Harriet Doerr by The Tiger in the Grass Page A

climb.
    Before long, Morgan’s day fell into a routine. She woke to singing, breakfasted on mangos and sugared rolls, sat in contemplation on the terrace in the sun. At eleven o’clock Carlos drove her headlong down the road to the fruit and vegetable stalls, the bakery, and the post office. She herself chose the papaya, the fresh corn, the hard rolls, but at the post office she waited in the car. Cripples and deformed children sometimes approached her at these times, and she averted her eyes as she handed them coins.
    It soon became clear to Carlos that the letters the señora addressed to her children all came back. He would push his way toward her down the post office steps through the ranks of incoming clients and seated beggars, and hand her letters marked “Unknown.”
    “Look, señora,” he would say. “Another letter has been returned. Why not investigate the address?” And with the car in low gear, they would climb the hill in silence.
    Morgan had lived in the house a month when she asked Carlos to hang her mirror, a long rectangle of glass framed in scalloped tin that had leaned in a corner since she came. In the bedroom, the mozo, instead of taking up the hammer and nail, paused in front of her chest of drawers. On it were two photographs, one of a light-haired freckled boy with so much trouble in his eyes he might have just learned that his dog was dead. The other was of a girl, also fair, who could have been any age—fourteen, sixteen, twenty—a blue-eyed girl on a swing, smiling.
    “Let me show you the place to drive the nail,” Morgan said.
    Carlos continued to look at the pictures. “Are these your children, señora?”
    “Yes. Stevie and Greg.” And when he didn’t recognize the nicknames, she gave the full ones.
    “Stephanie,” she said.
    “Ah. Estefanía,” Carlos said. And when he heard the name Gregory, he said, “Gregorio.”
    Morgan saw he had further questions. “Here is the hammer,” she said quickly, and showed him the spot where the mirror was to hang.
    Carlos pounded in the nail. “Your husband bought this glass,” he said. “But it was never put in place.”
    Morgan felt relief. She was wrong, then, to have believed she had caught glimpses of Lalia there.
    Carlos stood back. “Look. It is defective.” He pointed to the top, where a wavy band ran across the glass. “Step in front of it, señora. ”
    Morgan realized at once that this mirror had a magic glaze. It was true that the crown of her head dissolved and undulated, but from the forehead down, a woman entirely beautiful stared back at her. Out of a smooth young face a pair of Welsh-green eyes met hers, a wide mouth smiled. Years fell away. This was how she used to look. It had all come back.
    The mozo’s face appeared in the glass at one side. From over her shoulder he cast his eagle’s glance at her reflection. Leaning forward, he touched it where it blurred.
    “The defect is only at the top,” she said.
    “Permit me, señora,” said Carlos. “I have a friend in the alley behind the cathedral. His business is mirrors. He can cut you a perfect glass.”
    Morgan shook her head. “This one will do.”
    No sooner was the mirror hung than Morgan believed she saw a change in Carlos. He began to seek her out with questions. “Am I to repair the kitchen drain? Shall I set these two loose bricks?” Wherever she was, in the house, outside, he found work to do not far away. He often gazed at her so long she began to invent ways to deal with the remarks she imagined he was about to make.
    The more Morgan looked in the mirror, the more the mozo looked at Morgan. Or so it clearly appeared to her.
     
     
    Now it was September. Summer was ending, though tropical storms still regularly produced spectacles of light and sound against the evening sky. On the hillside, the leaves of cactus were beaded along their edge with magenta fruit, and small pale flowers embroidered the banks of ditches. In September Morgan gave Carlos