Mrs Christus had begun to smile. Her face was being mapped by new lines appearing in the fine skin around her eyes and mouth. These lines spoke of a change from within. The daily routines which had once defined her life were losing their hold over her. Each morning, she reached for her corset but found that she did want it. A softness, like moisture on her skin, was beginning to seep into her body. Her corsets were everything this new feeling was not. They were rigid, possessing, and unrelenting, yet this feeling was yielding, forgiving. It made simple actions, such as sewing on Samuel's shirt button, infinitely pleasurable. She washed him, mended his clothes and made sure he ate well. There was little time for anything else. The daily routine of childcare had taken over from the previous routine of fastidious hiding. A delicate vine was growing about her limbs, clinging to her in a way peculiar to love.
At first, she had questioned whether the softness was a sign of weakness, and at night she had examined her arms, her breast, and stomach, searching for clues. But finding none, she finally put her corsets aside. Dressed in a loose cotton shift, she approached Samuel. In this barest of states, she picked him up, and the shock of feeling his body against hers, without the skin of the corset for protection, made her weep. It melted her, this feeling from the heart, this sweetness. It was in her fingertips, her hair, her eyes. She peered closely at his face, searching every expression for rejection but discovering none she finally accepted her nakedness, and the secret of her frailty was shared between them. Samuel did not realize that it was for him her body had been revealed. He lay against her only partly aware of a new sensation of being engulfed by a soft, yielding surface. She was, as she had always been, someone larger than himself with stiff skirts that promised protection. And the loss of that protection was keenly felt on the few occasions when Mrs Christus left him alone in the house. On one such occasion, when he had been left in the kitchen and told to sit quietly because she would soon be back, he had immediately started to cry. He was frightened of Angelita and frightened of being left alone. He cried in a way peculiar to himself, almost mute. With his head bowed over the kitchen table, his fists to his eyes, his nose running, he had wept and the aspirated sounds of his breath was a noise so inconsolable that after an hour Angelita had banished him outside to the veranda. He had crouched down in the corner and the sound of his crying was lost amongst the clamor of birds, the wind pulling at leaves, voices carried down the street and, from somewhere far away, a rooster crowing.
From his corner, the veranda chair pulled in front of him for added security, Samuel spied Lazario climbing the stairs leading from the front gate up to the veranda. In Lazario's hand was a small package wrapped in emerald green paper. Samuel, frightened and alone, followed the slight figure into the house, across the sitting room, through the mahogany arch, into the dining room and out the side door to the passage, alive with gray shadows. Lazario stopped a moment, straining to recognize the forms dancing along the walls. His inward-looking gaze, gentle hands and slightly confused expression, calmed Samuel, and for a moment he forgot his fear.
Lazario walked to the end of the passage and turned into the ante-room. Samuel followed him and hid behind the tin drum of lard. Mr Christus, drawn by the emotions stirring in the far reaches of the house, followed a thin trail of light left in the wake of the child. It meandered gracefully through the rooms, growing brighter the closer he got to the kitchen.
Angelita, busy over the stove, was unaware of Larario behind her; unaware of Samuel watching them both. She was stirring the amber liquid, an aromatic soup, thick with crab claws. She was dreaming, dreaming about anything that bothered to enter her mind. Around her, her thoughts, peaceful and contented, arranged themselves like soft whispers. Larario was sure he heard sounds emanating from her. He thought of children playing in a wide field, their voices echoing into limitless space.
"Angelita," he called.
She turned, anger glowering in her eyes. The soft touch, that of a child's, she mistook for Samuel. Instead, before her was Lazario, with arms outstretched, presenting her with a small package. She looked at the box wrapped in emerald green paper. The paper was the color of the trees that had surrounded the stony field where her father worked. The memory pulled her thoughts away from the pot and the crabs. She remembered days spent sitting in a thatched storage shed plucking dry, yellow kernels from a mountain of corn. She had always positioned herself at the door to the shed so that she could look out at the trees and immerse herself in the emerald expanse rising from the earth to the heavens. Observing the silken shift of green light was an antidote to the monotony of shelling corn. In the stillness of the room, where only the pot bubbled, she forgot Lazario waiting beside her and continued to turn the gift in hands that would not be still until they had entirely worked through the memory.
She opened the gift slowly, taking care not to tear the paper. Inside was a simple cardboard box and inside the box a black lace mantilla. Angelita shook it out, gazing at the large, black roses, their petals unfolding in lacy swirls. She ran her hands over the surface, inspecting every inch for a flaw, a sign of use. If it were damaged, she would not accept it. Pleased, she spread the mantilla on the table, smoothing the creases with swift strokes of her hand. With her index finger, she traced the knotted stems and pointed leaves and coming to the edge of the mantilla her finger paused. She had found what she was looking for. The mark which singled this mantilla from all others. She gazed at the butterfly with its iridescent wings lost amongst the petals of the black rose. This was perhaps the first thing that had been given to her of any worth. The first beautiful thing of her own. Everything that she had ever received, she had had to fight for. The cruelty of battle had always soured her triumphs, and, folding the gift, she felt confused, feeling perhaps that she had not earned it.
"This is mine?" she asked, still feeling unsure. He nodded. "But why?" Her face was shadowed by doubts.
He shrugged. "I have been looking for a long time for something to give to you. I saw many things that seemed to belong to you. Things you had lost. This I wished to return."
Those were the first words to ever lodge in Angelita's heart. Lazario had spoken simply, needing no games or veils to disguise his intent. He existed in a world not known by the sighted. He sifted through conversations, discovering people through what they said or did not say. He felt the slightest changes in tension between people, and to him, emotions were visible forces of such strength that he saw them as formless shapes swirling around their owners. He saw much yet said very little.
Angelita was pleased with the idea of having beautiful things returned to her. It was exactly what she wished. She trembled with the thought of what other treasures were yet to be discovered and returned. He had used the word 'lost' and she could think of no better word. It belonged right in the middle of her. She felt it there. She took his words literally and began to think that somehow he understood her secret.
The words had also lodged with Mr Christus, and they made him ache. What had transpired between the two was nothing short of miraculous. In a house decaying from every corner, something imperishable was being set in motion. Perhaps, the first real feeling the house had ever known. But there was a frailty to the emotions of the two young people that worried him. The house turned in on itself, looking to the past for the future, and that backward glance was dangerous when something like love was in question. Heavy with feeling, he recovered the gleaming trail and went to the door to await his wife. He sensed her thoughts nearby still dwelling on him and denying him even that little bit of peace allocated to the dead.
Angelita wrapped her gift up again and dropped it into the large pocket of her apron. She resumed her stirring then dished out a large bowl for Lazario and sat opposite him, watching him eat. There was a companionable silence between them, and, feeling ill at ease, Samuel sidled along the wall and out the door into the dark passage. He lingered a moment, wondering in which direction to go. He was still afflicted by his fear of the dark, of the shadows, and the old man watching him from the pictures on the walls and sideboards. A line of ants, marching under the porch door, caught his attention. He followed them to the sitting room where he saw the luminous shape of the angel hovering by the front door. Mr Christus's spirit was not always visible but today the child's fear had made him alert, sharpened his senses, and he was almost able to distinguish a face on the luminous form. In the company of the angel, he had no reason to be afraid, and so he knelt on the floor and continued observing the ants.
When Mrs Christus returned and found him on his knees, she asked what he was doing and he pointed to the ants. His face was stained with tears and dirty from rubbing his palms across his nose and eyes. "I was frightened," he said.
"Frightened of what?" She pulled him up, dusting the two small palms.
"Of being alone."
"There are a lot worse things to be frightened of," she said, kissing the center of one of his palms.
Samuel shrugged, and, returning to his knees, he put his finger on the trail, intercepting the ants. "I was not by myself," he said.
"Oh?" She expected him to tell of Lazario's arrival.
"I was with the angel."
Mrs Christus looked at him sharply. "What angel?"
Samuel pointed to the door, but the angel had gone. "He was there."
Mrs Christus made a mental note not to leave him on his own again. Impatient, she asked whether Lazario had arrived. Samuel nodded and followed her to the kitchen. He sat in the chair that Lazario had just vacated. Lazario took his empty bowl and washed it in the sink. As he turned to go, Mrs Christus asked if he was leaving. She wanted to talk to him. He smiled at her, saying that he would be on the veranda, but his gaze rested on Angelita.
Mrs Christus sighed then tied her apron around her middle. She served a child's portion for Samuel, and, with a full bowl for herself, she too sat down. Samuel watched her snap the claws apart, hammer their ends and suck out the meat. For the first time, it occurred to him that maybe she was old. They ate the meal in silence, and later he followed her out to the veranda. There was a slight drizzle and the rich aroma of fertile earth rose from the ground. The frogs were singing and rubbing their back legs in the mud. Samuel, drawn by the commotion, bent over the veranda railing to better see the leathery creatures rubbing their bellies in the black earth. He sidled along the railing to the far end of the veranda from where he could see the silhouettes of Lazario, Angelita, and Mrs Christus, still, below the yellow glow of the light bulb. A gathering of moths moved in wide circles above the three heads, beating their wings in a desperate attempt to discover the light. One after the other they hit the bulb, falling, then flying up again. Samuel felt the separateness that a child feels amongst adults. He saw his reflection in the glass pane of the last of the three doors that opened onto the veranda. The dark shadow of a young boy looked at him inquisitively, the lips curling slightly into a half smile. There was nothing to frighten him in that face. He chuckled to himself softly, then louder.
"Samuel?" Mrs Christus cocked her head to the side, listening. "What are you doing back there?"
"Nothing."
"Come into the light. Let me see you."
Samuel came forward and Mrs Christus patted her lap. He sat, leaning against her, aware of the strange elasticity to her chest and stomach. For her part, Mrs Christus was indebted to him for not mentioning the change to her body. There was still a rawness to the feeling, and his mute acceptance of her strengthened the love she felt. Samuel listened to the conversation becoming progressively drowsier. The drizzle had turned to rain and Angelita, sniffing the air, said that it would continue through the night. Mrs Christus agreed. "The rains have come. I feel the stiffness in my joints." On her last word, Samuel's eyes closed, drawing darkness, like a curtain, about him.
He awoke the next morning to the sound of rain on the corrugated iron roof. There was a humid warmth to the air, and, looking out the window, he saw the sky, bruised and heavy. In the kitchen, he found both Angelita and Mrs Christus sipping hot tea. Mrs Christus was complaining about her aching bones. "This house does not help. It soaks moisture like an old, rotten tree."
"Yes," Angelita replied, "but it still stands."
"And that is consolation?" Mrs Christus returned, annoyance creasing her brows.
"No." Angelita's busy hands stilled a moment, "It's just the way things are. Your body is like this house. It's getting old, that is all."
Mrs Christus scowled more deeply. She did not like the comparison between herself and the house. Rotten and old, was that what she was? The thought made her groan. Rotten? She questioned herself and looked at her sore arms and feet. The skin was dry, uncared for, she rubbed hard, willing back life into her limbs. She stretched her arms out knocking over the remnants of the cup of warm tea. Ignoring the spill, she continued opening and closing her stiff fingers then began to drum them on the tabletop until the air about her radiated waves of discontent. Samuel watched Angelita, unperturbed, wipe up the spill and continue her work. She took from the shelf a bottle of rubbing alcohol, poured a small portion into a pan, warmed it, then, placing the pan before Mrs Christus, dipped her fingers into it.
"Whats that for?" Mrs Christus eyed the pan suspiciously. She had stopped her drumming. She gave Angelita a quizzical look. The thought that the girl was about to touch her made her stiffen. She was about to protest when Angelita swiftly rubbed the ointment into her palms and proceeded to massage her neck. With deft strokes Angelita smoothed the fine, dry skin over Mrs Chistus's shoulder blades, reaching down to the edges of her blouse. Mrs Christus, unable to speak, felt under attack. Her space had been invaded. She felt the firm, warm fingers pressing into the hollows of her neck, pulling, kneading, sending shock waves down her spine. She felt the girl leaning over her, felt her breath on the side of her cheek. Finished with the shoulders and neck, Angelita proceeded onto Mrs Christus's arms. Mrs Christus was aware of a warm feeling overtaking the first waves of shock and began to relax, to give in. The girl was now rubbing her forehead and the tender sides of her head. She felt sleepy, lulled, and the tightness in her head, the residue of her anger, melted away. She wondered if the girl could sense her emotions, wondered if she was reading her through her skin. This made her stiffen momentarily, but, seeing the gentle emptiness in the girl's face, she relaxed once more. In a state of deep calm, she mulled over the past seven years, the length of time Angelita had been with her. An eternity.
Samuel felt far away from the two women. They had forgotten him and when he left the room, they did not notice. He went as far as the ante-room, as far as he felt it safe to wander. The tin drum of lard was half full. The ladle had left a round, smooth hollow in the translucent fat. He remembered the ants and crept down the passage. They were as he had left them, marching under the crack in the door. It gladdened him to see them. They were pleasantly familiar and he was sure they would be there the following morning and the morning after that. The crack under which they marched, lit by a stray ray of light, was at that moment transformed into a safe place. Kneeling down, he was happy just to contemplate that small, sunlit spot.
When Mrs Christus found him, she was amazed that he had sought his own company. She stood in the doorway, waiting to be noticed, but he did not acknowledge her. She saw his solitary concentration and felt the distance between them. He was alone and happy to be so, and she checked her desire to intrude. Later, she decided she would no longer leave him alone in the house without her.