by Lucia Berlin
One morning they might have missed him, if, as usual, they had browsed awhile in the pet shop. But in the middle of the shop there was a new cage. Waltzing mice. Dozens of little gray mice running around in berserk circles. They had been bred with defective tympanums so they would run around and around. Cassandra took Matt out of the store and they almost collided with the postman. Across the street a lesbian called up to her lover in the women’s prison. She was there every morning at ten thirty.
On Sixth Avenue they stopped at the deli for chicken liver, then next door to pick up the laundry. Matt carried the groceries, she pushed the laundry in a cart. The postman skipped one step to avoid the wheels of the cart.
Cassandra’s husband, David, came home at 5:45. He rang the buzzer three times and she rang him back. She and Matt waited at the bannister, watching him climb one two three four flights of stairs. Hello! Hello! Hello! They would hug and he would come in. He’d sit at the kitchen table with Matt on his lap, pulling off his tie.
“How was it?” she would ask.
“The same,” he would say, or “worse.” He was a writer, had almost finished his first novel. He hated his job at a publishing company, there was no time or energy left for his book.
“I’m sorry, David,” she would say and fix them drinks.
“How was your day?”
“Fine. We walked, went to the park.”
“Great.”
“Matt napped. I read Gide.” (She tried to read Gide; usually she read Thomas Hardy.) “There’s this postman—”
“Mailman.”
“Mailman,” she corrected herself. “He’s got me so depressed. He’s like a robot. Day in day out the same schedule—he even has the lights timed. Makes me sad about my own life.”
David was angry. “Yeah, you’ve really got it rough. Look, we all do things we don’t want to do. Do you think I like the textbook division?”
“I didn’t mean that. I love what I do. I just don’t want to have to do it at ten twenty-two. Do you see?”
“I guess. Hey, wench—draw me a bath.”
He always said that, a joke. Then she’d draw a bath and prepare dinner while he bathed. They would eat when he came out, his hair shining black. After dinner he’d write or think. She’d wash the dishes, give Matt a bath and read to him, sing to him. “Texarkana Baby” and “Candy Kisses” until he fell asleep, a ribbon of drool bobbing from his pink lips. Then she would read or sew until David said, “Let’s turn in,” and they would. They would make love, or they wouldn’t, and fall asleep.
* * *
The next morning she lay awake in bed, her head aching. She waited for him to say “Good morning, merry sunshine,” and he did. When he left she waited for him to kiss her and say, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” and he did.
On the way to Washington Square she thought to herself that some kid would probably fall off the slide and cut his lip. Later, in the park, Matt fell from the swing and cut his lip. Cassandra held a Kleenex to the cut, fought back her own tears. What’s the matter with me? What more do I want? God, let me just see the good things. She forced herself to look around, out of herself, and, in fact, the cherry blossoms were in bloom. They had been coming out little by little, but it was that day they were lovely. Then, as if because she saw the trees, the fountain turned on. Look, Mama! Matt cried and began to run. All the children and their mothers ran to the sparkling fountain. The postman walked right by it as usual. He seemed not to notice that it was on, got wet by the spray. One/two. One/two.
Cassandra took Matt home for his nap. Sometimes she slept too, but usually sewed or worked in the kitchen. She loved this drowsy time of day when the cat yawned and buses cruised outside, when telephones went on ringing and ringing. The sewing machine made a summer sound of flies.
But that afternoon sun flashed from the chrome on the stove, the needle broke on the machine. From the streets came sounds of braking, scrapings. Silver clattered on the drain board, a knife screeched against the enamel. Cassandra chopped parsley. One/two. One/two.
Matt woke up. She washed his face, careful of the lip. They drank milkshakes, waited with chocolate mustaches for David to come home, to ring the buzzer three times.
She wished she could tell him how bad she felt but he was the one who had it hard, working at that job, no time for his book. So when he asked her how her day had been she said,
“It was a wonderful day. The cherry blossoms are out and they turned the fountain on. It’s spring!”
“Great.” David smiled.
“The postman got wet,” she added.
“Mailman.”
“Mailman.”
* * *
“We’re not going to the store today,” Cassandra told Matt. They baked peanut butter cookies and he pressed the fork down on each one. There. She made sandwiches and milk, put blankets and a pillow in the laundry cart. They went an entirely new way, down Fifth Avenue, to Washington Square. It was nice to come upon the arch, framing the trees and the fountain.
She and Matt played ball, he played on the slide, in the sandpile. At one she spread the blanket out for a picnic. They ate sandwiches, offered their cookies to people passing by. After lunch, at first, he didn’t want to go to sleep, even with his own blanket and pillow. But she sang to him. “She’s my Texarkana baby and I love her like a doll, her ma she came from Texas and her pa from Arkansas.” Over and over until at last Matt fell asleep and so did she. They slept a long time. When she woke she was afraid at first because she opened her eyes into the pink blossoms against the blue sky.
They sang on the way home, stopping at the laundry to pick up their bundle. Coming out, pushing the heavy cart, Cassandra was surprised to see the postman. They hadn’t seen him all day. Lazily she followed in his wake toward the curb. Then she let go of the cart, let it sail down the sidewalk heavy into his heels. It caught one foot in such a way that the shoe came off. He looked around at her with hatred, stooped to untie and put back on his shoe. She retrieved the cart and he started to cross the street. But he was too late, the light turned red when he was halfway across. A Gristedes delivery truck veered around the corner, just missed hitting the postman, its brakes screeching. The postman froze, terrified, then continued to the curb and down Thirteenth Street, running now.
Cassandra and Matt went straight up to Fourteenth Street and around back to their apartment house. It was a whole new different way to go home.
* * *
David rang the buzzer at 5:45. Hello! Hello! Hello!
“How was your day?”
“The same. And yours?”
Matt and Cassandra interrupted each other, telling him about their day, their picnic.
“It was beautiful. We slept under the cherry blossoms.”
“Great.” David smiled.
She smiled too. “On the way home I murdered the postman.”
“Mailman,” David said, taking off his tie.
“David. Please talk to me.”
EVENING IN PARADISE
Sometimes years later you look back and say that was the beginning of … or we were so happy then … before … after … Or you think I’ll be happy when … once I get … if we … Hernán knew he was happy now. The Oceano hotel was full, his three waiters were working at top speed.
He wasn’t the kind of man who worried about the future or dwelt on the past. He shooed the chicle-selling kids out of his bar with no thought of his own orphaned childhood on the streets. Raking the beach, shining shoes.
When he was twelve they had started construction on the Oceano. Hernán ran errands for the owner. He idolized Señor Morales, who wore a white suit and a panama hat. Jowls that matched the bags under his eyes. After Hernán’s mother died Señor Morales was the only person to call him by his name. Hernán. Not hey kid, ándale hijo, vete callejero. Buenos días, Hernán. As the building progressed Señor Morales had given him a steady job cleaning up after the workers. When the hotel was finished he hired him to work in the ki
tchen. A room on the roof to live in.
Other men would have hired experienced employees from other hotels. The chefs and desk clerk at the new Oceano were from Acapulco but all of the other workers were illiterate street urchins like Hernán. They were all proud to have a room, their own real room on the roof. Showers and toilets for the men and women workers. Thirty years later every one of the men still worked at the hotel. The laundresses and maids had all come from mountain towns like Chacala or El Tuito. The women stayed until they married or until they got too homesick. New ones were always fresh young girls from the hills.
Socorro was from Chacala. The first day Hernán had seen her she was standing in her doorway in a white dress, her braids plaited with pink satin ribbon. She hadn’t put down her rope-tied bundle of belongings. She was turning the light on and off. He was amazed by her sweetness. They smiled at each other. They were both fifteen and they both fell in love that very moment.
The next day Señor Morales saw Hernán watching Socorro in the kitchen.
“She’s a little beauty, no?”
“Yes,” Hernán said. “I’m going to marry her.”
He worked double shifts for two years until they could marry and move into a little house near the hotel. By the time their first daughter, Claudia, was born he was an apprentice bartender. After Amalia was born he was a regular bartender and Socorro stopped working. Their second daughter, Amalia, was having her quinceañera party in two weeks. Señor Morales was godfather to both girls and was giving the party in the hotel. A bachelor, he seemed to love Socorro and the girls almost as much as Hernán, never tired of describing them to people.
“They are so fine, so beautiful. Delicate and pure and proud and…”
“Smart, strong, hardworking,” Hernán would add.
“Dios mío … those women have hair … tan, pero tan brilloso.”
* * *
John Apple was at the bar as usual, looking out at the malecón above the beach. Trucks and buses rumbled by on the cobblestones outside. John nursed his beer, muttering.
“Smell those nasty fumes? What a racket. It’s all over now, Hernán. No more paradise. The end of our fishy little sleeping village.”
Hernán’s English was very good but he missed things like John’s remark. All he knew was that he had been hearing it over and over for years. He ignored the sigh as John pretended again to drain his empty glass. Somebody else could buy him his next drink.
“Not the end,” Hernán said. “A new Puerto Vallarta.”
Dozens of luxury resorts were going up, the new highway was finished, the big airport just opened. Instead of one flight a week there were five or six international flights a day. Hernán had no regrets about how peaceful the town used to be, when this was the only good bar and he was the only one working in it. He liked having so many waiters to help. He was not even tired now when he got home, could have dinner with Socorro, read the paper, talk awhile.
More and more people were coming in. Hernán sent Memo to the kitchen to get busboys to help out, to bring some extra chairs. Most of the guests at the hotel were reporters or cast and crew of The Night of the Iguana. Most of them were in the bar mingling with the “in” people from town, local Mexicans and Americans. Tourists and honeymooners looked for Ava and Burton and Liz.
In those days one Mexican movie a week was shown on the plaza. There was no television so the town wasn’t impressed by the cast of The Night of the Iguana. Everybody knew who Elizabeth Taylor was, though. Her husband, Richard Burton, was in the movie.
Hernán liked them and he liked the director, John Huston. The old man was always respectful to Socorro and to his daughters. He spoke Spanish to them and lifted his hat when he saw them in town. Socorro had her brother bring in raicilla from the mountains near Chacala, moonshine mescal for Señor Huston. Hernán kept it in a huge mayonnaise jar under the bar, tried to dole it out slowly, and to cut it as often as possible without Señor Huston noticing.
Mexican lawyers and bankers were trying out their English on the blond ingénue, Sue Lyons. Ruby and Alma, two American divorcées, were flirting with cameramen. Both women were very wealthy, owned houses on cliffs above the water. They kept on thinking they’d find romance at the Oceano bar. Usually they met married men on fishing trips or, now, newsmen or cameramen. No man that would ever want to stay around.
Alma was sweet and beautiful until late in the evening when her eyes and mouth turned into bruises and her voice became a sob, like she just wished you’d hit her and leave. Ruby was close to fifty, lifted and dyed and patched together. She was funny and fun but after she drank a lot she got mean and then limp and then Hernán had someone take her home. John Apple went over to sit with them. Alma ordered him a double margarita.
Luis and Victor stood at the entrance long enough to be noticed by everyone. They slid into the bar and sat down where they would be visible. Dark and handsome, they both wore tight white pants, open white shirts. Barefoot, with a bright bracelet on one ankle. White smiles, wet black hair. “Ratoncitos tiernos.” Tender little rats, whores call the sexy young ones.
Hernán was already working in the Oceano kitchen when he had first known them as children. Begging from tourists, rolling drunks. They had originally come from Culiacán, called each other Compa, for compadre.
For years Luis and Victor had slept under petates in boats at night, hustled all day. Hernán understood them and didn’t judge them, not even for stealing. The way they treated women didn’t shock him. He judged the women though. One day he had seen Victor approach Amalia on the malecón. She was wearing the plaid skirt and white blouse from school, holding her books tightly against her new breasts. Hernán ran out from the bar and raced across the street. “Go home!” he said to Amalia. To Victor he said, “If you speak to either of my daughters again I will kill you.”
Hernán poured martinis into chilled glasses, put them on Memo’s tray. He left the bar and went over to the young men.
“Quibo. Why does it make me so nervous, seeing you two in my bar?”
“Cálmate, viejo. We’ve come to witness two historic events.”
“Two? One must be Tony and the other Beto. What’s with Beto?”
“He’s coming to celebrate with the movie people. He got a part in The Night of the Iguana. Real money. Lana.”
“¡No me digas! Good for him. So now he’s not just a beach boy. What’s the part?”
“Playing a beach boy!”
“Watch him mess it up. I already know the other event. Tony’s doing it to Ava Gardner.”
“That’s no event. Fíjate. There’s the event!”
A magnificent new Chris-Craft sprayed into the harbor, rocking the sunset-lit magenta water. Tony stood and waved, let go of the anchor of La Ava. A small boy in a rowboat went out to get him.
“Híjola. She actually bought it for him?”
“Title’s in his name. She was waiting for him last night, naked in a hammock, had it taped to her tit. Guess what he did first.”
“Went to see the boat.”
The three of them laughed as the beautiful, unsteady Ava came down the stairs, smiling at everyone. She sat alone in a booth, waiting for Tony. Hernán was pleased that although everyone was looking at her and admiring her, nobody bothered her. My customers have manners, he thought.
Hernán went back to the bar, worked quickly to catch up. Pobrecita. She is shy. Lonely. He hummed a tune from a Pedro Infante movie. “Rich people cry too.”
Hernán watched like everyone else when the lovers kissed hello. Flashbulbs flickered like sparklers throughout the room. The Americans all knew her, the whole town loved Tony. He was about nineteen now. He had streaks of blond in his long hair, amber eyes, and an angelic smile. He had always worked on the boats unloading, loading, cadging rides, saving money for his own boat, someday, to take tourists waterskiing.
The stories differed. Some people said it happened in a dice game, others said he paid Diego cash to let him take the boat of mo
vie stars to the set in Mismaloya every day. After about three days of his golden eyes gazing into her green ones she started taking boat rides with him on her breaks, until, Tony said, fortune had smiled upon him. Memo said that Tony was the lowest, a gigolo.
“Look at him,” Hernán said. “He’s in love. He won’t hurt her.”
Across the room Luis called out to an older American woman passing by the bar.
“Madam, please join us. I am Luis and this is Victor. Help us celebrate my birthday,” he said.
“Why, I’d love to.” She smiled, surprised. She ordered drinks, paid the waiter with a fistful of bills. She was laughing, pleased by their attention, took out all her purchases to show them.
Luis had grown out of beach-boying. He had a tiny dress shop that was the current rage. He sold colonial paintings and pre-Columbian art. No one knew where he got them or who made them. He taught yoga to American women, the same ones who bought all his dresses in every color. It was hard to tell if Luis loved women or hated them. He made them feel good. He got money from all of them one way or another.
Memo asked Hernán if the women paid him to have sex with them. ¿Quién sabe? He suspected that Luis took them out, brought them home, and robbed them when they passed out. The women would be too embarrassed to tell. Hernán felt no compassion for the women. They asked for it. Traveling alone, drinking, giving themselves to the first callejeros they met.
Beto came in with Audrey, a hippy girl of about fifteen. Silken blond hair, the face of a goddess. Newsmen were popping flashes and the blond actress grew sullen. Audrey moved like honey. She had the blind eyes of a statue.
Victor came up to the bar to talk to someone. Hernán asked him what Audrey was on.
“Seconal, Tuinal, something like that.”
“You don’t sell to her, do you?”
“No. Anybody can get sleepers at the pharmacy. They keep her nice and quiet.”
Beto was sitting with the crew. They were toasting him, trying to speak Spanish. He smiled and drank. Beto always wore the stupid expression of someone on a bus that just got woken up.
