"Who is it for?" the Mexican woman said.
"Mrs. Rosa Sandoval, 1129 G Street." Homer said. He extended the telegram to the Mexican woman, but she would not touch it.
Are you Mrs. Sandoval?" Homer said.
"Please," the woman said. "Please come in. I cannot read English. I am Mexican. I read only La Prensa which comes from Mexico City." She paused a moment and looked at the boy standing awkwardly as near the door as he could be and still be inside the house.
"Please," she said, "what does the telegram say?"
"Mrs. Sandoval," the messenger said, "the telegram says --"
But now the woman interrupted him. "But you must open the telegram and read it to me," she said. "You have not opened it."
Yes, ma'am," Homer said as if he were speaking to a school teacher who had just corrected him.
He opened the telegram with nervous fingers. The Mexican woman stooped to pick up the torn envelope, and tried to smooth it out. As she did so she said, "Who sent the telegram -- my son Juan Domingo?"
"No, ma'am." Homer said. "The telegram is from the War Department."
"War Department?" the Mexican woman said.
"Mrs. Sandoval," Homer said swiftly, "your son is dead. Maybe it's a mistake, Everybody makes a mistake, Mrs. Sandoval. Maybe it wasn't your son. Maybe it was somebody else. The telegram says it was Juan Domingo. But maybe the telegram is wrong,"
The Mexican woman pretended not to hear.
"Oh, do not be afraid," she said. "Come inside. Come inside. I will bring you candy." She took the boy's arm and brought him to the table at the center of the room and there she made him sit.
"All boys like candy," she said. "I will bring you candy." She went into another room and soon returned with an old chocolate candy box. She opened the box at the table and in it Homer saw a strange kind of candy.
"Here," she said. "Eat this candy. All boys like candy."
Homer took a piece of the candy from the box, put it into his mouth, and tried to chew.
"You would not bring me a bad telegram," she said. "You are a good boy -- like my little Juanito when he was a little boy. Eat another piece." And she made the messenger take another piece of the candy.
Homer sat chewing the dry candy while the Mexican woman talked. "It is our own candy," she said, "from cactus. I made it for my Juanito when he come home, but you eat it. You are my boy, too."
Now suddenly she began to sob, holding herself in as if weeping were a disgrace. Homer wanted to get up and run, but he knew he would stay. He even thought he might stay the rest of his life. He just didn't know what else to do to try to make the woman less unhappy, and if she had asked him to take the place of her son, he would not have been able to refuse, because he would not have known how. He got to his feet, as if by standing he meant to begin correcting what could not be corrected and then he knew the foolishness of this intention and became more awkward than ever. In his heart he was saying over and over again, "What can I do? What the hell can I do? I'm only the messenger."