But did one forget someone once loved? Could there never be accord? Gabriel had recommended patience. The dung beetle was patient: she had seen it shoving a ball, worming it from side to side, attacking it frenziedly. She was no dung beetle. Revolving the delicate cup on its saucer, guiding it around inside the rim, her toes digging at the rungs of her chair, she smelled her own flesh, waited. It seemed to her she had waited more than half her life, waited for someone to love, waited for marriage, waited for sexual adjustment, waited for childbirth, for her babies to walk and talk. Even death had to be waited for. Her own. Her friends. Don Fernando's. She heard her father-in-law say: "Let's not bring that toy to the breakfast table.... "This is no place for women ... get out.... "Well wait for your wife to go to bed.... "Take the noisy children away...." Dressed in one of his charro outfits or in badly pressed whites, whip or quirt in hand, he epitomized Petaca. Blood-shot eyes, battered mouth, scrawny neck--soon death would take them away. And she knew how he feared death; she had heard him mumble to himself. It had perplexed her that Caterina had been fond of him but she let them alone, hoping the innocence of one would offset the vices of the other. Well, it had been a brief affection. She wondered how she condescended to treat him humanely, almost with affection sometimes. Pouring herself more coffee she tried to shake her mood and said the first thing that came to mind: "What have you been thinking about?" "I? Oh, I was thinking of Italy. What were you thinking about?" "Don Fernando. Caterina. Life and death." "I was thinking of home. Very foolish of me. I guess I'm ... well, sentimental." He patted his bald spot. "You've been homesick as long as I can remember," she said. "Come, come now," he said. "I haven't been that bad, have I?" Chavela went about opening windows and candle flames wavered from the cool, damp but refreshing air. The clack-a-clack of hundreds of blackbirds resounded from their roosting place in the Indian laurels at the lagoon end of the garden. Gabriel lit a kerosene lamp and placed it on the piano and excused himself. "Good-night, Angelina ... I must visit Viosco ... he's sick ... thanks for the coffee...." She hunched on a sofa, her feet under a velvet cushion, eyes on the irresolute candles. Shall I confess to Gabriel that I like to walk naked in my fur? Shall I tell him about the girl at the convent? Shall I tell him why Raul married me? Confess. Must we all confess, confess how lonely we are? Later, in the chapel, she prayed for Vicente and herself. The place was dimly lit but the darkness and her _rebozo_ could not shut out the Petacans, the lame, the sick, the hungry: they whimpered for clothes, medicine, alms: they fought for food, stole, got drunk, killed. They had never crowded about her before and their ghostly presence drove her to her room.