And Alma will rewind to this crazed and wild moment because otherwise she might miss Hannah, slinking into the shadows, terrified, mute, after what seemed an interminable bout of screaming, and slipping out of the bedroom just as the thought crosses Alma’s mind that Hannah has been released into the custody of her husband who is now in the sheriff’s custody, and will she be all right?
The paramedics spring into swift action, checking on Helen, hooking her up to oxygen, lifting her onto a stretcher that materializes from who knows where, and rolling her out, Alma hurrying alongside, trying to get a hold of Helen’s hand, thinking, Oh Helen, forgive me, what a miserable last Thanksgiving I’ve brought to your house.
AT THE HOSPITAL, THE sheriff drops by to get Alma’s testimony of what she witnessed at the Marshall residence. Alma doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t want to get Mickey into any more trouble than he’s already in. The sheriff’s jaw is swollen. “Is it broken?” Alma asks. “It’s fine,” he says curtly. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He wants to talk about what Alma saw over at Helen’s house, and he is getting increasingly impatient with her vague answers, with her not being sure.
“I want to call someone from Helen’s hospice team,” Alma tells him. He looks too young to be a sheriff, with his big hands and pink skin showing under his severe crew cut. A half century ago he would have been milking cows on his father’s farm. Now he has a cruiser and at his hip a holster with what looks like a toy gun.
Claudine drives over, followed by Becky and Shawn, little pieces of pie crumbs still in the laps of their skirts and pants, vague scent of food on their breath. A little later Cheryl joins them. Sherry is out of town. No one thinks to call Reverend Don. Who wants a twenty-something-year-old trying to cheer them all up in the waiting room with talk of paradise?
“I made a mistake,” Alma admits to the assembled team. “I never should have invited Mickey over.” And then she tells them the whole story, how she can’t swear that Mickey was going to harm his mother, just that he was about to inject Helen with some medication that could have been harmless. “I mean he is a nurse. Maybe I just panicked.” The deputy and another officer have been back to the house, and no one has come up with what they are calling hard evidence, the syringe, its contents. As for Hannah, she has vanished in the pickup, and there is a call out to the state police to stop her if they find her.
The doctor on call comes out to announce to the hodgepodge collection of people in the waiting room that Helen is stable. She has had a ministroke, but she is going to be okay.
Okay? Alma wonders if the doctor even knows Helen has cancer. Maybe he doesn’t realize how bad things are. Helen has told Alma that she has a living will. Should Alma bring that up now?
“Nothing more to do tonight,” the doctor advises the team. He seems weary, bags under his eyes, his hair looks unwashed. What a life, bringing people news of their mortality. “Why don’t we all touch base tomorrow?”
Soon after the doctor leaves, the group disperses as if taking his advice. Claudine better get back to her girls and Dwayne and both their assembled families. “You all take care.” Shawn follows. “You going to be all right?” Becky asks Alma, before taking off herself. Now that it’s dark outside, the large picture window in the waiting room reflects all these leave-takings. The clouds have dispersed. The night is turning cold. The stars are sharp-edged, numerous, bold.
Before Alma leaves, she asks the on-duty nurse if she can just go in a minute to say good-bye to Helen.
The woman glances up from her island where she has been checking paperwork. She is tired, overworked. The cheerful demeanor of a few hours ago is gone. All of this commotion she has heard about is nothing that can be helpful to her patient. “It’s better if she rests,” she tells Alma, but then, maybe because it’s Thanksgiving—a cutout turkey hangs from an orange streamer above her head—she relents. “She was asking for Mickey.” Maybe the nurse thinks Alma is Mickey? Alma holds her tongue.
The room is dark except for the lighted-up dials of machines, the indirect light falling in from the hall. Helen is getting oxygen, her arm’s hooked up to an IV. Tubes crisscross the bed, connecting Helen to sundry ticking machines. As Alma looks for a patch of unoccupied skin to stroke, Helen’s eyes open, and her scared and sorry look is the saddest thing in the world.
“You just had a little setback,” Alma whispers. “The doctor said you’ll be home in no time.”
Helen’s eyes close, but from the edges of them tears roll out. This isn’t what Helen wants, Alma thinks. Whatever Mickey was going to give her in that injection was probably a lot better than this. Alma wonders if Helen knows what is going on. Could she have heard the whole commotion in her house even if she’d had a stroke?
The nurse is at the door. Time to go. Alma squeezes Helen’s hand. “I’m sorry, Helen,” she says, brushing her lips against Helen’s forehead. It feels damp, smells cold-creamy, Helen’s smell the hospital odors haven’t completely obscured. “Everything’s going to be okay,” she adds, lamely.
Pulling into the driveway of her dark house, Alma wants Richard to be home so much, she could weep. She wants to tell him the story of this crazy day, so he can tell her that she did the right thing, that she had no way of knowing what Mickey was up to. It is a little after midnight. Maybe she’ll try calling him. Maybe luck is on her side and Richard’ll just happen to be in the Swan office, reading by the office’s generator light, who knows. Or maybe she’ll dispense with long distance altogether and instead call the airlines, buy a ticket, get on a plane tomorrow, be gone by the time the sheriff comes by to get her sworn testimony, before Mickey is released on bail.
She walks into the house, feeling unsure, shaken, suddenly frightened: of Mickey, of Hannah, of this bad blood in the air. The answering machine is emitting its reassuring beep that means a message is waiting for her. Four to be exact. She plays them in the dark, the voices seeming strangely present. Happy Thanksgiving from her parents! Happy Thanksgiving from David and Ben, together in New York! How sweet of them to remember her. Sam out in San Francisco will probably not call, as his father’s not around. The third message makes her breath catch. Emerson. His voice too calm, controlled. Could Alma please call him no matter what time she gets in. He gives her his cell phone number, which Alma scrambles to write down, then several alternative numbers in case she doesn’t get through on his cell.
His cell phone number goes right into voice mail. He’s probably talking to someone else. “Emerson, I’m home. Please call me.” The other numbers are busy. But Alma feels so desperate she keeps trying one number after another, reminding herself of how Emerson closed his message. “Richard is okay. I don’t want you to worry about that. But do call me no matter what time you get in.”
Finally, the call goes through. The phone is ringing at his end.
“Emerson here,” Emerson answers. And then he tells her, how Richard is okay, but there’s been some trouble at the center. The locals have taken it over, and Richard, her Richard, is a hostage.
“What do you mean, a hostage?” Alma manages to get out stupidly. She knows what a hostage is. “What do they want?” Whoever these angry people are, they can have anything they want—this house, the car, the pickup, all of her royalties for the rest of her writing life, anything, anything, in exchange for Richard.
“They want the testing to stop. The clinic turned into a clinic for locals. The chance to tell the world their story.” Emerson sighs as if he’s heard all this before. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” he adds. “The head of International Research from Swan is joining me. Starr’ll meet us there.”
“I’m going with you.”
“I thought you might want to,” Emerson says. Maybe he is thinking what she is thinking. This would not be happening if Alma had gone along with Richard in the first place. “I booked you a seat, too.” Emerson’ll meet her at the airport in a few hours, early-bird flight to Newark, connecting to the island.
After the call, A
lma races upstairs, stuffing clothes wildly in a bag. What to pack? Underwear-pants-tops, a nice dress in case—in case what?—hiking shoes–socks–nightgown–toothbrush, her jewelry bag. Maybe she can trade Richard for her old charm bracelet, the gold hoops he surprised her with on their last anniversary, the pearl necklace Mamasita and Papote gave her when she graduated from college. Closer to dawn, she calls Claudine but gets her machine, probably the family is sleeping in. Alma leaves the clinic number because what other place can she tell Claudine to call in case anything happens to Helen? How to reach Tera? Tera on the protest circuit with no answering machine at home! Alma scribbles her best friend a note. Maybe by the time Tera gets it, Alma will be home with Richard. As for her stepsons? Alma decides not to alarm them, to wait until they need to know.
It’s in her wild zigzags through the house that Alma remembers to listen to the fourth message she had ignored. A woman’s garbled voice, a truck roaring by, a roadside phone. “Please don’t let them hurt Mickey. He was just trying to do what’s right.”
Hannah! Alma feels a surge of anger. Are you happy now that your curse is working? Is this what you wanted? But what good will it do to rage at this distraught and scared woman, as scared and distraught as Alma is herself? They are all now hurtling over the edge, floating on faith, floating on love. Nothing for Alma to do but make a deal with Helen’s God. Mickey for Richard, both men back in the arms of the women who love them, unharmed.
V
FEBRUARY–MARCH 1804
When the small boat was within earshot, our captain called down the name of our ship.
“We are the Royal Philanthropic Expedition of the Vaccine!” Don Francisco added. “We’ve come in peace!” Surely, the letter he had written from Tenerife and sent ahead by packet ship to Puerto Rico had arrived. Where was our welcome?
We were lined up in our uniforms, the boys and I, looking toward the calm bay, the city of San Juan, the green hills beyond. Land, land, land! How beautiful and unreal it seemed after a month at sea. For the moment this was welcome enough, at least for me.
Don Francisco’s face was flushed. He seemed tired and feverish. Again it struck me that with the prize almost within reach, his faith was faltering.
“They are probably being cautious,” Captain del Barco assured him. “False flags have been flown before.” He went on to explain that a few years ago, San Juan had been attacked by the English. In fact, the present governor had distinguished himself in that battle. And though San Juan had been victorious, even victors remain wary.
Our director was shaking his head, unconvinced. Perhaps he already had an inkling of what awaited us. So much time and money and passion had gone into this enterprise. Anything short of a magnificent welcome would have disappointed him.
I had been worrying about other things. After this last round, only Benito would be left to vaccinate. Our task was almost finished. Would we return with the María Pita to Spain after its final stop in Veracruz—the mate had stammered a question about my plans, as if his own depended on mine—or continue with Don Francisco as far as Mexico City and part ways there? No matter where, the inevitable was bound to come.
And yet, when I saw him so downcast, I worried not only for him but for the future of our expedition. This worry grew in the ensuing weeks as our director’s conduct began to threaten the very spirit of our mission. That is why I did not continue writing in my book. I did not want there to be a record of our fiasco in Puerto Rico.
I, too, had an inkling of what was to come. What was to be my mission from now on.
THE HOUSE WAS ELEGANT and large, no spare convent or plainspoken public building; we were to be housed in our very own mansion. The cook came out, a Creole woman, along with a handful of servants to welcome us. Several uniformed militiamen were posted at the door, I suppose to protect our royal persons!
The boys’ eyes were round with wonder. All the stories I had told them on board the ship were coming true. Even I was half convinced that perhaps I had foreseen the future.
A wonderful smell was wafting from the kitchen, onions frying, meat roasting. My mouth watered at the prospect of a meal of savory, fresh food. Soon I would indulge in a bath, soaking the salty stickiness out of my skin and hair. How luscious that would feel! We had not drowned at sea, terra firma was under our feet. I was a happy woman.
Our director had gone ahead in the first carriage, so that as we came in the entryway, he was descending the stairs. His face had not lost its flushed, weary cast. I hoped he was not falling ill. He was not, after all, a young man.
“There are no sheets on our beds,” I heard him tell the emissary who had rowed out to the ship.
“No sheets on the bed?” Señor Mexía was perplexed. Someone else had been in charge of that detail. Of course, he would attend to it. But first things first. Governor Castro and Bishop Arizmendi and Dr. Oller would soon be here to greet our party personally.
Dr. Francisco shrugged, unappeased. No grand reception had awaited us at the docks. No processional to the cathedral for a Te Deum, as he had specified in his letter. We looked silly in our fancy attire, people dressed up for a grand occasion that had not transpired. “Did the governor not receive the Tenerife mail?”
Señor Mexía could not say except to say how glad the governor was that we were here. Poor man, I thought, trying to pacify a wounded dignitary.
“Where are we to conduct the vaccinations?” Don Francisco wanted to know. “I sent instructions not to hold the sessions in the hospital. People will not come. Hospitals are for the ill. We want the vaccine to be thought of as an agent of health.”
Señor Mexía nodded every assurance he could.
But our director ranted on. It was a rant. The large swath of sunlight through the windows brought him no joy. The inside of the house opened into an inner courtyard from which a lovely breeze was blowing. Water splashed from a fountain beside a tree with red blossoms like flames whose like I had never seen before.
“We need to start vaccinating immediately. Have the boys I requested been selected?”
Señor Mexía faltered and looked unsure of what to say. “The governor will explain everything,” he assured our director with a nervous smile.
Now I was intrigued. What was going on? Our reception had been nothing short of courteous but, upon reflection, in no way remarkable. As if what we had risked our lives to bring was a kind but unnecessary trifle. As if we had come to paradise, offering salvation.
From managing La Casa for many years, I had learned where one could go for whatever one needed to know. At the first opportunity, I slipped away, following my nose toward the smell of our wonderful dinner cooking. Most of the servants had withdrawn to the back of the house and were sitting about the kitchen. They scrambled to their feet at attention when I came in.
I gestured for them to take their seats. “It has been so long since I smelled such delicious smells!” I exclaimed. “It is a meal just to smell them!”
Everyone watched me, mouths agape. I was a strange creature. A Spaniard who spoke a Spanish only vaguely recognizable to their Creole ears. A woman who had come with a medicine for the smallpox but who had obviously not had the benefit of the cure herself. For the first time in months, I felt conscious of my scarred face. But I would never go back to covering myself. Somewhere, midsea, I had lost that much of my vanity.
At my heels, Benito came running in. “Mamá!” he called. He had something to show me, a flower dropped from the flame tree. It was then I realized I had not seen a flower for weeks. It seemed a heartbreakingly beautiful thing.
When I glanced up again, the guarded looks had vanished. Strange woman or not, we shared a stronger bond, motherhood. As they indulged me with a taste of the roast pork and a slice of pineapple for the boy, I began to ask questions.
THE SOUND OF BLOWING trumpets drew me back to the front room. Governor Castro was entering the front parlor, a lovely little girl in either hand, his two young daughters, each bearing a posy for
Don Francisco. His wife, Doña María Teresa, sent her greetings. She would receive Don Francisco and the members of his expedition this evening for a banquet.
The governor motioned for a man about our director’s age to step forward. “Dr. Oller,” he introduced himself, giving our director a curt, correct bow as if he did not want to be too enthusiastic and be deemed a provincial. “We are honored by your visit.”
A bishop in a scarlet robe that matched the blossoms on the flame tree spread his arms in a blessing. When he was done, he embraced our director warmly. Bishop Arizmendi had been born on the island and did not have the reserve of his Spanish cohorts.
I saw the worry and ill temper fall away from our director’s face. At last, we were being properly welcomed. Though he still looked weary, he seemed to breathe easier. Indeed everyone around him did. In a minute he would begin asking what preparations had been made for vaccinations to begin immediately.
I was the only one in our party who knew that this moment was the great calm before the storms, such as we had experienced at sea. But the governor breathed not a word to Don Francisco, and the pageant of welcome went on without a hitch.
It was only later in the day that a letter arrived from the governor’s palace, enjoining Don Francisco to have a relaxed if brief stay in the lovely city of San Juan. For there will not be much for you to do here, the letter went on. Our director requested I read it after he had done so, but I had already heard the news from the cook and servants in the kitchen. A smallpox epidemic had threatened in December, and learning that the vaccine had been safely transported by the British, encrusted on threads, to St. Thomas, Dr. Oller had arranged for it to be brought over on the arm of a slave girl. Hundreds of people had already been vaccinated. The epidemic had been averted.
“On threads?” I was perplexed. Don Francisco had mentioned an alternative way of preserving the vaccine, impregnating threads with the cowpox fluid. But he had said the method would not work for long transports.