Heartstrings in B-Flat Minor

by Scott Johnson

  Sheryl can’t recall taking this excursion before and finds the rugged coastline breathtaking. She plans to add the two-hour cruise to her next working itinerary here. As Aca Tiki docks, a trolley arrives at a stop at the turnaround by the beach. Sheryl retrieves her sandals from an oversized handbag and runs for the trolley. “Let’s see where it goes,” she excitedly tells herself.

  Sheryl is pleased to see it goes to the Avenida Costera Miguel Aleman, a main drag she knows well. Hand-painted VW Bugs and aging Toyotas doing duty as cabs dominate traffic. The trolley clinks along past open-air-lobby hotels, money exchanges, and a diversity of Mexican and international restaurants. At one stop a flashback to another Acapulco night hits her. “Oh my,” she exclaims to herself, “this is where we caught the surrey!”

  She sighs softly over a full-moon memory stirred by being here, a night she has never quite forgotten, one night at which she’s often wished to have had a second crack. Good luck there, foolish heart. Yet tonight’s ride brings it all back.

  Matt Ayers, a handsome wealthy American expat whom she had met through friends, sat close to her in back. The rig’s driver was headed for the world-famous La Quebrada Cliff Divers. Matt, half-local but with the explorative spirit of a tourist, was acting as her personal guide. This would be Sheryl’s first chance to see the daredevils she already knew by reputation.

  “I can’t believe you’ve never seen them for all your visits here before,” said Matt.

  “It’s a mystery to me too, I’m afraid. I’m just a bit freer on this trip, I guess, not tied to a scripted schedule.”

  Sheryl read Matt as a gentleman despite his rebel’s reputation. The surrey deposited them into a large crowd at a lighted parking lot. Sheryl felt his hand take hers so naturally as they navigated the crowd, which flowed toward a torch-lit gorge overlooking the wild Pacific Ocean below. Matt had a way of slipping through the crowd so that before Sheryl knew it, they stood front and center at a railing-rimmed overlook above the gorge.

  Tidal swells rose up close to them before slipping away back to sea, creating a great need for precision with any cliff diving. The leaps were soon to be made directly across from them on the rocky face of a great cliff. Looking around from the incredibly close-up view she had in comparison to others who were still vying for position, Sheryl gave silent thanks to Matt with a warm smile, betraying how much she was impressed by him—especially with the way he formed a protective shell for her from the crowd, standing strongly behind her, arms providing a backrest. Could he be the one? she wondered, albeit not too seriously.

  Across the gorge, a group of young divers who had gathered at a shrine in prayer became everyone’s focus. They came out from their prayers, and without much haste, the first diver stepped to a mountain-goat perch. Studying the tidal waves’ comings and goings below, he launched into a swan dive of massive proportions, hitting the drink at a perfect moment. The crowd exploded.

  As cheers faded, the crowd noticed that other divers across the way had moved onto numerous rocky perches. In a dazzling display with perfectly timed intervals, they launched into a flawless series of dives, mixing both individual and team dives.

  After the finale, Sheryl exclaimed, “What a thrill!”

  “Heightened by seeing it with you,” responded Matt.

  She turned to face him; his arms assisted in the move, holding her steady. Her knees collapsed a bit, but she had no worries in his gentle grasp. He stole a lingering kiss she was in no hurry to let go of, but they were, after all, in public. Still, they continued kissing.

  The kiss ends only when the real-time trolley bell signals its next stop. Sheryl exits her daydream and wonders what it would take to track down Matt these days—if he’s even still here, she speculates. She fondly figures, I could say he really was the one who got away. She fully remembers how fun he was—and a gentleman at that and such a great kisser. Regrets tinge her mood.

  Sheryl’s several adventures with Matt may haunt her, but she forces a smile. At least she’s been out there living life to its fullest, she concludes. She figures she easily has twice the memories of anyone triple her age, with all that she has seen and done, the many places she has been, the many people she has known, and much of it all priceless, a true wealth of experience.

  Still, she inwardly complains, here I find myself alone again in yet another crowd, this time on the dodge from Sterling. Lord only knows why he had to come into my life in the first place. Just look what that’s brought.

  The trolley stops at a dusty old flea market, where a sign reads, “El Mercado de Pulgas de Juan & Eduardo.” She’s been here before with Matt. It looks much the same, but she finds no connection to her previous self. She held her head high then as a young woman of principle and standards, even with a dashing young millionaire showing her the town. I still lived as I preached, she thinks. Not like now.

  Impulsively, Sheryl gets off the trolley to navigate a series of open tents covering half a block, all filled with cheap merchandise. She distracts her harried self by hovering over the goodies with tourists and locals alike. Displays beckon on either side with things she’d normally barter for to bring back home as gifts. But she is in no mood to buy anything. Just passing time.

  Since the reminders brought by Carlita earlier today, Sheryl’s self-worth has descended to new lows, and she is haunted again over her loss of motherhood. Walking Tent Avenue, she scolds herself, Geez, can we find a bright side somewhere today? I have to work my way out of this! Sheryl determines to anticipate everyday reminders of her indiscretions and be ready to stand strong in the face of them before they put her into a tailspin. Relax, she instructs herself. I made some mistakes, but I’m not making them again! Repent! As I learn, so I grow.”

  She turns up a path between two tents and soon is examining onyx board games under the largest tent around. Onyx board games always catch her eye. The buying bug bites. But before she can decide on a purchase, she finds herself in eavesdropping mode. She faintly overhears some men arguing in the near distance. Speaking many languages gives Sheryl an advantage in such situations. She understands convoluted conversations in situations where she often is not expected to understand. So she is often under the radar.

  The muffled banter nearby between a couple of angry men doesn’t seem to interest other bargain hunters. They move on to other tents. Sheryl, however, looks around till she spots a tin shack beyond the large tent, from which the voices seem to be emanating. The overheard but unseen argument continues. A threatening voice growls in Spanglish, “To treat my niece this way? You are dead!”

  A second man with a macho Italian accent says, “I told you you’d have your answer by Friday. Don’t push me any faster.”

  Sheryl pretends to check out a variety of onyx chess sets scattered on tables all over the large tent while she edges nearer the shack.

  The first voice responds in a steady voice. “To be clear—if you don’t do as I say, you will be dead, señor, very dead. Take me seriously or not, at your peril.”

  The flimsy shack’s door creaks open, and Sheryl ducks behind a fat tent pole doubling as a poster board. Watching from behind a poster, she sees a man step outside, slamming the door behind him. It’s Marco. He’s in a huff. The door reopens, and Carlita runs out after him in tears.

  Marco hears her coming and waits impatiently for her. “If Eduardo keeps it up,” postures Marco, “he’s the one who’ll be waking up dead.”

  Carlita, in surprisingly decent English, implores, “Don’t mess with him, Marco!”

  “He should not mess with me!”

  “I don’t think you remember too well—he has many bad men to do all his dirty work. No matter how tough you are, they are tougher. Believe me, I have seen how tough.”

  She reaches for him, he melts, and they hug without concern about any onlookers, of which there appears to be just the one, Sheryl behind the pole.

&nb
sp; Carlita catches her breath and tells Marco, “I don’t want our baby to know so much badness. This is no life for anyone.”

  Marco breaks their embrace and storms off up the path. He grumbles over his shoulder, “Let’s go. I need a drink.”

  “Me too, but you know I can’t,” she laments, massaging her baby bump. Carlita shuffles after Marco. Once she catches up, she stays a step behind, single file. They reach the curb just as a city services bus arrives.

  Back in the large tent, Sheryl steps out from behind the pole, jaw agape. “Wouldn’t Irene like to know,” she mumbles to herself.

  Peering into the bus as Marco and Carlita take seats, Sheryl can’t help but think that perhaps Marco is not long for this world. In him, she might almost be seeing a ghost. Because come on, Sheryl thinks, how long will this local thug allow Marco to back-talk like that? And I thought I had problems.

  Sheryl foots it to the curb as the bus pulls away. She stands by, ready for whatever type of commercial vehicle arrives next. Mentally, she knits together the raw factors involved in this little drama unwittingly playing out before her. It seems Carlita is the flea market owner’s niece. She’s pregnant. Uncle sounds nasty. He’s extorting something, details unknown. Money, no doubt, she guesses, filling in the blanks with Jack and Irene’s background information on Marco and Carlita. Whatever is going on, they seem ready to kill each other.

  Back at La Vista Hermosa del Mar Hotel, Sheryl keeps an eye out for Jack and Irene. She feels a need to tell them her story from the flea market. It’s beyond gossip. Threats to life in both directions have been witnessed. Jack and Irene, though, are nowhere to be found.

  The next day, Sheryl rises early to comb the beach for seashells. She also does plenty of strolling ankle-deep through the water as gentle waves come and go. This is the most exhilarated she’s felt in a long, long time. She enjoys the view of all the hotels and condominiums lining the broad sandy playa. Other early risers jog and walk the shoreline in both directions.

  Despite still having Marco on her mind, Sheryl is feeling sexy in her suit under the sun, ready for nothing more today than hanging around the beach. For sure I’ll run into Jack and Irene, she figures, shuffling concerns for Marco behind her beach-combing pleasures.

  Sheryl completes the outward leg of her down-and-back beach stroll and turns around. Some of the normal risers are out by now, and a few commercial vendors have already set up shop. Through the growing crowd she spots a battered Marco, one arm in a sling, stumbling past a volleyball game. From the looks of it, he’s lucky he didn’t stumble right into the game.

  Marco manages to wait out a landing parasailer at the waterline, only to be nearly run down by an out-of-control WaveRunner headed for a wild landing. In saving himself, Marco loses his balance and falls; he slowly picks himself up, covered in sand but lucky to be alive. With a glance at the WaveRunner, which has now come to a stop without killing anybody, Marco resumes his beach stroll at an unsteady pace. He looks both wired and weary, with a wary eye out for everything all around him.

  Sheryl is shocked by Marco’s down-and-out condition. She calls, “Marco!” before he even sees her coming.

  Marco squints into the sun behind her.

  “What happened to you?” she asks.

  He steps closer for a better look at her. It’s clear she needs to remind him who she is.

  “I’m Sheryl, a friend of Jack and Irene. We met yesterday at the palapa row on the beach.”

  “Oh yes, sorry. I’m a little preoccupied. Good to see you again, but I have to go.”

  Before he can get away, Sheryl is quick to say, “What happened? How can I help?”

  “Nobody can help, thank you. Damned if I wasn’t mugged last night—drunk and out too late at the wrong place, so it’s my own fault. That’s the long and the short of it.”

  “I’m sorry, Marco. Have you gone to the police?”

  He laughs, which seems to cause him pain, and replies, “Who are the police in Acapulco? Do you think you know the true answer? No, I didn’t tell no police. I wouldn’t know who, or what, to tell. I was so drunk. Somebody had a gun, and maybe they clubbed me with it.”

  “Oh no, that’s horrible! What about your arm?”

  “It’s my shoulder, mostly. But my elbow kinda needs to be immobilized too. The sling helps. It could have been worse. I am alive, for now.”

  “Marco, you poor guy!”

  “Yeah, tell me. I woke up in the gutter, bleeding. The hotel doc says somebody stabbed me. Just missed a major artery and didn’t go too deep. He gave me some stitches and a shot. I’ve been self-medicating a little too.”

  “Marco, please don’t take this wrong, but … I mean … like, I know I’m young enough to be your daughter. But honestly, don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink?”

  “Of course, I think so.” He shakes his head in disgust. “That’s how this all happened in the first place. Too much booze, always, down here. Like I said, nobody to blame but me.” Marco suddenly looks dizzy.

  Sheryl takes his good arm and stretches it across one of her shoulders in support. “Let’s find a place to sit down,” she suggests comfortingly.

  The hungover and aging landscaper’s knees wobble. Sheryl steers him around to head in the direction of their hotel. The hulking, hurting Marco leans on her heavily. Some passing beachcombers stare; others pretend not to see. Sheryl spots an outdoor café right on the beach. A resident dog steps out from behind a shadow, watching silently as the two new customers approach.

  They find a shaded table, and a waiter soon arrives. Sheryl orders two large coffees and a combination plate of appetizers. She figures a little food with his booze will help Marco, who now uses the table for support.

  He says gratefully, “Thank you, Sheryl. I know I do need some kind of rest.”

  The waiter scoots off with their order up a slight sand hill to the café’s cooking shelter. In amazement, Sheryl checks out the awake but zoned-out Marco.

  He gradually becomes aware of her scrutiny of him. “Hell,” he mutters, “I wouldn’t go into an area like that back home, on a bet. But here? How stupid! This town is losing its charm for me.”

  “How did your Acapulco routine start up, Marco?”

  He leans back in his chair to regain his equilibrium. A tear streaks out from behind his sunglasses. “Nobody knows this story. Now it’ll be just you and me, I guess.”

  The waiter interrupts with coffees. “The appetizers are soon, my friends,” he announces quickly.

  “Gracias,” Sheryl says as he walks away.

  As they sip their coffee, Marco chokes up and freezes.

  Sheryl says, “If you don’t want to talk, Marco, that’s cool—and understandable. I was just being nosy, anyway.”

  Marco smiles slightly at her. Sheryl suspects that he’s glad to have a friendly neutral ear, so she pours on more charm with a glowing smile. He relaxes a bit more.

  “I do want to talk,” he assures her. “Maybe it will help, somehow. The burden has been so great, and I need to share it. A stranger like you is probably the best way.”

  “Sounds logical, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe so. I wish I’d never fallen into some unhappy knowledge seven years ago that changed my life. I would’ve been far better off to never have known all the truths behind my life, what I’d thought was a happy life.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Because that’s why I came down here for my first convention. I’d always skipped them in the past. First time in my life I ever wanted just to get drunk. Back home, even today, I don’t drink a drop—just here, once a year.”

  “I believe you, Marco. If you drank like this all the time, you’d be dead.”

  Marco stares into his coffee, still looking dazed. “I was stinking, rotten drunk on the town one night and met Carlita at some jazz joint. And to be h
onest, it’s also where I got mugged last night.”

  “Don’t go back there!”

  “Right, easy to say. I tell myself the same thing. But that night—bam. She was wild in bed. It was some night.”

  “I see. And the rest is history, so to speak.”

  “Exactly—my own little rough-and-ready annual fling with a Mexican peasant girl. It makes me sick thinking of how that all started. But I do love her now. That’s what’s happened over the years.”

  The waiter returns with their appetizers. “You will like these, my friends.”

  “Gracias, and here,” she replies, forking over some money. “You keep the change.”

  “Thank you, my friend!” The waiter leaves, and Sheryl and Marco sample the finger food.

  “And now,” Marco continues between bites, “she is pregnant.”

  “Marco, I don’t want to insult your lady, but who says you did it? You come here once a year. She may tell you she loves you, but what is she up to the rest of the year?”

  “I asked the same question, of course. But after slapping me for having such thoughts, she counted back the days for me, very animated like an actress, to this year’s visit.” He shakes his head in self-pity. “The odds are strong, very strong, that it’s me.”

  “Still, that’s a lot to take on faith. Once the baby’s born, get blood tests done.”

  Marco fixates on a parasailer’s beach landing, seemingly looking right past Sheryl. “Anyway,” he says like a zombie, “this isn’t the worst of it. Her uncle is demanding twenty thousand dollars to smuggle her to the States for an abortion. Or I’m a dead man.”

  “Again, I think you should go to the police,” she insists. “Make a complaint.”

  “This is Mexico, my naive young friend.”

  “You know he’ll pocket the money, and she’ll have some back-alley abortion that costs him peanuts.” Sheryl chokes up, flashing back to Michigan Avenue.

  Marco nods in agreement. He mindlessly nibbles on their appetizers, stopping to remove his sunglasses and rub his sad eyes.