Ok, chapter nine. More fun quotes in this chapter – they're starting to become an integral part of Tess' character. Gotta love character development.
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Tess stopped singing when she heard the unmistakable sound of a human body dropping gracelessly to the ground. For a moment she simply sat where she was with her head bowed and her eyes closed, as if she were praying, but really doing nothing more than cursing all men alike for being stubborn and indescribably foolish. She sat and listened to Marcos' cries of surprise and alarm at finding his new special friend up and more severely injured than he had remembered.
"Señora! The man is hurt!"
"Yes Marcos, I know." Carefully she stood up, needing to be able to move freely but unwilling to shake loose her small companions. As she stood up and made her way over to Sands with one child hanging on her arm and with another grasping her leg, she felt a certain measure of surrealism. Like she was in a dream. Perhaps I'll wake up and find this was a dream, find myself back at that window watching a blind man make his last stand in a deserted street under the hot Mexico sun.
"Let me go for a moment, René," she murmured. "I need to check on our patient." The boy shook his head and tightened his grip around her knee. I've only had enough time to dry a few tears and already I'm dealing with rebellion within the ranks. "Marcos?" She let the older boy deal with his brother at the moment.
Now able to crouch down at her patient's side, she checked Sands' pulse. It was a little quick, the exertion of walking halfway across her small house had clearly been too much of a strain on his depleted stores of strength and endurance. Idiot! Is he trying to kill himself? She sighed; there was nothing she could do for him as long as he was passed out on the floor. And I can't get him back into bed without breaking open all his wounds because I'm not strong enough to lift him, even if Marcos helped. Damnit! Why do men always have to complicate things?
"Señora? What do we do now?"
"I don't know Marcos." She looked at the boy and saw how surprised he was by this confession. She remembered when she too had thought that adults had all the answers, but growing up had simply showed her that adults just stopped asking questions because they were ashamed that they didn't know the answers. "I know where you and you, and René, and Alma can start though. You can all start by calling me Tessa, and then yo can go play, or read, or take a nap, or draw a picture until I get lunch started. And I will decide what we're going to do with Sleeping Beauty here."
"Who's Sleeping Beauty?" Alma had decided to enter the conversation.
"Who's Sleeping Beauty?" Tess pretended to be shock and appalled. "Are you telling me that you don't know who Sleeping Beauty is?" All three children nodded. "Well, we'll have to fix that, won't we? Come into the kitchen and I'll tell you the story while I make lunch."
The story of Sleeping Beauty had lasted halfway through lunch and when she had finished that tale, she had started telling the story of Aladdin and his magical lamp. It was now nearly two in the afternoon and all but one of her charges were asleep. And none of them were in the same room. Baby Lena was asleep on the kitchen floor in a diluted patch of sunlight. (Tess had been afraid of waking the child if she had tried to move her, so she had let Lena be.) René was asleep in the living room, sprawled across the armchair. Alma had disappeared some time before; Tess had found her in the spare bedroom, dried tears on her sleeping face. Sands was still unconscious in the hallway. Only Tess and Marcos were still awake, and by all appearances the boy was loosing the battle to keep his eyes open.
Five minutes later the boy was asleep and Tess was left alone with her thoughts. Might as well do something useful as I wait for 'Giovanni' to come around. Thoughts like the ones currently in my head need to be reflected over as I keep my hands busy. Guess this is as good a time as any to work on my stitches.
Gathering Sands' clothes from the window she had left them in, Tess collected needled and thread as went to sit near her patient to piece together his holey clothing even as she pieced together her plans for that night. There was much that needed to be done, and she needed to decided what order to do it all in.
That afternoon, after his brother had fallen asleep and his sister had disappeared, Marcos had told the short story of how he had discovered he death of his parents. It was bad, but not as bad as Tess had feared. While he had been walking home the night before, he had stumbled across a police barricade. Through the milling figures of militia and city lawkeepers, he had seen the bodies of his parents. Afraid, he had run home only to find his house under the surveillance of two men in a dark car. This alone amazed Tessa – she doubted that she would have been in any state to notice possible dangers after seeing the slain bodies of two people she loved. But first I would need to love two people.
Anyway, after seeing the men watching his apartment complex, he had been careful to sneak into the building by other (most likely less legal) means. Reaching his apartment, he had found his three younger siblings alone and confused. Knowing that it was probably a bad idea to stay in their home, not knowing if the men outside represented a threat or not, Marcos had huddled together his brother and sister and had managed to get them out of the building the same way he had gotten in. The rest of the night had been spent trying to avoid the few mobs that were still out and clashing with the militia, more out of mob mentality than any real quarrel, and various sections of the city that had been seriously damaged by the fighting. It had taking time, fortitude, and many rest stops, but Marcos had gotten what was left of his family to Tess and safety, a feat that impressed the woman. She doubted that she would have tried something at that age. The earliest I tried to run away was at thirteen.
Tess sighed for what seemed to be the thousandth time that day. She was so sick and tired of simply living in the moment and not being able to plan farther ahead than the next few hours. She liked having a reliable schedule, liked being able to predict how things were going to happen each day. When was stability going to return to her small world. That's not the question I need to be worrying about. The real question is, how were Marcos' parent's killed? Was it the rioters, Marquez' army, the cartel, or some other element to this tragedy that we know nothing about? The only way to be sure is to talk to the police, view autopsy records, talk to any witnesses – none of which I can do without drawing unwanted attention to myself. Excluding those steps, my next course of action should be to examine the sight where they were found myself, and then to try to get a look at whoever was surveilling Marcos' apartment building, providing they're still there. She sighed, then looked at her watch. It couldn't have been more than three minutes since the last time she had sighed. And, to top that all off, I need to get groceries. Preferably at a store where no one knows who I am. Glancing at her sleeping patient she added another chore to her growing mental list. And it wouldn't be the worst idea to find out where he was staying and pick up some other clothes for him. I can't have him wandering around the house in nothing but a pair of boxers.
Either he was imagining things, or the bed beneath him had gotten a lot harder in the space of time he had been asleep. And why was he lying on his face? These were the questions that plagued Sands' mind as he woke up from his impromptu swan dive. It was still a shock to tell his mind to open his eyes and find that there was nothing there to open, but he was quickly growing accustomed to the shock. He was growing practiced at shoving the horror and the panic down to where they couldn't reach him. Each time he shoved harder and deeper, and each time it became easier to ignore the faint echoes of distress the action caused. He wanted to scream, to rant, to rave – but all these things meant that he would be out of control, and control meant everything. It meant the difference between the triumph of your enemies and your not so total defeat. Sands didn't like losing.
He lay without moving a muscle, trying to piece together where he was. Whatever he was laying on was hard and criss-crossed with some kind of grid. A quick twitch of his fingers showed him that he was lying on a tile floor. What do I remember last? The image of a drill came to mind, but he pushed that away. Pain, a child screaming. I was looking for my gun . . . then I heard that woman singing some kind of nonsense . . . I went to see what it was . . . Latin. She was singing in Latin . . . and then . . . and then . . . . Despite his best effort, Sands was unable to remember anything beyond that. Disgusted with what that meant, he decided that he was still in the hallway where he must have collapsed. So, where's everyone else?
The house was almost completely silent. He could hear rafters expanding in the heat, heard what he thought was the whimpering of child, but it was coming from another room. Then off to his side, he heard a nearly inaudible sigh. Siesta. The word popped into his mind. He wondered if the entire house was indeed asleep. Wait. Wait for more sound. Seconds later, he heard a quiet voice reciting in a murmur, "Because I could not stop for Death/He kindly stopped for me;/The carriage held but just ourselves/And Immortality./We slowly dro–"
Crap, she's closer than I expected her to be. "Why is it that every time I wake up you're prattering on about Death?" He really was beginning to wonder if he had been shut up with a madwoman for a keeper. Perhaps the rest of the cartel was standing behind glass partitions laughing at him.
"I thought I had already told you that the subject was something of a hobby for me. In a literary context." Tess could feel her heart racing with surprise. It was nearly impossible to tell when this man was awake or asleep. "Besides, there's been so much written on the subject for me to read and remember, and there hasn't exactly been an abundance of conscious people for me to talk to recently." She stood up, her bare feet making soft slapping sounds against the tiles of the hallway floor. "We should get you back into bed. I would have done it sooner, but I'm afraid that I couldn't manage it without your help."
He winced as felt her hands trying to get him to roll over. He finally did it himself, letting out a muffled groan as he did so. "Did that hurt a lot or just a little?"
What kind of question is that? Of course it hurt. "If I said 'hell yes,' would you be able to translate that into some kind of measurement?"
"I'd say that it was probably safe to give you some painkillers."
"No. I've been out of it for long enough."
"I could give you enough to take the edge off and leave your mind still mostly aware of what was going on around you." As she spoke she touched his shoulder, the feel of her skin against his a reminder that he had been wandering around in his boxers. "Com'on, the next step is to sit up, and from there we can hopefully get you to your feet."
Sitting up was more of a chore than it should have been. Despite the fact that he couldn't see, somehow he knew that the darkness he now lived in got darker as the blood rushed from his head. "Hmm . . . looks like you're going to need that other transfusion." He heard this through the fog currently hazing his mind.
"What do you mean, I need another transfusion?" He hated having to repeat everything this woman said, but so often she managed to lose him with her thought process, as if he were only getting half of an important telephone conversation.
"I gave you a blood transfusion last night, after you . . . fell asleep." How cute. She's trying to be tactful.
"What kind of half-assed plan was that? What makes you think I want some untested, disease carrying, peon blood running through my body?"
"It may surprise you to know that there are medical protocols followed for the donation of blood even in Mexico, señor. It may surprise you even more to find out that I didn't drag some disease ridden transient off the street to draw blood from. I happen to be able to guarantee that the blood you got last night was not only chosen because it wouldn't interact badly with your blood-type, but because I could personally guarantee that it was free of any microbes that would make you unduly sick." She took his arm in a grip that was only slightly less gentle than it had been earlier. "Upsy-daisy."
"You're out of your fucking mind, lady," Sands informed her as he struggled to his feet. Once again he found his arm wrapped around a surprisingly strong pair of shoulders.
"I am but mad north-northwest." This quote seemed to quiet him for a bit, but that could have been the walk back to her bedroom.
Tess' side was aching by the time she managed to get 'Giovanni' back into bed. As she watched him settle in, she murmured, "You know, I don't think 'Giovanni' suits you all that well. I mean, yeah, you're cute enough to pull it off, but that's the problem." She sighed, "You're more than cute. You're really more dangerous than cute." Suddenly her eyes widened. "Did I just say that aloud?"
"Oh yeah." Sands could almost feel her blushing. It amused him to no end, or at least he told himself it did. It was better than trying to bring up a nonchalant way of asking if insanity ran in her family. "What would you name me then? Taking account for my apparently indescribable bad boy appeal, of course."
Crap. There was no way to get out of it. Tess really needed to learn when to keep her mouth shut. Why couldn't she learn that every time she though he wasn't paying her any attention, he was. Yeah, talking out loud is a bad habit when there's other people around, Teresa. You should try to stop doing that.
Oh yes, otherwise they may think you're insane or something.
"Niña?"
"Oh, sorry." Please let me off the hook. "Umm, are you sure you want to hear more of my rather senseless ramblings? I really don't think that they're all that entertaining –"
"No, by all means. What could be more entertaining for a blind man than listening to such a revealing voice?"
That was a double edged compliment if ever I heard one. "Well, I was thinking that 'Tirado' might suit you better. It means – "
"Marksman or sharp-shooter. I know. I speak the language, if that's what you want to call what most of the people around here speak."
"Well, I wouldn't say that most Americans speak English."
"And what do you know of Americans, niña? For that matter, where did you get the blood you were ever so merrily pumping into me?"
He's fishing for information. I think. It could just be that he's bored, or trying to find something to keep his mind off the pain. Would it really be all that bad to humor him? I mean, as long as he doesn't find out who my closest relatives are . . . were. "Umm . . . the blood. Right. Well, I got it from an American who happened to be in the area."
"Right, another American just happened to be walking by at just the right time to let you poke them full of holes and bleed off a pint of blood." Looks like you are a quart dry, my friend. There were times that being a smart ass really came back to bite him in the butt.
"No . . . ." Either she could clam up or she could stop being wishy-washy, but she needed to decide and stop talking like a mindless freak of nature. "I gave you the blood."
"Niña, for someone who claims to tell the truth, you sure take a lot of detours getting there. If you gave me the blood, then how did you get it from an American?"
"America may not recognize people who have dual citizenship, but Mexico does. And so does Canada for that matter. I'm an American citizen because my mother was an American. My father is . . . was . . . Mexican."
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Ok – quotes for this chapter are from Emily Dickinson and Shakespeare's Hamlet. Fun stuff. More quotes, more revelations (possibly), and more Sands and Tess coming up in the next chapter which is tentatively entitled, "In Which Tess Does Something Stupid" – but I can come up with a better title than that.
