Free Almost Never: A Novel by Daniel Sada, Katherine Silver

intention of surrendering, believing that if he did so, death—a rank and corrupt woman—would come for him at any minute, a notion he soon explained to his wife and daughter: You can’t trust the comfort of a bed. Thus came the horrendous consequences, the diminished capacities, the failings that took a greater and greater toll, for example: his mood was down in the dumps, and his laments were nearly in the same lowly place: moreover, the need to learn, for real now, what urgency meant. As we’ve seen, he traveled twice to Cuatro Ciénegas on his own and carried out the doctor’s instructions to the letter: the schedule for ingesting dose after dose of medicine; the correct nutrients, all in the proper proportions; everything except the repose. Never that: If I lie down I’ll die in the blink of an eye, a verdict spoken in cavernous tones, unbelievable to Doña Luisa and Renata, who shook their heads in response. But his fierce obstinacy served him ill. One day among many he suffered a mortal collapse on the street, about two blocks from his house. Yes, alas! He was very dead—poor thing—nothing but a pile of rubble. A heart attack, as was later ascertained. Some local folks carried away that familiar corpse, which was, needless to say, deeply mourned by his wife and daughter. By others in Sacramento as well: professionally lamented and wailed with appetizing dread. Four days of mourning. Mourning in shifts. There were six of them—did he deserve fewer? Uninterrupted and melodramatic to the max, truth be told. As if these people were being paid for their painful performance, but no, not a dime, rather the result of pure ghoulish faith (if one may speak in such terms); rosaries that weary, wearied, would weary; by day, by evening, by night; a moaning mill that—oof! better not get too close. Zulema dropped by to offer her condolences and lasted all of fifteen minutes, then—the escape! astute; we have to assume the stench drove her away. So, to reiterate: a four-day wake, such foolish obstinacy because both Doña Luisa and Renata had to inform the four who were married. Telegrams. They had to come. The death of their father. And yes: they all arrived contrite, in addition to the woe of the rough road, accompanied by their husbands, also worn to the bone. Everything done properly, or at least in good order, the next step being to organize the open-casket funeral. Well, let’s imagine the fond farewell wholly dominated by a stench akin to a dozen rotten eggs.
    We won’t talk much about the burial. This synopsis should suffice: there was a chorus of cries, over-the-top good-bye clamors. We’d rather mention certain events that occurred during the short respites from the wake. Sentences: written down one at a time by Renata, who left, then came, then left again, fidgeting in the room farthest away: her letter to Demetrio would not be long, half a page at most. But one sentence … and hours later, another, because she couldn’t be away for, say, twenty minutes straight. Because her mother would reproach her if … Or rather: she left and came, and each time it took her a while to return to her task. Two and a half days to complete the concise composition, which will be summarized briefly as follows: Demetrio would be informed of Don Pascual’s sidewalk demise; likewise, the period of mourning: three months of forced circumspection, with some easing by August. Renata used other words that surely pointed in the same direction. At the end were three semiromantic sentences: It would be wonderful for me if you came to Sacramento. I need you now more than ever. But I have no choice. All I can do is wait till August. And the radiant name— Renata Melgarejo —at the bottom of the page. The first letter she’d ever written was ready. But would Demetrio be able to read her handwriting? and if he couldn’t? and if he could only sort of? She was not deft at the calligraphic arts—would practice help? We’d do better to