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“How about one of your good treatments before you go?” he asked,<br />
placing his hand on the small of his back. He climbed on the bed and<br />
stripped down to the muslin shorts that Chinda had made for him.<br />
I rubbed his back and neck <strong>with</strong> Wintergreen oil until his tired,<br />
overworked muscles began to relax under my kneading fingers. Panti<br />
moaned, “Que rico,” how exquisite, as I stretched and pulled his flesh. He<br />
had been suffering from rheumatism since the days when he had lived<br />
outside in the chiclero camps.<br />
“You can do this to me anytime,” he chirped. “Are you coming back<br />
next week?”<br />
“I’ll be here neither more nor less than you see now,” I joked, giving<br />
him back one of his favorite lines.<br />
In the fading daylight, he stood by his hut door, waving good-bye <strong>with</strong> a<br />
broad smile on his face. His cheeks had a pink glow that they hadn’t had<br />
earlier.<br />
But as I tromped past the sign for San Antonio on my way home, I<br />
knew he was sitting alone in his slanted-back chair, looking at the hen<br />
roosting in the cold stove where Chinda had once made her fresh tortillas<br />
and cheerfully listened to his stories.