Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures

by Merry Jones

  Every few blocks, though, I had to stop.

  “Your leg?” Susan looked up from the guidebook.

  It had begun to throb. The doctor had said to stay off it for a few days; I’d managed one. I sat on a cement wall around a cluster of palm trees, elevating my leg while Susan stood beside me, searching her guidebook for festival details.

  “I can’t remember what time the actual parade starts.” She rifled through pages. A little boy dressed like a gaucho ran into her, grabbed onto her leg so he wouldn’t fall. She didn’t react, accustomed to children. “I think it’s three. Maybe four. We have time to wander. If you’re up to it.”

  We wandered. For hours. Despite the complaints of my leg, we explored souvenir shops and art galleries. We looked at paintings, carvings, jewelry, ceramics. Susan bought an abstract alpaca weaving for her den. It was bulky, but they wrapped it with a strap so she could carry it like a shoulder bag. In one shop, women were gluing tiny colored beads onto ceramic pieces in Aztec patterns. I bought a small jaguar mask with beads of orange, red, yellow, and green. The shopkeeper said that the jaguar was the most powerful of all animals, that the mask would protect me.

  We walked past an amphitheater and a row of historic arches into El Centro. I moved carefully, watching the ground; the streets were speckled with gaping potholes. I was avoiding one when Susan grabbed my arm and pointed ahead.

  I looked up, stopped walking. The orange brick and terracotta of the Our Lady of Guadalupe cathedral towered over us, its famous golden crown shining in the sun. Susan resumed her role as tour guide, reviewing the history of this place, the meaning of that. I tuned her out as she dragged me up the steps and shoved me through the crowd toward the door. I pressed against others, squeezing my way through, bumping a fleshy bosom, a sweaty arm. Feeling that I didn’t belong there—what business did I have shoving my way into a church? I was hot and tired and wanted to sit down. But Susan was behind me, her hand on my back. Pushing. People were on all sides of me, surrounding me, closing me in. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move in any direction. But Susan kept the pressure on, moving me forward and, finally, we crossed the threshold, entering the cathedral right in the middle of a Mass.

  I slowed down, startled. The commotion was gone. I looked around. The air glowed. Light filtered in through stained-glass windows, glittered on a gilt-trimmed altar. There were white and gold statues of Jesus and images of Mary. Festive wreaths and icons. Burning candles. Stations of the cross. A throng of people crammed together, cushioned against each other like a single massive being. I felt its heart beating around me—inside me, and when I looked up, I saw golden light under the arches, felt its steady warmth beckoning. I imagined floating up weightlessly into that light, looking down at the people calmly wedged together, breathing together, praying together. The voices blended, cushioned, and comforting.

  Susan grabbed my arm, ready to move on. Bumping people with her alpaca bundle, she tugged me out of the cathedral, down the steps, and onto a nearby plaza filled with booths selling everything. Cakes. Costume jewelry. Cotton candy. Pies. Purses. Baskets. Blouses. Trinkets. Toys. The opposite of the cathedral, the bazaar erupted with commerce, smells, and noise.

  I had to get off my leg. Saw no place to sit. Just booth after booth.

  Susan found a fountain across from the plaza and planted me there with her alpaca. I sat, hoping my leg would stop throbbing. Thinking about the feeling I’d had in the cathedral. I wasn’t Catholic, wasn’t even religious. So what had happened in there? Maybe the architecture had affected me. The height of the domed ceiling. Or the light.

  Madam Therese shook her head. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. You were unburdened in the church. You felt calm and light because no dark spirits clung to you there. They couldn’t go in.”

  Really? Where had that thought come from? Besides, how could spirits—if there were such things—how could they burden someone? Weren’t they weightless? Did they even have mass? Why was I even thinking about this? I wasn’t going to; I refused to let thoughts of spirits intrude upon my day. I reached into my bag, took out the jaguar mask. Admired the beadwork, the colors, and patterns. Felt someone behind me, also looking at it. A shadow hovered over me. Lingered.

  Ignore it, it’s nothing, I told myself. Just a passerby. Don’t be so jittery. Stop taking it personally just because someone is standing behind you—it’s mobbed here. People stand behind everyone.

  Still, I was uneasy. I rewrapped the jaguar and placed it in my bag and slowly turned as if casually looking around.

  The moment I turned, someone darted off into the crowd. I didn’t see who it was, just a ripple of bodies reacting to it, a disturbance like a pebble dropping into water. I watched the crowd close in again, absorbing the newcomer. And I rubbed my arms, feeling chilled, even though the day was hot. Even though the shadow had disappeared.

  Already that day, I’d felt someone watching me twice. Twice, I’d felt alarmed.

  I was too nervous. Oversensitive. Imagining things. And I’d been that way for a while. Even at Alain’s house, I’d had the feeling someone was slinking around in the shadows. I was too on edge. Needed to get over my jitters and have fun.

  Fine. I would get over my jitters. I sat, getting over them, studying the spot where I’d seen the crowd ripple. Still getting over them, I picked up my bag and Susan’s alpaca and headed over there.

  “Señora, take a look. I have good deals for you.” A vendor leaned out of a booth at the edge of the marketplace, holding up a pair of wool gloves.

  “No, gracias.” I turned away, then back. “Can you tell me—just now, a minute ago—did you see someone go by? Maybe running?”

  The man shrugged. “I see many people, señora.” He waved the gloves at me. “These are hand knitted with an authentic Aztec pattern. A very good value. Or maybe you’d like something else?” He put the gloves down, held up a scarf.

  I kept going, entering the crowd in the marketplace, looking over people’s heads, up and down each aisle. I passed one booth, another. My leg nagged at me, Susan’s alpaca was heavy, and I didn’t know who I was looking for. Probably not that heavyset woman buying a tablecloth. Or the one with a little girl, trying on necklaces. Maybe that man? He wasn’t buying anything, just standing next to a booth with his arms crossed. What was he doing there? Had I ever seen him before? I moved closer, trying to remember. He seemed oblivious to his surroundings, bored. A woman came up to him, held up a baby dress for his approval.

  Not him.

  Of course it wasn’t him. It wasn’t anyone else either. I’d probably imagined the whole thing. No one had been following me here or watching me at Alain’s. People were here to celebrate. Their actions—standing near me, running into a crowd—had nothing to do with me.

  I went back and sat at the fountain, watching for Susan. Assessing people who walked by. Trying in vain to regain the sense of peace I’d found in the cathedral. Telling myself to be calm. Reminding myself that we were far from the hotel and safe from whatever dangers might lurk there. Nobody here knew us; no one had reason to follow or harm us. But when Susan showed up with lunch—enchiladas, pie slices, drinks, and fruit salad—I was still on guard, searching for a shadow. She approached from behind. And I wheeled around swinging, almost slapping the food out of her arms.

  “What the hell?” She juggled tortillas and drinks, barely catching them before they dropped.

  “Sorry.” I helped her gather up the food. “I thought you were somebody else.”

  She cocked her head. “You what?”

  “I mean I thought someone was sneaking up on me.”

  “You thought someone was sneaking up on you?” Coming from her, the words sounded ridiculous. She unwrapped an enchilada.

  “Never mind. I was wrong. It was just you.” I opened a bottle of lemon soda. I was thirsty and hot. And I didn’t want to annoy Susan by referring to events of the week.

  “Elle, why would anyone sneak up on you?” She took a bite, talk
ed with her mouth full. “Nobody even knows you’re here. We’re miles from the hotel. And besides, we agreed to leave all that—”

  “I know. I shouldn’t have said anything. Leave it alone.”

  “Relax, Elle. Nobody here is going to follow you or harm you.”

  I nodded. Drank. Thought about Sergeant Perez, warning us not to go anywhere alone.

  As if she could read my mind, Susan said, “What Sergeant Perez said about our safety applies in Nuevo Vallarta, not here. Here we’re anonymous tourists. Nobody knows or cares what happened there.”

  I nodded again.

  She passed me an enchilada, bit off another chunk of hers. “So, what happened? Why did you think someone was following you?”

  Really?

  “Forget it, Susan. It was just my imagination. Nerves.”

  Susan chewed. And she talked. She went on about how beautiful the cathedral was. How she couldn’t wait for the parade. How there were a lot of potholes in the streets and we’d have to be careful to avoid them later, in the dark. How glad she was to be away from the hotel and, oops, how she was sorry for mentioning it and breaking her own rule.

  Susan chattered, almost giddily, all through lunch. I rested my leg until Susan proposed visiting some more art galleries until the parade, and we set off, following her guidebook, winding through narrow streets that led away from the festival.

  “Thank goodness,” she said. “It’s great to be away from the crowds, isn’t it? I can finally breathe.”

  Really? The farther we got from the center of town, the more exposed I felt and the tighter my chest got. Breathing was an effort.

  But Susan was unfazed. She talked about the exciting art in the area. The symbolism, the variety of media and traditions. I half listened, noting that the sun was getting lower in the sky, thinking that we should return to the crowded plaza. Picturing sheep wandering from the herd, becoming prey for wolves. But I didn’t say anything. I tagged along with Susan but, like a stranded ewe, I watched for predators. An hour later, I didn’t care if I never entered another art gallery in Mexico or any other country.

  “I need to go back,” I told her.

  “Why? Your leg?”

  Fine. I’d blame it on my leg. “I shouldn’t be standing as much as I have been.”

  “Sorry. I lost track of time.”

  We finally headed back toward the plaza. I hurried, not sure why. Except that the winter sun would soon set and it would be harder to recognize danger in the dark.

  An endless stream of torches and candles flowed through the darkness. Banners identified each section of the procession: families, neighborhoods, villages, organizations, businesses. They wove through the streets and ended up at the cathedral, paying homage to the Virgin of Guadalupe, singing, reciting prayers. Elaborately decorated floats portrayed the Virgin and her appearance to the peasant Juan Diego. Pickup trucks carried bands or DJs playing music, or overflowed with family members of all ages. Some groups were composed by gender. Men reading prayers or carrying placards. Women dressed in splendor, singing as they marched.

  People paid homage to Aztec traditions, too. They dressed as jaguars and deer. One man wore feathers, head to toe, might have been an owl. There were people with faces painted gold, wearing white robes and metallic headdresses, rayed like the sun.

  Susan and I didn’t talk—we couldn’t. There was too much noise, too many people, too much movement. We stood on a street corner near the cathedral, pedestrians swarming by or straining to see over each others’ heads. Torch flames flowed past, glowing like burning lava.

  Charlie whispered, “Remember, Elle? Torches on the beach?”

  I turned toward his voice even though I knew he wasn’t there. And despite myself, I saw the beach and the torches. In Negril. A band played reggae, and people danced—hell, we danced, couldn’t help it. The night pulsed with music and life and rum and ganja. Charlie’s tanned face glimmered in the torchlight, his body radiated heat.

  “This is how life should be.” His voice penetrated the music, and he pulled me close. Spoke into my ear. “We need to stress less, celebrate more. Are you happy, Elf? Because right now, here with you, I’m the happiest man alive.”

  We stepped away from the others, into the dark. Beside the ocean, under the open sky, to the rhythm of steel drums, just outside the light of torches. Charlie and me.

  Yes, I remembered.

  But Charlie was gone. And the memory was useless. Why did everything always revert to Charlie and the past? Why couldn’t I spend even one lousy evening without him intruding and spoiling it? Hell, he’d shown up even when I’d been in bed with Alain.

  “But the parade is better with me here,” he spoke into my ear.

  “Go away,” I said.

  “Come on, Elf. It’s a parade. What fun is it if you’re solo?”

  “I’m not solo. I’m with Susan. And what are you doing here? Why aren’t you with that woman on the beach?”

  “What woman?”

  “I saw you.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Señora?” A man standing beside me tried to move away, but the crowd closed him in. He watched me warily.

  Of course he did. I’d been talking to myself. Who would want to stand next to a woman who talked to herself?

  I needed to move. Felt closed in. Couldn’t stand there anymore. Maybe the crowd would be less dense farther from the cathedral. Besides, I was thirsty, wanted a bottle of water. I turned to Susan to tell her. But the person I faced wasn’t Susan. I looked behind me, saw a gray-haired woman with a wide nose. Turned to the other side. Faced the man who was still watching me, pretending not to. Beyond him was a woman with a young boy. His wife and son? Maybe. But no Susan.

  I rotated, looking behind me, diagonally, to the side. Saw dozens of strangers in every direction. How had I gotten lost again? We’d agreed not to separate. So where was Susan? She’d been standing right next to me. She wouldn’t have simply walked away, would have brought me along with her. Or, at least, told me where she was going.

  Unless, maybe she had and I hadn’t heard her. Maybe I’d been traveling with Charlie in Jamaica, not paying attention. That must have been what happened. Susan had probably needed to go to the bathroom. Had probably said so. Would probably be right back.

  With difficulty, I reached into my bag, found my phone. Sent Susan a text. “Where are you?” If her phone was on, and if she was paying attention to it, she’d get the message and answer. But with all the commotion, she might not notice it. I watched my phone for a reply. Finally, I dropped it back into my bag.

  I waited. I stood where I was, watching the parade, but not really seeing it anymore. The parade rumbled ahead like a landslide, unstoppable, powered by its own momentum. Bystanders teemed moblike, dense, sweaty, passionate. Ignitable. I was closed in, breathless. I stood on tiptoe, looking for Susan. She’d be back any moment. Probably she’d come from behind and startle me again, and I’d swing around, almost knocking her down the way I had earlier. Probably, she’d say that she’d told me where she was going. “Didn’t you hear me? Were you ‘pulling an Elle’ again? I swear, you miss half of everything around you. It’s a wonder you can function.”

  We’d laugh and take in the parade for a while. Stop someplace for dinner. Find a taxi to go back to Nuevo Vallarta.

  Except that I was doing it again. Wandering in my mind. I looked around again. Didn’t see Susan.

  Obviously, she’d come back here, to this spot. So I couldn’t leave. I waited, watched.

  Susan didn’t come.

  Maybe she was lost? I rotated, scanning faces. Not seeing her. The crowd rippled and swayed. A throng of women paraded by, carrying candles and singing hymns. A low, unnamable fear rumbled in my belly, insisting that something was wrong.

  No. Nothing was wrong. I was overly sensitive, still jumpy from the trauma of my near—or actual—death. Susan and I had simply gotten separated. She’d show up. I kept searching the crowd. In the dim l
ight of sunset, I saw couples, families with young children, young men dressed as gauchos. Guys with Aztec masks, guys with their faces painted silver. No one familiar.

  So where was she? What was keeping her? She could have found a bathroom and been back twenty times.

  Unless she was waiting in line for a toilet somewhere. I needed to be patient. My leg grumbled. The old woman next to me leaned her body against mine. I felt her dampness, smelled stale sweat, tried to step away. Bumped into the man who’d been warily eyeing me. Apologized. I had to move, couldn’t stand there any longer. I turned, edging away from the curb. The crowd shifted, spongelike, letting me press my way through. Finally, I emerged from the mass of flesh and leaned against the darkened window of a shop. Took a breath. Smeared sweat across my forehead. Looked around again for Susan. And came face-to-face with a demon. Not a real demon, just a demon mask. The kind worn by Mexican wrestlers, made of black-and-white Spandex. Just another guy in costume for the fiesta.

  But even in the dark, I could tell that this demon’s eyes were fixed on me.

  Adrenaline jolted through me. But I didn’t panic right away. I broke eye contact and turned the other way. Probably the mask was no big deal. People wore all kinds of costumes to the parade, even if a demonic wrestler seemed out of place at a festival for the Virgin Mary.

  Damn. Where was Susan? And why had a masked stranger been giving me the evil eye? Maybe he hadn’t been. Maybe I’d inadvertently bumped into him. Maybe he hadn’t even been looking at me, and I’d just been in his line of sight while he’d been looking at someone behind me. I turned to see who that someone might have been, saw the empty windows of a closed shop. Okay. So maybe he had been looking at me. I might have overreacted to his glare. Slowly, trying to look casual, I glanced back at the wrestler.

  He was still watching me. Openly staring. Except for the white parts of the mask, he was dressed all in black, his back to the parade. I looked away again as if I hadn’t noticed him. After all, he had no reason to bother me. And it wasn’t as if he could with so many people around. A chain of chattering women snaked past me, holding hands, making their way through the crowd, talking in Spanish. When they’d moved on, I looked up, didn’t see the wrestler. He was gone.