“Thank you,” smiled Lucy. “I can’t eat, but thank you.” Lucy remembered the woman from the night before, but she felt less now like knowing her than she did before because another wave of nausea was coming, and she breathed, and it vanished. Relieved, she smiled weakly, hoping the nausea would not make her vomit right then, but looking again at the eggs the woman had put in front of her, she felt the nausea rise again.
“You must eat,” ordered Ruby. “You have a baby. Eat.” Ruby sat down across from Lucy and gathered Consuela in her lap, and ordered Patricia to grab another cup of coffee and to get food for the children, which Patricia did immediately, winding her way through the long tables of women and up to the steam table where Angel dished out three plates of eggs and tortillas. Patricia poured coffee and took it back to Ruby and returned for the food while Ruby watched Lucy push the eggs around on her plate having suddenly thought she might actually be able to eat. Ruby had been in jail nine months, and her natural sense of intuition told her whom to trust, and this intuition, apart from her natural interest and curiosity, had immediately informed her that Lucy could be trusted. Not because she was a gringa, not at all, for other gringas had been in this jail, gringas she could not trust even in the tiniest of ways, but because of something she felt deep inside. That strong feeling settled within her as she sat and watched the American push the runny eggs and chiles, and even, Ruby could tell, contemplate for a second, actually pushing some egg and chile on her fork to eat. But that moment passed in an instant, and Lucy looked up almost apologetically as Ruby laughed and said that lunch might be better and that it was alright if she skipped one meal, but not too many, and asked if she might want milk, but Lucy hated milk and said so. But she sipped on the lukewarm coffee agreeably and the coffee, for some reason settled her stomach, and she felt better physically, but it seemed to her like she’d walked into the wrong movie and someone had asked her to play the wrong role. She was out of character, yet she knew, of course, that this was real, but it seemed to her that she hadn’t quite arrived. Like she was still half asleep and not quite woken to this moment. Perhaps, she thought, she should have come about fifty years ago, when the hotel was new and bustled with activity. Yes, that was it, she should have been a guest, not an inmate, but she looked around at the women, and knew they were not, none of them, guests, and she sighed and sipped coffee, and wondered about the phone, and she asked Ruby about the phone. Lucy wondered why she hadn’t thought of it sooner, when Firma Louise had woken her. Ruby said she would take her to see about the phone after breakfast. That made great sense to Lucy and it made her think that she would use the phone and then she would have something productive in the way of getting released. That seemed appropriate. Yes, she would get a lawyer to get her out and then go home. Yes, she thought, and she took a large swallow of the cold coffee and she felt much, much, better.
The noisy clatter diminished as women started leaving in groups of twos and threes, ready to start the morning chores, the sounds of voices spreading back out into the hallway and away. Ruby’s children scraped the last of the eggs and chiles off their plates, while Ruby explained to Lucy the morning procedures. Ruby’s job was in the kitchen, and she had to prepare masa for lunch tortillas. Ruby said that Lucy would not have a job yet, but that if she stayed she would want one because the time passed easier when there were things to do. Consuela sucked the last milk from a tall glass and Ruby used a napkin to wipe the child’s white-rimmed mouth.
“Are you all right, gringa?” she asked smiling, almost teasing, knowing that Lucy was somewhere between the nausea of the pregnancy and the bewilderment of prison and that she was not by anyone’s definition, all right. “I will tell you about myself,” said Ruby. “And then you will feel much better. I promise.”
Ruby told the story of her husband and how she had killed him. She stopped from time to time to see the effect the words had on the gringa, and Lucy sat wide eyed as Ruby related the whole story. Lucy looked surprisingly at the Costa Rican woman who had told her about this murder in a matter-of-fact fashion, and suddenly laughed, and said, yes, yesterday, she too would have murdered a man, but passed it by so she could come to jail herself, and the women both laughed until Lucy started to cry and Ruby pulled a Kleenex out of her pocket and handed it to Lucy who blew her nose and wiped her eyes and started laughing again so she wouldn’t cry. By then, three other women had come by the table on their way out of the dining room and spoke, in Spanish, to Ruby, who answered in Spanish as they made eye contact with the newcomer and left the dining room somewhat satisfied, it appeared, with the information Ruby had bestowed.
The phone on Firma Louise’s desk rang twice, quickly, and the stout woman answered it, and listened, intently, to the voice at the other end, which gave her specific instructions about the new inmate, the American.
The voice, the one that belonged to the head official at the main prison, wanted, without question, all the knowledge the girl possessed about the cocaine connection in Costa Rica. This official was acting, he said, from specific instructions from the Embassy, the American Embassy, knew, of course, of the incident, and wanted, without question, to co-operate with the Costa Ricans and eliminate drug traffic. If this girl could help, and obviously she could, she was, after all, arrested with cocaine, she should be coerced into revealing the information they needed. The man that spoke indicated that she might refrain from getting too much help immediately since, he said, he would not be able to come to the prison for another two weeks and maybe even three to interrogate the gringa. Did she, Firma Louise, understand? Yes, yes, said Firma, certainly, she understood, and certainly, even she would try and find out this information, but the man, said, no, no, definitely not, that he, himself, wanted to interrogate the American. He did not say, of course, that he had heard that the American was extremely beautiful, and lovely, and even spirited, and that his interest was professional, of course, but that another part of him wanted to see the woman herself out of simple male curiosity. Firma Louise hung up the phone and thought she would talk to the gringa anyway, thinking that the man was behaving foolishly, and annoyed even, that he wanted to interrogate her prisoner. Without hesitation, she called to her assistant, Elena Mendez, to get the American and bring her to the office immediately. Which, naturally, she did straight away. When Lucy arrived at the office she was elated, thinking, mistakenly, that she would get to use the telephone that sat on Firma Louise’s desk. The phone was not truly the focal point of the room; it sat rather innocuously to the left of Firma Louise and to the right of Lucy, amongst a scatter of paper work. Yet, to the prisoner, the phone occupied all her attention, the use of which, she thought, was bound to free her. Like a verb she wanted to conjugate, the phone seemed ready to serve, and because she believed it might, she sat quietly now, waiting expectantly to make the call that would free her from the constraints of this existence that surely, she thought, did not truly belong to her. Like an umbilical cord, she thought, that phone would link her to safety, and she imagined herself calling for help, and she was beyond the moment she was actually having, imagining Mary Pointer answering the phone and hearing her mother’s excited, concerned voice. They would cry, both of them, and laugh, and her mother’s voice would be hard to hear because of the distance, the great distance between mother and daughter, but she would promise to help Lucy, because she was, naturally, her mother, and mothers did these things, and Lucy imagined going home, to a home she’d left years ago as a mere child. Really going home, of course, was a fiction, and Lucy knew this. She had made choices. And her choices had brought her to this place. This moment was her responsibility and she must find the strength to live it in the best of ways, no matter the difficulty. If Ruby could survive the disaster of her life, surely Lucy could do the same. In fact, the moments she had spent with the feisty Costa Rican had given Lucy a glimpse of Ruby’s robust character. Her concept of Ruby had nothing to do with the crime she had committed, but with the way Ruby conducted herself now. The woman
had gone out of her way to make Lucy comfortable, and Lucy did feel more comfortable. Something about Ruby’s presence had helped her.
“Did you eat breakfast?” asked Firma.
“I couldn’t eat,” Lucy answered.
“Because of the food or the pregnancy?” Firma smiled at the prisoner curiously.
“Both, I think, but mostly the nausea,” Lucy said, not wanting to complain about the food.
“Breakfast is not the best meal,” said Firma. “Dinner is better. And for lunch today we have tamales. Do you like tamales?”
“Yes, yes, I do.”
“How pregnant are you?”
“Six months.”
“Well, we have lots of babies here,” said Firma. “One was born just last week, and the doctor is very good,” she said in all earnestness hoping to comfort the prisoner and let her know how very advanced they were at this prison.
“Oh,” cried Lucy, “surely I won’t be here that long. No, my baby will be born at home.” The thought of being in jail for the birth of the child hadn’t occurred to her, and was quite unthinkable, so she pushed it away, imagining instead, a quiet American hospital room with starchy nurses. Yes, that is where I’ll have the baby, in a well-ordered room, she thought. Again, thinking fictions she had never thought to think, not once before had she imagined having her baby in a well-ordered room. What, in truth, she had thought was having a midwife, and Gary, and Maggie, and her friends surrounding her, but not once before had she ever imagined a hospital like she did now in certain panic. She hated hospitals and starchy nurses.
“I see. Just how long did you expect to be here?” Firma sat back in her chair curious to hear. The gringa obviously was not yet aware how very serious things had become for her in the last twenty-four hours.
“Not long. I can post bail.”
“There is no bail for your offense. And besides, our jails do not work like yours. I am afraid you best think about being here for some time.” Firma watched the effect of her words. The room seemed to close around Lucy, insisting that she pay great attention, and, indeed, she did pay attention realizing, suddenly, that she could not fix this with a phone call. This was something she had to take as it came, and it was coming, yes, it was coming, and coming, and she knew this now. She settled back into the chair in front of Firma Louise and knew, surely and absolutely, that she would be in this foreign place until it became common as ice cream. Yet, for all this, and for all the strangeness of it, she was no longer fearful, because the knowing of it gave her strength. She had been in jail almost twenty-four hours. And she was stronger for it, she knew this in every speck of her DNA, and the thought of staying was suddenly not strange at all, but she could not explain why this should be, not at all, because this was prison.
“This is an international incident,” said Firma Louise, “and you are in quite a bit of trouble. The embassy will have something to say about this. If you were Costa Rican, I could help you, but the problem is complex, as you might understand. Perhaps,” she added, “you might be able to help locate the connection you used in Costa Rica. If you did this it would help you.”
“But I can’t,” said Lucy. “I don’t know.”
“Ah, then you are in grave trouble,” she said shaking her head. Firma let her eyes rest on the gringa. “Well, I can’t help you now. You will have to wait.” Firma Louise looked up from her desk, sadly, motioning for Lucy to go, lost in thought. Back in her room, Lucy felt deflated, and thought about the look of Firma Louise’s face. Her suspicion was that Firma Louise knew far more than she said and that Lucy had more to learn about this primitive country than she had suspected. She could not tell Firma Louise something that she did not know. She had no knowledge of the connection in Costa Rica and she was grateful for this in some respects, but wondered how it would serve her if she knew. Uncertainly, she thought, it would be a gamble either way. Knowing or not knowing was not the answer. There were no answers that would circumvent this experience. Being there put her in a unique light, she knew, but what she knew about this was unimportant.
The room looked different to her, a light shone in the open door over the bed that seemed as plain as before, but sturdier too. The rusted metal frame had certainly held the springs intact for decades, she thought, and the old stained sink functioned as well as any. Even the mirror above the sink was of certain quality, framed in white oak, and casting the image of the rumpled bed, not yet made, and the ample tiles made of the outside earth in its clear reflection. She unbraided her long hair, pulling it over her shoulder, letting if fall across her chest. Yesterday, she had felt very American. And privileged in a bizarre way because of it. Very different from the other inmates. But today. Today was different. She was different. Perhaps it was the clothing, she thought, the plain blue smock. They had taken her pretty embroidered blouses and her silver bracelets. She didn’t even have earrings. But it was more. She knew it was much more. Outside the room, a man passed by with a ladder, moving towards the kitchen. She walked to the door and down the hallway. He wore baggy, paint-splattered brown pants, and a faded blue t-shirt. She watched as he struggled with the ladder, thinking the ladder was cumbersome for him. He moved slowly and deliberately as he maneuvered it down the hall. She, of course, had broken with convention long before she came to Costa Rica. She and all her friends had done so. Certainly Maggie was not conventional. Yet, here, the mere fact of Lucy’s heritage commanded she attend to it. The man with the ladder had even noticed, she thought. He had nodded as he passed, because she had spoken the language of her conventions with her posture and her manner. It had not been necessary to say anything. The man knew she was a foreigner here. She was certain of it as she watched him carefully place the ladder against the wall. Lucy could not shake off the irony of this. She swayed back to convention like a pendulum, and was more American here than she had been at home.
Whatever she had tried to obscure by challenging convention could not be hidden, and the essence of it rose again to define her. The existing order she had broken had brought her to jail, a more restrictive condition, and now this condition would define her in its own way. Make her part of it and that would set her apart. Familiarity was breeding itself, but she felt no contempt. Yet she was apart from this as well. Her body was bound, now, inside and out. The pregnancy defined her from within, and this jail defined her from without. Yet another aspect of Lucy existed, apart from the definitions that pressed around her. She felt a growing fascination and curiosity. She was not only alone, but isolated in this remote spot. Jackson’s abandonment infuriated her, but it seemed appropriate because she had made a foolish decision. So much for Swackhammer, she thought, she couldn’t waste time with him. Her injustice belonged elsewhere. The fault was hers for not making a safe choice. Surely, one cannot always make safe choices. But this choice had been entirely wrong from the beginning. This choice had not been safe. It was as if she had chosen wrongly on purpose, to make everything wrong. She could hardly believe, even now, in the light of this muddle, that she had actually attempted to smuggle. It had seemed so innocuous yesterday, as if she might actually get away with it. So sinister and stupid today. Yet, if she had done none of the above, she wouldn’t be the woman she was beginning, at this very second, to be. That woman was growing new skin inside and out. A new being. The man secured the ladder and stepped slowly up to the fourth rung and scraped at something on the wall. Lucy turned and moved back into the room pulling her fingers through her hair, loosening the crinkled impressions from the long dark hair she’d knotted in braids for far too long.
Swackwater Jack …
CHAPTER 18
LAX
SWACKHAMMER LIT A CIGARETTE and bit down, pulling hot smoke deep in his lungs. He stirred the ice in his drink with the tip of his index finger, and glanced at the fake Rolex on his wrist, tapping the crystal to make sure the watch still ticked, and looked around the dark bar. He looked fashionably hip. His bell bottoms were not grungy, and the fringe on his leather v
est was not outrageously long. A jet taxied down the runway beneath the bar window, but Swackhammer was still unsure where he was headed. He belted the scotch, scooped his change off the table, and jammed it quickly in his pocket. The worn leather on his duffle indicated a well-traveled man. That he had recently rubbed it well with saddle soap suggested a careful man. And the precisely folded clothing inside would have revealed a fastidious man. That he was alone might have indicated a selfish man. While Jackson Swackhammer belonged to all these categories, the quality that defined him the most was the last. Lucy’s existence had ceased for him; that had happened the minute the plane left the ground in Costa Rica. At that moment, he was assuredly safe and no longer had to bother his mind that her trouble could in any way harm him. Helping her had not once entered his mind. When he had seen the Federales approach her, he bolted, zigging and zagging through the crowd, until he found a ticket counter, checking the flights that were boarding and bought the first ticket. His anxiety had been noticed at the ticket counter. The ticket agent sold him a ticket, but mentioned his agitation to her colleague, so when the news got around about Lucy’s arrest, this woman immediately said she had sold a suspicious man a ticket to Florida.
Mansour Milan, the official that had arrested Lucy, smiled when he heard this news and reported the information to the American Embassy who reported the information to the DEA who alerted an agent in Florida. That agent had just left a ten dollar bill on a table without waiting for change, and quickly followed Jackson Swackhammer out of the bar. Jackson went to a pay phone and pulled out a roll of quarters and a roll of dimes. He pulled a small scrap of paper out of his wallet and slipped fifteen cents into the slot and dialed Hank’s number. The phone rang twice, but he slammed the receiver down, tiredly thinking on second thought to call his mother. Hank would ask about Lucy and this would be a bad idea. He needed some boo to sell, but he would have to think about a story first. Yes, he needed a story to cover his ass with Hank. He dialed, instead, his mother and said he was at the airport, would she come for him. Yes, he knew it had been a long time, yes, he might wait till she got off work, but couldn’t someone come now, he hated to wait, and she knew this, especially at this dumpy airport, and did she have any pot roast by any chance? Sure, said mom, sure baby, I have something for you. I’ll make all your favorite foods. Maybe, she said, she could take some time off and come and get him, and then, she’d reheat the pot roast from Sunday dinner. He would like that, wouldn’t he? He would love it, ma, sure, sure, anything, just hurry up and get down here okay. The paper with Hank’s number fell from the ledge of the phone booth, and Jackson didn’t give it a thought as he hung up the phone, assured that his mother would be there within the hour. Before following him to the outside, the DEA agent slipped over to the phone booth and picked up the scrap of paper and shoved it in his own wallet.
The Orange Blossom Express Page 17
