1210 16 October 1943
Don Cletus Frade opened his eyes and saw Mother Superior’s face very close to his.
“Try not to move,” she said. “This will sting a little.”
He tried to raise his head.
“Hold him,” Mother Superior ordered.
A massive hand pushed his head back against the floor.
He saw Mother Superior’s hands approaching his head. One hand held a pad of surgical gauze, the other a curved needle laced with a black thread.
He felt his forehead being mopped, then saw the needle getting close.
“Jesus H. Christ!” he exclaimed as the needle penetrated the skin on his fo rehead.
“Is he all right?” Doña Dorotea asked.
“I told you bringing him in here would be a mistake,” Mother Superior replied.
The needle penetrated his skin again.
“What the hell happened?” Clete asked.
Dorotea groaned in pain and took the Lord’s name in vain.
Clete tried to rise. The massive hand again pushed him back against the floor.
That has to be the hand of Sister Suboficial Mayor.
What the hell is going on?
The needle struck again.
“That should hold it for the time being,” Mother Superior said. “Stay there until I say you can get up.” She added, “Don’t let him move.”
“Yes, Mother Superior,” Sister Suboficial Mayor said.
“Oh, God!” Dorotea groaned loudly.
“Push,” Mother Superior said. “I can see the head.”
Clete tried and failed to raise his head.
“Dorotea? Are you all right, baby?”
“No, goddamn it, I’m not. . . . Oh, God!”
“Stop blaspheming and push, Dorotea,” Mother Superior said.
“Well, that’s a shame,” Mother Superior said.
“What’s a shame?” Clete asked in horror from the floor.
“I was sort of hoping for a future postulant for the Order of the Little Sisters of Santa María del Pilar. But what we have here is what looks like a healthy male.”
“May I let him up, Mother Superior?” Sister Suboficial Mayor asked.