Part 11

The sun dealt the city some stern body blows. The piazzas were strewn with folk. Bees and flies and fleas sang and buzzed and added to the city's noise and squalor. Swinging onto rafts hoisted high on porches parokeets and parrots screeched and chattered incessantly. In cages set in the shades of windows bright-feathered and trill-voiced birds languished half-sleepily. Down on the piazza among the old women and the children the Duque ticket sellers and the sore-footed heathens, there were monkeys. Tied to poles greasy and black with banana grime they were lathering their faces with spit. Slowly they ascended the head of the street, the chapel of the Christ Church, felt a bit of the onrushing sea wind, and made the drive. The sea wind beat against them. It was cool and refreshing. At last they were at the hospital.

* * * * *

A high box, square, gauze-encased and white with a dim black object in it was set at the end of a back porch--wide, long, screened, isolated. Facing it was a planted plot, gardened by Asiatics, seen through the dusty screen. Near the sloping end of the porch the rosebush was withering; mocking the bitter fury of the sun the sunflowers were slightly bowing. Accustoming one's eye to the dead reach of things beyond the screen one saw a terra cotta sky and lank, parched trees with reddish brown foliage. One saw, sizzling, at the mouths of dying flowers, blue-winged humming birds--

An eternity had passed since the doctor had brought them there, and all the sorrow and anguish inside her rushed to Sarah Bright's eyes.

"Yo' mus' pray fuh me, Sarah," were the first words that came to her from the box square.

"Yes, Lucian," she said, concurring in their finality.

He emitted a groan, and she patted Gerald's face, forcing the child to look away.

"An' wuh duh say, Lucian," she asked, with piety and anxiety, "wuh duh say, ni?"

Their eyes were fastened on the fixed intensity of the sun, but their ears were attuned to the tiniest rustle of the glazed sheets, and the restless figure under them. Then he said, "Ah'm in a bad way, gyrl."

She took out a little white handkerchief and dried first Gerald's mouth and nose, then her own glistening eyes.

He groaned, and was restive again. "De doctah say no use--de oil ent no good."

"No?" there was a quiet suspense in her voice.

"No bloomin' good!" he flung, unearthing some of the old asperity.

"Don't, Lucian," she entreated, "fomembah Jesus."

"Oh, God, dis han'!" he groaned, tossing fiercely.

He ruffled the sheets, and a lizard, a big lanky bark-hued one, slid down the trunk of the cocoanut tree, after some gawkier prey.

"An' dey ent try nutton else," she said, again exhuming the handkerchief.

"Oh, dese Yankees don't cyah wuh de do to yo'--dey don't cyah. Duh wouldn't even giv' yo' a drop o' hot wattah, if yo' ask me. No, dey ent try nutton else."

"Hush, don't cry, Gerald," she said, hunting for a piece of Chinese candy, "yo' mustn't cry, son."

"An' wuh dey gwine do, Lucian," she said, reluctantly risking the query.

"Put me 'way--Palo Seco--dah's de colony."

"Don't cry, son, never min', mama will tek care o' Gerald--oh, my son, you'll break my heart."

"'E love 'e pappy, ent 'e?" he smiled, then turned his moistening eyes to the black wall behind him.

"Well," she said, her eyes clear and dry, "the Lord wuks His wonders in a mysterious way. What's to be, will be."

He, too, was weeping; but she held on, driving the mirage to the winds.

"Yo' kin come to see muh, Sarah," he said, "dey allow yo' one visit a year--yo' mus' come, yo' hear?"

"Yes, Lucian, I'll come."

"An' yo' mustn't call me bad, yo' heah?" he pleaded, the water in his eyes, like a young culprit.

"God forbid, dear--be quiet now. Come, Gerald, time fi' go, son." She adjusted his hat, and a bell started ringing.

"An' yo' mus' tek good cyah o' yo'self, heah Sarah, an' don't le' nobody tek exvantage o' yo', yo' heah, dis is a bad country--"

"Yes, Lucian."

THE END