The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell Read Free Book Online Page A

mind?"
    "Well, I considered suggesting that we shatter our vows and run away to Mexico for a weekend of lust, but I’ve got
homework,
" she said, shouting the last word, "because some sonofabitch Latin prof thinks we should learn ablative way too soon, in my humble opinion, so why don’t you just come over for dinner on Friday night?"
    Leaning back against his chair, he looked up at her with frank admiration. "Madam. How could I resist an invitation like that?" he asked. And leaning forward, "Will your husband be there?"
    "Yes, dammit, but he’s a very liberal and tolerant person," Anne assured him, grinning. "And he falls asleep early."

    T HE E DWARDSES’ HOUSE was a square, sensible-looking structure, surrounded by a garden that, Emilio was delighted to see, mixed flowers with tomatoes and pumpkin vines, lettuces, carrot patches and pepper plants. Pulling off gardening gloves, George Edwards greeted him in the front yard and waved him in through the door. A good face, Emilio thought, full of humor and welcome. Anne’s age, with a full head of silver hair but with the alarming leanness one associated with chronic HIV or toxic hyperthyroidism, or aging runners. Running was the most likely explanation. The man looked very fit. Not, Emilio thought, smiling inwardly, the sort to fall asleep early.
    Anne was in the large, bright kitchen, working on dinner. Emilio recognized the smell instantly but it was a moment before he could put a name to it. When he did, he collapsed into a kitchen chair and moaned, "
Díos mío
,
bacalaitos
!"
    Anne laughed. "And
asopao
. With
tostones
. And for dessert—"
    "Forget the homework, dear lady. Run away with me," Emilio pleaded.
    "
Tembleque
!" she announced, triumphant, laughing but happy that she’d pleased a guest. "A Puerto Rican friend of mine helped with the menu. There’s a wonderful
colmado
on the west side. You can get
yautía
,
batatas
,
yuca
,
amarillos
—you name it."
    "You are probably unaware," Emilio said, face sincere, eyes glowing, "that there was a seventeenth-century Puerto Rican heretic who claimed that Jesus used the smell of
bacalaitos
to raise Lazarus from the dead. The bishop had him burned at the stake, but they waited until after dinner and he died a happy man."
    George, laughing, handed Sandoz and Anne frosty shallow-bowled glasses, froth floating on creamy liquid. "Bacardi
añejo
," Sandoz breathed, reverent. George raised his glass and they toasted Puerto Rico.
    "So," Anne said in a serious tone, delicate brows raised in polite interest, the soul of propriety but about to take a sip of her drink. "What’s celibacy like?"
    "It’s a bitch," Emilio said with prompt honesty, and Anne exploded. He handed her a napkin to wipe her nose and, without waiting for her to recover, stood and created an earnest face to address a phantom crowd at an old-time Twelve Step meeting. "Hello. My name is Emilio and though I can’t remember it, my unempowered inner child might have been a codependent sex addict, so I rely on abstinence and put my trust in a Higher Power. You’re dripping."
    "I am a highly skilled anatomist," Anne declared with starchy dignity, dabbing at her blouse with the napkin, "and I can explain the exact mechanism by which one blows a drink out one’s nose."
    "Don’t call her bluff," George warned him. "She can do it. Have you ever thought about a Twelve Step program for people who talk too much? You could call it On and On Anon."
    "Oh, God," Anne groaned. "The old ones are the best ones."
    "Jokes or husbands?" Emilio asked innocently.
    And so the evening went.
    When he next showed up for dinner, Anne met him at the door, put her hands on both sides of his face, rose on tiptoe and planted a chaste kiss on his forehead. "The first time you’re here, you are a guest," she informed him, looking into his eyes. "After that, my darling, you’re family. Get your own damned beer."
    He took the long