Little Deadly Things by Harry Steinman Read Free Book Online Page A

her mother’s broad-faced Taíno, the native people of Puerto Rico. A roll of the genetic dice and recessive traits from each bestowed Marta with fair-skinned beauty, a hint of Iberian bronze that would deepen in the sun. Delicate facial bones outlined sharp features. Her eyes, as dark as her father’s, were permanently curious and gave the impression that everything she saw was new.
    “When I met your mother she was every bit as beautiful as you. Her hair was glossy, black, and straight. She brushed it one hundred times every night.” He gazed into his memories, then shook his head and turned back to the inescapable present. “That was before the cancer ate through her.” His voice trailed off.
    “Dad?” She waited a few moments. “Dad? What about Abuela?”
    Marta wanted to get her father talking again. It had been three days since her mother’s death, and he seemed paralyzed with incomprehension. He even seemed oblivious of her own grief. She thought that her future might as well have been buried with her mother.
    Elena Cruz had been the daughter of one of the last of the bohique, a medicine woman of Puerto Rico’s Taíno Indians. But Elena looked past the flowers and plants and remedies that grew in the island’s rainforest. Television had shown her a different beauty, ersatz splendor, effortless wealth. A different sun shone in Los Angeles and the forest’s profuse bloom was reduced to a florist’s inventory. Dull smears of crimson replaced the sunset arcs of red, yellow, and violet—the Caribbean’s palette. That was before the night sweats and pain.
    “Dad, tell me about when you and Mom met. Tell me about when you were happy. Please, Dad, that’s what I need to hear.”
If I have to leave my mother’s grave, I need something to hold onto.
    Rafael’s face softened. He looked at her, and for a moment, Marta saw his eyes brighten.
    “You know that you’re every bit as beautiful as your mother? No, more beautiful even.”
    Marta felt her eyes moisten and wondered when her father would show his own tears. If he would only give in to his grief, then maybe he could see her pain.
    “I met her when I was a busboy at a fancy restaurant for
los ricos.
I hated the white linens I folded before service and the white skin and white teeth of the people around me.”
    “Dad—”
    “Sorry. But that’s where I met your mother and it is where the story begins. She was the housekeeper for the owner of the restaurant. La señora’s house was in Malibu, by the ocean.”
    “One night la señora asked your mother to help in the restaurant. It was her night off. One night every two weeks. But if la señora asked, then who was your mother to say no? I was told to drive her back to Malibu. It was a long drive—two hours!—and I wasn’t being paid for the driving. I knew it wasn’t your mother’s fault, but I was angry and I didn’t speak a word to her, not once during the entire trip.”
    “When we arrived in Malibu, your mother pointed to a driveway that climbed up a steep hill from the coast. The house stood up on stilts, balanced on a hillside above the ocean. It looked like a shoebox with legs.”
    “I asked her about this crazy house. She told me that the hillside turns to mud when it rains and the houses slide into the ocean unless they are on pilings. I wondered if these people were so rich that they could throw away their houses. The thought made me dizzy.”
    He lapsed into silence.
    “Dad?”
    “Yes?”
    “I miss her, too.”
    “Oh,
mija.
My poor Marta.” Rafael reached an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. She shifted to wrap both her arms around him. Minutes passed as they clung to each other.
    “I’ll tell you what I remember about Abuela’s prophesy and you can ask her for the rest. I don’t know if it will help. She speaks in riddles.” He thought for a bit and continued. “She’s known all over the island. When a child is sick or an adult is injured, they find her. When a wife