Cave of Little Faces. Aída Besançon Spencer
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the curtains wide, letting in the light, and took in the situation at a glance. “Do you want some té criolla this morning, Jo?”
“No,” murmured Jo, “but I think I need it.”
“I’ll be back,” said Doña Lucia. “You rest.”
Down in the kitchen, Lucia Romero took a dozen cherries out of the freezer, broke off two, and put the rest back in. Next to them, in another plastic bag, she retrieved a chunk of passion fruit, the seeds still in it, and then a medium-sized onion from which she cut a quarter on the cutting board on the counter. From the cabinet came a stick of cinnamon, and then she went out the back door to a tree over by the compound wall, picked off a green lemon, brought it back inside, and sliced it twice so that the four quarters were half separated, but still joined. All these she washed down with bottled water, then added enough to cover them in a small pot, placed a lid on it, and put them on to boil. When the mixture was bubbling away, she turned the range down and let it boil at close to simmer for about six minutes, then turned off the gas and let the concoction stand for ten more minutes. At the end of the time, she strained the liquid out through a metal colander, discarded the pulp, put in a tablespoon of brown sugar, and filled a mug with the pungent juice. This she presented to Jo, who sat up, drained it with a grimace, thanked her in muffled tones, and went back to sleep. Doña Lucia kissed her on the head and tiptoed out.
About midafternoon, Jo finally marshaled herself together and stumbled downstairs. She slogged her way to the back porch and eased into a rocking chair. “Uhhhh,” groaned Jo.
Don Ramón, alerted that Josefina was finally among those present by a text message from Doña Lucia—since they both considered it undignified to shout from the main house across to the bungalow—found Jo slumped in her chair and sat down beside her. “Can you handle some breakfast, Querida?” he asked gently.
“I don’t think so, but thank you, Don Ramón.”
“My wife has already fixed you up with some té criolla, I assume?”
“She has indeed,” murmured Jo.
“It will work wonders for you.”
“I’m banking on it.”
“The old ways are always the best ways,” said Don Ramón Romero. “That’s why they are still with us, because, in so many cases, they are best.”
Jo had heard that adage times without number from this gentle couple who had practically reared her and her siblings each summer when their parents and Uncle Saul were gone, so she merely nodded. No reply was necessary.
“I’m sorry you are not well, Josefina. The lawyer was coming in from Villa Bahoruco to meet with you today.”
Jo turned bleary, bedraggled eyes toward her surrogate “uncle.” “Don’t let the cracks in this earthen vessel deter you,” she murmured, waving her weary hand down the length of queasiness that was today’s Jo in the flesh. “Rallying is what I do best. I need to know what happened to my parents for peace of mind. Without that, I can’t get better.”
“Yes, that is you, Jo. But you don’t want to overdo it.”
“It is a family failing.”
Don Ramón smiled, “It runs down the generations, but I really think you should rest today. Tomorrow is soon enough, and you will hear much. I promise it will be a lot for you to process. My wife is even now making you some chicken soup,” he added reassuringly.
“What would I do without you both?”
Don Ramón beamed.
“What would Uncle Sol have done without you both? You have been so wonderful to our family—I can’t imagine life here without you and Doña Lucia. In fact, I don’t want to. . . .” She sent her gratitude to him with what would have been a dazzling smile, if she could have mustered it.
“It is our mission in life,” said Don Ramón softly.
She thought he was joking.
“I’m sorry,” said Jo in what was going to have to pass for hasty on this morning. “I have to use the bathroom again.”
“Of course,” he said, rising. “After that, go back to bed and sleep a little longer. Lucia will have some nice chicken broth ready when you awaken.”
“Bless you,” said Jo and staggered off. This was the best advice she could have received, and Jo was a lifelong connoisseur of good advice.
The day passed with applications of chicken soup, sweetened gelatin, steady glasses of bottled water, and one more steaming mug of criolla tea, and then Jo slept all night long. Her sleep debt, she mused, as she drifted off, must rival that of Ben’s blackjack losses at Atlantic City—and then she was gone.
The next morning, Jo realized she was on the mend: not there yet completely, but definitely on the way.
Doña Lucia was delighted to see her up already when she peeked in. “Ah, the wonders of té criolla,” she smiled.
“Yes, and God’s grace and your good care.”
“Amén, amén.”
“Do you think you are up to meeting with the lawyer today, Querida, or would you want one more day to rest?” asked Don Ramón, when she came downstairs at a steadier gait.
“Do I go there, or does he come here?” asked Jo, before answering.
“Wisely said,” chuckled Doña Lucia.
“He will come here,” Don Ramón assured her.
“Then, yes, I think I can talk for a bit—understanding my present limitations. . . .”
“At my age, that is always understood,” smiled Don Ramón.
The three of them sat rocking on the porch while they waited, talking over desultory family topics. Jo caught up on the progress of each of their children, and they both asked many questions about the development of her ministry, whether she continued using the things she had learned in community organizing (to which she had answered, “Of course, they are very much overlapping in many areas”), exactly what she did as a minister, and how her two callings meshed and differed. Suddenly, in the midst of this, Don Ramón received a cell phone call. He glanced at it and then sat up quickly and said, “Excuse me, Josefina, I must take this one—it is important to our meeting today.” He stepped off the porch and moved a brief distance away so as not to disturb Jo and his wife as they continued to chat, but they heard his voice take on a tone of reproach and a note of urgency before he closed his phone and walked back to them, frowning.
“Bad news?” asked Jo, immediately concerned.
“Somewhat,” he said. “Not terrible news, but somewhat disturbing.”
Doña Lucia simply gazed at him, waiting.
“Ricky finds he cannot come today.”
“He cannot come?” Lucia asked, astonished. “And why not?”
“He cannot work it into his schedule.”
“Cannot work it in?”
“That’s what he says.” They passed a look between themselves that made Jo pause and begin to rise. “If you both would like to talk. . . .”
They hesitated.
“I really need to make yet one more stop inside,” Jo assured them.
“I’ll make you more tea later, Josefina,” said Doña Lucia.
Jo grimaced, said thank you, and left. Té criolla is admittedly an acquired taste that few acquire, but it does—indeed—work wonders.
When she returned, they picked up the inquiry into her activities as if nothing had intervened. Their questions were intelligent, detailed, probing. Jo knew they loved her as one of their own children—she had known them, after all, since infancy—really