The House of the Scorpion (8 page)

She took the opportunity to lecture him. “The doctor will be there,” she said. “And so will important members of the family. They'll want to make sure you're healthy. If they ask questions, don't answer. Above all, don't say anything about me.” She brought her face down close to his. “You'll be all alone with me in that little room,” she whispered. “I swear I'll kill you and bury you under the floor if you make trouble.”

Matt had no trouble believing her. He forced his trembling legs to follow her to a part of the house as different from his old prison as the sun was from a candle. The walls were painted cream and rose and pale green. It was so bright and cheerful, it raised his spirits in spite of Rosa's dire threats. The floor gleamed with polish that made Matt feel like he was walking on water.

Windows looked out on gardens with fountains. They
splashed and glittered in the sun. A magnificent bird with a long green tail stepped delicately across a walk. Matt wanted to stop, but Rosa shoved him on, all the while cursing beneath her breath.

Finally they came to a large room with a marvelous carpet woven with birds and vines. Matt wanted to kneel down and touch them. “Stand up,” hissed Rosa. He saw windows framed by blue curtains that went from floor to ceiling. A small table set with a teapot, cups, and a silver plate of cookies sat next to a flowered armchair. Matt's mouth watered at the memory of cookies.

“Come closer, boy,” said an old, old voice.

Rosa gasped. Her hand dropped from Matt's shoulder. “El Patrón,” she whispered.

Matt saw that what he'd taken for an empty armchair actually contained a man. He was extremely thin, with shoulder-length white hair neatly combed beside a face so seamed and wrinkled, it hardly seemed real. He was wearing a dressing gown, and his knees were covered by a blanket. It was the blanket that had fooled Matt into thinking the old man was part of the chair.

“It's all right,” said Celia from behind him. Matt whirled to see her in the doorway. His heart lurched with relief. Celia brushed past Rosa and took his hand. “He's had a bad time,
mi patrón.
For six months they've kept him like a wild animal.”

“You lie!” snarled Rosa.

“I've seen it with my own eyes. María Mendoza told me.”

“She's a baby! Who can believe a baby?”

“I can,” said Celia quietly. “She hadn't been to the house for six months. When she arrived, she asked to see Matt, and Tom boasted that he'd shot him dead. She flew straight to me.”

“
Shot
him? Is he hurt?” said the old man.

“He was already hurt.” Celia described the injuries caused by the broken glass.

“Why didn't anyone tell me?” demanded El Patrón. His voice wasn't loud, but there was a quality to it that made Matt shiver even though he—for once—wasn't the one in trouble.

“It was the doctor's place to do it,” Rosa cried.

“It was everyone's place to do it,” said the old man in the same cold way. “Take off your shirt, boy.”

Matt didn't dream of disobeying. He unbuttoned the shirt rapidly and dropped it to the floor.

“
¡Diós mio!
My God!”

“Those bruises must be from Tom's peashooter,” said Celia, sounding ready to cry. “See how thin he is,
mi patrón?
And he's got some kind of rash. He wasn't like that in my house, sir.”

“Call the doctor!”

Instantly—he must have been waiting outside the door—Willum entered and began examining Matt. He shook his head as though he were genuinely surprised by the boy's condition. “He's suffering from mild malnutrition,” the doctor said. “He has sores in his mouth. His skin condition, I would say, comes from a combination of dirt and an allergic reaction to chicken litter.”

“Chicken litter?”
said the old man.

“I understand he was kept in a room full of sawdust to cut down on housekeeping.”

“You knew about it, Willum,” cried Rosa. “You didn't tell me it was wrong.”

“I knew nothing about it until today,” said the doctor.

“You're lying! Tell them, Willum! You thought it was funny. You said the beast—the boy—was in good condition!”

“She's suffering from delusions,” the doctor told El Patrón. “It's a shame such an unstable individual was allowed to have a position of responsibility.”

Rosa flew at the doctor and raked his face with her nails before he was able to grasp her wrists. She kicked and screamed, driving Willum back with the force of her rage. She actually bared her teeth like a wild animal, and Matt watched with interest to see whether she would manage to sink them into the man's neck. Everything seemed unreal to him—the sudden appearance of Celia, the old man, the furious battle between his two enemies. It was like watching TV.

But before Rosa could do any serious harm, a pair of burly men rushed through the door and dragged her away.

“Willum! Willum!” she wailed. Her voice grew fainter as she was carried off. Matt heard a door slam and then he heard nothing.

He became aware that Celia was hugging him. He felt her body tremble as she held him close. The doctor mopped his face with a handkerchief. He was bleeding from a dozen scratches. Only El Patrón appeared tranquil. He had settled back in the armchair, and his pale lips were drawn up in a smile. “Well. That's the most excitement I've had in months,” he said.

“I apologize,
mi patrón
,” said Willum shakily. “This must have been a terrible shock to you. I'll check your blood pressure at once.”

“Oh, stop fussing,” El Patrón said, waving him off. “My life is far too quiet these days. This . . . was most entertaining.” He turned his attention to Matt. “So they kept you on litter like a barnyard fowl. Tell me, boy, did you learn to cackle?”

Matt smiled. He liked El Patrón instinctively. There was something so right about the way the old man looked. His eyes
were a
good
color. Matt didn't know why it was good, only that it was. El Patrón's face seemed oddly familiar, and his hands—thin and blue-veined—had a shape that appealed to Matt in some deep way.

“Come here, boy.”

Without the slightest hesitation, Matt walked up to the chair and let the old man stroke his face with a paper-dry hand. “So young . . . ,” El Patrón murmured.

“You can speak now,
mi vida
,” said Celia, but Matt wasn't ready to go that far.

“
Mi vida.
I like that,” the old man said with a chuckle. “I like it so much, in fact, it's what I'll call him. Can he talk?”

“I think he's in shock. In my house he chattered away like a tree full of birds. And he can read both English and Spanish. He's very intelligent,
mi patrón.
”

“Of course. He's my clone. Tell me, Mi Vida, do you like cookies?”

Matt nodded.

“Then you shall have them. Celia, put his shirt back on and find him a chair. We have much to talk about.”

The next hour passed like a dream. Both the doctor and Celia were sent away. The old man and the boy sat across from each other and dined not only on cookies, but on creamed chicken, mashed potatoes, and applesauce as well. A maid brought them from the kitchen. El Patrón said these foods were his favorites, and Matt decided they were his favorites too.

El Patrón had said they had much to talk about, but in fact, only he did any talking. He rambled on about his youth in Aztlán. It was called Mexico when he was a boy, he said. He came from a place called Durango. “People from Durango are called
alacránes
—scorpions—because there are so many of them
scurrying around. When I made my first million, I took that as my name: Matteo Alacrán. It's your name too.”

Matt smiled, well pleased that he shared something with El Patrón.

As the old man talked, Matt pictured in his mind the dusty cornfields and purple mountains of Durango. He saw the stream that roared with water two months of the year and was dry as a bone the rest of the time. El Patrón swam with his brothers, but, alas, they died of various things before they had a chance to grow up. El Patrón's sisters were carried off by typhoid when they were so small, they couldn't look over the windowsill—no, not even if they stood on tiptoe.

Matt thought of María and worried. Those little girls weren't as old as she when they were carried off by the typhoid. He wondered if that monster resembled the
chupacabras.
Of all those children, only one lived: Matteo Alacrán. He was skinny as a coyote, with not even two pesos to rub together, but he was filled with a burning desire to survive.

At last the voice fell silent. Matt looked up to see that El Patrón had fallen asleep in his chair. Matt was exhausted too. He was so full of food, he had been half asleep for some time. The same men who had taken Rosa now entered, gently lifted El Patrón into a wheelchair, and rolled him away.

Matt worried about what would happen to him now. Would Rosa come back and throw him into the sawdust? Would she make good on her promise to bury him alive?

But it was Celia who triumphantly bore him away. She took him to her new apartment in the Big House. Her possessions had been moved from the old place, so Matt wasn't too disappointed about not returning home. The Virgin sat, as She always had, on a table by his bed. She had gained a new wreath of plastic
roses about her robe and a white lace tablecloth beneath her from Celia, in gratitude for restoring Matt to safety.

All in all, he was pleased with the change, although he missed the doves cooing on the roof and the wind blowing through the poppies.

•   •   •

“Listen up, eejit,” commanded María. “I'm supposed to make you talk.” Matt shrugged. He had no interest in talking, and besides, María did enough for both of them. “I know you can do it. Celia says you're in shock, but I think you're just lazy.”

Matt yawned and scratched his armpit.

“El Patrón is going away today.”

Now María had Matt's interest. He was dismayed that the old man was leaving. He hadn't seen him since the day he was rescued. Celia said the excitement had been too much for someone who was 140 years old. El Patrón had to stay in bed until he felt well enough to travel to his other house in the Chiricahua Mountains.

“We have to say good-bye to him. Everyone's coming, and you'd better talk or you'll be in big trouble.” María squeezed Matt's mouth as though she could force the words out. He snapped at her. The little girl scrambled away. “You said you didn't bite!” she screamed. She grabbed a pillow and hit him several times before collapsing on the bed.

“Bad clone!” said María, hugging the pillow to her chest.

Matt considered the idea. Being a clone was bad no matter what you did, so why bother being good at all? He reached over and patted her hand.

“Oh, why won't you talk?” stormed María. “It's been over a week. It took Furball only one day to forgive me after the dog-catcher got him.”

Matt wasn't trying to upset her. He couldn't talk. When he tried to make the words, he was overcome with terror. To speak was to open a door into his carefully built fortress, and anything might rush inside.

“Matt was locked up a lot longer than your dog,” said Celia as she entered the room. She knelt down and stroked Matt's face. “Furball was gone only two days. Matt was trapped for six months. It takes time to recover.”

“Is that how it works?” the little girl asked. “The longer you're sick, the longer it takes to get better?”

Celia nodded. She kept stroking Matt's face, his hair, his arms. It was as though she were trying to bring feeling back into his body.

“Then I guess,” María said, slowly, “it's going to take years for El Patrón to get well.”

“Don't talk about that!” cried Celia so sharply that María hugged the pillow and stared goggle-eyed at the woman. “Don't say anything about El Patrón! Shoo! I don't have time to entertain you.” Celia flapped her apron at the girl, who fled without another word.

Matt felt sorry for María. He purposely made his body go stiff to make it hard for Celia to dress him, but Celia didn't get angry. She hugged him and sang him her favorite lullaby:
“Buenos días paloma blanca. Hoy te vengo a saludar.”
Matt shivered. It was the song to the Virgin, who loved all gentle things and who had watched over him in prison. Then he knew it was wrong to be mean to Celia and let himself go limp again.

“That's my good boy,” murmured the woman. “You're a good boy and I love you.”

Matt suffered a moment of panic when she tried to lead him outside. He felt safe in his old bed, with the stuffed animals
and the tattered copy of
Pedro el Conejo.
He kept the blinds closed, even though the windows looked out onto a beautiful walled garden. He didn't want anything new in his life, no matter how beautiful.

“It's all right. I won't let anyone hurt you,” said Celia, lifting him in her arms.

Matt had not seen the front of the Big House yet. He was enchanted by the marble-walled entranceway and statues of fat babies with stubby wings. In the center was a dark pond covered with water lilies. Matt clutched Celia when he saw a large fish rise casually from the depths to look at him with a round, yellow eye.

They passed between fluted, white pillars to a porch with wide stairs leading down to a driveway. Everyone was lined up on the porch, servants to one side and family on the other. He saw Steven, Emilia, and María standing at attention. When María tried to sit down, Emilia yanked her up again. Matt saw Tom holding María's hand and felt an almost uncontrollable surge of anger. How dare he be friends with her! How dare
she
be friends with
him.
If Matt had another wormy orange, he'd hurl it again, no matter what.