by R. L. Fox
But as of today, almost six years later, I have yet to find the courage to ask Julie about the anklet, or about anything else. “You stay away from her,” Mike has told me more than once, “or I’ll kick your ass.”
Now I find my curiosity about her anklet as strong as ever. I have a peculiar feeling about it. Something in my gut tells me there’s special meaning attached to the anklet, a connection of some sort between my mother’s death and Julie’s milky white flesh.
I’m hoping Mike will provide a few answers tonight. That’s why I’ve accepted my brother’s invitation to visit Tijuana. “I’m gonna make a man out of your pussy ass,” Mike promised me earlier. “We’ll tear that Mexican town apart!”
I’m not keen about watching Mike drink himself into a stupor, but it seems an ideal opportunity to get a discussion going about my mother, her death, her diary and my father’s bedroom door, and perhaps about Julie. I want information. Mike is always grumpy, serious and taciturn; he may loosen up once he gets drunk.
We’ve hardly spoken a word since leaving The Gables this afternoon. At the moment I don’t dare open my mouth because Mike has taken his six-shot .38 caliber pistol from the glove box and is pretending to shoot imaginary rabbits on the side of the freeway. My brother, a sharpshooter with trophies to prove it, wears blue jeans, chukka boots spit-polished to a high luster and a long-sleeved green shirt. I’m wearing blue jeans, my boots and a blue Pendelton shirt.
Mike is twenty-two, with sandy hair and roughly hewn features, deep-set green eyes. At five-eight, three inches shorter than me, he’s as tough as The Terminator, from the movie of the same name. He was a lock in high school to make All-County linebacker, until he dropped out to marry Julie.
Mike puts his pistol back in the glove box. “I’ll show you how to shoot soon, Danny” he says, his voice deep and loud. “We’ll go out to Devil’s Punchbowl, take Dad with us, Wags too.”
Wags is the family dog, a mongrel.
Mike finishes his beer and thrusts the empty bottle under the seat.
I ask, “Mike, are you planning to make a career out of the Air Force?”
“A lifer? I guess I am. Whatever it takes to keep Julie.”
I detect an opening. “Doesn’t Julie like fine, expensive clothes and jewelry?”
“What woman doesn’t?”
“Did you buy her that anklet?”
Mike frowns. “Now you’re getting personal, boy,” he says hotly. That’s nobody’s business but mine!”
“Sorry Mike, I was just curious. But what about you? Why don’t you want to go to college, get into politics or—”
“You mean you were wondering how I manage to keep Julie with my measly Air Force salary, right?”
“No, I—”
“You know Danny, you’re the smartest one in the family. You’ll do great in college and be successful at whatever you choose. I’m different. I’m not cut out for college or wearing a suit every day. The Air Force is where I belong and I’ll make the best of it. I made buck sergeant after two and a half years. That’s fast. I would’ve made staff sergeant in less than four if I hadn’t been forced to chase after Julie, in Spain. She’d run off with some Iowa boy from the Naval Base on the southern coast. I’d have killed that swabee if he hadn’t turned tail when I found them. I’ll kill anyone that messes with my wife! Anyone!”
I’m surprised to learn that Julie was unfaithful. Keeping my eyes to the front, I ask, “What did they bust you for?”
“I was AWOL a few days. Article fifteen. They took my buck stripe and I was Airman First Class Rosen again. Took me a year to get the stripe back. Doesn’t matter, I’ll be up for staff again in a couple of months. Big salary increase; I’ll make flight leader. Have my own patrol car, pick my own desk sergeant, be free to do as I see fit.”
“Sounds as if you’ve earned it,” I say. Then I add, “Mike, don’t you think, with so much at stake, that maybe you should stop taking risks like drinking while driving and carrying a loaded weapon in your truck?”
“You worry too much, Danny.”
I get lost in my thoughts again, suddenly wondering, What sort of things did my mother like? She’d never told me; she hadn’t spoken to me much. Sometimes she had looked at me as if I were someone else’s child. “My Danny Boy,” she would say and leave it at that; I would hear her humming a spiritual in another room. Her greatest skill was the art of forgiveness. She had always thought the best of everyone. I remember her as the sweetest and gentlest woman that ever lived. I never heard an impatient or harsh word from her lips. But beyond a few of her general qualities, I realize, I will never come to know my mother, except through the knowledge I might gain from Mike, from others who knew her, like Mr. Christie, and from her diary, if I can locate it.
We’ve reached San Ysidro, the last American town before Mexico. Mike pulls off the freeway and drives into a dusty parking lot that straddles the border.
“Let’s go, Danny.”
As we walk along a concrete thoroughfare leading to the crossing, I ask Mike, “Why’d she do it? Why did Mom take her own life?”
“Hell if I know,” Mike answers without hesitation.
“Have you thought about it?”
“She had problems, Danny, mental problems. She was unhappy, depressed, that simple. Dad works hard and earns a good living, and we’re never without, right?”
I will never understand why Mike worships the congressman. I myself have never, except falsely, out of fear, shown any respect for, any kavod to, my father.
“That’s true,” I reply, “but I’d like to know when she died, the approximate time, and where she was exactly.”
“Danny, we didn’t come down here to get bummed over Ma. Like Dad said, the beat goes on. You’d better start making peace with yourself.”
“I can’t help it, Mike. I want to know the truth.”
“Look, I’ll tell you what I know, and then let’s drop it.”
I nod my head eagerly. “All right.”
“Okay, Dad found Ma in their bedroom that night. She was lying on the bed when he came home about eleven o’clock. Coroner said she choked on her own puke, that she’d been dead for a few hours. She left a brief note. Officially listed as accidental suicide.”
Mike stops talking, glances at me, and then continues, “After Dad called the ambulance, he phoned me at the base, but I was already on my way to pick up Julie, who’d spent the day with her mother.”
“Did anyone find Mom’s diary?” I’ve been waiting for the right time to ask.
Mike smiles like someone having a recognition. “That’s strange because the detective went through Ma’s purse, the room and her car, which was sitting at Well’s Park with a dead battery, but they never did find where the note paper came from. They said it looked like a page torn out of a journal, a diary. They didn’t find the pen she used to write the note, and they couldn’t find her car keys. I never knew Ma had a diary. Isn’t that for little girls?”
I give no reply. Oh God, I’m thinking, I have to get into my father’s bedroom or I’ll go crazy, although now I don’t expect to find the diary there.
Mike says, “Dad never mentioned a diary. Julie and Grandma, they went through Ma’s stuff, had some things buried with Ma, but Dad left everything the way it was. What makes you think Ma had a diary?”
Before I can answer, Mike jogs ahead. We’ve reached the old iron turnstiles leading into TJ. We enter Mexico and find ourselves on a sidewalk overrun with street vendors selling everything from tacos to sombreros.
A short, balding Mexican man approaches us. “A taxi pimp,” Mike says quietly. The man directs us to the lead taxi in a long line of yellow cars waiting for fare. The driver asks Mike a question, in Spanish, and Mike replies confidently.
I feel a sense of pride in my brother.
“Two dollars,” the driver says with a heavy accent, and he opens the side door of a Chevy van. Mike climbs in. When I attempt to follow, Mike gives me a shove and shuts the doo
r in my face.
“Ride up there in front, Danny.”
I brace myself with feet and arms as the cab swooshes by a plethora of third world hardcore unemployables, muddy-eyed and muddy-faced. Also promenading on the oily sidewalks are a few American tourists and a several pretty Mexican girls. Sun-darkened children run loose in the squalid streets. Odors of gasoline and garbage, car exhaust, the diesel fumes of buses, mix with the smell of tortillas fried deep in fat by vendors in their taco stands.
I pay particular attention to the indigenous women, young and old, the brown-skinned gypsies whose half-naked children peddle Chicklets gum on the streets. Here I am, I tell myself, a gringo with a pseudo-student existence and pockets lined with American dollars. Silently I vow that someday I will come back to Mexico and stay, to help the poor and uneducated.
The taxi pulls to the curb on Avenida Revolución and stops. Mike tips the driver generously. Callers outside of clubs pace and pivot nervously, mocking passersby with outrageous solicitations.
We exit the cab in front of the Fantasy Club, with its flashing marquee and hulking Mexican hawkers beckoning visitors, in Spanish-flavored English, to come inside and see the beautiful women.
Thumping mariachi music resonates from the club, creating a superb air of excitement. It is the type of place one could no more enter innocently than a bar displaying a sign that reads “WHOREHOUSE” in neon lights.
“Come in, gentlemen.”
Mike pushes his way past the burly doorman and I follow him into the pulsating strip club. According to Mike, the bars and bordellos business in TJ began during the prohibition era, when movie stars from Hollywood visited the raunchy watering holes and cathouses and resort casinos.
I notice the unlighted red electric bulb atop the black-curtained entryway into the main stage room. Mike has told me that if the doorman sees a policeman or possible undercover cop approaching, he will turn on the red light and the nude dancers will scramble for their g-strings. If a girl is caught dancing nude, the club owner is fined heavily. The girl loses her job. Some of the clubs don’t need the red light, because they have made special arrangements with the police.
Mike turns aside a purple-sequined curtain and we walk onto the smoke-filled main floor, noisy with whistles and yells from drunken American sailors and the music of a three-piece band belting out a traditional Mexican tune with a slow, pronounced beat.
I look up at the narrow stage and feel a rush of adrenaline, as I gaze upon the prettiest, big-breasted Mexican chick I have ever seen—a veritable Salma Hayek—dancing naked, gyrating her hips to the dissonant strains of the rag-tag trio.
Amidst the hooting and hollering, I watch her dance. In the beginning was lust, godly and human, I am thinking. When I impel myself to turn away, I find I cannot look back.
Mike is grinning. He cups his hands over his mouth and yells into my ear: “Have you ever seen anything like it, Danny Boy? That’s Norma.”
I smile and shake my head.
Mike says, “We’ll find a table in the back room, where it’s quieter. No penetrating stares in the wrong direction. Mexican men are quick to defend their honor.”
We find a spot near the pool tables. Mike takes a seat facing the bar. I sit across from him. A mariachi tune plays softly on the jukebox.
“What do you want to drink?” asks Mike.
“A Pepsi.”
“A Pepsi,” Mike echoes sarcastically. “I wouldn’t order a soda for you if my life depended on it. You need to loosen up, Danny. It’s like you’re permanently standing at attention. You’re having a man’s drink tonight, little brother. If not, I’ll turn you over to my tough Mexican friends, the leg breakers.”
“What are the options?” I ask grudgingly.
“Beer and tequila, and everything in-between,” Mike says, in a sweet singsong, like one reminding a child of a forgotten lesson.
“I’ll have a beer.”
A young waitress, short and unattractive, in a tight red dress that underscores her plumpness, waits on us. “Hallo, Sarhento Mike.” I glance furtively at her white garter straps and black fishnet stockings. She focuses her dark eyes on me. “Who ees thees? Handsome, no?”
Mike introduces me. Josie nods and offers her hand. She runs her tongue over her thin lips, which are artificially widened with red lipstick. I respond with a gentle handshake. Her face is softly curved, nostrils wide, her hair long and brown.
Mike orders two beers and a shot of tequila. He stuffs a wad of bills into the bodice of Josie’s dress.
“What do you think, Danny? She’s no Norma, but Josie’s hot, right? Get ready for blast-off.”
What the hell does that mean?
Josie comes back with the drinks, and she sits down next to me. I want nothing to do with her. I don’t speak Spanish—I feel trapped.
Josie scoots her chair closer to me. “Joo espeeka Espaneesh, Dunny?”
“No, I say,” and I lean my chair on its back legs to put more space between Josie and me. I could kill Mike. I want to guzzle my beer to help me through this predicament, but the idea brings a sense of nausea. I hate alcohol.
Then I lose my balance and nearly fall to the floor in my chair, but I recover just in time. Norma, the dancer, is now standing between Mike and I, so close to me I could touch her! She’s wearing a two-piece outfit, pink with white frills, and a garter belt with black stockings.
The beer, which tastes wicked, has already begun to numb my brain, providing me with a vague sense of confidence. I take another reluctant sip.
Mike’s empty bottle swings back and forth like a pendulum in his fingers. “Ready for another, Danny? I don’t want to get too far ahead.”
“Not yet.”
Norma’s eyes meet mine, sending a shiver through me. Her outfit seems the thinnest covering for the nakedness of her breasts and insistent thighs. She plops down on Mike’s lap and kisses him on the cheek. “My Sergeant Mike.”
“Where’s Carlos?” Mike asks sternly.
“Outside.”
Mike whispers something in Norma’s ear. She gives a nod of approval. Mike turns to me. “Hey kid, give me your driver’s license.”
“What for?” I am already reaching into the back pocket of my blue jeans for my billfold.
“C’mon hurry up, I’m trying to do you a favor.”
With a strong sense of trepidation I hand my license to Mike. He goes to the bar and speaks with the bartender, passes him some greenbacks and the license.
Mike returns with a drink for Norma, who perches again on his lap. They kiss and talk. Without warning I feel the weight of Josie’s body pressing against me. When I turn, her face is inches from mine. I look away, grab my beer and take a long swig.
In the nick of time, Mike says, “You ladies change your clothes. Let’s get out of here.”
Norma and Josie leave the table. Josie had not taken her eyes off me. Now I can relax a little.
“Soon we’ll go to the store Josie’s folks own,” Mike says. “Carlos will meet us outside with your license.”
“Whatever,” I say, as I get to my feet. I’m feeling a little unsteady after drinking the beer, and I want only to be somewhere else.
Outside, the Mexican girls, both in their early twenties, I gauge, have changed into matching black cocktail dresses and black heels. Norma looks stunning.
I wait in front, with Norma and Josie, while Mike meets with a tall Mexican man nearby—Carlos.
I watch Carlos jerk his head back with a practiced movement, tossing his hair into place. He possesses the terrified, twitching face of a jackal. Apparently, Mike is speaking Spanish, his voice low. He hands Carlos a twenty-dollar bill, and Carlos gives Mike the driver’s license. I’ve already concluded that I will own a doctored license.
Mike returns my license to me, and as I examine it, the girls peek over my shoulder. I notice the year of birth has been changed, undetectably, from 1997, to 1996. With the new date of birth, I turned eighteen in March. I’ve been told of
ten that I look older than my seventeen years; now I hold the proof in my hands.
While we wait for a taxi Josie slips her arm through mine, pulling me close. Oddly enough, I enjoy Josie’s possessive embrace; I feel somewhat manly with her on my arm.
I have begun to acknowledge that, in her own special way, Josie is beautiful. The curve of her mouth seems to form an expression of sadness; her eyes show concern. She looks at me, smiling, a stupid smile perhaps, but it only reflects her essential nature. I can hardly blame her for being happy. She is of a culture rife with poverty and despair and injustices, yet she retains her free-spirited innocence. Her demeanor reflects her inner desires. She is in touch with herself, and what I like best about Josie, I now realize, is that she doesn’t seem to feel impotent or inconsequential, like me.
“Josie’s store has an apartment in the back,” Mike says, his words slurred. “Let’s walk, it’s not far.”
I stroll along with Mike in the early evening warmth, behind the girls.
“Al Williams, Julie’s father,” Mike says, “showed Dad the wild side of TJ. Dad brought Julie and me down here, before I enlisted.”
I rub my eyes in a gesture of weariness. There’s an interval of silence.
“How’d you like your license?” Mike asks. Then before I can answer, he says, “Carlos is creative, does passports, visas, work permits, anything. If I ever get my ass in a jam up north, Carlos will set me up down here. Get me a job. Nobody would ever find me. Keep that in mind, Danny. Tell your friends. Norma speaks English; she’s a great contact. Josie, too.”
Mike shouts after the girls. “Wait up!”
I drop behind with Josie. Locked in until Mike wants to leave TJ, I feel apprehensive about fending her off. I had explained to Mike on the drive from the airbase that I don’t need a girlfriend.
Josie’s neighborhood looks like something out of the nineteenth century: tile-roofed houses fronting on narrow streets, an ornate gallery of shops. We approach the unlighted grocery store, the anterior of which is crumbly and small, half the size of a 7-Eleven. The door is padlocked. Josie takes a key from her white plastic purse. As we enter, we hear the jingling of silver bells hanging on the door. Josie switches on the lights.
