long way down the list of priorities just then.
I held out until ten o’clock, then pushed myself out of my leather recliner with a grunt.
“Bed,” I said to Camille, who was curled up on the couch, engrossed in the prime minister’s life. She glanced up at me, her right index finger drifting down to mark her place in the book. “And I may take a run on down to the office later if I wake up.” My daughter didn’t look surprised.
Over the years, I’d come to first adapt to, and then to cherish my own special brand of insomnia. Posadas County was a wonderful, dark, quiet place at three in the morning, and there was no point in lying horizontal, staring at the ceiling, when I could be in a snug car, idling the back roads with the headlights and the radio off, windows down, listening to the quiet musings of the New Mexican prairie.
Camille knew my habits, and she didn’t argue, but I saw her eyes flick toward the kitchen. I knew exactly what was on her mind, and before she could say anything, I added, “And I took my pills, all sixty-five of them.”
I damn near set my alarm for 2:30 A.M., then decided against it, knowing my system wouldn’t fail me.
Because it was my habit to grab a short snooze whenever the spirit moved, whether it be ten in the morning or five in the afternoon, my bedroom was the absolute dark of a room with two-foot-thick adobe walls and one thoroughly shuttered, curtained window.
I had about three sighs’ worth of time to appreciate the comforting smell of the fresh pillowcase before I fell hard asleep. But in what seemed like just minutes, I awoke with a start, Don Juan de Oñate’s coffee and green chili already beginning to work their magic. I got up to go to the bathroom and stopped short when I heard faint voices.
Puzzled, I opened the bedroom door and was hit smack in the face by a shaft of bright light that bounced down the hall from the living room. The sun was pounding the east side of the house, but I knew it couldn’t be morning, since there was no smell of coffee. I retreated into the bedroom to find some clothes.
I put on my glasses and saw that it was a quarter after eight.
“Christ,” I muttered, and quickly got dressed.
A couple of minutes later, I strode into the kitchen as if I’d been somewhere important. Camille was dressed and appeared to be fussing with things that looked like vegetables. The coffeemaker was silent, its one red eye blank, its pot empty.
“Good morning, sir,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said. She was leaning against the counter by the sink. I stopped short and glared at her.
“When did you get here?”
She smiled, but fatigue lined her dark features. “Just a few minutes ago. Camille said the smell of a green-chili omelette would wake you up.” She pushed herself away from the counter, crossed the room, and hugged me so hard, I almost lost my balance.
“She’s right,” I said, and then stepped back, keeping my left hand on Estelle’s shoulder. “You look beat, sweetheart.”
She nodded. “It’s been a long night.”
“How’s your mother?”
“She’s a worse patient than you ever thought of being, sir,” Estelle said. Estelle and I had known each other for more than a decade, and I could count on one hand the times that she had called me anything but “sir.” Her physician husband had been able to break the habit now and then, and what it was that their two boys screeched as a name for me, I had no idea most of the time.
“She’s here now, though? In Posadas?”
“Against her will.”
“I can imagine that. What happened, exactly?”
Estelle took a deep breath and shook her head. “She went outside to toss a pan of water into the garden. She thinks she just planted a foot crooked when she went down that little step behind the kitchen. She busted her hip into a million pieces. Francis has her lined up for hip-replacement surgery on Monday morning.”
I grimaced. “They’re going to do it here?”
Estelle nodded.
I held out until ten o’clock, then pushed myself out of my leather recliner with a grunt.
“Bed,” I said to Camille, who was curled up on the couch, engrossed in the prime minister’s life. She glanced up at me, her right index finger drifting down to mark her place in the book. “And I may take a run on down to the office later if I wake up.” My daughter didn’t look surprised.
Over the years, I’d come to first adapt to, and then to cherish my own special brand of insomnia. Posadas County was a wonderful, dark, quiet place at three in the morning, and there was no point in lying horizontal, staring at the ceiling, when I could be in a snug car, idling the back roads with the headlights and the radio off, windows down, listening to the quiet musings of the New Mexican prairie.
Camille knew my habits, and she didn’t argue, but I saw her eyes flick toward the kitchen. I knew exactly what was on her mind, and before she could say anything, I added, “And I took my pills, all sixty-five of them.”
I damn near set my alarm for 2:30 A.M., then decided against it, knowing my system wouldn’t fail me.
Because it was my habit to grab a short snooze whenever the spirit moved, whether it be ten in the morning or five in the afternoon, my bedroom was the absolute dark of a room with two-foot-thick adobe walls and one thoroughly shuttered, curtained window.
I had about three sighs’ worth of time to appreciate the comforting smell of the fresh pillowcase before I fell hard asleep. But in what seemed like just minutes, I awoke with a start, Don Juan de Oñate’s coffee and green chili already beginning to work their magic. I got up to go to the bathroom and stopped short when I heard faint voices.
Puzzled, I opened the bedroom door and was hit smack in the face by a shaft of bright light that bounced down the hall from the living room. The sun was pounding the east side of the house, but I knew it couldn’t be morning, since there was no smell of coffee. I retreated into the bedroom to find some clothes.
I put on my glasses and saw that it was a quarter after eight.
“Christ,” I muttered, and quickly got dressed.
A couple of minutes later, I strode into the kitchen as if I’d been somewhere important. Camille was dressed and appeared to be fussing with things that looked like vegetables. The coffeemaker was silent, its one red eye blank, its pot empty.
“Good morning, sir,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said. She was leaning against the counter by the sink. I stopped short and glared at her.
“When did you get here?”
She smiled, but fatigue lined her dark features. “Just a few minutes ago. Camille said the smell of a green-chili omelette would wake you up.” She pushed herself away from the counter, crossed the room, and hugged me so hard, I almost lost my balance.
“She’s right,” I said, and then stepped back, keeping my left hand on Estelle’s shoulder. “You look beat, sweetheart.”
She nodded. “It’s been a long night.”
“How’s your mother?”
“She’s a worse patient than you ever thought of being, sir,” Estelle said. Estelle and I had known each other for more than a decade, and I could count on one hand the times that she had called me anything but “sir.” Her physician husband had been able to break the habit now and then, and what it was that their two boys screeched as a name for me, I had no idea most of the time.
“She’s here now, though? In Posadas?”
“Against her will.”
“I can imagine that. What happened, exactly?”
Estelle took a deep breath and shook her head. “She went outside to toss a pan of water into the garden. She thinks she just planted a foot crooked when she went down that little step behind the kitchen. She busted her hip into a million pieces. Francis has her lined up for hip-replacement surgery on Monday morning.”
I grimaced. “They’re going to do it here?”
Estelle nodded.
Similar Books
