A Thorn in the Bush Read Online Free PDF

sure she would not have died when she did.” Serena crossed herself.
    “Take it away.”
    “But Señora!” Serena stiffened into her martinet pose. “It has a delicious flavor and …”
    “I said take it away!”
    Even martinets wilted at this tone. Serena sniffed, as much as to say: “Let your death be on your own shoulders then!” She put the offending cup on the nightstand.
    “Well, what are you waiting for?” demanded Mrs. Ross.
    Serena’s face retained an impassive scowl. She dipped a hand into the pocket of her orange apron, produced a thin package wrapped in tan kraft paper. “The Señor Hoblitt sends you this.” She held it out. “It is a picture.”
    Mrs. Ross accepted the offering. Hoblitt? She unfolded the paper. It crackled, and one corner tore. Inside there lay a tempera crayon sketch of herself. The features were drawn boldly without background, but the artist had removed about twenty years from her age: more pink in the complexion, fewer wrinkles around the eyes, cheeks fuller, hair a dark auburn-red.
    The portrayal looked very much like the Emma Ross who had come to San Juan in nineteen-thirty-seven. For several heartbeats, Mrs. Ross wondered if this might be Hoblitt’s subtle way of telling her that he knew all. Then she calmed herself, thinking: The man isn’t capable of such subtlety. Still, she wondered: Who told him what color my hair used to be? That’s something he couldn’t get just from looking at me.
    “A good likeness, no?” said Serena. “It looks just the way you did when you first came to us.” She nodded. “If you do not want the little portrait, Señora, perhaps you could give it to me. It would be very nice to have.” (And the tone of Serena’s voice added: “… after you are dead.”)
    Mrs. Ross shook her head, studied the sketch. She saw the same kind of character penetration that was revealed in the painting of Paulita and was repelled by it. There was a heavy-lidded, furtive look to her eyes, a sense of watchfulness in the set of the head.
    “Was there a message?” asked Mrs. Ross.
    Serena spoke stiffly, angered by the casual denial of her request: “It is on the back.”
    Mrs. Ross turned the sketch over, saw there in a scrawling hand: “I apologize for snapping at you. Blame it on a lousy breakfast that day. Let’s be friends.”
    How very odd , thought Mrs. Ross. She turned back to the drawing. It was an irritating thing, not at all the way she pictured herself. A thought struck her. She said: “Has this Hoblitt made a large painting of me, Serena?”
    “Who knows?” Serena shrugged. “María Carlotta says there are other paintings which the Señor Hoblitt keeps in a locked box. It is said that he prepares them for the show by foreign artists to be held soon at the University of Mexico. It is next week, I think.”
    Mrs. Ross lifted her attention from the sketch, stared at the ropero opposite the foot of the bed, thought: If he’s made a large portrait like that and displays it at a public showing … She shuddered. God knows who might see it!
    Serena cleared her throat.
    I must do something , thought Mrs. Ross. If he has made such a portrait, perhaps I could buy …
    Again, Serena cleared her throat.
    “What is it?” demanded Mrs. Ross.
    “Don Jaime has sent Dr. Herrera to examine you.”
    Anger flared in Mrs. Ross. “That miserable incompetent! Why does Don Jaime always have to send him? Tell the fool to go back where he came from!”
    Secure in the knowledge of past victories, Serena raised her attention to the ceiling. “He awaits even now outside your door, Señora.” She sighed. “Within the sound of your voice.”
    “Let him wait! And bring me some coffee!” Mrs. Ross took up her toast, dipped it into the milk and coddled egg, began eating. She thought: I wonder how much money Hoblitt would want for …
    “But coffee makes danger before a visit of the doctor!” Serena looked horrified that Mrs. Ross would not remember this