Part 12 (1/2)
”Only enough for a little while, for a few days, until we get back from the trip.”
”At a great risk, and not just for him - for you, for me,” Chayo said. ”Tell me what you are going to do if he gets sick anyway or if I give him the wrong medicines and they do him harm. Then what?”
They both turned when the door chimed. The security guard smiled briefly as he held open the door for a young pregnant woman with two young children, then he went back to crossing his arms over his flak jacket. Chayo excused herself to attend to some of the other customers that had entered the small pharmacy. She left Socorro waiting at the end of the counter near the display of mentholated lozenges and the long gla.s.s case containing various brands of condoms and contact solutions. A string of Telmex phone cards, each wrapped in plastic, dangled from the register inside a Plexiglas booth. The cas.h.i.+er girl counted off the colorful bills in front of her, arranging them into disheveled stacks. At one point she looked up at Socorro and gave her the pa.s.sive smile of someone who isn't paid enough to be genuinely pleasant. Then she entered an amount into an office calculator and waited for the machine to produce a receipt before sticking it and two of the stacks of bills into a metal box beneath the register. The pregnant woman was now lingering near the booth, holding one child in the cradle of her right arm and carrying another in a stroller. She wanted to know what size diapers she should buy if she needed one that fit both a seven-month-old and an eighteen-month-old. Chayo told her that, unfortunately, she would have to buy different sizes, but today she would make her a special price on the Pampers.
Once she had taken care of her customer, she and Socorro walked to the counter where she kept the pharmaceutical book.
”Just tell me how you want me to feel doing something like this?”
”If we have to, we can find a doctor,” Socorro said.
”The doctor you should have found before you brought him here. Before, not later. That's how it is supposed to happen. These medicines are not for taking chances.”
”And if he goes with no medicines?”
Chayo turned toward the center of the store as the old man was trying on a pair of dark sungla.s.ses and crouching to see himself in the tiny mirror. The squared frames were the kind his doctor had given him years ago after removing his cataracts. He held them against his brow, then stared up at the fluorescent lights as if he were staring into the sun. When he looked back down, he lost his balance and staggered forward, in the direction of the sungla.s.s rack, but at the last second grabbed hold of the walker to correct himself.
”Only so you can go for a few days,” Chayo said, shaking her head, ”and nothing too strong. After that you have to promise to take him to a doctor, with someone who can prescribe some real medicine. A man his age and in that condition needs special care.”
She reached for the beaded necklace that held her gla.s.ses, sliding her fingers down it as if she were counting off each bead on a rosary. Then she walked around to the other side of the counter and opened the big red book.
The old man clung to his brother's arms as he made his way down the three steps from the pharmacy. The security guard was kind enough to carry the walker and open it again on the sidewalk.
They were about to walk back to the taxi when Don Fidencio noticed an old india sitting in the shade near the bottom step, her cupped and pleading hand stretched out in their direction. The frayed rebozo draped the edges of her withered face and then stretched out to cover what at first appeared to be a child but was only the swollen curve of her back. He reached into his pocket for some change, but all he found was his lighter.
”Here,” Don Celestino said, and handed him the change from the medicines.
The old man dropped a few pesos into the india's hand and she hid the coins somewhere under her rebozo. Then she nodded and, raising the same hand, said, ”May G.o.d bless you with a long life.”
The old man stared at her, wondering if he shouldn't take his money back or at least ask for a more useful blessing. He was about to say something to her, but he could feel his brother tugging at his arm.
26.
Now he sat in a plastic chair with a Carta Blanca beer logo against the backrest. His brother and the girl had helped him get to the little cafe and bought him a bottle of water so he could take his medicines while they went to buy the tickets. Don Fidencio's job was to keep an eye on his plastic bag with the medicines and his brother's leather pouch that had his insulin, making sure n.o.body ran off with them.
Dust swirled through the open doors at either end of the central station. Down the middle of the lobby, a young man, maybe only as tall as his dust broom, plowed the never-ending trash, which included receipts, cigarette b.u.t.ts, and candy wrappers that people preferred to toss on the floor rather than into one of the nearby trash cans. Where the old man sat, the s.p.a.ce was lined with a tiny convenience store that appeared to sell only frozen treats and s.e.x magazines, a pharmacy offering minor travel remedies along with an a.s.sortment of salty snacks, an open-sided cafe serving quick meals already under the heat lamps, and, just beyond the front doors, a counter where a porter would store luggage for a small hourly fee. On the opposite side, the eight bus counters, each with its own set of uniformed attendants, stretched the length of the lobby. So far his brother and the girl had stopped at three of the counters.
When he turned back, a barefoot little boy was standing next to the table. Several dime-size patches blotted his thick crew cut. A smear of yellowed mocos had dried under his nose.
”Buy my Chiclets, sir,” the boy said, extending a grubby hand with several packets of fluorescent-colored gum.
”No,” the old man answered.
”Buy my Chiclets, please, sir.” He tilted his head to one side.
Don Fidencio lifted a finger and wagged it at the boy.
”Come on, sir, buy my Chiclets.”
”I don't want any Chiclets.”
Don Fidencio looked back across the lobby. His brother and the girl were talking to an attendant behind one of the counters.
”Buy my Chiclets, sir.”
”Are you one of those little deaf boys? I told you, 'No Chiclets.' ”
The little boy stared back for a second. ”Are you blind?” ”Do I look blind to you?”
”You wear those dark gla.s.ses,” the little boy replied. ”The same as Macario The Blind Man wears.”
”I'm not blind. Now go, leave me alone.”
”People say Macario is not blind, but they still call him Macario The Blind Man, and the other people who don't know give him money.”
”These are called sungla.s.ses,” Don Fidencio said.
”But we're inside, where the sun never comes out.” ”Leave me alone already.”
”Buy my Chiclets.”
”I have no money.”
”But, sir, the Chiclets cost nothing, only four pesos.”
”Go away.”
”Then I will give them to you for two pesos.”
”Already I said no.”
”But why?”
”Finally,” Don Celestino said, walking up to the table. ”None of them have direct service to Linares. We had to buy tickets to Ciudad Victoria, and from there we can make the connection.”
Don Fidencio spread his legs so he could begin to stand up. ”I was thinking I was going to spend the day here, sleeping in this bus station.”
”You made a friend?” Socorro said.
”Please, lady, buy my Chiclets.” The boy tilted his head to one side.
”Ignore him. If not, he'll follow us all over Mexico,” said Don Fidencio.
”What flavors do you have?” She bent down to look at the packets.
”All the best ones,” the little boy answered, opening his carton the whole way.