Harriet Doerr by The Tiger in the Grass Page B

seven invitations to deliver.
    “For the people on the hill,” she told him. “For next Friday.”
    On the Monday before the party, Morgan, with a straw hat over her face, lay motionless in a long chair on the terrace. A loud interior silence prevented her from hearing Carlos until he spoke directly above her. As far as she knew, he might have been standing there, looking down at her, for half an hour.
    “Allow me a suggestion,” he said. “If you invite your children by telegram, they can be here Friday and sleep, one in the small room upstairs and one on the sofa in the sala.”
    Morgan removed the hat from her face. Carlos was regarding her thoughtfully. A current generated behind the mozo’s eyes ran between her ribs with the speed of light.
    She shook her head. “That is impossible,” she said, and almost went on, The places where they live are unmarked. Their houses have no numbers. Their streets have no names.
     
     
    At six o’clock Thursday, at the height of a tropical storm, Morgan’s daughter arrived uninvited at the gate. She had come up the hill on the last bus, with the watchman.
    Carlos recognized her immediately through the downpour. “You are the señora’s daughter,” he said. “Good evening, señorita.”
    “Hi,” said Stevie.
    Carlos looked for luggage, found only a backpack, and led this Estefania to a chair in front of the fire. Then he took from her, as she removed them, garment by garment, a plastic poncho, a man’s red vest, two long scarves, and a pair of boots of the sort that soldiers wear. The girl leaned toward the flame in a torn black sweater as tight as skin and a green skirt so long it had trailed in gutters, wet and dry. Hair fell to her shoulders and covered half her face. This was not the light hair of the picture in the bedroom. This hair was the color of frying oil that had been used too many times. It was the eyes Carlos recognized, bright blue jewels.
    “Permit me to call your mamá,” said the mozo.
    When Morgan came into the sala, she looked only into those eyes. The hair, the feet, the broken nails, the ragged sweater, the unhappy skirt—these things she ignored. She talked to her daughter in trial phrases, tentatively. Neither asked a question of the other. Morgan did not say, “Oh, Stevie, where have you been? Oh, Stevie.” Nor did the girl accuse her, saying, “What happened between you and Dad? Were there other women? Do you hate him now?”
    “I’m taking the Saturday bus to Chiapas,” Stevie said. Morgan did not ask why Chiapas, a thousand miles south of here. Mother and daughter skirted the pertinent issues of the heart and spoke of peripheral things: Santa Felicia, the house, the other people on the hill, the lush countryside with its brimming lakes and ponds.
    “I’m going to give you my room,” Morgan said. “It has a window that overlooks the town,” and she asked Carlos to take Stevie’s things to the large bedroom.
    After dinner Stevie spoke again of Chiapas.
    “I’m going there to see Greg.” There followed an extended pause. Then Stevie said, “He’s working in San Cristóbal.”
    The relief Morgan felt at these words was like a soft south wind blowing across frozen steppes. So he was somewhere after all. She saw him in San Cristóbal, still freckled, still seventeen.
    “He sits on the sidewalk in Indian clothes,” said Stevie, “and sells jewelry to tourists.”
    This was something Morgan could easily imagine, Greg on a steep street of the old colonial town. She saw him in native dress, the loose white pants and shirts, the white sarape with the cerise border, the flat sombrero with the braided ribbon band. An unreasonable content filled her.
     
     
    On the day of the party, Stevie instead of Morgan drove with the mozo to the market.
    “Today you can take my place,” said Morgan, and stood at the gate to see them off. The car stopped almost as soon as it started, to pick up Lalia, who, singing, waited for the bus in front