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

can’t conceive, when a farmer loses his strength, they turn to her for one of her herbs. Even the other bohiques come to her for advice. She could cure anything. Anything except Elena.”
    Marta stifled a sob, even as her head lay still on her father’s shoulder.
    Rafael sighed and kissed her forehead.
    “During our wedding ceremony, Abuela took a handful of herbs from an old leather pouch she carries around her neck. She put the dried leaves into a tin can along with a white-hot coal and placed it at our feet. Soon a sweet smoke enveloped us. I breathed it in and started to relax. I did not even feel the hands that lowered me to the ground.”
    “I felt your mother’s presence more than I saw her. I saw our lives like two vines, braided strands. Hers was a rich, deep forest-green and mine was the dark color of good earth. Then we saw a new strand, a brilliant gold that outshone everything else. That was you,
hija,
that was you.”
    Rafael shifted to face Marta. He reached and cupped her face. She felt the rough skin of his palms on her smooth cheeks. She hugged him tighter. He wrapped his arms around her and held her to his chest. She felt like she might break any moment.
    “The vision—at first it was a beautiful dream. I was elated. But then I saw that this shining golden thread was wrapped with a black fiber that would choke it. That is when the vision ended.”
    The shaking started gently. It built within Rafael like water simmering to a boil. For the first time since Elena died, he gave free rein to his grief and sobbed. Marta wondered how he would survive the summer without her. How would
she
survive? She’d be alone. Why did her mother make her promise? Why was it so important to leave her father and miss the last days of school? To miss the summer?

     
    Elena Cruz’s dying wish was that Marta go to be with Abuela. Marta protested, “How can I leave Dad?” He needed someone, she said, while she thought,
Why am I being sent away?
But her mother was resolute. “Promise me!” she demanded in a hoarse whisper. “You must go to your abuela. She will help you grow. She will help your legs. Maybe you will learn something from her to help your father. He’s strong and proud but he’s so frightened. Please—go and be with Abuela.”
    The flight to San Juan was a day-long course in agony. Her legs twisted in the cramped seats and pain ground through them like slow-moving knives. Gnarled swellings throbbed in her ankles and knees. She had a flu-like fever and a light pink flush dusted her skin in a way that would never be mistaken for a healthy glow. Lines of worry carved a map of fear into her face. She tugged at her black curls and then tucked them behind delicate ears, again and again.
    Abuela waited as Marta stumbled into the terminal. Even in the jostling chaos of the crowd, her grandmother stood alone, unperturbed, travelers flowing around her like water around a rock. Marta was exhausted and was grateful to let the old woman take her arm and guide her through the airport.
    Neither said a word along the trip to the northeast part of the island. Marta’s breath hitched.
If I start to cry now, I don’t think
I
could stop.
    The trip southeast to Abuela’s home brought them to a quiet haven. They took a shared taxi, a
carro publico,
out of crowded San Juan to an area just outside of Fajardo, in the northeast. As dusk fell, they passed a glowing bay, lit from within by microscopic creatures. Marta was too tired to consider the natural wonder before her. Its cold, green glow looked to Marta like an entrance into a world beyond. A chorus of tiny tree frogs peeped a cheerful welcome to the unhappy girl. Marta stumbled behind Abuela along a path that seemed invisible until the old woman pointed the way. She barely noticed Abuela’s cabin as the old woman helped her into night-clothes and then into a narrow bed. Marta was asleep in an instant.
    Despite the quiet night she slept fitfully. Her face was a mask of