Iniga languished in Saint Luke’s Cancer Center
of Boise after Marcel made sure she had the best specialists that money could
buy. He’d done all this after Alesandro had sought Harry out through old
contacts in the OSS and informed the Bird Dog that she’d been suffering cancer,
under an alias, Maria Francesca, at a Basque Boarding House in Boise Idaho.
She’ initially denied all medical care for fear her identity would be revealed.
Harry had tried to retire a few years before
and dropped all his aliases for his belly button name. Coming “out from the
cold", he had married a Southern Belle in South Carolina, Mary Anne
Lee (who called herself Marilyn), to have for once a normal life. The posting
of wedding notices in the local paper didn’t escape the attention of Marcel’s
associates whose antennae had been out looking for him since Alesandro had
heard of Iniga’s cancer.
Harry came to her ward with a bouquet of
flowers and a gnawing anxiety. Her skeletal frame was hardly discernible from
the tubes, oxygen mask and wires to monitors. He put the flowers, Blood Red
Gladiolas, in a vase and sat by her as she slept.
She awoke with a start, pulled the mask from
her face; sedated, she slurred, “Hurry?”
while trying to say his name through a thickened tongue.
“Yes, it’s me.”
Regaining composure, she said, "along comes
the injustice of God,” and she managed a weak smile.
“What injustice, Iniga? I came as soon...”
“That fate would shove your fuckin’ face in
front of my eyes before I die. That's what.”
“Gratitude was never your strong suit…”
“I am grateful that I can tell you about our
son.” Her contempt softened as she said, “Our Son”.
The
lines of premature age, and the darkened skin under her eyes wrought by cancer,
had not withered away the beauty of her cupid-bow lips that radiated lines of
age. The determination set in her eyes, and they were steely gray like his,
gray eyes that were no longer framed by wild shocks of black Basque hair. They
were set deep in the death’s skull of her shaved head: eyes that weren’t
pleading. He was moved by the sight of Iniga submitting to pain… to see her in
physical weakness was... well, his last vision of her was as she was in her
bath at their departure in Spain.
“He's in California…” she paused to take
another hit off the oxygen mask, “A boy’s camp of some sort. He still has your
name, Papa.”
“What do you want me to do about him?” He knew, as soon as he protested, that any objections would be in vain… “He
doesn’t know me.”
“He needs help. I had no idea of his
situation…” she arose on one arm and spoke forcefully, “until we tracked down
that damned wet-nurse.”
Harry saw again her fierce determination as she
continued, “The cur left him with nuns like a donation … a bag of groceries!”
she wheezed…”I was too weak to follow-up…. but I found out where he is now.”
If Harry had been honest with himself about it,
he could admit he hadn’t given Nick much thought at all over the previous
sixteen years. Love wasn’t a big part of his vocabulary. It was an expense… a
far too costly of an investment in time and energy to be committed to it. He
had to do what he knew he needed to do now. He needed to do it now because he
realized… or allowed the realization… that within the deep recess of buried emotions…
he loved Iniga ,and loving Iniga, required something more than weak gestures of
him.
“It is up to you Harry, find him.”
“I will."
“Try to give him a life, Harry.”
“I promise.”
“Oh, yes, Harry…”
“Yes…”
“Thanks for the gladiolas. Red Glads were the favorites
of the nuns at La Ventas.” She turned her head to the side to hide her tears,
“Now go away please.”
He knew then what the rest of his life would
be. He would love and give his life for what he had left of her in Nick. He
took the first flight from there the next morning away from Boise to never
again see Iniga’s steely gray eyes before she fell into a coma two days later.
The male attendant had just changed her sheets, and the nurse was changing fluids, when Iniga’s eyes opened… darted around the room…
“Are you Harry?”
The attendant was used to patients in his ward
confusing staff for loved ones. So, he humored her, "No, who's
Harry?"
“Pío, pío, pío... I’m sorry, Harry.”
As they were about to walk out of the room, the
alarms on the monitors complained…
Her eyes were fixed on a point in the ceiling
tiles and never closed again.
“Do you know who she was?” the attendant asked
proudly.
Knowing the attendant was Basque, the nurse
teased, “I don’t know. Brought in by the sheep-fucks.”
He shrugged, "She must be important."
They left the room…
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