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  Lucie frowned, bewildered. “He’s my brother,” she said.

  “And you’re his sister,” Clara returned hotly. “But he didn’t care much for you – now, did he?”

  “Of course he did,” said Lucie; though she couldn’t have been persuaded to swear by her words. “He was only frightened.”

  “And you weren’t?”

  “Well – I didn’t really know what was happening –”

  The crack of a gunshot reverberated between her ears; and she sobbed, as the memory of it started up a fierce burning in her wounds.

  Clara leaned down over her, and smoothed the hair from her brow. “I’m sorry,” she said, in a voice of contrition. “Everything is all right. Your brother is all right – I promise you. He’s just down the hall.”

  Lucie sighed with relief. Then she sank back, and pressed the hand that Clara had given her to hold. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “César came to me,” Clara answered. “He told me what happened. He was nearly crazy over hurting you; and he begged me not to tell our parents.” She sighed. “I don’t think anyone knows so well as I do, what it is that my brother does. Eduardo guesses – but I’m sure he can’t know very much, or he would strangle César in his sleep. But César trusts me. Usually I’m not so eager to change him – but after what he’s done tonight . . .”

  “César is a good person,” Lucie offered sincerely.

  “I know he is. That’s why I’ve never been able to do anything to hurt him.”

  Now, perhaps Lucie Benoit was a little naïve. Perhaps she was a little gullible; perhaps sometimes a little overly innocent. But as we’ve said already, she was by no means stupid. She knew by now – with her arm in a soft sling, and a belt of bandages wound round her waist – the dirty deeds that were her brother’s. She had been suspicious, when Robert went to the Vicentes’ building with a pistol in his hand; though shortly afterwards, she had forgotten all about whatever it was she had thought. Of course she remembered everything very well at present; but did she grudge Robert for it? Did she hate him? Of course she didn’t. Lucie was Lucie, no matter in how much pain; and hers, warm and gentle as it was in contrast to Robert’s cold and heartless callousness, was a steadfast and difficult nature to alter.

  ~

  A few days later, when Lucie was well enough to leave the hospital, it was decided that she would not go to the motel, to which her brother had already been turned back out – that big monstruo wouldn’t have the patience to care for such an injured little bird as Lucie, Mrs. Vicente argued – but would come instead to the apartment of that kind and loving little family of which she had already grown so fond. Yet it was never exactly asked (just as it was never exactly explained) how she had got her hurts in the first place. This was probably because, even the most unknowing of them had suspicions that reserved them from looking too deep.

  Robert delivered her suitcase to the apartment; was nearly invited in by Alejandra; but was chased clean off the premises by a fuming César. It seemed he wasn’t yet in a sufficiently charitable state of mind to attempt to repair their fractured business (though of course he knew that he should eventually have to, on account of what funds he had let already into Robert’s hands, as an act of good faith before that demonio blanco ever even left Texas). Yet his hearty hatred by no means penetrated so far as Lucie, whom he did not treat ill because of her horrid brother. Rather, he did his very best to show his affection for her, and also his deepest shame and regret at having been the cause of her hurts. Neither did she feel at all vengeful or contemptuous towards him; and so the two of them got on exceedingly well.

  There was a courtyard behind the Vicentes’ building, which belonged rightfully to all the tenants, but which was commonly agreed upon to be wholly possessed by Josefína, whose care and diligence concerning the small spot of ground was more than could be overlooked in discriminating its most worthy owner. It was surrounded on only two sides by the old brick walls, with apartment numbers one through four (levels A through D) facing it on the north-hand side; and numbers five through seven (we don’t know why there was no number eight, in order to make it even; but, at any rate, this wall was slightly shorter than its mate) on the west. The walls connected to form a wide V. On the other two sides, to deter troublemaking on the part of all the youngsters about, there were put up tall white fences. A friend of Eduardo’s had given him some long, thick wooden planks, with which that industrious young man proceeded immediately to construct his mamá a proper fence. Afterwards he whitewashed the planks on the inside, so that their appearance was a prettier one, and they seemed much more at home round the border of Josefína’s beautiful garden.

  This garden was filled with all sorts of colorful flowers, and all manner of healthy, sprouting vegetables. These vegetables were grown with seeds given to Mrs. Vicente by Mr. Ignacio Valdez, from apartment 5C, whose son was a farmer in a rural area some miles south of Juárez. He had tried to grow them himself, every season past; but they wouldn’t bud for his hand. So he gave them to Mrs. Vicente, when his son sent them that spring, hoping that her luck would be better. And, indeed, they grew so full and rich under the green thumb of Josefína, that there was a good deal more to be had than her own family could ever need. Of course she shared her produce with Mr. Valdez, and with several of her other friends in the building; but she also posted a notice down at the entrance to the courtyard, which bade all tenants to take just as they needed. Not everyone partook of this generosity, surely – but some did.

  Lucie thought the vegetables very interesting; but she was much more captivated by the prettier plants, which had no edible qualities at all. There seemed a bit of everything that anyone could love, including great tall sunflowers, that looked almost as if they were smiling, and waving, as the breeze passed; patches of beautiful blue jacarandas; and beds of lovely yellow begonias. There were things, too, that Lucie never thought she would have seen in an ordinary garden, such as delicate white orchids, vivid pink dahlias, and a small poinsettia shrub with shining dark green leaves, and brilliant flaming red bracts. There were geraniums and impatiens, too, hanging from cast-iron posts beside the central walkway.

  But Lucie’s very favorite was the rosebush. When she first came down to the garden, she found it blooming with smooth and delicate red petals, just beside the little wooden arbor that stood in the center of the courtyard. She loved dearly to sit beneath this arbor, whose trellises were covered all over with twining green ivy, and to look for long whiles upon the rosebush. Sometimes she sat there with Clara, and less often she sat there with César; but mostly she just sat there alone, in the quiet sunshine that streamed past the fences, and over the tops of the crumbling brick walls.

  One afternoon, she fell asleep in that sunny spot, and was woken by the sound of shuffling feet nearby. She opened her eyes, and saw Mrs. Vicente before her, filling with seed a little birdhouse that hung just beside the arbor. She covered its floor, and then turned to throw a few handfuls of the stuff onto the ground. Afterwards she came to sit beside Lucie; and because they were very quiet, soon all the birds came flocking to the peaceful eating place. Many of them landed on the edge of the tall bath that was laid for them with clean water, and dipped their little beaks into the clear liquid, afterwards hopping all through it in a frenzied, cheerful state, as if it were a fountain.

  But there came after a little, a few stray cats slinking amidst the garden beds, hungrily eyeing the tiny creatures who were enjoying their own repast. The largest one, a tawny-colored little lion who was seemingly the boldest, sprang forth suddenly, and caught hold of a sparrow with its front claws. Lucie cried out, and a number of the birds flew away. The other cats fled, too; but the little lion remained, and began to dissect its prize in a very interested fashion.

  “Oh, Mrs. Vicente!” Lucie cried. “Isn’t it dreadful?”

  But the old woman only smiled. She patted Lucie’s hand, and pointed to the cat. “The birds eat the seed,” she said, “and the
cats eat the birds. It is the way.”

  Probably this was the most that Mrs. Vicente had ventured to say thus far, in Lucie’s native tongue; but Lucie was rather too preoccupied to take much notice of the fact. She had to avert her eyes, as the cat continued to maul its feathered victim. “But it’s so awful,” she said.

  Mrs. Vicente nodded slowly. Previously she might have had just as much trouble comprehending Lucie, as she seemed to have comprehending her brother; but over recent days she had grown as accustomed to Lucie, as a person could be expected to grow to a stranger; and perhaps even a little more than that. Even when she didn’t completely understand the words, she seemed to grasp the meaning.

  So she began to smile again, and patted her young friend’s hand once more. Then she got up from the little bench, and went on her way down the path, without casting the grisly enactment of the captured bird’s last moments another glance.

  ~

  Given the largeness of the Vicente family, and the smallness of their home, one would have thought them hardly fain to take on an additional lodger. Mr. and Mrs. Vicente, of course, shared the largest bedroom (which was not in fact very large at all), while the two brothers occupied another, and Clara slept in the last (which was not very much more, if truth be told, than a large closet). Maríbel and Alejandra shared the privilege of reposing in the sewing-room.

  Besides these four little rooms, which were crowded together in the back hall, there was only a bathroom, the kitchen, and the parlor. Lucie was convinced, upon arriving, that she would be sent to take her own rest on the sofa in this latter room; but she was surprised by the gallantry of the young men, who insisted on abandoning their own closet, and bequeathing it to her. She protested sincerely, but they would not be swayed.

  “But it makes more sense,” she began, “what with the two beds in your room – I mean to say, I would only use one –”

  “Shhh,” Clara whispered to her, while this friendly argument was taking place. “Never decline the well-meant offer of a Mexican gentleman.”

  “Well, all right,” Lucie said doubtfully; whereupon the two brothers began to beam, and to make up their sleeping-places immediately in the parlor. They arm-wrestled for the long couch; and of course César prevailed, being the more muscular of the two. So Eduardo made up his bed, grumbling, on the loveseat.

  “I really don’t feel right about this,” Lucie whispered to Clara. “He has to go to work in the morning! He needs his rest.”

  “Trust me when I say,” Clara told her, “that Eduardo will sleep just as well atop a pile of rocks, as he will in his own bed.”

  And, sure enough, when Lucie turned her face to look guiltily towards the hardworking and honest young man, she found him lying with his legs hanging over the sofa-arm, snoring already.

  Certainly, by the time she had shut herself up to lie down in the tiny room, she was wholly grateful for the brothers’ sacrifice. Her wounds still ached considerably, and were somewhat assuaged by the soft and steady comfort of the flat little bed. But she did look a few times to the empty bed beside her; and thought it a terrible waste.

  ~

  A few days after Lucie came to Little Tortuga Street, it was learned that Mrs. Vicente’s friend, Mrs. Madero, would be leaving the city for a time. She was traveling to Arizona, where her son had moved after his marriage. It was the very first time that she would go to Phoenix, whence her son was always the one to come; for his wife had just given birth to their second child, and was in a poor state of health, quite unable to move so far as her mother-in-law’s home. Mrs. Madero complained and grumbled about it for many days to Mrs. Vicente, before the time for her departure finally came; and had it settled with the latter, to move her pretty little mahogany piano into the Vicentes’ apartment. Everyone in the building was well aware of the presence of the instrument in the old woman’s apartment, and its owner didn’t want to run the risk of its being stolen while she was away.

  And so, the Vicente men undertook the task of shifting said piano, from apartment 3B, to apartment 4D. They arrived with much panting, grunting, and sweating, finally successful in having moved the instrument from Mrs. Madero’s near-empty parlor, to their own cluttered one. But it was not an overly large piano, and they managed to squeeze it just between the loveseat, and the little table which held the television set. The set was nearly overturned during their efforts, engendering a heated effusion from Alejandra, who insisted that she couldn’t bear life without her favorite soap opera; and quite an equal outpouring of remonstrance from Mrs. Madero, who was frightened of the scratching of her beloved piano, which had been given her by her husband when they were wed, three score years ago. Now Mr. Madero was dead – and if anything were to happen to the piano, the very last thing his wife possessed of him on earth, then she was simply convinced that she would die upon the spot.

  But the instrument was situated without any serious harm, save having been banged against the wall several times; and Mrs. Madero lived on. She clapped a hand over her heart at the end of the business, and retired to the kitchen with Mrs. Vicente.

  With the old woman’s permission, the family fell to practicing gently upon the instrument – most always to very harsh and discordant results. The only one who seemed able to play it at all was Mr. Vicente, who had taken a very few lessons when he was a boy. But his songs were simple, and full of mistakes; and he was not asked, after his having run through each note which his mind had retained, for an encore performance.

  “I played a little,” Lucie said finally, “when I was young. My sister was always much better than me – but my father liked to tell me that I wasn’t terrible.”

  “Show us, then!” exclaimed César, gesturing wildly to the piano; quite as eager as everyone else for a display of real talent.

  When Lucie sat down on the stool which had been set before the keys, and began to play, it was clear to everyone that she had underestimated her own abilities. And it was true, that she had played much more in her life, than just when she was young – had in fact performed many a perfect and pleasing piece, for her neighbor Mr. Green in El Paso. Mr. Green had bought a beautiful piano for his wife, who assured him when they were married that she was quite talented; but he found out all too soon that this was not the case, and was so very unskilled in concealing his displeasure at her performances, that she quickly dispensed with them entirely.

  Having been invited to their apartment for dinner, many times upon the Greens finding her alone at home, and her brother gone, it was soon found out that she was quite a graceful player; and afterwards, requests by Mr. Green for her musical presence were not long in the coming. Even Mrs. Green was so charmed by Lucie – not just with her playing, but also with her agreeable manners, and her occasional strangeness – that she harbored no resentment at having been ousted from what she had once believed to be her rightful place.

  From a very young age, Lucie had had an affinity for music. She loved to sing; she taught herself a few songs on her father’s old guitar; she organized an assortment of metal, plastic, and rubber surfaces on the parlor floor, to construct an intricate drum-set. When her father suggested piano lessons for herself and for Sylvie, just as he and his own brother had had as children, they were both excited to begin. But the truth was that Lucie had in fact been much better than Sylvie, and she only believed otherwise, as a result of the great love she had for her sister, which increased at least threefold after she died.

  When Lucie finished her first song, all the room fell to clapping. Even Alejandra was induced to put her hands lightly together. Lucie looked back, and saw that Mrs. Vicente and Mrs. Madero had wandered in from the kitchen, in order to listen more closely to what tantalizing notes were wafting towards their ears. The whole audience began to cheer. Mrs. Madero took a spotless white handkerchief from her pocket, and dabbed at her eyes.

  Lucie blushed furiously, and was inclined to step down from the piano; but her listeners would not hear of it. They begged for just a single song mo
re; and after that, for another; and for yet another after that, so that she was playing well into the night, and no one was tiring of it. Alejandra began once to grow impatient, and announced that she would turn on her television show; but she was effectively hushed by her companions, and forced to fall silently back down on the couch. She glared at Lucie a good deal after that, and her manners towards her were perhaps even worse than before.

  Finally the clock struck midnight, and Mrs. Madero exclaimed with a regretful voice that she must be off to bed. But she went away singing to the most recent tune Lucie had played, which had been her own wedding song. Her handkerchief was soaked quite all the way through, by the time she arrived at apartment 3B.

  Lucie was so very stiff at the hip and the shoulder, after her long time sitting, that Clara had to help her to bed.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me you were so talented?” Clara asked.

  “I wouldn’t say – but if you mean – well, I don’t think I ever had cause,” said Lucie, still feeling somewhat shy of her newfound fame.

  “Ah, well,” said Clara. “Now I know – and I’ll make you play for me every day.”

  She deposited Lucie on the little bed, and began to move off into the hall; but doubled back, as if having remembered something; kissed Lucie’s cheek, and was gone.

  11

  The Staircase Revisited

  Lucie dreamt again, that night, of her staircase. She hadn’t thought of it since she woke in the motel, and wrote several words about it on a page from Robert’s memorandum book. She had forgotten that small piece of paper, as well, though it still sat crumpled in her jeans’ pocket.

  She seemed, this night, not even to have to descend. She was standing already at the bottom, and was looking intently into the black pool. It rose up to meet her at eye-level, as if not really a pool at all, but rather a solid mold of some sticky and viscous substance. She reached out to touch it; but drew back her hand at the last moment. Instead she only peered all the harder into its deep shadows, trying to make out something, anything.