blotches on my arms. “Those look better.”
I rubbed my skin absently.
“It’s columbine.” Isabel pointed to the plant I’d just been hovering over. “Usually they’re only found in dry climates, but my dad crossbred a couple of species to get this one that survives in the tropics. I know his personality can be prickly sometimes, but the work he does is remarkable.”
“Are there any plants in this place that aren’t poisonous?”
Isabel smiled wanly and went over to take a seat at her dad’s cluttered desk. “I’m guessing that’s just one of your many burning questions, young Michael Knight.”
“And I’m guessing your dad’s not the only one around here with a prickly personality.”
Isabel put her hand over her heart in mock offense. “I thought we’d called a truce.”
“You called it. Not me.”
I waited, watching as Isabel looked down to the papers strewn across her dad’s desk and started running her fingers—her thin, capable fingers like those of her dad—across them.
“Most of them are poisonous,” she said, finally looking up. “Some aren’t. Most are.”
“Why so many?”
“Because that’s what he studies.”
“What happened to your mother?”
Isabel frowned—just like I would’ve. Just like I
did
whenever someone asked me the same question. “That’s abrupt.”
“They say he loved his plants more than he loved her.”
“Is that what
they
say?” The chair Isabel was sitting in squeaked as she leaned forward. “
They
being old señoras with too much time on their hands?”
I never thought I’d be recounting the stories I’d heard about the house at the end of Calle Sol to a person who lived in the house at the end of Calle Sol—it was like telling a ghost story to a ghost—but once the stories started pouring past my lips, they wouldn’t stop. I told Isabel about the señoras, how they said her father neglected her mother to the point that she grew so sad she would play her harpsichord while her husband’s great bird croaked along, and how Isabel’s mother eventually cursed the house, destroyed the bird, then disappeared.
“She wasn’t his prisoner,” Isabel said.
“The señoras said he loved his macaw and his plants more than he loved her.”
Isabel shook her head. “It was a gray. Not a macaw. An African gray. His name was Rios. Papá would teach him to mimic, say things like ‘hello’ and ‘jolly good.’ But forget about the bird. What did your friends think about my mother? Did they believe the old ladies?”
“We made up our own stories. Rico said she died in childbirth. Ruben said she jumped off the walls of El Morro.”
“And what was
your
story?”
“I didn’t want to believe she was dead. I thought maybe she’d stolen a boat and rowed over to St. Croix or Barbados.”
Several seconds went by, punctuated by howls from the storm.
Then Isabel said, “I’m sorry to say that none of your stories are true, but, if I had to choose, yours is definitely the best.”
“What’s the truth, then?”
“Do you really want to know? Do I even have to ask if you really want to know?”
“I think you know the answer to that,” I replied.
Isabel was still for a moment. Eventually, she rose from her chair and came to sit cross-legged on the ground in front of the columbine.
“Come sit,” she commanded. “And promise you won’t run away again.”
“I promise. Of course.”
“Of course,” Isabel softly repeated.
She began to roll the dry purple petals of the columbine between her fingers. The edge of her sleeve slipped back, and in the dim light, I could see a dark bruise on the tender skin between the thumb and index finger of her right hand. It made me think of how, when I was a boy and had a nasty bruise, my mom would rub her thumb over it three times in a circle and then give it a kiss. She told me that made them fade more quickly, and I could have sworn it worked.
“Looks can be deceiving, you know,” Isabel mused.
I rubbed my skin absently.
“It’s columbine.” Isabel pointed to the plant I’d just been hovering over. “Usually they’re only found in dry climates, but my dad crossbred a couple of species to get this one that survives in the tropics. I know his personality can be prickly sometimes, but the work he does is remarkable.”
“Are there any plants in this place that aren’t poisonous?”
Isabel smiled wanly and went over to take a seat at her dad’s cluttered desk. “I’m guessing that’s just one of your many burning questions, young Michael Knight.”
“And I’m guessing your dad’s not the only one around here with a prickly personality.”
Isabel put her hand over her heart in mock offense. “I thought we’d called a truce.”
“You called it. Not me.”
I waited, watching as Isabel looked down to the papers strewn across her dad’s desk and started running her fingers—her thin, capable fingers like those of her dad—across them.
“Most of them are poisonous,” she said, finally looking up. “Some aren’t. Most are.”
“Why so many?”
“Because that’s what he studies.”
“What happened to your mother?”
Isabel frowned—just like I would’ve. Just like I
did
whenever someone asked me the same question. “That’s abrupt.”
“They say he loved his plants more than he loved her.”
“Is that what
they
say?” The chair Isabel was sitting in squeaked as she leaned forward. “
They
being old señoras with too much time on their hands?”
I never thought I’d be recounting the stories I’d heard about the house at the end of Calle Sol to a person who lived in the house at the end of Calle Sol—it was like telling a ghost story to a ghost—but once the stories started pouring past my lips, they wouldn’t stop. I told Isabel about the señoras, how they said her father neglected her mother to the point that she grew so sad she would play her harpsichord while her husband’s great bird croaked along, and how Isabel’s mother eventually cursed the house, destroyed the bird, then disappeared.
“She wasn’t his prisoner,” Isabel said.
“The señoras said he loved his macaw and his plants more than he loved her.”
Isabel shook her head. “It was a gray. Not a macaw. An African gray. His name was Rios. Papá would teach him to mimic, say things like ‘hello’ and ‘jolly good.’ But forget about the bird. What did your friends think about my mother? Did they believe the old ladies?”
“We made up our own stories. Rico said she died in childbirth. Ruben said she jumped off the walls of El Morro.”
“And what was
your
story?”
“I didn’t want to believe she was dead. I thought maybe she’d stolen a boat and rowed over to St. Croix or Barbados.”
Several seconds went by, punctuated by howls from the storm.
Then Isabel said, “I’m sorry to say that none of your stories are true, but, if I had to choose, yours is definitely the best.”
“What’s the truth, then?”
“Do you really want to know? Do I even have to ask if you really want to know?”
“I think you know the answer to that,” I replied.
Isabel was still for a moment. Eventually, she rose from her chair and came to sit cross-legged on the ground in front of the columbine.
“Come sit,” she commanded. “And promise you won’t run away again.”
“I promise. Of course.”
“Of course,” Isabel softly repeated.
She began to roll the dry purple petals of the columbine between her fingers. The edge of her sleeve slipped back, and in the dim light, I could see a dark bruise on the tender skin between the thumb and index finger of her right hand. It made me think of how, when I was a boy and had a nasty bruise, my mom would rub her thumb over it three times in a circle and then give it a kiss. She told me that made them fade more quickly, and I could have sworn it worked.
“Looks can be deceiving, you know,” Isabel mused.
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