“Yes,” Frazer said. “Somebody shot him in the back. What’s it to you?”
“Don’t get sore,” the sergeant said. “I wish I could talk spick.”
“Why don’t you learn?”
“You don’t have to get sore. I don’t get any fun out of asking that spick questions. If I could talk spick it would be different.”
“You don’t need to talk Spanish,” the interpreter said. “I am a very reliable interpreter.”
“Oh, for Chrisake,” the sergeant said. “Well, so long. I’ll come up and see you.”
“Thanks. I’m always in.”
“I guess you are all right. That was bad luck all right. Plenty bad luck.”
“It’s coming along good now since he spliced the bone.”
“Yes, but it’s a long time. A long, long time.”
“Don’t let anybody shoot you in the back.”
“That’s right,” he said. “That’s right. Well, I’m glad you’re not sore.”
“So long,” said Mr. Frazer.
Mr. Frazer did not see Cayetano again for a long time, but each morning Sister Cecilia brought news of him. He was so uncomplaining she said and he was very bad now. He had peritonitis and they thought he could not live. Poor Cayetano, she said. He had such beautiful hands and such a fine face and he never complains. The odor, now, was really terrific. He would point toward his nose with one finger and smile and shake his head, she said. He felt badly about the odor. It embarrassed him, Sister Cecilia said. Oh, he was such a fine patient. He always smiled. He wouldn’t go to confession to Father but he promised to say his prayers, and not a Mexican had been to see him since he had been brought in. The Russian was going out at the end of the week. I could never feel anything about the Russian, Sister Cecilia said. Poor fellow,
