Ask for Me Tomorrow

by Margaret Millar

  “When was your last smallpox vaccination?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Better check it out. You had a tetanus booster this summer after you swam into the jellyfish, so that’s okay.”

  “Laurie, for Pete’s sake, you’re not going into your mother-hen routine?”

  She ignored the question. “It’s no joke about the water in Mexico. Don’t drink it. Don’t even brush your teeth with it. Use beer.”

  “I never heard of brushing teeth with beer.”

  “You could start a trend.”

  “Hey, I miss you.”

  “Save the soft talk for later. Now, don’t even look at any vegetable that’s not cooked or fruit that’s not peeled. Turista is bad enough—you can pick up some Lomotil to take care of that—but infectious hepatitis is worse, in fact it’s sometimes fatal . . . I miss you, too . . . Did you know there’s a place in Mexico where Hansen’s disease is endemic?”

  “What’s Hansen’s disease? On second thought—”

  “Leprosy.”

  “Don’t tell me any more or I’ll quit right now and send all the money back to Mrs. Decker.”

  “No. I mean, we can use it. Just be careful. Hansen’s disease isn’t contagious, but pick up some halazone tablets to put in water in case of emergency. Have you any antibiotics to take with you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Check the medicine cabinet for tetracycline or ampicillin. Also insect repellent, especially one containing D.E.E.T. And you’d better have your hair cut very short. There’ll be less chance of pediculosis.”

  “I hesitate to ask—”

  “Head lice.”

  “Head lice?”

  “Well, you’re not going to be staying at the Ritz, you know. Now, do you think you can remember all the things I’ve told you?”

  “Sure. Absolutely. I’m making notes.”

  She laughed. “You’re not really, are you?”

  “I would be if I happened to have a pencil and some paper and knew how to spell tetracycline and ampicillin and Lomotil . . . How’s the job going?”

  “Fine. Long hours, hard work, lethal food. But the kids are great. I’ve got one on my lap right this minute, a Vietnamese orphan. He’s a very sick little boy, but as long as someone is carrying him around or holding him he’s perfectly quiet. Do you suppose we’ll ever have any kids, Tom?”

  “Under present circumstances it seems unlikely.”

  “Circumstances change.”

  “The decision will be yours, anyway. My minimal role merits only a fraction of a vote.”

  “What would it be, though?”

  “I’m not sure I want to take a chance on any kid inheriting my myopia or your tendency to cry at movies.”

  “I don’t cry at movies anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t get a chance to see any. On my off-hours I sleep. I just plain sleep.”

  “You could never sleep plain, Laurie. You sleep very, very pretty.”

  “What are you trying to do, make me quit my job and come running?”

  “Not on your life,” he said soberly. “I may need somebody to support me.”

  “It’ll be fun, won’t it, when I hang up my shingle and you hang up your shingle.”

  “At least our shingles will be together. Maybe they’ll have little shingles.”

  “Tom, you’re not really beefing, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Honestly?”

  “I’m not beefing. I just happen to miss you and wish you were here or I was there and the hell with Mrs. Decker’s first husband.”

  “I love you, too. Listen, I have to go, they’re paging my number. Take care of yourself. Promise?”

  “I promise to brush my teeth with beer and avoid head lice and lepers. Tell the little guy on your lap good night for me.”

  “I will. Good night, Tom. I think you’re terribly nice.”

  After he hung up he sat staring at the phone as though he half expected it to ring again. No matter how often or how long he and Laurie talked to each other, the conversation always seemed unfinished. He wanted to pick up the phone and call her back, but he thought of the kids waiting for her on the ward and how tired she’d sounded under the cool professional voice and how selfish he’d be to make things tougher by leaning on her.

  He went to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of beer out of a recapped quart bottle. It was a little flat, the kind good for cleaning teeth. He swished some around in his mouth by way of practice.

  6

  Once he got off the plane in Rio Seco, Aragon lapsed naturally into Spanish. It was the language of his boyhood, his family and friends, the streets where he’d played, even his school at recess and before and after classes. During classes the official language was English. You are in the United States of America, children, and you are expected to speak the language of the United States of America. They did, when teacher was listening. When she wasn’t, the younger children said, Qué mujer tan fea, and the older ones, Chinga tu madre.

  The car that he’d reserved by phone from Los Angeles was waiting for him, a compact Ford that looked older than its odometer indicated. When he checked it over, he found the oil gauge registered low, two of the tires needed air and the gas tank was only half filled. The man who seemed to be in charge at the rental agency, Zalamero, assured him that in all his years of experience in the business, almost one, such oversights had never before been detected. Zalamero spoke a mixture of Spanish and English slang sometimes called Spanglish. Aragon asked him for directions to Bahía de Ballenas.

  “Bahía de Ballenas, why are you going there? It’s an el dumpo.”

  “I’m thinking of buying some property.”

  “My wife’s cousin has some super-duper property near here that he’s willing to sell cheap, so cheap you wouldn’t believe.”

  “That’s right, I wouldn’t,” Aragon said. “Now, about Bahía de Ballenas.”

  “Okey-dokey, you drive south two hundred kilometers or so until the road turns inland. You stop. You’re at a place called Viñadaco, another el dumpo, but they have tourist cabins, cafés, gas pumps. Get some gas and more water and start up again. Now you drive slow, very slow, in second gear, because the highway is going east and you are going west.”

  “Are there any road signs?”

  “No, no, no. You ask a person. This person answers and you have a nice talk, maybe a cup of coffee, a little social life. It’s much better than signs.”

  Aragon tried to imagine the effect of this kind of social life on the Hollywood Freeway. After the initial chaos it might be quite pleasant for those who weren’t going anywhere in a hurry.

  Zalamero said anxiously, “You won’t tattletale the agency in the U.S. about the oil and tires?”

  “No, but you should be more careful.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, you bet I will be. I will personally inspect every part of every car every day.”

  “Your social life is bound to suffer.”

  “You’ve convinced me I have a duty to my customers. Besides, I can talk while I inspect. All Zalameros can do two things at once . . . How soon will you bring the car back?”

  “A week, perhaps less.”

  “Go with God.”

  “Thanks.”

  He paid a deposit on the Ford and a week’s rental in advance. It was nearly two o’clock when he started the engine.

  For about twenty kilometers beyond Rio Seco the road continued to be fairly good. Then gradually it began to deteriorate, as if the surveyors and the foreman and the key workers had lost interest and dropped out, one by one.

  The traffic was heavier than Aragon had expected but still sparse: dilapidated pickups and compacts and subcompacts with Mexican license plates, and newer vehicles mostly from the
Western states, vans, trucks with cabover campers and complete houses on wheels like Dreamboat. The road hadn’t been built with Dreamboats or highway speeds in mind. It was narrow, the curves were poorly banked and the roadbed inadequately compacted. Drivers accustomed to American standards of engineering took the curves and unexpected dips too fast in vehicles that were too wide and heavy. The accident rate, according to a safety pamphlet distributed on the plane by an insurance company, was extremely high.

  He began to understand why his rented Ford looked old for its age. Sand blew across the roadway from the low barren hills to the east and the coastal dunes to the west, pitting

  the car’s finish and burrowing its way through the closed windows. At times it was so fine and white that it swept past like a blizzard of talcum powder. Aragon could feel it clinging to the roof of his mouth and the membranes of his nose. It scratched the inside of his eyelids and mixed with the sweat of his palms on the steering wheel to form a sticky film of clay. The cars and vans and campers heading north were suddenly all white. They passed like ghosts of accidents. A few kilometers farther, the powder turned to sand again. If I were going in the opposite direction, I’d be halfway to San Francisco by now. Laurie might

  manage a couple of days off and we could splurge and stay at the Clift. Just stay. No night clubs, no theaters, no fancy dinners . . .

  He braked to avoid a jackrabbit leaping across the road. Except for an occasional gull soaring overhead, the rabbit was the only sign of wildlife he’d seen. It was an inhospitable countryside. Clumps of creosote bushes and spindly spikes of cholla were the main vegetation, with here and there some mesquite or a palo triste like a billow of grey smoke.

  Just short of two hundred kilometers the landscape suddenly changed, indicating the presence of fresh water and some kind of irrigation system. Fields of beans and chili peppers alternated with groves of palm trees. An abandoned sugar mill overlooked a scattering of adobe houses with children playing outside, and chickens and goats and burros wandering loose among them. This, according to a sign on the gas pump where Aragon stopped, was the village of Viñadaco.

  The gas pump was operated by an entire family. While the man filled the tank, his wife cleaned the front windshield and a couple of small girls cleaned the back. A boy no more than five wiped off the headlights with the torn sleeve of his shirt while two teenagers lifted the hood and stared expertly at the engine without doing anything. They were mestizos, half-Indians, copper-skinned and thin-featured, with black eyes and straight black hair. Their solemn dignity reminded Aragon of Violet Smith.

  He asked the woman for directions to Bahía de Ballenas.

  “Nobody goes there.”

  “I do.”

  “But the road turns the other way towards the gulf. And it’s late, it will soon be dark. You might get stuck in the sand or lost.”

  They were valid reasons but not the real one: she happened to have a vacant cabin which she rented out to tourists. Nothing fancy, of course, no running water or electricity, but a nice clean bed. For this nice clean bed the asking price was about the same as for a suite at the Beverly Hilton. The señora admitted that the price was high, but she didn’t offer to change it and Aragon didn’t argue. It was Gilly’s money. If she wanted to come down here and haggle over it, let her. He was tired and hungry.

  He ate at the nearest place, a shoebox-sized cafe overlooking a pond where a dozen or so coots were floating on the water and foraging on the banks. When he was a child he’d often eaten coot, which his mother called black mallard. This sounded better but didn’t improve the taste or texture. As he ate the machaca he was served, a kind of hash, he tried to identify its contents. Coot maybe, dried goat meat probably, and chilis unmistakably, the small green innocent-looking kind that lit up his mouth and throat and brought tears to his eyes to put out the fire. Dessert was a dish of fried beans and a cactus fruit with sweet juicy pulp. He drank two bottles of beer and bought two extra to take with him in case his teeth were extra dirty.

  He returned to the gas pump and the Viñadaco Hilton. The señora had left a kerosene lamp burning for him, and a basin with a pitcher of water and two small towels. After he’d stripped and washed he sat down to drink some beer. Almost immediately he discovered that the Viñadaco Hilton had one other thing which the Beverly Hilton didn’t—mosquitoes. The first bite coincided with the first twinge in his stomach. He went to sleep trying to remember some of the things Laurie had urged him to take along—antibiotics . . . head lice . . . tooth beer . . . Laurie, I miss you . . .

  He woke up at dawn. So did every man, woman, child and beast in the village. Children chanted, donkeys brayed, roosters crowed, dogs barked. Aragon got up and opened the door. The sun was shining and a cool moist wind was blowing steadily in from the sea. It was the kind of day he wanted to rush out to meet.

  During the night the señora’s conscience must have been bothering her: she appeared at the door with a cup of coffee and two tortillas rolled up with guava jelly and a pot of hot water.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want hot water. Why do Americans always want hot water?”

  “To shave.”

  “You have hardly anything to shave. And who is going to see you in that forsaken place? I’ve never been there myself but I hear the people are very dark-skinned and ignorant.”

  While he shaved she gave him directions to Bahía de Ballenas and even borrowed his pen to draw him a little map. He didn’t put much faith in the map—she held the pen as though it were the first one she’d ever used.

  Also during the night someone—probably the two teenaged boys who were now leaning casually against the gas pump—had washed the Ford. He appreciated the gesture, but unfortunately the car was now parked in the middle of a large puddle of water. He took off his shoes and socks, waded through the puddle and climbed in behind the wheel. His feet felt pleasantly refreshed. People checking out of the Beverly Hilton might have their cars waiting at the front door, but they didn’t get guava jelly tortillas, farewell footbaths and all the fresh air they could breathe.

  He stopped at the café where he’d eaten dinner the previous evening and picked up a dozen bottles of beer. If the señora’s prediction came true and he was going to get lost, he might as well do it in style. He was on a little dirt road a couple of miles south of Viñadaco when he stopped to consult the map and discovered that the señora had neglected to return his pen. He might ask for it on the way back, assuming he arrived at any place to come back from. Or, better yet, he would put it down as a business expense, Gilly’s small and undoubtedly grudging contribution toward international relations. She was, in her own words, pretty tight with a buck.

  The road climbed uphill along a cliff for a while, then dropped down again between sand dunes, sometimes disappearing entirely, only to reappear a few yards farther on like a magician’s scarf. At one point there was a fork not indicated on the map. The east branch showed signs of more frequent use than the west. If the señora was correct in claiming that no one went to Bahía de Ballenas, then the west branch seemed the better choice. He took it.

  The sun, which had seemed so gentle and friendly at dawn, was turning into a monster that couldn’t be pacified or controlled. He wasn’t sure at what point or why the Ford’s air conditioner blew out, but he suddenly became aware that he was riding in an oven with

  the heat turned on full and that he’d better do something about it fast. He stopped in the meager shade of some mesquite, opened all the car windows and two of the bottles of beer. The beer had been in the oven with him and did nothing to quench his thirst, but it improved his general outlook from terrible to bad. He was, if not lost, certainly misplaced. The road, which had never been more than a series of tire tracks, was now visible only at times when the capricious wind deposited the sand short of it or beyond it. He wondered how B. J. had ever maneuvered a vehicle the
size of Dreamboat as far as Bahía de Ballenas. Of course the girl, Tula, had lived in this area with her relatives and was familiar with it. She would have known which road to avoid, and this was undoubtedly it.

  A mixed flock of gulls and smaller, more agile sea birds often flew low over the car like an advance patrol. They had a cool confident air as if they knew exactly what they were doing. Aragon started the engine again and followed them.

  At the top of the next sand dune Bahía de Ballenas came into view, a half circle of sparkling blue water surrounded by desert. A few small fishing boats were tied up at a battered pier. The only other boat visible rode at anchor in the middle of the bay, a grey sloop sleek as a dolphin. It was flying both American and Mexican,

  ensigns, a purple-and-white yacht-club burgee and an officers’ flag. At the water’s edge were some salt-water conversion tanks, an old fish cannery that looked abandoned and half a dozen wooden shacks. On higher ground stood the crumbling remains of a small adobe mission. Between the mission and the shacks was the inevitable collection of children and chickens and dogs and goats all covered with dust. An invisible and insurmountable barrier seemed to separate the clean clear water of the bay from the dirty little village and its people.

  The children, ranging in age from a baby barely able to walk to a twelve-or thirteen-year-old girl, were ragged and shoeless, like the mestizos of Viñadaco, but different in appearance. These were darker-skinned, with rounded features and soft expressive brown eyes. Under their grimy clothes their bodies looked well-nourished and healthy except for one boy who had a withered left leg.

  Aragon addressed the girl. “Hello.”

  “Hello.”

  “Is this place Bahía de Ballenas?”

  She nodded. The other children broke into giggles as if they’d never before heard such a funny question. Was this place Bahía de Ballenas? Of course. It had to be. There wasn’t any other place.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Valeria. What’s your name?”