suction, then the release, and he took a deep breath. His fingers were trembling, and when he grabbed the lancet and took the
señora’s
arm, he closed his eyes for a moment to steady himself. It took every ounce of control he had to keep from reaching for the flask he knew was no longer there, and when he opened his eyes again and stared at the veins pulsing just below her dry, heated skin, he suddenly couldn’t remember how to cut her. The lancet lay folded in his hand and he couldn’t remember, didn’t know what to do, needed a drink…

“Ana,” he gasped. “Ana, come here.”

“What is it?” Jiméne jerked to look at him. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Cain shook his head. “Nothing. Ana?”

“I’m right here.” Her hand was on his shoulder, steadying, warm, and suddenly the amnesia passed, his trembling quieted.

Cain swallowed and opened the lancet. He felt Ana’s fingers dig into his shoulder, and he knew what this was costing her, how much his work filled her with revulsion. He had a fleeting urge to turn to her, to ask her again why she hated doctors, but
Señora
Castañeras’s arm pulsed beneath his hand, and he knew he didn’t have time for those questions. But later, perhaps, later, when this was all over and he could sit and look at Ana’s glorious hair and those sherry-colored eyes, and ask questions over a glass of rough red wine.

The thought gave him strength. Cain cut.

He shook all through dinner. Cain curled his hand around a cup of coffee, his jaw clenching as he thought of the hidden wine. There was no sign of it. Everyone at the table drank water or goat’s milk as if they were the drinks of choice, though he knew it wasn’t true, knew Jiméne had ordered Serafina to put the wine away. It didn’t help. Every gulp reminded him of wine, and that tortured him like nothing else he could have imagined.

So he tried to forget about it, to enjoy the spicy stew of chicken, yams, plantain, and rice called
sancoche
and listen to the conversation. But he had no appetite; even the juicy oranges and bananas Serafina brought out for dessert didn’t tempt him. Nothing did. He felt tired and dispirited, remembering Jiméne’s mother lying sick and weak in the bedroom, now dosed with a draft of quinine and opium for pain. Cain was deeply aware that he had no idea what was causing her illness, or even what to do about it except bleed and dee her until either the fever or the medicine killed her.