The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [170]
"Yes. I am very flashy with towels as well, but there are limits." Emilio turned back to the machines. "Socks, for example. You guys send them down inside out, they go back upstairs clean but in the same condition."
"Hey, my dad had the same rule at home." John watched Sandoz work. His grip wasn’t perfect and he still had to pay close attention to the movement, but the improvement was remarkable. "Those are really good, aren’t they."
"They’re much easier to control. Lighter. Look: the bruises are clearing up." Emilio turned and held out his arms for John’s inspection. The new braces were radically different, less a cage than a set of wrist splints with electronic pickups. The fingers were supported from below with flat bands, jointed but lying close to his hands. There were finer bands that crossed over the top of the phalanges and a set of three flat straps that held the splints to his metacarpals, wrists and forearms. John tried not to notice how atrophied the muscles were and concentrated on the machinery as Sandoz explained the mechanisms.
"My hands and arms ache, but I think it’s because I’m using them more," Emilio said, straightening. "Here’s the best part. Watch this."
Sandoz went to a big table meant for sorting and folding the laundry and bent to lay one forearm flat against it. He rocked the arm a little to the outside to activate a small switch and the brace popped open, hinged on the side opposite the thumb. He pulled his hand out and then managed to get it back into position without assistance, although it took a certain amount of frowning effort before he toggled the switch again and the brace reclosed.
"I can do it all by myself," Emilio said with a three-year-old’s lisp. He added in his own voice, "You cannot imagine what a difference that makes."
John beamed, pleased to see how happy the man seemed. Everyone had underestimated how depressing the hasta’akala had been, he guessed, probably even Sandoz himself. For the first time since being maimed, Emilio was finding new things he could do, instead of new things that were beyond him. As if reading John’s mind, Sandoz turned and, with a cocky grin, bent to lift the basket and stood there waiting for comment.
"Very impressive," John said. Sandoz lugged the basket to the screened door, which he pushed open with his back. John followed him out to the clothesline. "That’s got to be what? Seven or eight kilos, huh?"
"Better microgearing," Emilio told him and began hanging out the wash. It was slow going. He did okay, but the clothespins were apt to pop sideways out of his grip. "Miss Marino may need to add some friction pads on the thumb and forefinger," he said a little irritably the fourth time it happened.
This was the same man who’d put up with the old braces for months without complaint! It was nice to hear him ease up. There’s nothing wrong with this guy that a little honest bitching wouldn’t cure, John thought. It was a cheerful oversimplification, he knew, but it was just such a pleasure to see Sandoz do well. "This is going to sound dumb," John warned him, "but those’re actually very good looking."
"Italian design," Emilio said admiringly. He held one hand out in front of himself, like a bride gazing at her new ring, and said in an airy English accent, " ’Next year, everyone will be wearing them.’ "
"Princess Bride!" John cried, identifying the quote immediately.
" ’Ah, I see you’re using Bonetti’s defense against me,"’ said Emilio, this time in a bad Spanish accent.
"’Never go up against a Sicilian when death is on the line!’" John declared, sitting on the low stone wall that bordered the side yard. They traded lines from the movie for a while, until John leaned back, locking his hands around one knee, and said, "This is great, man. I never thought I’d see you doing so well."
Emilio stopped moving, sheet in hand, realizing with some shock that he was enjoying